LIMBO

Five - Part 1 Five - Part 2 Six - Part 1 Six - Part 2 Seven - Part 1 Seven - Part 2

Eight - Part 1

Eight - Part 2

You turned and quickly walked away.

His feet were already moving.

"Bucky, maintain visual!" the analyst shouted through the comm.

He never slowed.

"Barnes, stand down!"

Nothing.

"Bucky!" Sam's voice.

"Wait for backup!"

Too late.

He shoved past the first cluster of guests, nearly knocking a champagne tray to the marble floor as he sprinted after the black dress disappearing through the gallery doors.

The gallery opened onto the rear terrace almost without warning.

Warm candlelight gave way to the cool Roman evening, and the change was immediate. The orchestra softened behind thick stone walls until it became little more than a distant melody drifting through the open doors. Beyond the balustrade, Bellini's gardens stretched toward the river in perfect symmetry, illuminated by carefully placed lanterns that turned marble fountains and ancient statues into pale silhouettes against the night.

Guests lingered outside in small groups, champagne flutes balanced effortlessly between their fingers as they admired the view over the city. Laughter drifted across the terrace. Somewhere nearby, someone lit a cigar. The scent mixed with expensive perfume and freshly cut jasmine carried on the breeze.

To everyone around you, the evening remained perfect.

You resisted every instinct urging you to run. Not here. Not with this many eyes.

The worst thing you could do now was confirm his suspicion by panicking. So you walked.

Measured and unhurried. The same steady pace you'd maintained since entering the palace. Your heartbeat, however, had become impossible to ignore.

You could feel it against your throat. Against your ribs.

Against the pulse in your wrists.

Behind you, he followed. Not close enough to touch, not far enough to lose.

The distance between you never seemed to change. You didn't need to look back to know he was still there.

You simply knew.

Inside his earpiece, voices continued speaking over one another.

"...Barnes, maintain observation…”

"...South surveillance is repositioning…”

Bucky heard every word.

He listened to none of them.

His entire world had narrowed to the woman walking twenty yards ahead of him.

The black gown. The bare stretch of her back disappearing beneath hair.

The scar.

God...

The scar.

His stomach still hadn't recovered from the moment he'd seen it.

Every instinct he possessed insisted he was looking at H-17.

Every other part of him begged for another explanation.

Not her.

Please...

Not her.

He had spent the last several minutes wondering why he couldn't stop looking at her.

Wondering why she had managed, if only for a heartbeat, to quiet the grief that had consumed every waking moment since Asa died. Now all he could think was how cruel the universe truly was.

Out of every woman in Rome, it had been her.

You reached the broad staircase leading into Bellini's gardens.

The terrace ended there, beyond it, the protection of the gala disappeared.

You paused only long enough to rest one hand lightly against the cool marble railing. Your eyes swept the gardens below.

Lanterns, guests, security, stone pathways, three exists, one service gate, and the river beyond.

Your mind mapped everything in seconds.

Hydra had made sure of that. You descended without hesitation. Each step carried you farther from the music. Farther from the witnesses. Farther from the safety of pretending this had all been a misunderstanding.

“Buck." Sam's voice broke through the static. "We're almost to your position.” No answer. “Bucky." Another beat. "Just wait for me."

His jaw tightened.

His eyes never left you.

Waiting wasn't an option anymore.

Not after he'd seen the scar.

Not after she'd looked at him the way she had.

She knew.

He was certain of it.

She knew exactly what he'd seen.

Your heel caught briefly against the uneven stone. Barely enough to interrupt your stride. Enough.

You reached down without looking. The buckle released beneath practiced fingers. The first shoe slipped free. You never broke pace.

It disappeared soundlessly into the darkness beside a hedge. Five more steps. The second followed. Cool stone met bare skin.

Immediately, your stride lengthened.

You felt lighter.

Faster. Behind you, Bucky watched both shoes vanish into the shadows.

The gesture lasted no more than two seconds.

It told him everything. She wasn't trying to leave the gala anymore. She was preparing to disappear. Something inside him snapped.

Until that moment, some small part of him had still believed he could follow protocol. That surveillance teams would quietly move into position. That Sam would arrive. That together they would identify H-17 and end the evening exactly as the Bureau had planned.

The abandoned shoes erased that possibility.

She had made her choice.

His body answered before his mind could.

The first stride came almost involuntarily.

The second carried him off the terrace.

By the third, he was running.

The analyst's voice immediately cut across the channel.

"Sergeant Barnes, do not pursue!”

He never slowed.

"Barnes, stand down."

Gravel exploded beneath his shoes as he crossed the final stretch of the garden.

"Bucky!" Sam's voice was sharper now, louder than before. "Wait for backup!"

Still, nothing.

His breathing had already begun to overtake every other sound.

The distance between them began to close. Not because you were slowing. Because he was relentless.

You heard it. Not footsteps. No…momentum. The unmistakable rhythm of someone who had committed entirely to the pursuit.

You didn't look back. You didn't need to.

The Winter Soldier had stopped following. He was hunting.

And for the first time that evening, you ran.

The gardens disappeared behind you as the wrought-iron gates burst open, and Rome swallowed you both whole.

The moment you crossed beyond Bellini's gates, the city seemed to explode around you.

The quiet elegance of the palace vanished behind the steady roar of Roman nightlife.

Restaurants spilled onto narrow sidewalks beneath strings of warm lights suspended between centuries-old buildings. Conversations drifted through the air in a dozen different languages, punctuated by bursts of laughter, clinking wine glasses, and the distant hum of Vespas weaving effortlessly through evening traffic.

No one looked at you twice.

Not at first.

To everyone else, you were simply another woman leaving an extravagant gala. Until you started running.

You cut sharply around the corner of the first building, narrowly avoiding a waiter emerging from a side entrance with an armful of empty wine crates.

"I'm so sorry," you called instinctively as he stumbled backward in surprise.

The apology had barely left your mouth before you were gone. Seconds later, Bucky reached the same corner.

The crates crashed across the pavement. The waiter instinctively reached down to stop one from rolling into the street.

You knew better than to run in a straight line.

Hydra had taught you that years ago. Straight lines were predictable.

Predictable people got caught. Every intersection became a decision.

Left. Too open. Right. Dead end. Forward. Crowded.

Perfect.

You slipped between tightly packed café tables, murmuring apologies as startled diners pulled their chairs inward just quickly enough to let you pass.

Someone shouted after you.

Someone else laughed, assuming they had just witnessed lovers arguing.

No one understood what was actually happening. You hoped it stayed that way.

Behind you, Bucky entered the same street barely four seconds later.

The café erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped violently across old stone.

A waiter yanked an entire tray of untouched pasta out of the way just before Bucky vaulted over the edge of the outdoor seating rather than weaving around it.

His polished dress shoes struck the cobblestones with enough force that the sound echoed between the buildings.

He never lost sight of the black dress.

Not once.

“Bucky." Sam's breathing was heavier now. He was running too. "Talk to me.” Silence. “Buck." Another pause. "Where are you?"

The analyst cut in before Bucky could answer.

"Captain Wilson, GPS has him crossing Via dei Coronari."

"How far?"

"Closing on Piazza Navona."

Sam muttered something beneath his breath. "Damn it..."

Bucky pushed harder. You burst into the piazza.

The open square stretched before you beneath the glow of street lamps and restaurant terraces packed with tourists lingering over late dinners.

A violinist stood beside Bernini's Fountain of the Four Rivers, completely absorbed in his music until the sudden movement caught his attention.

Your eyes swept the square.

Too exposed. Too many witnesses. Too few exits.

You changed direction immediately. Not toward the fountain.

Toward the narrow passage disappearing between two ancient buildings on the western side of the square.

Bucky saw the change the instant you made it. He didn't hesitate and neither did you.

Your lungs had begun to burn.

Not from exhaustion but from the constant changes in pace.

Sprint.

Slow.

Turn.

Jump.

Accelerate again.

Every movement demanded a new calculation.

The city itself became part of the equation. A delivery truck blocked one street completely. You ducked beneath the raised loading platform instead of going around it.

Bucky arrived less than three seconds later.

Too broad to follow the same route without losing momentum, he planted one hand against the truck, vaulted cleanly over the rear loading gate, and landed hard enough to rattle the entire vehicle.

The driver stepped out of the cab just in time to watch him disappear.

You risked your first glance behind you.

Immediately regretted it. He was closer. Much closer.

Close enough now that you could see the determination carved across his face.

His tie had come loose somewhere during the pursuit, hanging unevenly against the front of his shirt. The top button had been torn open, dark hair falling across his forehead as he ran.

He wasn't slowing.

He wasn't tiring. He was simply coming for you.

Your stomach tightened.

Impossible.

You'd studied him.

Read every file Hydra had ever kept.

You knew exactly what he was capable of.

Knowing and seeing it with your own eyes were two entirely different things.

You rounded another corner.

Nearly collided with a young boy chasing a soccer ball across the alley. You caught him instinctively before he stumbled into the street, steadying him by both shoulders.

"I'm sorry.” The words came automatically.

The ball rolled away.

The boy looked up at you, startled but unharmed.

You were already running again.

Five seconds later, Bucky reached the same alley.

Ahead, church bells rang across the city.

Nine o’clock. The sound rolled over the rooftops as both of you disappeared deeper into Rome. Neither of you had spoken a single word. Neither of you needed to. The chase had become its own language.

The alley spilled onto a narrow street lined with shuttered cafés and flower boxes overflowing from wrought-iron balconies. Laundry stirred gently overhead in the evening breeze, suspended between buildings that had watched Rome reinvent itself for centuries.

You didn't hesitate. Your eyes were already searching three streets ahead.

A delivery van idled beside the curb while a pair of workers unloaded crates through its rear doors, blocking nearly the entire roadway.

Perfect. You veered toward it.

Not around it.

Through it.

The workers barely had time to react before you slipped between two stacks of wooden crates, ducking beneath the raised lift-gate with practiced ease. One of them shouted something in Italian as you emerged on the opposite side and disappeared into another alley.

The opening behind you narrowed again as one of the crates shifted dangerously out of place.

Bucky reached the truck less than two seconds later.

He didn't even slow.

Your breathing had settled into a rhythm.

In.

Out.

Count the corners. Count the exits. Count the people.

Hydra had drilled it into you until it became instinct.

Never outrun someone stronger. Outthink them.

You cut sharply through a bustling side market, weaving between vendors selling fresh fruit, flowers, and handmade leather goods beneath striped canvas awnings.

An elderly woman carrying two grocery bags stepped directly into your path.

She blinked after you, confused but unharmed.

Only moments later, Bucky burst into the same market.

Ahead, the street narrowed again before opening unexpectedly onto a small stone bridge crossing one of the city's quieter canals.

Moonlight shimmered across the water below, broken only by the slow wake of a passing river taxi drifting beneath the arch.

Your pace faltered for the first time.

Not from exhaustion, but from calculation.

Across the bridge was too exposed. Back the way you'd come was impossible. To the left a staircase descended toward the water.

You made your decision instantly.

Instead of crossing the bridge, you vaulted over the low stone barrier, catching the iron railing as you dropped onto the narrow maintenance walkway running beneath it.

Your shoes would've made that jump dangerous. Bare feet didn’t. Your landing was silent.

You never looked back.

Bucky reached the bridge seconds later.

He saw the empty roadway.

Then, movement below.

His eyes dropped just in time to catch the edge of your black gown disappearing beneath the bridge.

A lesser pursuer would've continued straight. He didn't.

Without breaking stride, he planted one foot against the bridge's stone wall and vaulted the barrier, dropping after you. His shoulder clipped the railing on the way down.

Pain shot through him. He ignored it.

His shoes struck the narrow walkway with a heavy crack.

Too loud.

Too heavy.

He'd already lost three seconds.

You heard him land. Closer.

Too close.

Your heartbeat lurched.

You pushed harder.

The canal funneled the sound of his footsteps directly toward you, every impact echoing beneath the ancient stone arches until it became impossible to tell exactly how far behind he really was.

That uncertainty was almost worse. You risked another glance. He was there.

No more than fifteen yards now. Hair falling across his forehead.

Breathing harder than before. His tie hanging loose around his neck. His jacket unbuttoned and whipping behind him with every stride. He looked less like a government agent now...

And more like something relentless. Something that simply wouldn't stop.

The canal eventually emptied into a quieter part of the city.

The restaurants had disappeared behind them, replaced by narrow residential streets where flower boxes hung from wrought-iron balconies and warm lamplight spilled lazily across centuries-old cobblestones. Laundry stirred gently overhead in the evening breeze, suspended between buildings that had watched generations come and go without ever changing themselves.

Your breathing had settled into a rhythm. Not because you were no longer running, but because panic had never made anyone faster.

Hydra had taught you that years ago. Panic narrowed your vision.

It made people predictable. Predictable people got caught.

Think.

Don't run.

Think.

You stole another glance over your shoulder.

He was still there. Closer than before.

His tie had long since come loose, hanging unevenly around his neck. The collar of his white dress shirt had been pulled open somewhere during the chase, dark hair falling across his forehead as he closed the distance with the same relentless pace he'd maintained since Bellini's gardens.

He wasn't tiring.

That realization settled heavily in your chest.

Of course he wasn't.

You hadn't spent years studying the Winter Soldier because Hydra thought he was ordinary. Ahead, the street split around a small stone chapel. To the left, the city opened toward a brightly lit boulevard crowded with late-night cafés.

To the right, a narrow alley disappeared between two aging apartment buildings before bending sharply out of sight. You made your decision without slowing.

The alley.

Dark.

Confined.

Invisible from the street.

You disappeared around the corner.

Bucky followed less than two seconds later.

By then, you were gone.

Not because you'd outrun him.

Because you'd stopped.

Halfway down the alley, a recessed doorway sat several feet back from the street, swallowed almost entirely by shadow. You slipped into it without hesitation, pressing your back against the cold stone as your breathing came under immediate control.

One hand rested lightly against the wall.

The other hovered instinctively near the pistol concealed beneath your gown.

You didn't move.

You didn't breathe.

Hydra had taught you that movement attracted the eye long before sound ever did.

So you became part of the wall.

Footsteps thundered toward you.

Closer.

Closer.

Then, silence.

You stayed exactly where you were.

One second. Five. Ten. Twenty.

Hydra had also taught you that the first mistake people made after escaping pursuit was believing the pursuit had ended.

You waited another full minute before finally allowing yourself to exhale. The breath left your lungs slowly, almost painfully. Only then did you step out from the shadows.

Your heart was still racing, though your face revealed none of it. You smoothed the front of your gown almost absently before tucking a loose strand of hair back into place.

To anyone passing by, you were simply another guest walking home from an evening gala.

Nothing more.

You left the alley at an unhurried pace, blending effortlessly back into the quiet rhythm of the city. The hotel stood only a block away.

Its warm lights glowed softly against the street, the doorman chatting idly with a couple climbing out of a taxi as though the night were no different from any other.

___

You found the back entrance to your hotel a minute later.

The service corridor was empty.

The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, their cold glow replacing the warmth and grandeur of Bellini's palace with something altogether more ordinary. Metal shelving lined one wall beside stacks of freshly laundered towels waiting to be distributed throughout the hotel, while somewhere farther down the hall came the faint clatter of dishes being loaded into industrial dishwashers after another busy dinner service.

No alarms.

No shouting.

No footsteps behind you.

You swiped your keycard through a second security door before stepping into the staff elevator. The doors slid shut.

Only then did you allow your shoulders to lower the slightest fraction. The elevator climbed quietly.You leaned your head back against the polished steel wall and closed your eyes for exactly one breath.

Not to rest.

To think.

How had he recognized you?

The question refused to leave.

You replayed the ballroom over and over again.

The conversation. The older collector. The champagne.

The elevator chimed softly.

Seventh floor.

The doors opened onto a quiet corridor lined with thick carpet that swallowed the sound of every footstep. Soft lamps cast warm pools of light across dark wood paneling, the entire floor wrapped in the expensive silence unique to luxury hotels after midnight.

You stepped out.

Everything looked exactly as you'd left it.

Housekeeping carts were gone.

Room service trays had already been collected.

A couple disappeared around the far corner, laughing quietly to themselves before the hallway fell silent once again.

Normal.

You began walking.

Room 714.

Six doors.

Five.

Four.

Your breathing had finally begun to steady.

You'd lost him. You were almost certain of it now.

Hydra had drilled countless escape exercises into you over the years, and tonight had followed the same principles you'd practiced hundreds of times before.

Break visual.Change pace. Disappear.Wait. Never assume.Never celebrate.

Still, relief found its way in anyway.

Small.

Careful.

But there.

You reached your door.

The keycard unlocked it with a familiar green flash.

One hand remained inside your evening bag as you pushed the door inward, fingers brushing the grip of the pistol hidden beneath the fabric more out of habit than genuine concern.

The room was dark. Exactly as you'd left it.

You stepped inside and quietly closed the door behind you.

The lock clicked.

Silence.

For several long seconds, you didn't move.

Your eyes adjusted slowly. Everything appeared untouched.

Only then did you cross the room, slipping the pistol free as naturally as another person might remove their shoes.

The curtains remained partially open.

Rome glittered beyond the glass, thousands of lights stretching across the city beneath the dark Italian sky.

You crossed toward the window and looked down at the street below.

Nothing.

No black SUVs. No agents.

The tension in your chest loosened for the first time all evening.

You let out a slow breath, barely louder than the traffic drifting up from the streets below, and reached toward the curtain, intending to close out the city for the night.

Your hand stopped halfway.

The window.

You frowned.

You had left it closed before Bellini's.

You were absolutely certain of it.

Every muscle in your body tightened at once.

Slowly, your eyes lifted toward the rooftops across the narrow street, instinct replacing relief in the space of a heartbeat. Hydra had devoted entire training modules to one man and one discipline alone. The Winter Soldier didn't need to force his way through doors. He preferred distance. Elevation. Patience. If he'd followed you here, the first place he'd choose was never inside the room—it was somewhere across from it, hidden behind another window, waiting for you to make one careless mistake.

Your breathing slowed deliberately.

Panic made people careless.

Careless people died.

Without stepping in front of the glass, you shifted sideways until your back rested against the wall beside the window, safely outside the line of sight from anyone watching across the street. Only then did your hand disappear beneath the fabric of your gown, fingers finding the spare magazine secured against your thigh exactly where you'd left it before the gala.

The familiar weight settled comfortably into your palm.

Your pistol remained steady in your other hand as you guided the magazine into place with one smooth, practiced motion.

The metallic click sounded unnaturally loud inside the otherwise silent room.

You closed your eyes.

Not because you were afraid.

Because listening had always been more valuable than seeing.

The city breathed outside.

A car passed somewhere below. Voices drifted faintly from the street.

Then, another click.

Not yours.

To your side.

The sound was unmistakable. Metal.

A safety disengaging.

Your eyes opened instantly.

Every instinct you possessed screamed at you not to look too quickly.

The silence stretched for what felt like an eternity before a voice emerged from somewhere behind you, low enough that it almost disappeared into the darkness.

"Drop the fucking gun."

The warmth you had begun to feel only moments earlier vanished completely.

Slowly, you turned your head.

The room remained almost entirely dark, the only light spilling in from the city beyond the open window, cutting pale lines across the hardwood floor.

At first, you saw nothing.

Then the shadows moved.

He stepped forward just enough for the moonlight to find him.

The tuxedo he'd worn at Bellini's barely resembled one anymore. His jacket had disappeared somewhere during the chase through Rome, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled unevenly toward his forearms, the top buttons hanging open as though he'd stopped caring long ago. His tie rested loosely around his neck, half untied, while damp strands of dark hair clung to his forehead from sweat that had never had the chance to dry.

He looked exhausted.

Not the exhaustion of a man who had run across half of Rome. The exhaustion of someone who hadn't truly slept in weeks.His pistol never wavered.

Neither did his eyes.

Whatever kindness had existed in them less than an hour ago, when he'd apologized after accidentally bumping into you beneath Bellini's chandeliers, had vanished completely.

There was only anger now.

Raw.

Unfiltered.

The kind that didn't belong in a government briefing room or on a mission.

The kind born from grief.

"I said..." His voice came again, rougher this time, each word sounding as though it had been dragged painfully from somewhere deep inside his chest. "...drop the fucking gun."

You held his gaze for another second before slowly lowering your hand. Not surrendering. Simply placing the pistol onto the nearby table where both of you could still see it.

His expression didn't change.

Not even slightly.

He took another slow step into the room, his eyes never leaving yours.

His breathing had become uneven, his composure visibly cracking beneath something far heavier.

Your gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the window.

You weren't planning anything. You were calculating.

Distance. Height. Landing.

His voice cut through the thought before it had finished forming.

“Don't." Quiet. Almost exhausted. "You won't make it."

Your eyes returned to him. "I—"

"Shut your damn mouth.” The words weren't shouted. They were cut from stone, ”You don't speak unless I tell you to."

Silence settled over the room once more.

The pistol never wavered.

Neither did his eyes.

He was watching everything. Your breathing. Your shoulders. The minute shifts of your weight across the floor. He knew you were thinking. Calculating.

Looking for a way out. His gaze followed yours to the curtain hanging beside the open window.

For the first time since entering the room, something changed.

Not his expression. His decision.

He looked back at you. Then toward the window again.

“Go." You frowned.

The room fell silent.

Every instinct you possessed screamed that something was wrong. People didn't corner someone at gunpoint, only to let them leave.

He took one deliberate step backward, never lowering the weapon.

You searched his face for something.

Anything. Nothing, no hesitation.

No bluff you could immediately recognize. Just anger raw enough to make your stomach tighten. You didn't trust it.

He noticed. "What?" he asked bitterly, “You don't want it anymore?”

Another heartbeat passed. Then another. Your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. The window remained open. The fire escape beyond it disappeared into darkness.

Every calculation pointed toward the same conclusion.

If there was a chance, this was it.

Without another word, you moved.

Fast.

Your shoulder struck the curtain as you crossed the room in a single burst of motion, one hand catching the windowsill before swinging yourself effortlessly onto the narrow iron fire escape outside.

Cold night air rushed against your face, carrying with it the distant hum of Rome below as you disappeared into the darkness without looking back.

Bucky never moved.

He remained exactly where he'd been standing, the pistol still trained on the open window long after you had vanished from sight, as though some part of him still expected you to reappear.

His breathing refused to steady.

The room suddenly felt impossibly quiet.

Only minutes earlier, he'd been standing beneath Bellini's chandeliers wondering why a stranger had managed to steal his attention for the first time since Asa's funeral. For one reckless, unforgivable moment, he'd forgotten what grief felt like. Forgotten the weight he'd carried every waking hour for the last three weeks.

Then he'd seen the scar.

He couldn’t breathe, and all he could see was red.

Then— “Sergeant Barnes?” He pressed the transmitter without taking his eyes off the darkness outside. A brief pause.

Then Sam's voice answered.

"We've got her."

Silence.

"She's in custody."

Bucky closed his eyes.

Only for a second.

Three weeks ago, he'd buried his wife. But tonight, he was attending a gala. The thought alone made something inside him twist.

A knock sounded against the adjoining door.

"You decent?” Sam.

Bucky doesn’t even make eye contact with himself in the mirror. "Yeah."

The door opened with a soft creak.

Sam stepped inside already dressed, adjusting the sleeve of his own jacket before giving Bucky a once-over. “Damn." Bucky didn't answer, ”You clean up pretty well.” Nothing. Sam sighed. "I figured.” He walked over to the minibar, unscrewing a bottle of sparkling water instead, ”You sleep at all?"

"Couple hours.” His voice was rough and short. "You?"

"Enough."

It wasn't enough. Neither of them bothered pretending otherwise.

Bucky reached for the black jacket hanging neatly across the chair and slid it over his shoulders. The movement pulled awkwardly against the healed scar tissue near his left shoulder.

He barely noticed anymore. Sam watched him button the front. "You okay?"

“No." The answer came so quickly it almost caught Sam off guard. Bucky looked back toward the mirror, ”But I'm here."

Silence settled between them.

Outside the tall hotel windows, Rome glowed beneath the fading evening light. Church bells drifted faintly through the city.

Tourists wandered narrow streets below. The room fell quiet again and Sam didn't argue.

Another knock interrupted them and then three other short knocks.

Bucky opened the door.

The FBI analyst from Washington stood outside, a slim black folder tucked beneath one arm. Her expression remained composed.

"We're approaching the transfer point.” She says. She glanced between them, ”I have one final briefing before arrival."

"Come in.” Sam says, stepping aside.

She entered without ceremony, placing the folder carefully onto the small dining table before opening it. There were several photographs, satellite imagery, architectural layouts, and financial records.

The top page carried one name.

Alessandro Moretti.

"The gala begins at nineteen hundred," she said, turning another page in the folder. "Approximately four hundred guests are expected to attend. Most have perfectly legitimate reasons for being there. Others have spent years moving through circles where stolen antiquities, forged provenance, and private collections overlap. Bellini has always attracted both.” She paused only long enough to let the page settle before continuing. "For tonight, however, none of them are your priority."

Bucky looked up. “H-17." He says.

She nodded once.

"Our working assessment is that if H-17 survived Guanajuato, and every indication suggests they did, they’ll continue following the same trail we are. Bellini's gala is the first credible opportunity we've had to intercept them."

Sam leaned forward slightly. "You're assuming they know Bellini."

She opened a second folder.

"Six hours ago, the Bureau completed a comparative analysis on trace evidence recovered from the Guanajuato chamber."

Bucky's attention sharpened immediately. His stomach dropped instantly. ”Did you identify them?"

She placed two photographs on the polished table between them. The first showed a section of scorched stone recovered from the collapsed chamber. The second was older. Much older.

At first glance, the damage looked almost identical.

Thin, impossibly precise lines cut through reinforced steel as though it had offered no resistance at all. "Both surfaces were exposed to the same type of directed-energy cutting system," she explained. "The signatures are nearly indistinguishable.”

“Right. We remember them mentioning this in the briefing.” Sam says.

She turned one final page. "The designation attached to that investigation was H-17.” The name settled heavily over the table. It wasn't a person. Not yet. Just a letter and two numbers. The analyst let the silence settle before reaching into the folder once more. "This next photograph wasn't recovered in Mexico.” She slid a small evidence print across the table. 

The image was poor and grainy. Taken from a considerable distance.

At first glance, it appeared to be nothing more than someone's arm disappearing beneath the sleeve of a dark jacket.

Only one detail stood out.

A scar.

It ran along the inside of the forearm, beginning just below the wrist before disappearing beneath the cuff. Old and jagged. Impossible to mistake once you'd seen it.

"This was recovered from surveillance footage during an unrelated operation years ago," she explained. "At the time, the image was catalogued and archived. There was nothing linking it to any active investigation.” She glanced toward the photographs of the laser residue still lying on the table. "There is now."

Sam picked up the photograph, studying it for several seconds before passing it to Bucky.

"That's all we've got?” Sam asks.

"I'm afraid so.” She says.

"No face?” Sam.

“No." Her.

“Fingerprints?" Sam.

She shook her head.

"DNA?"

"Nothing usable."

Bucky continued staring at the photograph, still not saying anything. After countless days and sleepless nights, it came down to this; a scar.

It wasn't much. But after Guanajuato, it was more than they'd had yesterday.

"The individual was careful," the analyst continued. "Very careful. They avoided cameras whenever possible. They left almost no forensic evidence inside the chamber. Every decision suggests extensive operational training."

“Military or intelligence?" Sam asked.

"We can't say.” She folded her hands on top of the folder, ”At this point, we don't know if H-17 is acting independently or under someone else's direction. We don't know whether they're a contractor, former military, intelligence, organized crime, or something else entirely. But we do know he’s Hydra.”

The words lingered between them.

Bucky finally looked up from the photograph.

"So this..." He held it slightly above the table. "This is what we're building an operation around."

"It's what we're building identification around.” she corrected.

He frowned.

She leaned forward just enough to indicate the map of Bellini's estate.

"If H-17 appears tonight, they won't know we're looking for them."

Sam nodded slowly.

"They're looking for something else."

"Exactly."

"Our advantage is that we don't have to predict what they'll do," she said. "We simply have to recognize them before they recognize us."

Bucky lowered his eyes to the scar once more. Something about it bothered him. Not because of the mark itself.

Because it was human.

Up until now, H-17 had existed only as a report. A designation. A collection of impossible decisions made beneath a mountain halfway across the world.

Now, there was an arm. Scar tissue.

Skin.

Proof that somewhere beyond the paperwork, there was an actual person responsible for Asa's death. His jaw tightened.

He slipped the photograph back across the table.

"I won't miss it."

The analyst held his gaze for a moment before quietly gathering the remaining files.

"I know.” She closed the folder with a soft click. "Which is precisely why I'm asking you to remember something.” Neither Bucky nor Sam spoke. "If H-17 is there tonight,” She chose her next words carefully, “your first responsibility is confirmation. Not capture. Not yet. Not confrontation. Confirmation. Then, as a team, we go in.” She looked directly at Bucky. "We've waited months for this lead.” Another pause. "We can afford to lose the suspect.” Her voice became quieter. "We cannot afford to lose our only chance of identifying them."

The riverboat drifted beneath another stone bridge, the shadows briefly swallowing the deck before sunlight returned across the water.

Ahead, the first glimpse of Bellini's estate came into view.

"Captain Wilson, your observation post overlooks the central ballroom and both gallery entrances.” She says. Sam nodded. "And Barnes. "You'll remain mobile.” The answer didn't surprise anyone. "Move naturally. Circulate. If H-17 is here,” He glanced briefly toward the crowded ballroom beyond, “they must never suspect they're being watched."

Bucky slipped the earpiece into place.

The familiar burst of static settled inside his ear before voices gradually filtered through.

"Control, radio check."

"Loud and clear."

"Balcony team online."

"Garden team online."

"North entrance secure."

One by one, every voice joined the network.

"Sargeant Barnes” 

Bucky touched the earpiece almost absentmindedly. "Copy."

Bucky said nothing.

His eyes had already drifted toward the ballroom, toward hundreds of strangers moving beneath chandeliers. Somewhere inside, a person existed who had reduced his entire life to before and after.

______________

Warm light spilled from hundreds of crystal chandeliers suspended high above the ballroom, catching against polished marble and gilded moldings that had survived centuries of history. Conversations drifted through the enormous space, blending with the quiet melody of a string quartet positioned beneath the eastern staircase.

The music was loud and sensual, thumping in sync with his heart and veins.

Everywhere Bucky looked, someone important was pretending not to be.

Politicians laughed beside art dealers, diplomats exchanged pleasantries with men whose names never appeared in newspapers, collectors admired paintings they undoubtedly couldn't afford.

A waiter appeared beside him.

"Champagne, sir?"

Bucky shook his head politely and continued walking.

His eyes never stopped moving. He made sure he could make out every possible exit.  Every doorway, staircase, balcony, and reflection caught in polished marble.

Sam's voice crackled softly through the earpiece.

"You've circled the ballroom twice."

“Mmm."

"You're making me nervous."

"I'm making you nervous?"

“Yeah?"

A pause.

"You look like you're casing the place."

"I am."

Sam sighed somewhere above him.

"Try looking like you're enjoying yourself."

Bucky glanced toward a sculpture positioned near the center of the room.

"I'll see what I can do.” His voice was gruff.

Another waiter passed carrying a tray lined with crystal whiskey glasses.

This time, Bucky stopped him. "I'll take one."

The waiter offered a polite nod before disappearing back into the crowd.

Sam noticed immediately.

“Well, didn’t expect that."

Bucky rolled the amber liquid slowly around the glass.

He took a sip. Expensive and smooth.

Completely wasted on him.

He barely tasted it. A small smile tugged at Sam's voice.

"How is it?"

Bucky looked down into the glass.

"Tastes like whiskey."

"That's the most depressing review of a thirty-year Scotch I've ever heard."

"It all tastes the same."

"That's because your metabolism's unfair."

Bucky took another small sip.

"I'd need ten of these before I'd feel anything."

Sam laughed quietly.

"Government's not paying for ten."

He rested one hand against the polished wood of the bar, letting his eyes wander across the ballroom once more. Nothing.

No scar. No unusual movement.

No H-17.

Just four hundred beautifully dressed strangers pretending they belonged in one another's lives.

"You look terribly disappointed."

The voice came from beside him.

Beautifully female and completely confident. British.

Bucky turned.

She couldn't have been much younger than him, dressed elegantly in deep emerald silk, a champagne flute balanced effortlessly between her fingers.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The whiskey,” She nodded toward his glass. "You looked as though you'd expected it to solve a personal crisis."

He glanced down at it. "It didn't."

"I'm shocked."

A faint smile touched her lips, ”Most people at least pretend to enjoy it."

"I never was much for pretending."

“No?" She studied him for a moment. "I would've guessed you were."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that supposed to be a compliment?"

"It depends,” She smiled. Bucky didn’t smile. "Have I offended you?"

“No." His says honestly, but with that same tone he’s used all day.

“Good." She extended a hand, ”I don't believe we've met."

Bucky looked at it for only a second before shaking it.

"James."

“Pleasure." She released his hand. "You don't strike me as someone who attends many galas, James."

"I don't."

“You've spent the last ten minutes watching everyone except yourself. You looked lonely."

The word settled awkwardly between them.

Before Bucky could answer, his thumb unconsciously brushed against the gold band resting on his left hand. He hadn't even realized he'd done it.

Her eyes followed the movement. The smile on her face softened almost immediately.

“Oh." Silence. "I'm sorry.” Bucky looked down at the ring. She offered a small, genuinely apologetic smile. "I shouldn't have interrupted your evening."

Without another word, she stepped back into the crowd, disappearing almost as quietly as she'd appeared. Bucky watched her go for only a moment before lowering his eyes to the whiskey glass still resting in his hand.

His thumb remained absentmindedly against the ring. He hadn't thought about taking it off. He wasn't sure he ever would.

The woman disappeared into the crowd as quietly as she'd arrived, the emerald silk of her gown vanishing between clusters of collectors and diplomats until there was nothing left to distinguish her from the other three hundred guests drifting through Bellini's palace.

Bucky stayed where he was. The whiskey rested untouched in his hand.

Around him, the evening continued without interruption. Crystal stemware chimed softly against one another.

A burst of laughter erupted somewhere beneath the eastern staircase before dissolving back into the steady hum of conversation. The quartet had abandoned Vivaldi for something slower now, the melody slipping almost unnoticed beneath the voices that filled the ballroom.

No one here knew what had happened beneath a mountain in Mexico. No one here knew Asa Barnes was dead.

He watched a man straighten the collar of his wife's dress before offering her his arm. She smiled without looking up, accepting the gesture with the ease of two people who had been doing the same thing for years.

Bucky looked away. His chest tightened so suddenly he almost mistook it for anger.

It wasn’t. It would've been easier if it had been. His thumb found the ring again. He turned it once around his finger. Then once more.

The motion had become unconscious. Something his hands did whenever his mind wandered somewhere it shouldn't.

Three weeks. Twenty-one days. He still caught himself thinking about texting her.

Still reached for the other side of the bed some mornings before remembering. Still expected to hear footsteps in the apartment when he came home.

Grief was cruel like that. It didn't arrive all at once.

It waited and then found you in ordinary moments like a grocery store, a quiet kitchen, or a ballroom halfway across the world where everyone else seemed perfectly capable of pretending life had never changed.

He took another sip of the whiskey.

Nothing.

The warmth reached his throat and disappeared before it ever became comfort.

Years ago, before the serum and before Hydra, one glass would've quieted the noise.

Now, it was just another expensive drink.

“Buck?" Sam's voice crackled gently through the earpiece. "You still with me?"

Bucky blinked.

The ballroom came back into focus.

"Yeah."

"You've been standing in the same spot for almost three minutes."

Had he?

He hadn't noticed.

He cleared his throat almost imperceptibly before setting the whiskey glass onto the passing waiter's silver tray.

"I'll keep moving."

“Good." A brief pause. "And try not to look like you're attending a funeral."

Bucky almost laughed.

"Little late for that."

Silence.

Sam didn't apologize.

He hadn't meant it that way.

"I know," he answered quietly. The line went dead again.

Bucky exhaled through his nose before stepping away from the bar. Movement helped. It always had.

For years, missions had become the easiest place to exist. They demanded attention. They left no room for memory, no room for regret. There was only the next hallway. The next rooftop. The next objective.

Tonight, well, tonight his thoughts refused to cooperate.

The ballroom unfolded around him like a painting.

Women drifted past in gowns that caught the chandelier light with every step. Men in perfectly tailored tuxedos laughed into crystal glasses worth more than most people's monthly rent. Somewhere nearby, a waiter shaved paper-thin slices of truffle over porcelain plates while another quietly replenished champagne that had barely been touched.

Old money. Old power, old secrets.

Bucky wandered without appearing to wander.

He paused briefly before a sixteenth-century oil painting, not because he cared about it, but because the polished varnish reflected nearly half the room behind him. He watched conversations unfold in reverse, observing expressions instead of words.

Two security guards near the western staircase.

One museum curator speaking animatedly with a Vatican representative.

A collector quietly slipping away through a side corridor.

Nothing, no scar.

No unusual behavior. No H-17.

His gaze shifted naturally toward the second floor.

Guests leaned against marble balustrades overlooking the ballroom below, glasses balanced loosely in their hands as the quartet transitioned into another piece. From somewhere above came the soft echo of a woman's laughter, followed by the unmistakable sound of Italian being spoken too quickly for him to follow.

Beautiful, every inch of it.

He hated that too.

Not because it lacked beauty. Because beauty had become exhausting. Three weeks ago, he would've wanted Asa to see this. She would've wandered these halls for hours, reading every placard beneath every sculpture before inevitably dragging him toward whichever painting she'd declared her favorite.

He could almost hear it.

"James, come look at this one."

He swallowed.

Don't.

Not here.

His jaw tightened until it ached.

Mission.

Focus.

He forced himself to continue walking. One corridor opened into another.

The crowds thinned slightly as he left the main ballroom behind, replaced by quieter conversations and smaller clusters of guests studying the artwork lining the walls. The music became softer here, muffled by thick stone and heavy velvet drapes that framed towering windows overlooking the gardens.

His footsteps slowed.

Not consciously but by instinct. Something— No, not something— someone.

He couldn't have explained why. There was no movement out of place. No raised voices and no obvious threat. Only the strange, unmistakable feeling that made the hairs at the back of his neck rise.

Years of missions had taught him to trust that feeling before he understood it. His eyes swept the corridor once. An elderly couple stood admiring a marble bust near the far wall.

A server disappeared through a doorway carrying an empty tray. Another guest adjusted his cufflinks before rejoining a conversation behind him.

Normal, entirely normal. And yet, the feeling remained.

Bucky rounded the corner, at that exact same moment, someone else did.

He rounded the corner.

So did you.

The collision was light.

Barely more than the brush of two shoulders meeting where the corridor narrowed between towering marble columns. Enough to stop you both.

“Oh." The apology escaped the two of you at precisely the same moment. "I'm sorr—"

You stopped.

He stopped.

For one suspended heartbeat…

Neither of you moved.

The corridor remained alive around you.

Guests continued drifting between galleries, voices rising and falling beneath the distant music of the quartet. Somewhere farther inside the palace, crystal stemware chimed together, followed by another ripple of laughter that echoed softly beneath the painted ceilings.

Life continued.

Only the two of you had stopped.

Bucky's hand had instinctively reached toward your elbow, steadying you before you could lose your balance.

He realized what he'd done almost immediately. His fingers loosened.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, taking a half-step back. "I wasn't watching where I was going."

His voice surprised you.

Low. Gentle. Nothing like you'd imagined.

You looked up fully for the first time.

Blue eyes, tired eyes. The kind exhaustion couldn't fake.

For a strange, impossible moment, you forgot where you were.

Hydra had spent years teaching you to catalogue people in seconds.

Height.

Build.

Dominant hand.

Possible weapons.

Escape probability.

Threat level.

Instead, your mind offered you nothing.

Only silence.

The man standing in front of you looked familiar.

Not because you'd met him.

You hadn't.

Not like this.

It was something else.

A feeling so faint you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.

His hand had already fallen back to his side.

Still, you could almost remember the warmth of it against your arm.

"I'm sorry too," you answered softly. Your voice felt far away. "It was just as much my fault.” 

Your voice was steady. You made certain of that.

Hydra had taught you many things.

One lesson had never left. Never let anyone know what you're thinking.

Especially when you don't know yourself.

For another brief second, neither of you spoke.

Bucky couldn't explain why he was still standing there.

He should've apologized and kept walking.

He'd done exactly that thousands of times before.

So why, why did it suddenly feel so difficult? His gaze remained on yours a fraction longer than was appropriate. Long enough to notice details that had no business mattering.

The way the chandelier light caught in your eyes.

The faint rise and fall of your breathing.

A strand of hair that had slipped free near your shoulder.

Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should've rooted him to the floor.

And yet, he couldn't seem to leave.

The guilt arrived almost instantly.

It struck so sharply it nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

Asa.

The thought appeared without warning. Followed immediately by shame.

What are you doing?

Three weeks.

Three weeks since he'd stood beside her grave.

Three weeks since he'd promised himself there would never be anyone else.

His chest tightened.

He looked away first.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, though this time he wasn't entirely sure who the apology was for.

You noticed it. Not the words.

The change.

Something behind his eyes had closed.

As though he'd remembered a pain that had briefly let go of him, only to return with twice the force.

You didn't understand why.

But somehow, you felt sorry for him.

"I'm glad neither of us spilled anything," you said with the smallest hint of a smile, glancing toward his empty hands. "I think Bellini would've thrown us both out."

It wasn't much of a joke.

It wasn't meant to be.

Just enough to soften the strange silence that had settled between you.

For the first time all evening, the corner of Bucky's mouth almost answered with a smile.

Almost. "You might be right."

There it was again.

That feeling.

Small.

Inexplicable.

Like the universe had quietly inhaled.

You nodded once.

“So,” You took a small step backward, ”I should probably let you get back to your evening."

He knew he should say yes.

Instead, he simply watched you. Something about walking away suddenly felt  wrong.

You felt it too.

Which made even less sense.

Your training screamed at you to move.

Stay unpredictable.

Never linger.

Never become memorable.

And yet your feet refused to obey.

A server carrying a silver tray excused himself politely as he passed between you, forcing you both to step aside.

The interruption broke whatever invisible thread had settled over the corridor. Reality returned all at once. The music. The conversations. The mission. It was like a tunnel of voice raised its volume all at once.

You offered one last polite smile.

"It was nice not knocking you over. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

You turned first. Professional and measured. Never hurried.

Your heels clicked softly against the marble as you disappeared toward the next gallery.

Bucky stayed where he was.

Watching.

Not because he meant to, because his feet hadn't moved.

He frowned at himself.

Get it together.

He finally forced himself to turn in the opposite direction.

One step.

Two.

Three.

...

Something made him stop.

He didn't know what.

He looked back.

Halfway down the gallery...

You had stopped too.

You were already looking at him.

Neither of you smiled.

Neither of you waved.

For the briefest instant...

It felt as though both of you were asking the exact same silent question.

Have we met before?

Then a group of guests drifted between you, filling the corridor with laughter and conversation.

When they passed, the moment was gone.

And so were you.

_____

You disappeared into the crowd.

The black fabric of your gown slipped effortlessly between clusters of guests until the ballroom swallowed you whole.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was.

He knew he should've turned around, he should've continued the sweep and he should've forgotten the entire interaction before he'd taken his next breath.

Instead, he stood there.

"What the hell…" The words never made it past his lips.

He dragged a hand slowly across his jaw, almost irritated with himself.

She was beautiful. That much was obvious. Bellini's gala was filled with beautiful women.

Models. Diplomats. Heiresses.Actresses.

Women who turned heads simply by entering a room.

None of them had managed to stop him, none of them had made him forget where he was, none of them had looked at him the way she just had.

His chest tightened.

Immediately...

His thoughts betrayed him.

Asa.

The name arrived like a knife.

His stomach dropped.

No.

No.

The guilt came so quickly it almost made him physically ill.

Three weeks. Three weeks ago he'd stood beside her grave. Three weeks ago he'd promised himself that whatever part of him had belonged to anyone else had been buried with her.

So why, why had his heart stumbled?

Why had he forgotten everything for those few impossible seconds?

It wasn't just that she was beautiful. He'd seen beautiful people before. There had been something else. Something he couldn't name.

And somehow, yhat unsettled him more than anything else.

"Buck?"

Sam's voice crackled softly through the earpiece. "You still with me?"

Bucky blinked. The ballroom slowly came back into focus.

"Yeah."

"You've been standing still."

Had he?

He hadn't even realized.

Bucky let out a slow breath before beginning to walk again, forcing himself back into the rhythm of the operation. Mission. Observe. Nothing else mattered.

He crossed the ballroom at an unhurried pace, his expression settling back into the familiar neutrality he'd worn on countless assignments before.

The palace unfolded around him in quiet grandeur.

Laughter drifted beneath the chandeliers. Crystal glasses caught the candlelight like scattered stars.

A violin sang somewhere above the conversations, almost disappearing beneath the constant murmur of Italian, French, English, and half a dozen other languages blending together into something strangely comforting.

He hated himself for noticing how beautiful it all was.

Three weeks ago, he would've wanted Asa to see this.

She would've loved every painting.

Every sculpture. She would've spent an hour reading every little plaque while he pretended to be impatient before eventually giving in and following her anyway.

His throat tightened. Don't.

Not now.

Not here.

He looked away from a couple standing together near one of the galleries. The man leaned down, quietly brushing an invisible speck of dust from his wife's shoulder.

She smiled without even looking up. The gesture was so small. So ordinary. It hurt more than it should have.

Bucky's thumb found the wedding band resting against his finger. He turned it once. Then again.

A habit now.

One he rarely noticed anymore.

His eyes lifted instinctively.

Without meaning to, he looked for her.

The realization hit him almost immediately.

Why?

He frowned.

He wasn't looking because of the mission.

Not yet.

He was looking because...

Because he wanted to see her again.

The admission settled heavily in his chest.

He almost laughed at himself.

Christ.

He was losing his mind.

His gaze wandered naturally through the crowd.

Across the ballroom.

Past Bellini.

Past Moretti.

Past a cluster of diplomats gathered beneath the western staircase.

Then, he found you.

You stood near one of the enormous arched windows overlooking the gardens, speaking comfortably with an older gentleman dressed in an impeccably tailored navy tuxedo.

Whatever he was saying seemed mildly entertaining. You smiled politely. Nodded once and completely at ease.

Bucky watched for another second.

Then another.

He couldn't explain why. He just couldn't look away.

You belonged here. There was an effortless confidence about you that couldn't be faked. Nothing theatrical.

Nothing performative. You weren't trying to draw attention. If anything, you seemed intent on avoiding it.

And somehow that only made him notice you more.

Then, almost absentmindedly, your fingers rose to your ear. Not enough to adjust your hair.

Not enough to tuck a strand behind it.

Just, a small, practiced movement.

Bucky's smile disappeared.

His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The older gentleman continued speaking.

You answered him. But a fraction of a second later, your lips moved again.

Too subtly.

Too deliberately.

Not to him.

Into something hidden.

Every instinct he'd spent decades sharpening came alive. His hand rose slowly toward the transmitter beneath his lapel. The attraction vanished. Training took its place.

Across the ballroom, you thanked the older gentleman with a polite nod before turning away.

Your eyes swept the room.

Routine.

Professional.

Until they found him.

The change was immediate. The softness disappeared.

Your expression emptied. Not fear.

Recognition.

Bucky felt something tighten low in his chest.

You know me.

The thought hit him before he understood why.

Then you moved.

Not much.

Just enough to turn your body.

The sleeve of your gown shifted.

The chandelier caught the inside of your forearm.

A scar.

His entire body froze.

No.

His stomach dropped so violently it stole the air from his lungs.

His face drained of color.

The photograph.

The scar.

H-17.

His eyes snapped back to yours. 

For one impossible heartbeat, neither of you moved.

The entire ballroom seemed to disappear.

No music.

No voices.

No Bellini.

No mission.

Only the two of you.

But now for different reason.

Your breathing caught, your chest burned.