Captain America's Probe
A sliver of streetlight shone dimly through the gap in the curtains, barely illuminating the long-cold Americano on the coffee table. Ye Mo leaned back on the sofa, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the hard object in his hoodie pocket—the edge of the tablet Tony had left behind, now faintly warm, as if mocking his clumsy "nervous breakdown" performance just now.
The room was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the Fridge compressor starting up. Ye Mo didn't turn on the lights; the darkness was the best cover. He adjusted his posture, pressing his back closer to the soft cushions, trying to relieve the soreness from prolonged tension. The system didn't emit any notification sounds, and this deathly silence made him uneasy. In this world full of superpowered individuals and conspiracy theories, silence usually meant the calm before the storm, or that some big shot was sharpening their knives at the door.
Just as his nerves were stretched to the limit, and he was preparing to feign sleep again to evade any potential visitors, there was a knock on the door.
This voice was completely different from Tony's, which carried a technological arrogance and even a touch of frivolity. Three slurs, a pause, then two more. Steady and powerful, each syllable sounded like a hammer striking a solid wooden door, carrying an almost obstinate rhythm. This wasn't a signal of hacking, nor was it the extortion of street thugs; it was a rigorously trained, ingrained sense of etiquette and intimidation.
Ye Mo narrowed his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the blind spot of the surveillance camera in the entryway. He didn't get up immediately, but instead activated the "Gene Spiral Tower" deep within his consciousness. Although he hadn't unlocked a new level, his perception of the surrounding airflow had become exceptionally sharp. The person outside the door didn't exude the aura of carrying firearms, nor did they have the restless energy fluctuations of Mutants; there was only a pure, suffocating sense of oppression—the aura of someone who had long held a high position and carried heavy responsibilities.
"Who is it?" Ye Mo's voice came through the door, sounding somewhat hoarse, deliberately mimicking fatigue.
"Steve Rogers."
The answer was concise and clear, without any unnecessary embellishment. The name was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, causing Ye Mo's heart to skip a beat. Tony represented technology and order, the arrogance of capital; while Steve Rogers represented a moral benchmark, the glory of the old era, and the spiritual totem of the current opposition to the Superhuman Registration Act.
Ye Mo took a deep breath and stood up. He didn't turn on the light, but instead groped his way to the door, placed his hand on the doorknob, paused for two seconds, and then slowly pulled it open.
The man standing outside the door wore a dark gray jacket over a simple white T-shirt and faded jeans. He carried no armor, no shield, only neatly combed blond hair and eyes as clear as the deep sea. Steve Rogers stood outside the shadows, his righteous aura seemingly able to pierce through the night and directly break through Ye Mo's carefully laid disguise.
"Please come in." Ye Mo stepped aside, his tone calm and indifferent.
Steve stepped inside, his movements swift and restrained. He paused for half a second at the doorway, seemingly to confirm that no one else was hiding inside, before closing the door. With the soft click of the lock, the atmosphere in the room instantly froze. Compared to Tony's relaxed banter when he arrived, the air here was heavy and suffocating.
The two sat on two single sofas in the living room, separated by a slightly worn coffee table. Steve made no small talk, nor did he look around at the furnishings; his gaze was fixed on Ye Mo, his eyes firm and sharp.
"I know you don't want to get caught up in this storm," Steve began, his voice deep and carrying an undeniable authority. "But the Superhuman Registration Act is more than just a document; it's a castration of freedom. Once passed, superhumans will no longer be protectors, but tools to be regulated. Mutants, extra-powered individuals—our fates will all be in the hands of politicians."
Ye Mo picked up the cold coffee on the table and took a sip. The bitter taste spread on his tongue, keeping him alert. "Mr. Stark said something similar, only from a different perspective. He said it's a sign of maturity, a necessary compromise for survival."
"Compromise?" Steve sneered, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Compromising with tyranny isn't maturity, it's surrender. Ye Mo, I can't see your superpowers, but I can sense that your very existence is a threat, or rather, a hope. The tactical acumen and control you displayed in the battle of San Francisco are beyond the capabilities of ordinary people. You are a key variable; we need you."
Ye Mo put down his cup, his fingers lightly tapping the table. He knew Steve was testing him, putting pressure on him. Unlike Tony, this Captain America wasn't adept at using bargaining or emotional blackmail; he used the most primitive and deadliest method—moral judgment.
"Mr. Steve, I understand your position," Ye Mo said slowly, his tone calm, neither impassioned nor hesitant. "I agree with the principles of protecting freedom and safeguarding the vulnerable. I also acknowledge that the Superhuman Registration Act does have problems; it may bring unnecessary trouble and risks. But..."
He paused, then looked up and met Steve's eyes directly. "I do not commit to fighting. I will not join any faction, nor will I publicly support or oppose either side. I am merely an observer, a bystander who occasionally intervenes. If the situation spirals out of control, I will do my best to ensure I am not caught in the crossfire and provide non-combat assistance when necessary, such as medical support or intelligence analysis. As for fighting on the battlefield, that is not my style."
Steve stared intently at Ye Mo, his gaze sharp. He could sense the sincerity in the other's words, but he also caught a deep sense of alienation. Ye Mo was avoiding the issue; he was using neutrality as a shield to isolate himself from this Civil War.
"The cost of your choice," Steve finally spoke, his voice tinged with regret, but even more so with respect. "You can remain neutral, but neutrality doesn't mean safety. When guns are pointed at innocent people, silence is complicity. I hope you've thought it through: is the peaceful life you desire truly worth paying for with the blood of others?"
After saying that, Steve took a black card out of his pocket and gently placed it on the coffee table. The card had no words on it, only a complex geometric pattern that reflected light slightly in the dim light.
"This is an encrypted channel. If you change your mind, or discover any important clues, you can contact me through this." Steve stood up, straightened his collar, and turned to walk towards the door.
Ye Mo watched his retreating figure, a ripple of emotion stirring within him. Steve hadn't pressed him for a response, nor had he stormed off in anger; he had simply left him with a choice and a warning. This respect was more intimidating than Tony's coercion, because it meant Ye Mo had to face the inner turmoil alone.
The door closed again, and the footsteps faded into the New York night.
Ye Mo sat alone in the dimly lit living room, reaching out to pick up the black card. The moment his fingertips touched the card, a faint electric current surged through his body. The system's notification sound remained silent, but this card clearly held special significance.
He looked down at the card in his hand, his eyes deep. The bridge of cooperation seemed to have been successfully built, but in reality, it was shaky. Steve's trust was built on Ye Mo's promise, but Ye Mo's promise was nothing more than a stopgap measure. In this great web of lies, conspiracies, and power, he still had not found a real way out.
Outside the window, the faint sound of police sirens broke the silence of the night. Ye Mo put the card into his pocket, tightened the zipper of his hoodie, leaned back, and closed his eyes.