The night in Berlin was a tapestry of shadows and whispers, a city haunted by the ghosts of its past. The Red Skull, Johann Schmidt, moved through the abandoned Reichstag like a specter, his crimson visage a stark contrast against the decaying grandeur. His eyes burned with an unquenchable hatred, a relic of a war that had never truly ended. In his hands, he held the Cosmic Cube, a weapon of unimaginable power. Tonight, he would reclaim his destiny and plunge the world into chaos.

"In the ashes of the old world, my wrath will forge a new order."

Schmidt’s footsteps echoed through the hollow corridors, each step a grim reminder of the Reich’s fall. The air was thick with the scent of mold and history, the weight of a thousand atrocities pressing down on him. He reached the chamber where his loyal Hydra agents awaited, their faces masks of fanaticism and fear. "Tonight, we rise," Schmidt declared, his voice a venomous hiss. "Tonight, we show the world that the Red Skull is eternal." His words hung in the air, a promise of bloodshed and terror.

"Power isn’t claimed with words, but with the blood of the weak."

The chamber lit up with the unearthly glow of the Cosmic Cube, its power thrumming like a heartbeat. Schmidt raised it high, his eyes reflecting its malevolent light. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath. As the Cube’s energy surged through him, Schmidt felt a twisted exhilaration. "With this power, I am a god," he snarled, his voice echoing through the empty halls. But his moment of triumph was shattered by a familiar, unyielding voice. "Not while I stand," Captain America stepped from the shadows, his shield gleaming with defiance.

"The world will kneel before the Red Skull, or it will burn."

The clash was immediate and brutal. Captain America, the symbol of hope and justice, faced the embodiment of tyranny and hatred. Their blows reverberated through the Reichstag, a battle of ideologies as much as physical might. Schmidt’s attacks were savage, fueled by decades of festering rage. But Steve Rogers met each strike with unwavering resolve, his shield a beacon of resistance. "You’ll never win, Schmidt," Cap growled, his voice steady. "The world has moved on." The Red Skull’s laughter was a jagged shard of madness. "The world will burn," he spat, his grip tightening on the Cube.

"Every scar on my face is a testament to my unyielding resolve."

In a final, desperate move, Schmidt unleashed the Cube’s power, a torrent of destructive energy aimed at Captain America. But Rogers, with the strength born of righteousness, deflected the blast with his shield, the resulting explosion engulfing them both in a blinding light. When the dust settled, the Reichstag was a ruin, its walls scorched and crumbling. Captain America stood alone, his shield scorched but unbroken, the Cosmic Cube inert at his feet. The Red Skull was gone, consumed by his own hubris. As dawn broke over Berlin, Steve Rogers knew the fight was far from over, but for now, the world had been spared from Schmidt’s twisted dream. The Red Skull had been defeated, but the shadows of tyranny would always loom, and Captain America would always be there to stand against them.