The long-sealed secret vault was shoved open with brutal force.
The thick curtain of dust and suffocating stench of mildew inside made Baron Zemo instinctively cover his nose.
Zemo surveyed the hidden chamber—a place his father had only revealed to him on his deathbed.
The room was exceedingly small, housing nothing more than a lone, modest safe.
Entering the passcode left behind by his father, Zemo unlatched the safe and retrieved a tightly sealed, heavy-duty waterproof pouch.
Inside rested a single item.
A rolled, yellowed parchment map.
The texture was extraordinarily smooth and delicate—evidently crafted neither from standard paper nor typical animal hide.
As for the specific material used... those in the know understood all too well.
Zemo extracted the map with meticulous care, dabbing and wiping every inch with glacial acetic acid.
Switching on a UV lamp to inspect the surface, dense, microscopic route markings and coordinate lattices flared into clear visibility.
Confirming its authenticity, Zemo let out a long breath of relief.
He pulled out a secure satellite phone, dialing an encrypted number he had acquired only recently.
After seven rings, the line connected.
"Hail Hydra."
Hearing the standard passphrase, a harsh voice responded from the other end:
"Cut the crap. Speak."
Clutching the human-skin map tightly in his hand, Zemo spoke with an undercurrent of suppressed bitterness:
"Hydra requires the guidance of Herr Schmidt's true descendant."
The line fell dead silent for several seconds before a raspy, feminine voice drifted through the receiver:
"The Schmidt bloodline severed ties with Hydra over sixty years ago. Baron Zemo, you should know full well what placing this call implies."
"I know," Zemo replied coldly.
"A dead snake holds zero value. If it means restoring vitality to a dying serpent, I am willing to relinquish everything I currently command."
"A lovely speech," a mocking scoff came through the speaker, followed by a slow, measured question:
"So... what is your collateral?"
Zemo glanced at the parchment in his grasp, forcing down his turbulent thoughts before stating:
"Extract me from Eastern Europe immediately."
"In return, I will grant you a power that even your father failed to claim."
Silence stretched over the line for so long that Zemo nearly assumed the call had dropped.
Then, the voice returned:
"Eight hours from now. The Old Church in Budapest. Do not be late."
Click.
The line cut out cleanly.
Setting down the satellite phone, Zemo took several deep breaths, stuffed the peculiar map securely into his inner coat pocket, and began packing his extraction essentials.
Before departing, he cast one final look at the wall monitor.
The global broadcast had concluded, replaced by breaking news anchors summarizing the aftermath of Chernobyl.
BANG!
Zemo squeezed the trigger, blowing the screen apart in a shower of sparks.
"You won this round," he muttered toward the ruined display.
"Yet the board remains in play. Until the very last piece falls, no one gets to crown themselves the ultimate victor!"
A customized armored sedan sped along an empty stretch of highway.
Behind the vehicle, the entire Eastern European Hydra base was consumed by a catastrophic inferno.
To sever all ties and secure his escape, Zemo had decisively liquidated the remaining 340 Hydra operatives stationed at the facility without hesitation.
Without ever knowing what transpired, those agents were buried beneath the rubble alongside decades of classified operations—consigned to quiet oblivion, never to be remembered by history!
Gripping the steering wheel, Baron Zemo could already envision the official SHIELD debrief:
Following the catastrophic defeat at Chernobyl, Hydra suffered a fatal blow. Facing imminent capture, operations head Baron Zemo detonated the primary compound, perishing alongside his entire garrison.
Seven hours later—Budapest.
Zemo switched disguises four separate times, executed seven circuitous reroutes, and crouched beside an alley dumpster for five full minutes.
Only after confirming zero tails were tracking him did he dart into the derelict, crumbling church.
Inside, a young nun knelt in devout prayer. Yet the scripture clutched in her hands bore a distinct emblem:
An octopus skull.
No idle pleasantries, no coded countersigns, not even a formal identity check. The nun simply met his gaze, pushed open a heavy iron side door, and revealed an unassuming delivery van waiting in the shadows.
The van rolled out of Budapest proper, merged onto the highway, exited onto secondary roads, and veered onto an unmarked dirt trail.
By the thirteenth turn, Zemo stopped attempting to map their coordinates.
Their operational security was far sharper than he had anticipated.
From delivery van to cargo barge, from barge to private charter aircraft.
After over a dozen grueling hours in transit, the aircraft touched down on an uncharted island in the Western Pacific.
The architecture across the island was archaic, resembling military installations from the 1940s.
"Welcome to the Isle of the Exiled."
The nun broke her silence for the first time since leaving Budapest.
Zemo drew in a sharp breath.
As a high-ranking Hydra lord, he had read classified archives detailing this specific location.
During World War II, the Red Skull had launched several unsanctioned black projects entirely outside standard Hydra oversight.
This island was one of them—officially recorded as a maximum-security black site for containment targets that conventional methods could not eliminate.
Yet reality clearly stretched far beyond those stale records.
Led into a secure office, Zemo found a figure seated behind a heavy wooden desk, facing away toward the window.
Scanning the room, the most prominent feature was a large oil portrait hung on the wall—depicting an imposing officer in a vintage uniform whose head was an unnatural, crimson skull.
While Zemo studied the portrait of the legendary Red Skull, the leather chair spun around smoothly.
Zemo caught his first clear look at the figure.
Crimson flesh clinging tightly to bone, entirely devoid of visible pores or natural skin textures—
Her facial features mirrored the portrait almost stroke for stroke, softened only slightly by feminine contours.
"Sinthea Schmidt," Zemo spoke her name aloud, his tone steady and entirely unbothered by her monstrous appearance.
"Or do you prefer to be addressed as... Sin?"
The woman removed her tinted glasses.
"Either works." Sin regarded Zemo with neither suspicion nor respect.
"Let us skip the pleasantries. Hand over what I want, and I will ensure you live out the rest of your days on this island in peace."
Zemo's brow twitched with faint disdain, thinking to himself:
A bastard child sired with a maid dares put on airs before a true Baron!
Yet recognizing that circumstances dictated terms, he calmly slid the human-skin map across the mahogany desk.
Sin picked up the parchment, admiring it like a piece of fine art before asking offhandedly:
"What lies buried within this?"
"A hammer," Zemo replied evenly. "Summoned from the heavens by your father's dark rituals... yet one that his hands could never lift."