He knew that something was wrong.

He had felt a strange sensation run through his body, as if someone was watching him. He couldn't shake away this feeling, even when he stepped out of the subway and continued his way home. Which was strange because the people around him walked by without giving him a second glance. To them, he was just one more body in the flow of human traffic.

Of course, there were less people out because it was already late into the night; another long day of work that seemed to have no end in sight. He didn't mind it, though, since it really was his responsibility to take care his country, his people. A small sacrifice in order for the continuation of his existence. Besides, he was already in front of his house, getting ready to walk through the front door.

But still, he knew something was wrong.

He took slow, deliberate steps into his home, a place that should have brought comfort and peace, not caution and wariness. Releasing his breath, he flicked his finger over the switch and allowed the light to chase away the darkness in the foyer. His eyes took in the surroundings, searching for anything out of the ordinary. But everything was where he had left it. No signs of disturbance.

Silently chiding himself, he closed the door behind him and continued into the living room where he collapsed onto the couch. This time, staying within the darkness because turning on the lights was too much effort. With one hand, he took off his glasses and placed them on the coffee table while he rubbed his eyes with the other. Maybe the stress of dealing with his troubled economy was finally getting to him, making him jump at imaginary threats. When was the last time he could sleep without feeling crushed with anxiety, uncertainty of the future? The discomfort of his people? Sometimes it was bearable. Other times he tossed and turned on the bed, clutching his heart.

Except this feeling was different, and he knew something was wrong.

He could not ignore this feeling, not after…He moved his hand away from his eyes to glare into the dark. Memories that easily consumed his mind at the slightest trigger. Excruciating pain, unbearable heat, agonizing deaths. Unrelenting hours of fighting against death. Countless days of guilt for letting his people down. Never forget…maybe forgive…but never forget.

Taking a deep breath, he did his best to regain control and push down his anger. If he recalled correctly, he had a premonition before that day, too. An uneasiness that weighed heavy on his heart, an unexplainable tension. Back then, he couldn't figure out why he felt that way and decided to keep quiet about it. Until it was too late to do anything but endure the attack with useless screams.

So this time, too, he knew something was wrong.

He put on his glasses again and lifted himself up, removing his suit jacket in the process. Next, he fiddled with his tie until he could get it off his neck. He missed the days when he could get away with his military uniform and bomber jacket. Much harder to move around in this stiff apparel. Social conventions of the human society never ceased to confuse him. Make it simpler and just let everyone wear T-shirts and jeans, even in governmental buildings. Even in front of his boss.

Smiling at the very idea of standing in front of the president with only casual clothes on, he carelessly threw the tie on top of the jacket. He rested back on the couch, shifting around until his shoulder holster did not bother him. Another thing he learned was that a firearm was his friend. No such thing as being overcautious when holding a status such as his. Besides, it was better than constantly having bodyguards following him around. When he was finally comfortable, he scanned the room.

And found a figure in front of him.

Years of conflict gave him the lightning reflexes. Just as signals from the optic nerves reached his brain, the click of the safety switch resounded in the silence. He remained on the couch, only his arm extended out in front with the end of the handgun trained on the figure's head. The figure kept still, unmoving even with the prospect of a firing gun. He strained to make out more than an outline. Slowly, he recognized that the figure was tall, dark suit covering a medium build. But the face remained shrouded.

"Who are you and how the fuck did you get into my house?"

A low chuckle. Definitely male. "Your reaction time is commendable. Though I expected nothing less from the United States of America."

The previous feeling morphed into a bestial instinct that told him to proceed with care. An empty dread began gnawing his heart. But neither his face nor his voice betrayed anything.

"Answer my questions asshole."

"Now now, isn't it rude to use such language in the first meeting?"

"It's also rude to break and enter someone's house without permission."

No answer. America waited a few seconds longer before leaping from the couch and sprinting to the other side of the room. Without turning his back on the figure, he reached behind and felt his fingers brush against the wall switch. The room became illuminated, the previous shadows fleeing to wherever they could hide. His eyes adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light.

And found his gun pointing at thin air.

Eyes grew wide as this information registered. A prickling sensation at the back of his neck. Without thinking further, America whipped the hand with the gun and felt the impact of a hit. But instead of the figure's face, a hand gripped his own.

Emitting a growl, America slammed his foot into the other's knee, causing the figure to buckle. But instead of falling to the ground, the figured flipped backwards and increased the distance between them.

Before America could get a good look at the face, he noticed a glint in the air and tilted his neck to the right, avoiding the knife that flew past. However, he felt a sharp sting as the blade nicked his cheek, apparently enough to draw blood because he felt the liquid roll down his skin. He lifted his gun again and fired.

Only to watch the bullet hit the wall. And to feel his sensory nerves explode with multiple signals:

Back of his head being gripped. Feet leaving the ground. Body colliding with the surrounding furniture.

Breathless.

White light clouding his vision. Muffled auditory. Loss of control.

Enemy standing in front.

The gun roared, the bullet successfully reaching the figure's chest. America grounded his feet, refusing to lose his balance. He could feel his blood run down his other arm. But it was so worth it to see the crimson blossom forming around the figure's wound. He took the time to look closer at the figure.

Instead, he saw a palm coming at his face.

"Sweet dreams, America."

Too fast.

He felt his skull connect with the ground before the sickening sound of splintering wood reached his ears. His own hand shot up blindly and managed to grab the other's neck. But his systems started to shut down, his consciousness slipping away due to the combination of a concussion and lack of air. His hand moved down to the other's wrist but it was to no avail. Darkness took over once again, robbing him of all his senses.

He knew something was wrong.

But he could do nothing to change his fate.