Brooklyn. An old-school boxing gym.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The dull thuds echoed through the empty space.
Steve Rogers wore a sweat-soaked gray T-shirt, hammering away at a punching bag that had long since lost its shape.
Every punch was heavy. Controlled. Loaded with something he didn't bother putting into words.
Knock. Knock.
"The door's open," Steve said without turning around, never breaking his rhythm. "If you're selling insurance, I already have it."
"I'm here to sell a job, Captain."
Jessica pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Steve stopped. He steadied the swaying bag and turned, a familiar, gentle smile appearing on his face.
"Jones—ah, right. Acting President of Vought now, huh?" He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his neck. "Saw the news. Congrats on the promotion. Didn't know Vought had started door-to-door recruiting."
"Antony's gone," Jessica said bluntly. No warm-up. No small talk. "He's in Asgard. I'm running Vought."
Steve paused. His expression sharpened. "Asgard? But the news said—"
"The news is for idiots," Jessica cut in, leaning against the ring ropes. "He picked a fight with Thor for my sake, got dragged off by the Bifrost."
Steve studied her. A WWII veteran's instincts told him exactly how much of her toughness was being held together with duct tape and sheer will.
"You need help?"
"No." Jessica lifted her chin. "I don't. Vought doesn't."
She met his eyes.
"But those kids do."
"Kids?"
"Who's the Next Superhero?" Jessica said. "I know you hate the show. I know you think it turns heroes into circus animals. But Steve—half the contestants are sixteen, seventeen. Some even younger."
She stepped closer.
"When Antony was around, he kept them in line. He's an asshole, but he's powerful enough that they're scared of him. So they listened."
"Now he's gone."
"And if this show spirals out of control, there's no one to tell them what's right and what's wrong."
She inhaled slowly, then repeated words she'd once heard Antony say.
"They'll become the villains we see on the news. They'll get lost. They'll hurt people."
"You're Captain America," she said quietly. "You're the moral compass."
"You can keep punching bags and reminiscing about the past… or—"
She pointed toward the door.
"—you can step onto that stage and teach a bunch of confused, dangerous kids what a real hero looks like."
Steve fell silent.
For a moment, he looked like that scrawny Brooklyn kid again—just wanting to do something right.
Finally, he unwrapped the tape from his hands and gave a tired but warm smile.
"Jewel…" he said. "You're starting to sound an awful lot like him."
"I hate that you're right," Jessica muttered.
"…Alright," Steve said. "If it's for the kids, I'm in. On one condition."
"Name it."
"I don't read ad copy."
"Deal."
…
If convincing the moral compass of America was the hardest part, the next target was the most annoying.
Capitalism incarnate.
Avengers Tower. The Mark Workshop.
Tony Stark, welding goggles on, was fine-tuning a new Iron Man prototype.
"Sir," JARVIS announced, "you have a visitor."
"And let me guess—no appointment, parked wherever she felt like?"
"Correct. A Vought International helicopter. The visitor is… Ms. Jones. Or per updated branding, Jewel."
Tony froze.
"The angry super-strength woman?" He grinned. "Send her in. I like her."
"I'm already in, Stark."
Jessica's voice came from the doorway.
She walked up to the worktable and set down a bottle of 1945 Romanée-Conti—liberated from Antony's private stash.
"Bribing me?" Tony eyed the label. "Nice choice. But I've seen this bottle in Antony's liquor cabinet. You're re-gifting."
"Just tell me if you're drinking it."
"I am."
Tony instantly opened it, poured two glasses, and handed her one.
"So," he said casually, "where did the flying psychopath go? Don't tell me he's off saving the galaxy."
"He's in Asgard."
Tony burst out laughing.
"Meeting the parents? I knew it. He and Point Break have unresolved tension. Guess that means you're getting replaced. When's he back?"
"I don't know."
For half a second, Jessica's gaze dimmed.
Tony noticed.
"So," he said more carefully, "you're in charge now. Vought's new queen?"
"It's Jewel," she corrected flatly.
Then she went straight for the jugular.
"I need you, Tony."
Tony choked on his wine.
"Whoa—look, I'm flattered, but I've turned over a new leaf. Pepper would murder me, and Antony would literally slice me in half with laser eyes."
"Shut up, Stark," Jessica snapped. "I want you as a mentor. On the show."
"Nope." Tony turned back to his armor. "I'm Iron Man. I have a company, alien invasions, and SHIELD's messes to clean up. No time to babysit a gimmick reality show."
"And," he added, smirking, "why would I help Vought make money?"
"Because you're a hero," Jessica shot back. "Antony once said you wanted to armor the world against alien threats."
She stepped closer.
"But what if the threat comes from inside?"
"I've seen the Top 100 list," she continued. "Pietro Maximoff—fast enough to break your targeting systems. This 'biotech guy' full of tubes? He's not a mutant. He's juicing unstable compounds—one bad day away from becoming the next Abomination."
She lowered her voice.
"And plenty of them aren't even on SHIELD's radar."
"Antony's gone. No one's holding the leash."
"When they lose control," Jessica said coldly, "the first city to burn is New York."
She tapped Tony's arc reactor.
"Mr. Stark… you wouldn't want to wait until the city's rubble before putting on the suit, would you?"
She paused, then added the final twist of the knife.
"Think of it as supervision. Or risk management. Call it whatever makes you sleep at night."
"But if you're sitting in that judge's chair—you decide who advances, and who gets kicked out before they become a walking disaster."
Tony stared at the armor.
Then at the wine.
Then at Jessica.
"…You really did learn from him," he muttered.
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