Once Professor Randolph had been secured, Evenson received word almost immediately.
After all, the operation had begun because of him.
His opinion matched the twins’ exactly.
Keep Randolph on ice.
Everything else could wait.
Some opportunities only became profitable when the timing was right.
And the moment he had been preparing for...
...was drawing closer.
The following month was almost unnervingly peaceful.
By day, Evenson spent most of his time idling away the hours in his shop.
By night, he faithfully visited Cleya’s apartment to continue the most important long-term campaign of his life.
Grinding reputation.
Sometimes Steve Rogers would stop by during one of his evening walks, and the two would chat over coffee before going their separate ways.
Life was... comfortable.
His only real disappointment was that he never managed to convince Captain America to revive his old street-performing career by smashing rocks on his chest for paying spectators.
Steve simply had no financial need.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had arranged a three-bedroom apartment for him in Brooklyn.
They provided a monthly living allowance.
Even more absurdly...
The man had somehow started collecting retirement benefits.
The unfairness of it all left Evenson grinding his teeth.
Then again...
Steve Rogers occupied a uniquely awkward place in American history.
America’s greatest hero had officially died sixty years ago.
The government had quietly settled his estate, closed every record, and transformed him into an immortal national symbol.
Then the symbol walked back into the country alive.
Imagine the headlines if people discovered their legendary war hero had returned to find himself penniless and homeless.
The White House would probably have protesters camping on its front lawn before the week was over.
The military found itself in an equally uncomfortable position.
For generations they had elevated Captain America into something larger than life.
Children grew up hearing stories about Steve Rogers.
Many dreamed of becoming heroes just like him.
That had been easy...
Because heroes couldn’t argue with the stories told about them.
Dead heroes, especially.
Living ones were different.
A living legend possessed influence that no government truly knew how to handle.
It was like every emperor in Chinese history suddenly discovering Confucius had returned from the dead.
Do you appoint him as your chief advisor?
Hand him the government?
Abdicate the throne?
Someone whose reputation carried that much moral authority could never simply be treated as a mascot.
If anything, the safest political solution would be putting Confucius back in his coffin.
The U.S. military seemed to have adopted a similarly cautious attitude toward Captain America.
As long as Steve didn’t come looking for them...
They wouldn’t go looking for Steve.
Fortunately, Steve himself had little interest in power or recognition.
He made no demands.
Asked for nothing.
Still, that studied distance from the military had likely disappointed him more than he cared to admit.
It was one more reason he rarely dealt with them now.
The quiet routine continued until the end of the month.
That evening, Evenson and Cleya sat together in front of the television, controllers in hand.
Normally the apartment echoed with laughter, sarcastic taunts, and accusations of cheating.
Tonight...
It was silent.
Evenson’s character died yet again.
He sighed, dropped the controller into his lap, and rubbed his tired eyes.
Cleya barely reacted.
Normally she’d have seized the opportunity to mock him mercilessly.
Instead, she stared blankly at the screen.
"You..."
Evenson hesitated.
"...have something you want to tell me, don’t you?"
He desperately hoped he was wrong.
Cleya’s hands trembled.
Her character froze for a fraction of a second.
GAME OVER
appeared across the television.
She quietly set the controller aside.
"I wanted to tell you a few days ago."
Her eyes remained fixed on the floor.
"I just..."
"...didn’t know how."
After a long silence, she forced a small smile.
"I’m leaving."
Evenson opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
Nothing came out.
"...I see."
It was all he managed.
"I’ve been happy here."
Cleya’s voice softened.
"Happier than I’ve ever expected."
"If I could..."
"I’d live like this forever."
"But..."
"I don’t belong here."
Evenson gave a bitter smile.
"I know."
Cleya blinked.
"You... know?"
For one alarming instant she wondered whether he’d somehow discovered she was a sorceress.
"When we first met..."
"I didn’t notice."
"But the longer I knew you..."
"...the more obvious it became."
"What became obvious?"
She genuinely didn’t understand.
After leaving Kamar-Taj, the Ancient One had sealed away her magic.
She appeared completely ordinary.
Even experienced mystics shouldn’t have sensed anything unusual.
"You never really cared about your shop."
Evenson leaned back against the couch.
"Business is better than mine, but I can tell making money has never mattered much to you."
"And..."
"We barely knew each other when you invited me over every night just because we liked the same games."
He laughed quietly.
"That’s the sort of thing people do when they’ve grown up protected."
"People who’ve never had to worry about paying bills or dealing with life’s uglier side."
Cleya listened silently.
"At the same time..."
"You aren’t like those spoiled rich kids who throw money around because they can."
"You’re surprisingly modest."
He grinned.
"Well..."
"Except for kicking me whenever I lose."
"That part lacks a little refinement."
Cleya couldn’t help laughing.
"So..."
"What exactly do you think I am?"
Evenson considered the question carefully.
"I think..."
"You’re probably from one of those old, established families."
"The kind that’s been wealthy for generations."
"You’ve got... a certain upbringing."
He shrugged.
"It’s hard to explain."
His reasoning wasn’t entirely wrong.
The Masters of the Mystic Arts had existed for centuries.
Even their most arrogant members generally possessed more dignity than ordinary nouveau riche socialites.
And Cleya, having been carefully raised among them, had never looked down on ordinary people.
As for why Evenson failed to guess her true identity...
There was a simple explanation.
He’d never considered the possibility.
More importantly...
He had never sensed even the slightest trace of magic from her.
Not once.
Even Habbus, his ever-vigilant Felhound, had shown no reaction whatsoever.
If a creature that specialized in detecting magic couldn’t notice anything...
Why would Evenson suspect otherwise?
"An old family..."
Cleya quietly repeated.
"I suppose that’s close enough."
She looked at him with unusual seriousness.
"Isn’t there..."
"...anything you want to say to me?"
Evenson’s heart lurched.
For one reckless moment he almost blurted out the truth.
I like you.
Then reason caught up.
He’d just declared she came from an influential old-money family.
Confessing now sounded dangerously close to chasing her wealth.
He swallowed the words.
Instead he asked,
"...Will I ever see you again?"
The question carried more meaning than the words themselves.
Cleya heard it.
But it wasn’t the answer she’d hoped for.
A trace of disappointment flickered across her eyes.
She had wanted him to say what she herself couldn’t.
After a long pause, she answered softly.
"Maybe."
"...Or maybe not."
Cleya left early the following morning.
She owned the shop outright.
She didn’t sell it.
She didn’t rent it out.
Instead, she simply handed Evenson the keys.
"If I ever get the chance..."
"I’ll come back."
After she disappeared, Evenson spent several days in unusually low spirits.
But that was all.
He wasn’t the sort of man to collapse over a broken heart.
Somehow...
He was certain they would meet again.
That evening, he called Nick Fury.
"Director..."
There was a long pause.
"I’ve been dumped."
Silence.
Nick Fury’s expression was impossible to see over the phone.
But the silence alone conveyed enough.
And this concerns me... why?
"So..."
Evenson’s voice still sounded gloomy.
"I’d like to travel for a while."
His eyes, however, sparkled with calculation.
"Before we went to New Mexico, you promised to approve my travel paperwork."
Another pause.
"Where are you planning to go?"
"England."
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