Chapter 55: Discuss Him!

"You're… my new cellmate?"

Michael Scofield's brows knit together ever so slightly—subtle, melancholic.

Honestly, even as a straight man, Dante had to admit—this guy's face was no joke.

Like someone took the top ten most photogenic ethnic features and Photoshopped them together.

"Hello, hello! Haven't had a chance to introduce myself yet," Dante said cheerfully, stepping forward and shaking Michael's hand with both of his. "Dante Alighieri. They brought me in for killing two people."

"A murderer..."

Scofield gave him a once-over, and his eyes immediately filled with doubt.

No matter how you sliced it, the guy in front of him didn't act like a killer.

Unless… he genuinely didn't think murder was a bad thing.

"Impossible. A man who murdered two people should be in the high-security wing."

"Shameful, I know," Dante replied, shaking his head solemnly. "My fault. I had too much money, so they only gave me five years."

You're ashamed?!

Even Michael, the walking iceberg of composure, almost broke character. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something—anything—but held it back.

This guy was clearly not right in the head.

God, please don't let him blow up the plan.

In this increasingly bizarre prison, even the smallest deviation could snowball into a disaster that cost five to ten times more to fix.

"Then… let's get along," Scofield said, forcing a smile so fake it belonged in a DMV poster.

But Dante leaned in conspiratorially and whispered in his ear:

"I already know the truth."

NO!

Michael's brain practically screamed.

What truth?! What the hell are you talking about?!

…

Formal prison admission happened during the noon yard time slot—between 12 and 1 PM.

And for the rest of the day?

Dante was glued to Scofield's side like a haunted sticker.

He never actually sat next to him—but never strayed more than five steps away.

And all the while, he maintained this courteous, serene, polite smile—like he was walking around wrapped in a spring breeze.

But to Michael and Lincoln Burrows?

It was full-on horror movie energy.

"Goddammit! What does this lunatic want?! Should I just kill him? Burn him to ash!?"

"Listen to yourself, Lincoln Burrows!"

Scofield gave him a calm look, but his words didn't sound like a little brother trying to save his big brother.

No.

It sounded more like a commander dressing down a disobedient subordinate.

And that emphasis—"Lincoln Burrows"—he did that on purpose.

Hearing his full name hit different. Lincoln calmed down immediately.

But that boiling rage didn't fade. Not from his eyes. Not one bit.

He wanted to grind Dante into powder.

But… they had a mission. And the plan came first.

Even if the walking sunbeam was clearly an alien.

And this whole exchange?

Yeah. It wasn't just seen by Dante.

It was currently streaming on a giant monitor inside the mobile aerial command center.

Ingrid and Skye had hijacked Fox River's full internal system and were now running full observation through airborne terminals.

Every camera feed was being recorded in real time.

And the entire Coulson Team was seated in front of that big screen, watching Dante's infiltration mission unfold.

"Even with Agent Dante's strength, in a completely unfamiliar environment, maintaining a convincing cover identity is essential," said Phil Coulson, eyes fixed on the screen as he lectured the team.

"Remember, you're not soldiers of fortune, not solo vigilantes, and definitely not Superheroes in skin-tight suits doing rooftop ballet. You're FBI agents. Mission first. Threat neutralization above all."

No one answered.

But then a new voice rang out from behind them.

"That's right, kids. Use your strength wisely—but don't rely on it too much."

Everyone turned around.

A blond man in a leather jacket was walking toward them.

He looked familiar. Very familiar.

But no one could quite place him.

Then Coulson stood up straight—like really straight. Stiff as a flagpole.

He couldn't decide whether to salute or shake hands. His right hand hovered between both, awkwardly.

"Idol—Officer—sir—Welcome back!"

"I'm not an officer. Just an idiot kid who woke up from the ice," the man said, extending a casual handshake. "Call me Steve."

Steve Rogers.

Captain America himself.

He wasn't wearing the suit. No Vibranium shield in sight.

Just a guy in a leather jacket and a quiet intensity.

He stepped up to Melinda May and offered his hand.

"I heard you were recruited into the FBI personally by Peggy Carter?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. "Director Carter recruited me when I was seven."

"In a few days… would you come with me to visit her?"

"As you wish."

Even Melinda May—the ever-stoic Melinda May—showed real reverence when speaking to him.

Fury didn't get this kind of treatment. Coulson sure didn't.

But looking at Steve's calm demeanor, you wouldn't think he was once America's greatest hero.

You'd think he was a retired athlete. Or a missing rockstar.

"All right… Steve," Coulson said quickly, sitting down beside him. "You just woke up. Still adjusting to modern society, huh?"

Coulson's team had missed Steve's awakening.

They weren't there when he came out of the glacier with his body somehow restored to its peak.

Coulson himself had led the task force to track and deprogram him—until Steve finally believed this wasn't some HYDRA mind-simulation.

And yes, they'd heard him curse.

They'd seen Wolverine rant—but Captain America?

That man cursed HYDRA with surgical precision. Like it was a reflex hardwired into his bones.

"If I'm not mistaken," Steve said, nodding toward the screen, "that man is Dante. The one Fury kept mentioning."

"That's right," Coulson said, sitting up straighter. "He's the one who pulled you out of the Arctic glacier. Twenty-five years old. Right now, he's the most capable agent we've got. Period."

"He's running an undercover op?"

"We didn't know what caused the previous agents' memory loss, so infiltration seemed the best option."

"Smart. Sometimes solving problems with your brain is faster than breaking them with brute—wait, what's he doing?"

The entire room went silent.

On-screen, Dante had casually wandered behind Lincoln Burrows.

Then, with the smooth motion of someone reaching for a snack.

He patted Lincoln's bald head.

As if polishing a cue ball.

"…Dry and rough!" Dante exclaimed. "Wrinkled and scaly!"

(To be continued.)