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Chapter 3 Meeting The Elderly On The Road Captain America?
🕑 Added 2025-08-27 10:57:18 +0000 UTC“Hula la—”
Seeing their boss actually press a gun to his own temple at the Persuader’s command, the Mexican gangsters panicked. Though they had put their weapons away when Allens told them to, several men quickly drew them again, aiming straight at him.
“Hey, guys, don’t get nervous,” Allens said calmly, his tone almost casual. “This is just a choice your boss has to make. You don’t need to get so worked up. As gangsters, all you need to do is wait quietly for your boss’s decision.”
The words, laced with his persuasion ability, instantly made the armed men lower their guns again. The power of his ability was terrifying—it allowed him to bend their will with nothing more than his voice.
And truthfully, it felt pretty damn good.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Bronte, the leader of the Mexican gang, still felt the cold steel of the pistol pressed against his own temple. His heart pounded with fear. Allens had given him only two options: accept mediation and live, or refuse—and die.
Because of Allens’ ability, Bronte couldn’t even imagine any alternative. To him, the Persuader’s words were absolute.
“I... I choose to agree to mediation,” Bronte finally stammered, his arrogance shattered. His voice trembled as the crushing weight of death overwhelmed him.
“A wise choice,” Allens nodded, turning his back and walking out of Harvey’s Bar without another glance.
Only when Allens had completely left did Bronte drop the gun, collapsing to the floor in a cold sweat. His body shook uncontrollably. The Persuader’s ability was beyond frightening—an unseen force that could dictate another man’s actions with just a few words.
No matter how terrified the gang leader was, Allens had already moved on. Revenge? He wasn’t worried. Not only did he have persuasion on his side, but Bronte himself was too broken to even consider payback.
“He’s already doubting his own life because of me,” Allens thought. “How could he dare come after me again?”
Walking down the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, Allens sighed at the bleak, rundown neighborhood. Even taxis avoided the place. If he wanted to go to the better parts of Manhattan, he always had to drive himself—or, more conveniently, “persuade” someone else to give him a free ride.
Today, he flagged down a private car. Behind the wheel sat a middle-aged man with a beer belly. In the back seat, beside Allens, was an elderly man with glasses and a warm smile—one who looked strikingly like Stan Lee, a tribute to Marvel’s legendary creator.
“Hey, kid, where are you headed in Manhattan? Let me guess—it’s the Captain America Memorial, right?” the old man said cheerfully. “I used to be the curator there. Back in the day, people lined up for blocks to visit. Ah, but time catches up to everyone…”
The old man rambled on, but Allens only nodded politely now and then, never showing impatience.
“Look at me, talking your ear off,” the man chuckled. “But you’re a good kid—patient enough to put up with an old man’s chatter. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even become someone as great as Captain America one day.”
The car dropped Allens off in Manhattan’s East Side. He said goodbye to the old man, who stuck his head out of the window as the car drove away, giving Allens a big thumbs-up that left him dumbfounded.
Compared to Hell’s Kitchen, the East Side of Manhattan felt like another world entirely. Towering skyscrapers, bustling shops, and luxury cars lined the streets.
“This… is life,” Allens sighed, taking a seat on a nearby bench.
He had already received the million-dollar payment from Hood Kane yesterday, and now he was ready to leave the “Novice Village” of Hell’s Kitchen behind. Whether it was preparing for the plot he knew would begin in a year or advancing his Heroes Rising system, Allens had to move forward.
His target was Hoover Villa, the most luxurious neighborhood in the East Side. In 2007, property prices were still absurdly cheap compared to what he knew was coming.
As Allens was lost in thought, he noticed an elderly man sitting nearby. The first thing he noticed was the man’s white hair. The second—the sharp, energetic eyes, brighter than those of most young men.
“Why does this guy look so familiar…?” Allens frowned, studying him.
The old man wore a plain white T-shirt and black trousers. Despite his age, his muscular frame was still obvious—broad chest, defined arms.
“Boy, do we know each other?” the old man asked, his voice deep and steady, carrying both kindness and authority.
“I just thought you looked familiar, sir,” Allens replied sincerely. “Where have I seen you before?”
“Hah, you’re not the first to say that,” the man chuckled. “Some people even say I look like Captain America from the memorial. Want an autograph? Can you imagine Captain America looking like this in old age?” He laughed at his own joke, a bit of dry American humor.
Allens forced a smile, but inside his heart thundered.
Captain America… Steve Rogers.
Wrinkles covered his face, but the resemblance was unmistakable. This was the old Captain America.
Allens leaned forward, his tone suddenly serious. “Tell me… is Captain America, the so-called embodiment of justice, really that great?”
Steve Rogers studied him carefully. Few questioned Captain America openly. To most, he was a hero, the spirit of America itself.
“Oh? Most young people admire Captain America. Some even call him the embodiment of justice,” Steve replied with mild amusement.
“Or maybe…” Allens’ eyes gleamed as he leaned in closer, “…it’s all a HYDRA conspiracy. Maybe Captain America Rogers was really HYDRA’s undercover agent all along.”
He raised his hand in a mock salute.
“Hail Hydra.”
Steve’s pupils shrank instantly. His body tensed. For a man who had fought HYDRA his entire life, those words were enough to trigger every instinct he had.
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