A week wasn't long, but it wasn't short either.
To ordinary people, it was just seven mundane cycles of day and night. But to Levi, these seven days were the crucial period in which he transford from a ghost of a bygone era into a newborn of a brand-new age. He wasted not a single minute.
He found a motel that didn't require ID and paid a thousand dollars upfront for a weeklong stay.
By day, he was like a dried sponge thrown into the ocean, greedily absorbing everything this era had to offer. The city library beca his second ho. From post–Cold War geopolitics and erging economic theories to the rapidly developing field of computer science, he buried himself in mountains of books, desperately filling the fifty-year gap in his knowledge. He even took a few bills and stepped into what was still considered a novelty at the ti—an internet café. Amid the maddeningly slow screech of dial-up modems, he saw the embryonic form of the internet with his own eyes. The tidal wave that would one day sweep the globe had begun with these crude, clunky web pages.
When night fell, his hotel room beca his dojo.
He no longer needed the brutal physical training of his World War II days to squeeze every last ounce of potential from his body. The super-soldier serum had already honed his physique to the absolute peak of human capability. What he needed now was sothing deeper:
Control.
Control over the new power that fused the Tesseract's cosmic energy, the healing factor, and the super-soldier serum.
He closed his eyes and let his consciousness sink inward. The power was no longer the wild, chaotic force it had been when it first awakened. Instead, it resembled a vast, tranquil sea of stars, flowing slowly through his blood. He stopped trying to command it outright and began learning how to guide it. With an iron will tempered by decades of ice and war, he acted like a patient shepherd, gently combing through once-rebellious particles of energy.
The progress was obvious.
From barely making a coin tremble between his fingers, he advanced to silently lifting everything in the room—bed, desk lamp, chair—into midair. From only being able to slightly bend a fragile toothpick, he learned to twist a solid steel spoon into a knotted spiral like soft dough. His control improved almost by the day, leaping forward in qualitative strides.
Gradually, he realized the true nature of this power.
It wasn't telekinesis in the traditional sense—it was interference with space itself.
At a basic level, he could distort light and make himself visually disappear. On a higher level, he could compress space and perform short-range "blink" jumps. In theory, none of this was impossible. In practice, it required terrifying levels of calculation and ntal endurance. At his current level, the most he could do was slightly bend the trajectory of an incoming bullet or perform a rapid jump within three to five ters. Each attempt left him ntally exhausted, as though a piece of his soul had been carved away.
This beca his deepest trump card—a power capable of overturning life and death itself, yet one that could never be casually revealed.
---
One week later, just before midnight, Levi returned to Elias's workshop.
The sa old bookstore with its tinkling wind chis. The sa narrow aisles between shelves. The sa heavy iron door leading to another world.
Elias looked far more haggard than before, his eye sockets sunken as though he hadn't slept for days. Yet his eyes shone brightly, almost fanatically, like an artist admiring a masterpiece he'd just completed. Without any pleasantries, he slid a thick manila envelope across the table.
"Your new life," he said hoarsely, pride evident in his voice.
Levi unclasped the tal fastener and took out the contents one by one.
A brand-new Social Security card.
Na: Anthony Chen.
The number was crisp, the texture and security patterns indistinguishable from the real thing.
A birth certificate that looked convincingly old, the paper slightly yellowed and slling faintly of aged pulp. The typography and doctor's stamp perfectly matched the era. It recorded that Anthony Chen was born in 1973 at a public hospital in San Francisco, the child of Chinese immigrants who had died in an accident years earlier.
A spotless orphan background.
A California driver's license, the photo taken just days ago—natural expression, calm eyes, standard pale-blue background.
Several credit and debit cards from different banks, along with a fabricated credit report showing years of responsible paynts and an excellent credit score.
Elias had even thoughtfully included a community college diploma in business administration.
Everything was flawless—almost frighteningly so. With godlike skill, the man had created a living person from nothing, weaving a full twenty-two years of life history.
From this mont on, Levi ceased to exist.
Only Anthony Chen remained.
"The rest of the money," Levi said, placing a backpack containing fifty thousand dollars on the table.
Elias didn't even check it. He nodded casually and stowed it away, then poured himself a glass of amber whiskey and slid another toward Levi.
"This is the most perfect 'work' I've ever done," Elias said after a sip. "I reactivated so old connections I hadn't touched in years and embedded you into the records of a real orphan who was officially erased. From a system standpoint, Anthony Chen has existed since birth. Even if the FBI digs through everything, they won't find a single flaw."
"Thank you," Levi said, lifting the glass—but not drinking.
"One last piece of advice," Elias said, studying him with a complex look—admiration mixed with pity. "What you're holding is both a ticket to the upper class and an invitation to hell. It can give you everything—or destroy you in an instant. How you use it is up to you. Good luck."
Levi nodded, set the glass down, took the envelope containing his new life, and left the workshop without looking back.
---
The next morning, Anthony Chen, dressed in a crisp casual suit with neatly styled hair, walked into the largest Citibank downtown.
He moved calmly and naturally, indistinguishable from the surrounding white-collar crowd. He took a number, waited his turn, and sat down at an open counter.
"Hello," he said with a polite smile, handing over his debit card and a canvas bag stuffed with cash. "I'd like to make a cash deposit."
The efficient Black woman behind the counter showed a flicker of surprise at the sight of so much money, but said nothing. Her fingers danced across the keyboard.
This was the critical mont.
If Elias's work had even the slightest flaw, the system would flag it instantly—and his nightmare would begin.
Levi's expression didn't change, but his heart beat a fraction faster. His fingers tapped unconsciously against his leg.
Ti stretched.
He heard the clacking of keys, the whirring of a counting machine nearby, even the faint scuff of a security guard shifting his weight.
"Mr. Chen?" the teller looked up with a professional smile.
"Yes," Levi replied, his heart in his throat.
"Your account information has been verified." She began feeding the cash into the counter. "Please sign here."
It worked.
When Levi signed Anthony Chen on the deposit slip, he knew that for the first ti, he truly existed in this era—standing in the sunlight, not hiding in the shadows.
$55,300 was deposited without issue.
He thanked the teller, pocketed his receipt and card, and turned toward the exit. His mood was light, almost buoyant. Next ca opening a brokerage account—then waiting for Yahoo's IPO. Ten thousand could beco a million. A new future beckoned.
Then, as he pushed open the heavy glass doors and sunlight flooded his face—
He froze.
His pupils shrank to pinpoints.
Across the street stood two n he least wanted to see.
One was tall, imposing, dressed in a black suit. His shaved head and black eyepatch made him unmistakable.
Nick Fury.
Beside him stood a younger agent with sharp eyes and a composed deanor.
Phil Coulson.
They appeared to be talking to soone, their gazes occasionally sweeping the bank entrance as if searching.
S.H.I.E.L.D. hadn't given up.
And sohow—they'd found this place.
Levi's mind raced. Coincidence? Or had they uncovered sothing he didn't know? Were they here for him?
A cold chill shot up his spine. The freedom and rebirth he'd just achieved felt like a soap bubble glittering in sunlight—beautiful, fragile, ready to pop.
Stay calm.
Panic was the enemy.
He turned smoothly back into the bank, walking to an ATM as though checking his balance. With his back to the door, he watched Fury and Coulson through the reflection in the glass.
Fury finished speaking and scanned the entrance again. His one good eye lingered on Levi's back for a fraction of a second.
In that instant, Levi felt like an icy needle pierced his spine.
But Fury looked away.
Apparently, he found nothing suspicious in this well-dressed, mild-mannered "office worker." At most, the silhouette felt vaguely familiar—but not enough to place.
After all, Anthony Chen bore little resemblance—physically or in bearing—to the soldier frozen in ice fifty years ago, or the gaunt prisoner from the Pegasus facility.
Fury and Coulson got into their car. The black Chevrolet rged into traffic and vanished.
Only then did Levi exhale slowly, realizing his back was soaked in sweat.
He stayed in the bank for another ten minutes, confirming no one was watching, then slipped out through a side exit and disappeared into the maze of streets.
Walking among the crowd, his expression returned to calm.
But the ease he'd felt monts ago was gone.
From this point on, he knew one thing with absolute clarity:
His new life had begun—but the hunt had never truly ended.
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