**Brooklyn, New York – 1942**
The war hadn't yet reached these streets—at least, not in bombs or blood—but it lingered in every breath. It was present in the ration lines that curled around corners, in the hollow-eyed veterans who begged without pride, and in the children who wore paper medals, dreaming of heroes they'd never meet. Brooklyn was loud, tired, and waning under a weight that felt both familiar and foreign. The atmosphere was thick with anxiety and uncertainty, an undercurrent that rippled through the sidewalks and alleys like a whisper echoing from the frontlines. Like the rest of the world, Brooklyn was not ready for the presence that walked its alleys tonight.
The air stank of coal smoke and fried oil, with trucks rolling down cobbled streets, their tires grinding against half-patched potholes. Soldiers barked orders or laughed too loudly, trying to mask the fear etched into their features. The sun, fading behind a haze of soot, hung like a burnished coin—dulled, forgotten, eclipsed by the shadows of conflict. But as the last rays of daylight retreated, something sinister moved beneath that dying light. There was an air of something ancient, something that felt out of place, yet entirely at home amidst the chaos.
That was Knull, a being transformed. Gone were the silver crown and living armor, replaced by a tailored overcoat—matte and immaculate—dustless despite the filth around him. Beneath the coat, a charcoal suit hugged a frame designed to attract attention—not crafted to perfection, but flawed in a way that begged for understanding. His skin remained a pale, moonlit silver; his eyes, hidden behind dark lenses, shimmered beneath, flickering like embers behind glass.
He moved silently through the streets, passing unnoticed. Not through lack of presence, but because the world itself seemed to bend away from seeing him. His aura, designed to conceal, enveloped him in a veil of oblivion, keeping him hidden from prying eyes. He stopped in front of a narrow tenement, its paint peeling from the shutters, revealing layers of neglect. A mother screamed at her son from a third-story window while laundry flapped limply on the line, caught in the stale air. And there, in the shadows of the alley beside it—barely tall enough to fill his shirt—stood Steven Grant Rogers.
Skinny and pale, already bruised from the struggles of life, Rogers had tried again—another recruitment office, another rejection. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, a rolled-up newspaper clutched like a shield against the world. There was defiance in his shoulders, but no strength, not yet. Knull watched him without uttering a word, observing the young man who burned with a desire for purpose, even in his weakened state.
Knull processed everything about Rogers in silence, identifying him with cold efficiency. *[Target Identified: Steven Rogers. Pre-Serum. Emotional State: Fatigued. Frustrated. Morally Resolved.]* That was the part that mattered—the moral resolution that coursed through Rogers, a beacon in his despondency. Slowly, Knull approached, his footsteps soft as falling snow. Rogers didn't hear him until the last moment; instinct kicking in, he turned sharply, ready to run or fight—a response born of desperation, though he was in no condition for either.
"Relax," Knull said, his voice smooth, calm, deep. "I'm not here to hurt you." Rogers responded with skepticism—"That's what people usually say right before they do the opposite," he shot back—yet Knull merely smiled, a knowing expression that suggested he understood the darkness lingering in the human experience. There was a brief silence where the air thickened between them.
"You're trying to enlist again tomorrow," Knull stated, reading Rogers with the sort of precision that bordered on unsettling. The young man froze, eyes narrowing with suspicion. "How do you know that?" he asked, defensive. "Because you always do," Knull replied. "You'll keep trying until they let you in, or until you die trying." Rogers fell silent, grappling with the truth like it was a tangible object weighing him down.
Knull took another step closer, the space between them nearly electric with tension. "Tell me, Steve… what if you didn't have to wait for them to decide you were worthy? What if you could become what you were meant to be, right now?"
A pause stretched, pregnant with possibility, before Rogers shot back, "Who are you?" Knull regarded him with a gaze thick with understanding. "Someone who sees potential. Someone who collects it, refines it, and builds futures from broken things." Rogers maintained his ground, not retreating but not moving forward either, caught in a web of hope and uncertainty.
"There's a program," Knull continued, his voice low and enveloping. "You've heard whispers—Rebirth, Supersoldiers. What if I told you that the serum is only the beginning?"
Steve stared, disbelief mixing with fascination. "Why would I trust you?" he asked, skepticism dripping from his words. "You shouldn't," Knull replied simply, yet without malice. "But you don't have to. Just listen."
And listen he did. Knull spoke not of HYDRA or SHIELD, not of timelines or domination, but of evolution—the potential for greatness that lay dormant within Rogers. This serum represented a spark, a foundation, an incomplete equation waiting to be rewritten, improved, enhanced. He weaved his explanation like a tapestry, each word ensnaring Steve's frustration, every promise rooted in undeniable truth. Not lies—just possibilities that hung in the air like the tantalizing scent of rain on parched earth.
Rogers didn't outright agree; he didn't need to. Knull didn't require his commitment at this point—he needed access. *[Phase II Protocol: Initiated. Target Link – Pending.]*
Later that night, Knull made his way through the shadows of a medical research center, discreetly tucked beneath an Army base. Everything was locked down, guarded, layered in codes and protocols designed to deter unwanted visitors. But Knull was no ordinary entity; doors opened for him as though aware of his presence, knowing that resistance was futile.
Inside, he found what he needed quickly: test files, blood samples, and crates of unstable serums preserved in cold stasis. *[Sample Acquired: Erskine-Type Prototype. Integrity: 84%. Corruption Risk: High.]* With a whisper, Knull commanded the system, "Begin synthesis overlay. Merge with Craving Core architecture." *[Symbiote Serum Convergence: In Progress. Mutation Tolerance: Adaptive. Multi-host Compatibility: Scalable. Projected Outcome: Enhanced Tether Viability.]*
As Knull's fingers brushed the vial, the liquid inside started to swirl, infused with something that crossed beyond the bounds of conventional science. He had no intention of gifting this to Rogers. He envisioned the serum transforming him—he would allow the serum to create the icon and let Captain America rise from the ashes of compromise and doubt. Then, Knull would claim him—not as Captain America, but as another symbiote made from him. The next generation of superhumans wouldn't carry flags; they would carry threads. Every one of them would begin with him.
As Knull stepped back out into the night, the shadows clung to him like fabric, the coat rippling like smoke. One bond had been forged, and another was on the cusp of creation, a future entwined in possibility and dark ambition. The night was thick with potential, crackling with unspoken promises made in the dim light of fading stars. As he merged back into the shadows, he knew that change was coming, and he would ensure it began with Steven Grant Rogers.