cinnamongorl

Chapter 2:

There’s blood on my sleeve.

Not much, just a splatter on the cuff. But it’s there. It’s real. 

So was last night.

I squeeze my eyes shut and run the back of my hand over my forehead, attempting to wipe away the beginnings of a headache. 

God, what was I thinking walking into that alley? 

I was tired, that’s what I was thinking. 

Exhausted is a better word for it. Drained, is another. 

No amount of coffee from Maggie’s could have helped me yesterday. My fingers still ache from their keyboard marathon. Documents after documents. Roughly a thousand emails. All asking for more information on Project Halcyon.

My eyes open to my reflection in the mirror. I cringe.  

Dark circles. Smeared mascara. Hair, soaked in sweat, plastered to my cheek. 

I blow out a long breath and reach for the tap.

Water splashes across my face, cold and shocking. My hands come away with a slight tremble. I pin them to the flat edge of the sink with a sharp shake of my head.

I have to get myself together. Dr. Halden trusted me to handle this, to help get this project off the ground. I think back to yesterday, to his heavy hopeful hand on my shoulder, telling me I’m made for bigger things. 

That sickening, ambition churns in my gut. I couldn’t let him regret his decision. 

With a quick exhale, I push off the sink and turn, unbuttoning my shirt, fingers moving quickly. I was too tired, too stunned, to get changed before I passed out last night. The blood is still there, the sight boring into me. 

I tug the last button free and drop the shirt to the floor, kicking it into a corner to be safe. 

I step into the shower. The sound of the rushing water takes me back to a busy street, wet concrete, the entrance to a dark alley. A flash of the man sparks across my vision. His dark shadow, crawling towards me. Wide eyes. My knife, grazing his throat. 

A stupid, exhausted, dangerous mistake I wouldn’t make again. 

I squeeze my eyes shut. Hard enough for stars to dance in the blackness. I push everything out of my mind, everything that will distract me from the day ahead. I open them to the stream of the shower. 

Beads of water drip down my chin. 

I allow the memories of last night to follow them down the drain. 

When I step out of the shower the steam has blurred the mirror, reducing my image to a faded outline. I blink and look away, pulling a towel from the radiator and wrapping it around my shivering body. 

After I’m toweled off, I start going through the motions. My routine is so well ingrained, my movements are almost robotic. I pull on a new white blouse, black trousers.

I dry my hair, eyes darting to the clock on my nightstand. I move quicker.

The bass from my neighbour’s stereo shakes the mascara on my vanity. I pause dabbing on some concealer to push my earphones into my ears, fighting a vicious eye roll. There’s no time to confront him, not that I'd even have the energy.  

With a deep breath and swipe of lipstick, I turn and stand. Another glance at the clock. I bite the inside of my cheek.

I grab my ID badge from the cabinet and my shoes from the floor, then take off towards the kitchen. My bag sits on the island, its contents spilled out onto the wooden countertop. 

I sigh and rush over, quickly stuffing everything back in. My laptop charger, an abundance of pens, a receipt from Maggie’s. 

The sight of it makes me pause. My thumb wrinkles the already crumbled paper as it brushes over the timestamp: 8:00pm - when I bought my first cup. 

It must have been past 11:30pm when I eventually left. I’d never been to Maggie’s that late. If I had left even an hour earlier, I wouldn’t have -

I close my hand around the receipt, crushing it into a ball, wishing I could do the same to my brain - wipe out the memory of last night altogether. 

The metal bin lid clangs against the wall as I press it with my foot a little too hard. I drop the receipt into the black bag and turn, picking up my shoes and sliding them on. 

My neighbour’s stereo changes to an even louder, more obnoxious song. I groan as I pull my arms through my black trench and cringe as a muffled voice joins the singer, begging to “know what love is.” 

This is why I couldn’t work here last night. Along with my shitty wifi. 

I aggressively push my earphones further into my ears and reach for my ID badge. Once it’s clipped onto my blouse, I send a longing glance towards my coffee machine and I’m out the door, swinging my bag over my shoulder.  

It’s early. But the city is loud. 

I step out into the flow of pedestrians and traffic, becoming just another body in the crowd. The noise of the city bleeds through the song in my ears. The honk of horns, the hum of conversations, several shouts and bangs. It’s comforting, like a blanket of static wrapped around me. 

My office isn’t far. A big skyscraper with the words “Halden Biotech” plastered on the side in giant metallic letters. It’s all glass, reflecting the city back on itself. Refusing to let anyone see inside. It fits Dr. Halden perfectly: impressive, ambitious, but entirely unknowable. 

When I reach the corner of the street, I pause at the light. The building is already in view. A sharp gust of wind whips around me, blowing my coat open and circling me in a vicious chill.

With one hand I pull the dark fabric around me, tightening my other around the strap of my bag. 

My eyes glance at the pedestrian light. Still red. 

Cars fly past. The smells of the city blow around me. Exhaust fumes, coffee. It smells like last night, all that’s missing is the pouring rain. 

I tap my toes on the ground as my mind drifts somewhere it shouldn’t. 

Back to last night. 

To Maggie’s

To the man in the corner. With the gloves and the cap. 

Blue eyes that didn’t once look my way until they were wide open, speckled with concern. Fueled by anger. 

I shake my head sharply. Who even was he?

Someone pushes into my back. I stumble forward, a gasp caught in my throat. 

“Watch it,” a man warns, before stalking past me. I blink and my eyes shoot up. The light is green, I’m blocking the road. 

Get it together, Elise. 

I lift my head and cross the street, letting each step recentre my mind on what’s important. 

My job. Dr. Halden’s new miracle project. Not fucking it up. 

Everything else drifts away in the wind as I walk towards the building. 

After taking out my earphones and shoving them in my bag, I roll my shoulders and tuck my hair behind my ears as my reflection appears on the glass doors. 

Sucking in a breath, I push them open. 

My shoes click on the polished floors as I walk towards the security gate, ID badge at the ready. Everything in the lobby shines. Chrome statues, walls of glass, metal pillars. My warped reflection follows me with every step. 

I relax my forehead, releasing the crinkle between my brows, and steady my gaze on the security guard. I force a smile, teeth wide. 

“Morning, Gary,” I say brightly, handing over my badge. 

Gary makes a noise, the most I'll get out of him, and swipes my badge until a green light flashes. He nods as he places it back in my waiting palm. 

“Thanks,” I reply to his wordless approval, and walk through the gate. 

I step into the elevator and my smile drops. Fifteen floors until I reach the labs. Fifteen floors to mentally prepare. 

True to Halden Biotech’s style, every inch of the elevator is mirrored. Meaning I can’t look anywhere without seeing the black bags under my eyes. 

What was the point of even putting on concealer?

I untuck my hair from behind my ears and shake it out a little, hoping the mess of my fringe will add some camolague to my haggard appearance. 

The elevator dings and the doors slide open.

“Shit… Rough night?” 

Joshua Walker stands opposite me. Clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other. 

My eyes shoot to the mirrored ceiling before I step out the elevator and stride past him, flashing him an unamused look. 

“Don’t start, Josh,” I warn. 

Josh chuckles softly behind me as he speeds up to match my quick pace. “Okay, don’t want to talk about it - noted,” he replies, using his clipboard to do a mock salute. Josh moves to walk by my side. “This is for you, by the way,” he says, handing me the coffee. 

I throw him a grateful look, my demeanour softening as I curl my hand around the drink. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it,” Josh replies, using his free hand to scratch his head. 

My eyes flick towards him, then narrow. “How bad is it?” 

Josh sucks in a breath between his teeth. 

I sigh, take a long sip of my coffee and swallow. “I just -” I start, then pause, lowering my voice. “Why announce it to the rest of the company before he even knows if it's possible?” 

Josh stops walking. His hand brushes my arm, nudging me into an empty lab. He closes the door softly, drops his clipboard on a table and runs his hands through his hair, tugging on the strands.

In just a few seconds, Josh’s calm is gone, replaced by an echo of my own stress. He never shows this in the lab. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Josh so rattled. 

“Everyone’s on edge,” he starts, leaning against the edge of the table and crossing his arms over his chest. “Some lab techs have been here since 5:00am, worried about their jobs if this doesn’t work out.” 

I tighten the grip on my bag, feeling my stomach start to twist. “No wonder,” I mutter. “Six months. That’s nothing - how are we going to get this off the ground in time?” 

Josh shakes his head. “It gets worse. Halden’s scheduled a press release for this morning,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “It’s going to be a big story - might even knock the Winter Soldier out of the headlines.” 

The Winter Soldier? Who - 

“I mean - if he’s right - this could be the cure to cancer, the cure for everything,” Josh continues, pushing off of the table and glancing towards me. “And we’d be a part of it.” 

His words are a shot of electricity through my body. It’s a fairy tale. But… what if it’s possible?

“Okay,” I breathe, setting my coffee cup down on the table. My mind is running a mile a minute, buzzing and aching with possibilities. “We assume, then, that this will work - that Dr. Halden is on to something here - but what about the timeline? How can we do this in six months? Human testing wouldn’t even begin for years.” 

“It’s crazy,” Josh agrees. “But Halden is pushing for board approval. He isn’t shaking on this. I’ve never seen him so obsessed with a project.” 

I grab my coffee, taking another long drink. I notice my fingers are trembling. Too much caffeine? Hmm. The drive for success that’s sparking through my bloodstream? More likely. 

“I mean, what he’s discovered… it’s revolutionary,” I reply, shaking my head. My eyes flash to his. “We have to make this happen.” 

Josh holds my stare, then nods slowly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

“There it is,” he says. 

I raise my eyebrows. “What?” 

Josh grabs his clipboard and turns, opening the door, holding it for me. 

I step forward with a frown, waiting on his answer as I slip past him. 

“There’s that Elise Monroe ambition. Ready to take on the world.” 

We step out into the corridor. I throw my coffee cup in the bin and turn, flipping him off with a sharp eye roll. 

He flashes me a smile as he falls into step beside, heading in the direction of our lab. 

“You know he’s already in, right?” Josh says under his breath. 

I scrunch my eyebrows and shoot him a glance. “Halden?”

Josh nods. 

My hand curls tighter around my bag strap. Was everyone here before me today? 

The hallway comes to an end. Josh swipes his badge and we step through the glass doors into the lab. 

I feel it the second we enter the room. The silence, like we’ve entered a vacuum seal. 

There’s no chatter, no eye contact. Just a room full of lowered heads. Some, with the sickly blue glow of computer screens, some locked over a microscope. 

I swallow roughly, and catch Josh scratching his neck out the corner of my eye. 

As we stand there, momentarily breathing in the thick tension, my gaze flicks to Dr. Halden’s office. The glass walls provide a clear sight of him inside, standing at his desk, speaking to two senior researchers. His hands are balled into fists, crossed over his chest. His jaw is wound tight. I can imagine the low, sharp commands he’s uttering. 

His presence is sobering. All the exhaustion is leached from my body. I straighten my back as a rush of fear and adrenaline floods me. 

Beside me, Josh matches my posture. 

“Ready for this?” I mutter, glancing up at him.  

Josh is already looking down at me. He winks and leans in close. “Let’s save the world.” 

—-----------

10:03pm 

The time on my laptop screen mocks me. 

It reminds me I should have been home hours ago. That I’ve worked a fourteen-hour day, and my brain stopped cooperating around the hour eleven mark. 

My eyes sting. My neck aches. But the data kept pulling me in, and I let it. 

I lean back in my chair. The groan of the metal is a sharp scream in the silent lab. 

Josh left about an hour ago. His goodbye was a tired wave after making me promise to uber home - not walk. 

I cringe and drag my hands through my hair. 

How quickly my thoughts return to last night. 

I’d never had any trouble walking home before. In the daylight, in the dark. In the snow, in the rain. It was all the same in Brooklyn. I knew all the shortcuts, could weave through buildings with my eyes closed. 

I’d never had any trouble walking home before. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t prepared. Even now, the knife is tucked in the bottom of my bag. 

I just hadn’t needed it before. 

My hands drop to my desk with a thud as I blow out a long, weighted breath. 

The past fourteen hours have been heavy, brutal. But the memory of that dark alley has a tighter hold. Bruising and raw. 

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to shake it off, push away the fear that’s planted itself in my body, growing like a weed. It’s no use, my thoughts keep circling back to blue eyes - piercing, even under the shadow of his cap. 

There was something unsettling about the way he appeared. 

Not the man I pinned to the wall. Him. 

The one who showed up out of nowhere. No warning, no change in the air. Just there, all at once. His movements were smooth, calm - comfortable. The opposite to my racing heartbeat and sweaty palms, the knife slipping out of my unstable grip. 

What if he hadn’t shown up? 

I cut off that thought. 

No, I can handle myself. I did handle myself. 

One question gnaws at me, though: why was he there at all? 

I remember his voice: low, rough, certain. 

“No,” he denies quickly, with a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Then nods towards the older man, held beneath the tip of my knife. “I was following him.”

I blink open my eyes. 

Not me. 

Him. 

It makes no sense. Maybe he was lying. 

Unless… unless he knew.

Knew what was going to happen.

Knew what he was going to do.

But how? 

I blow out another breath, this one shaky, and push myself out of my chair. My legs protest, stiff and unsteady but I push forward, ignoring the strain as I walk across the lab. I pull down my coat and bag from the hook by the door, my fingers clumsy with exhaustion.  

I don’t look back at my workstation. I know that if I do, I’ll sit back down and lose myself in more work. More data. More numbers. More stress. It might help take my mind off the near miss, ease that growing fear a little. 

But my work won’t give me answers. Not the kind I want. 

__________

The cold hits me the second I step outside. I clench my teeth and pull my jacket tighter around me. 

Halden Biotech looms behind me. Its mirrored walls no longer reflect the city, just the dark. Just me. 

I look away quickly. 

The wind picks up as I walk. I quicken my pace, my head lowered, cowering against the chill. 

A few blocks pass until I realise I’m not paying attention. 

My steps slow. I blink up at a street sign and my stomach sinks. 

This isn’t the way home. Not even close. 

I’m headed towards Maggie’s. 

I stop walking entirely. 

My body’s unconscious wandering feels more chilling than the wind pressing against my back. 

I check my watch. 

10:21pm. 

My brows pull together. I’m turning back to head back the right way. But something stops me. I pause, mid-turn, my hair whipping around me. 

What if he’s there? 

I stand there, on the street corner, caught between home and possibility of - what? Seeing him? Getting answers to questions I don’t even know how to ask? 

The air bites my skin but I barely feel it. 

All I feel is that tug in my chest. That curious, irrational, persistent need to know more. 

I just stand there - caught in a cloud of my own exhaustion and curiosity. 

And then, I move. 

My steps are quicker now as the tiredness bleeds away, lost in the next gust of wind. Something different, harder to name, pulls me forward, keeps my feet moving. 

The streets blur past, streetlights, people, storefronts. I pass them all without seeing. 

I reach Maggie’s faster than I expect. 

The neon red sign, flickering above the entrance. The windows are fogged up. I can’t see in. 

I release a few quick breaths, suddenly aware of how fast my heart is beating. 

My feet pause at the door. 

What am I even doing here? 

I shake my head. I could turn around now and go home, it would be safer, it would be smarter. My visit here last night didn’t end well - why did I expect this one would be better? 

But - 

There’s that tug again. It’s the researcher in me. The scientist. There’s a variable here I don’t understand. It’s in my nature to dig, to prod, until I’ve figured it out. Until I’ve solved the mystery. 

I let out another breath, shuddering, this time. Then move, reaching for the handle and turning the cold metal in my hand. 

The bell clatters against the doorframe. 

Warm air hits me immediately, washing over my body in a soft wave as I step inside. 

The smell of bitter, cheap coffee. Maggie, behind the counter, messing with the machine. My eyes sweep over the room and then -

Him.

I freeze. 

There, tucked in the same corner as last night, blue eyes lock onto mine. 

The door shuts behind me. I flinch, looking away, breaking the connection. 

Maggie doesn't pay me any mind, as I stand, frozen in the entrance. But he does. He’s watching, assessing. I feel the weight of his gaze on me. 

The soft hum of the diner is a dull background noise, fading to nothing as my heartbeat invades my ears. 

I glance towards the counter. Then back to him.

There’s a stillness in the way he sits, in the way he stares. His posture is relaxed but everything about him screams tension. 

I swallow, my throat dry, as I try to rationalise my decision to come back here, to purposefully position myself back into the line of his icy gaze. 

My feet move before I know what I’m doing. I push down the panic crawling up my throat as my shoes thud across the vinyl floor, then pause, in front of the man’s table. 

When I look up, his eyes are still there, waiting, watching. Now, though, they roam. Scanning up and down my body once, twice. His gaze doesn’t linger. It’s sharp, cold. Analytical, like he’s searching for something. 

I tighten my hand around my bag strap. 

His eyes narrow, just slightly. 

“Last night,” I rush out, before I lose the nerve. “Why were you following that man?” 

A beat passes without an answer.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move a single muscle. 

It’s uncanny, the stillness. 

Then, finally, his head tilts. Just a little, barely a recognition that I said anything at all. 

Embarrassment floods me, fast and burning hot. My cheeks heat, as my eyes flick to the door. 

This was a mistake. 

I shake my head, sharp and quick, and turn - 

“Thought he might try something… I was right,” the man finally replies, his voice low and rough, as though he hadn’t spoken in a while. 

I pause my movement, my head whipping towards him. 

He straightens in his seat, eyes flickering over me again. 

My mouth opens and closes without a word. I don’t know what I expected him to say. His answer is plausible, understandable. Of course it is, there was no reason to think otherwise. 

It was just the way he appeared last night. Like a ghost, emerging from the shadows. His face, emotionless, steady, detached. Then his eyes, wide and shocked. 

It was the way he stepped forward, disabling the older man in one casual, easy move. His gloved hand around his throat. 

It was the way he barked at me. To take the knife, to leave. 

The memory was addictive. Alluring. Alarming. 

“Oh,” I murmur, my eyes dropping to the table. “Well,” I say, my voice unsteady. “Thanks.” 

Inside, I groan, wishing the floor would swallow me up. 

“Don’t need to thank me,” the man says, looking away. “You had him handled.” 

His words catch me off guard. I let out a short, almost involuntary laugh, not sure whether to feel relieved or embarrassed.  

“Yeah,” I start, glancing up at him, “until I didn’t.” 

There’s a beat of silence. I don’t know where to look. He’s staring at me again, his eyes locked into mine. His face is unreadable, the only crack is the slight crease between his brows. A whisper of something - confusion? Curiosity? 

The silence is cutting, dragging on. It’s my cue to leave, to end this strange meeting. I duck my head, ready to turn and make my escape.  

Then his voice cuts through the air, louder this time, more urgent: 

“Still got that knife?” 

I freeze. My hand instinctively brushes the strap of my bag, where my knife is still tucked inside. 

I swallow hard, throat tight. 

“Yeah,” I reply, shifting on my feet. “Still got it.” 

The man nods and something like approval echoes in the slight curl of his lips. 

“Good,” he says, lifting his coffee mug to his lips and taking a drink. My eyes linger on his gloved hand. 

The sight of it reminds me of its tight grip on the older man’s throat. 

I blink and look away. 

“Okay - um - have a good night,” I stutter out and turn, walking towards the door in quick, mortified steps. 

As I push the door open, the bell chimes overhead. A sharp gust of the night air is a balm to my burning skin. 

Before I step out into the cold, I take one last glance over my shoulder, just a flicker, and I see it. The man is rising from his chair. 

I don’t linger - I don’t look back again. 

The red glow of the Maggie’s sign barely touches my skin before I’m off. 

The air bites at my face as my mind replays the conversation over and over again. 

His low, careful words. Those eyes - blue and piercing. 

I walk quicker, shoulders hunched in my coat. 

No alleyway shortcuts tonight. 

The streets are quiet, mostly empty. Just the occasional couple, curled into each other, escaping the cold. 

I can’t pinpoint when I start to feel it. That feeling at the back of my neck, like a soft touch. Like someone is watching me. 

It’s a shift in the air, a change in pressure. 

I don’t hear footsteps. I don’t need to. 

I can’t explain it - but I’m sure I’m not alone in the dark. 

Unlike last night, it doesn’t scare me. It should, but I don’t reach for my knife. 

My steps remain steady, I don’t walk quicker. I don’t turn around. 

Somewhere behind me, unseen, he walks too. 

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe I’ve reached that stage where I’m imagining things. My heartbeat slows when I realise that makes sense. 

But the sensation clings to me for the rest of the walk home. 

Like I’m being observed. 

Like I’m being protected.

-----------------

chapter 1 'Marked for death'

chapter 2 'Put it on me'

chapter 3 'Twice'

chapter 4 'Something in the way'

chapter 5 'Way down we Go'

chapter 6 'Hearing Damage'

chapter 7 'Slipped'

chapter 8 'Killer + The Sound'

chapter 9 'Carolina'

chapter 10 'Salt and the Sea'

chapter 11 'Tulsa Jesus Freak'

chapter 12 'The Night We Met'

chapter 13 'First Defeat'

chapter 14 'Who We Are'

chapter 15 'Bloodstream'

chapter 16 'Villain'

chapter 17 'NFWMB'

chapter 18 ‘Funny’

chapter 19 'Strangers'

chapter 20 'No Sound But The Wind'

chapter 21 'I'm Your Man'

chapter 22 ‘Running Up That Hill’

chapter 23 'My Tears Ricochet'

chapter 24 ‘Safe and Sound’

chapter 25 'House Song'

chapter 26 'My Body is a Cage'

chapter 27 'Happiness is a Butterfly'

chapter 28 'Illicit Affairs'

chapter 29 'The Last Time'

chapter 30 'If You Lie Down With Me'

chapter 31 'Breakers Roar'

chapter 32 'August Underground'

chapter 33 'Haunted'

chapter 34 'Bad Man'

chapter 35 'Can't Catch Me Now'

chapter 36 'Another Love'

chapter 37 'Francesca'

Chapter 1:

‘THE WINTER SOLDIER PARDONED.’ 

The words, printed in bold, track across the bottom of the TV screen on a constant loop. 

In the corner,  a blurred CCTV photo of the Winter Soldier appears. A black mask covers the bottom half of his face, his hair conceals the rest. The focal point, though, is his large metal arm, frozen mid swing, inches away from landing a blow to America’s hero. 

Beside it, an aged photo of ‘Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ from 1941, off to fight in the war. He stands against a brick wall, his cap slanted on his head, his uniform crisp. It’s the smile on his face, the light in his eyes that makes it difficult for Bucky to look away. 

The reporters’ voices grow louder, more animated, and finally, Bucky manages to tear his eyes away from the two echoes of himself on the screen. 

“Now, I believe we should consider this a threat to our national security, Joe. How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” The bald man on the screen declares. His face grows redder with each heated word, making his eyes bulge and his collar tighten. 

“The White House has made it clear that James Buchanan Barnes is no longer under HYDRA’S control,” Joe responds, cutting a nervous glance at the camera. “We have to trust their judgement in this manner” he adds, shuffling the papers in front of him with a hollow smile. 

The red faced man scoffs, seemingly unfussed about criticising the president’s decisions on live television.

“Come on! He’s a trained assassin! He can speak god knows how many languages, can use every weapon known to man. He has a metal arm for pete’s sake! This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

The screen flashes with another CCTV image of the winter soldier. Bucky’s hand curls around the remote. 

Joe straightens and his plastered smile falters for a second before he fixes it. 

“You do make a point there, Seth, but we have to remember that James Barnes was once a hero. He fought the Nazis -” 

“And how many Nazis has he helped since then?” Red faced Seth cuts him off, leaning back as he lets the viewers at home absorb his words. 

Joe sighs deeply and glances to the left, clearly urging his director to wrap this segment up. He looks down at his papers again before speaking. 

“The reports say he was brainwashed, frozen for years at a time. Many might consider him a sympathetic character -” 

“Those sympathies do not outway the pain he has inflicted,” Seth interrupts again, louder this time as he leans forward. “A tragic backstory does not make him less dangerous.” 

There’s a sharp cracking sound. Bucky looks down to find the remote mangled in his metal hand. He instantly relaxes his grip but the damage is done, the broken fragments of plastic fall to the floor next to his feet.

Dread floods his body, muffling the reporters’ voices. Bucky flexes his hand, watching as the glow from the TV reflects off the shined vibranium.   

The reminder of his pardon still trails across the bottom of the screen. He knows that the panic will have died down by tomorrow, gone in a week, but right now, his face, albeit blurred, is splattered across every TV in the country. 

He found out about his pardon weeks ago, when he passed the psych evaluation and was told about his mandatory weekly therapy sessions. It didn’t surprise him, though, that they waited to release the news to the press. Better to hold off, see if he’ll slip up and start killing people before they make their decision public. 

Bucky wipes his flesh hand across the bottom of his face, rubbing his thumb along the stubble on his jaw. He sighs deeply as his eyebrows pinch together.

It doesn’t take long for the reporters’ voices to break through his panic. 

“Thanks, Seth for joining us tonight and sharing your… passionate views on the topic.” Joe turns back to the camera, his voice drops as his smile fades. “James Buchanan Barnes is pardoned. The Winter Soldier is gone. That’s all for tonight.” 

He glances down, shuffles his papers. The camera cuts to the weather girl giving her nighttime report. 

Bucky stands so quickly the couch moves backwards. He stalks across the room to his small kitchenette, swiping his baseball cap and gloves from the counter and striding towards his apartment door, footsteps heavy.

The air is cool when Bucky steps out onto the street. A frigid gust of wind grazes his cheek, ruffling his recently chopped hair. He pauses in a shaded part of the street and pulls on the baseball cap and gloves, a precaution for anonymity, not a defense against the chill. Bucky is used to the cold. 

He begins walking, his chin dripped and his gloved hands shoved in the pockets of his leather bomber jacket. The streets are quiet, it must be near 11pm, but Brooklyn is still bright, projecting a warm glow to light his way. Bucky tucks himself closer to the buildings he walks past, choosing to remain in the shadows. 

“How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” 

Bucky clenches his jaw, his boots strike harder across the pavement. 

“This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

His hands curl into fists. 

“The pain he has inflicted” 

A muscle jumps in his cheek. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

Bucky releases a breath, resembling a scoff. 

With each step he can feel that heavy sensation crawling over his body, the one that reminds him of his strength, what he’s truly capable of. 

Bucky might have his mind back but his body still belongs to the Winter Soldier. 

All of HYDRA’S training: languages, surveillance, hand to hand combat, firearms, explosives. None of it has disappeared. Bucky is still as deadly as before. The only difference is that now he can choose whether or not to kill. 

Without realising, Bucky scans his surroundings, searching for cameras, threats, places to hide. It’s a habit he can’t break. 

Maybe Seth has a point. Maybe people should be wary of him. 

The cafe is just up ahead, Bucky slows his pace, not wanting to rush inside and scare the other customers. Not that there would be many at this time. “Maggie’s” is open 24 hours but it’s usually dead after 10pm, other than the occasional late night coffee drinker like himself. 

Bucky isn’t sure how much caffeine actually works on him, he suspects that the super soldier serum dulls its effectiveness, but if there’s even a small chance it will keep him from falling asleep, he’ll take it. 

His gloved hand pushes against the glass door, fogged up with age and grime. A bell rings softly as he steps inside. The smell of burnt coffee and old wood hits him immediately, welcoming him back. 

The place is empty, apart from a woman in the back corner, typing rapidly on her laptop with two empty mugs beside her. Bucky’s eyes don’t linger for long, he quickly dismisses her as a  threat. He doesn’t have to worry about being recognised, either. She doesn’t even look up from her screen. 

Bucky rolls his shoulders and walks up to the counter. Maggie is there, wiping invisible dirt off the red vinyl top. Her grey hair is tucked up in a bun, reading glasses sit perched on her head. She smiles when she notices him, the wrinkles around her eyes creasing with recognition. 

“Evenin’ soldier,” Maggie greets in her husky voice, tossing her rag over her shoulder.

Bucky stiffens, as he always does when Maggie uses that nickname. The first time she called him “soldier” he was so shocked, so stoked with panic that he asked her what she meant before he could stop himself. 

“Ah, I can spot y’all from a mile off,” she had replied, scanning her watery blue eyes up and down his rigid figure. “You’ve all got that same look. Too still, too quiet - like a coiled spring. Just waitin’ for someone to give you orders.” 

Bucky shifts under Maggie’s sharp, observant stare. He dips his chin in greeting, causing the rim of his cap to cover a little more of his face. 

“The usual, huh?” she asks, not waiting for an answer, already shuffling over to the coffee machine. Bucky lets out a slow breath and leans an arm against the counter top. Maggie isn’t one for conversation either, thankfully. The only sounds are the soft clink of a coffee mug and the hiss of the machine. 

He can’t help it, Bucky’s eyes subtly scan every inch of the place as he waits, carefully titling his body to check each corner. Still just the woman with her laptop and empty mugs. This time, when his eyes graze over her, his quick stare is a little more assessing. 

Her hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, is pulled back into a haphazard ponytail. A tousled fringe frames her face but doesn’t cover her eyes, dark and razor sharp, as they flicker across the laptop screen, reflecting the bright glow. 

She looks to be in her late 20s, slender build, average height, her movements controlled, posture relaxed but upright, no visible weapons - 

Stop. Bucky urges himself, blinking rapidly. She’s not a threat. 

“Here ya go, soldier,” Maggie says, her voice cutting through his mental checklist, as she presses the ceramic mug into his gloved hand. Its warmth bleeds through the leather, dull and distant. 

The bitter smell of cheap coffee momentarily grounds him. Bucky pulls a crumpled $10 bill from his back pocket and lays it on the red countertop. It’s too much for coffee, but Maggie doesn’t complain. The cash register dings as he turns and begins walking to his usual seat, in the opposite corner to the woman with the laptop.  

The chair is made of plastic, he imagines most people would find it uncomfortable but Bucky is content. He can see the whole cafe from this angle. Every possible threat laid bare in the dim light. A slow, steady breath leaves his mouth. 

Bucky lifts the mug to his lips and takes a sip. The coffee is bitter, sharp on his tongue. But it’s hot and he savours the burn as it goes down. He glances out the window, watching the rain pick up, splattering the foggy glass, making the lights outside even more blurry. 

Minutes crawl by. The clock on the wall reads 11:30pm. Bucky swallows the rest of his coffee, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the vinyl table top. After a moment, he realises that he’s unintentionally matching the pace of the woman’s typing. The clatter of keys is deafening in the empty cafe. 

He wonders what she’s doing on that laptop. Something important, surely, or else she wouldn’t be here until almost midnight. Maybe she’s wondering why he’s here too. 

Bucky adjusts his position in the seat, flexing his gloved hands against his dark jeans. In a few hours, the sun will be up and he’ll have to face the day. His next therapy appointment is in the morning. Dr. Raynor will ask him if he’s had any more nightmares. He’ll tell her he hasn’t. 

Will it still be lying if he doesn’t sleep? 

Bucky is picturing the frown on her face when the door swings open, the bell clattering against the frame. 

Behind the counter, Maggie jumps. Bucky even notices, from the corner of his eye, that the woman in the corner stops typing for a second before resuming her rapid pace. 

Bucky doesn’t move an inch. He finds it difficult to be startled. It’s like that human instinct was trained out of him. 

Instead, he subtly shifts back in his chair, becoming invisible as the newcomer enters. The air shifts with the cold draft that follows him in. 

Male. Late 40s. About six foot. Roughly 200 pounds. Dark jacket. Heavy boots. No obvious weapon. 

The newcomer walks swiftly to the counter, no wasted steps. Bucky doesn’t stare, but his peripheral vision is keen, analytical. 

He orders a coffee, handing Maggie some coins, then tucks his hands into his pockets, looking around. 

That’s when Bucky notices it. A brief moment, a flicker of attention. He follows the tilt of the man’s head across the room to the woman on her laptop, still too absorbed to notice her surroundings. 

Bucky can’t see the newcomer’s expression but the look lingers long enough for his instincts to kick in. The ones trained into him. Bucky’s posture remains relaxed, casual, but there’s a new stillness to his body. A tension beneath the surface. 

The man takes his mug from the counter. His hand is calloused, rough. Probably works in some sort of manual labour. With his coffee in hand, he pauses, considering, before he crosses the room, not even glancing Bucky’s way, and plants himself down at the table next to the woman. 

Bucky’s lips twitch into a thin, unreadable line. His vibranium fingers flex once, then still. 

The clatter of keys slows to a crawl and, for the first time, Bucky watches as the woman’s eyes lift from the laptop. 

Dark brown, he notes.

In a flash, they’re gone. Back to the screen like they never left. Her typing picks up again, but the pace is different. Aggressive at first, quick and urgent, and then slow, distracted. 

Beside her, the man leans back in his seat, rolling his broad shoulders. He sips his coffee with a casualness that could only be manufactured. Legs spread, fingers tapping against the ceramic mug like he’s inviting attention. 

The man doesn’t look over at the woman directly, but there’s a pattern to his movements. A glance in her direction between sips, his body turned just slightly, not making it obvious. Testing the distance. 

Bucky catches the slightest shift in the woman's shoulders, stiffening as she straightens her spine. 

He grinds his teeth. A subtle shift in his jaw, a flicker of a muscle that betrays every murderous thought running through his mind. 

The man clears his throat. In the quiet cafe, it might as well be a gunshot. 

The woman flinches. Her typing halts, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

Bucky shifts in his seat. The first visible movement he’s made since the man walked through the door. He begins to hope that the man looks over at him, begs for it, actually. 

Another sip. The man smacks his lips, makes a sound low in his throat. 

The woman exhales sharply through her nose, and takes a final, longing look at her screen. She closes her laptop with a quiet snap and reaches for her bag. Not rushed or panicked. Just done. 

Bucky’s fingers flex against his knee, then still. His shoulders ease, just barely, but his jaw remains tight. He watches, heavy lidded, tracking her movements. 

The man isn’t so subtle. His thick, oil-slick gaze roams over her as she gathers her things and tugs on her black trench coat. 

The woman stands carefully, adjusting the strap on her bag, before sliding through the gap between the two tables. She doesn’t rush, her movements are purposeful, eyes locked on the exit. 

Bucky inhales a soft, woody musk as she passes his table, not even looking in his direction. 

The bell jingles softly as she steps out, into the night. 

The air in the cafe shifts. Heavier, somehow, in the emptiness that follows. 

Light eyes, hooded but biting, flick towards Bucky’s table. It’s only a glance, brief but deliberate. It’s enough for Bucky to feel that heavy sensation crawl across his body again, settling in the weight of his vibranium arm. 

Bucky tilts his head in acknowledgement, it’s subtle but unmissable. His stare is undisguised. His expression unreadable. 

For a moment, neither of the men move. Sounds reduce to the hum of the refrigerator in the back, rain hitting the windows, and the scratch of Maggie’s pen, working on her crossword. 

A normal person might have flinched, when the man’s chair scraped against the tiled floor, sending a screech ricocheting through the room. But Bucky just narrows his eyes, studying his response, concluding its predictability.  

The man stands, his cheeks sporting a faint red glow. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve then lifts his mug, draining its contents in one long gulp, and sets it down with a deliberate thud. 

He doesn’t look Bucky’s way as he walks to the door. 

The bell rings again, harsher this time. A warning to the night air. 

Bucky watches him go, the door swinging shut behind him. 

He exhales slowly, waits a beat. 

Then, just as smoothly, Bucky rises from his chair and follows. 

The smell of the rain hits him with the first step outside, boots splashing in a puddle. The “Maggie’s” sign glows neon red above him, illuminating the beads of water that roll down his leather jacket. 

He blinks, angling his head, letting car horns and distant music fade into the background. The feeling in his gut takes priority. It’s a churning sensation, muscle memory. His mind ticks like a clock.

There. To his left. The man. 

Bucky’s not following him. Not yet. He’s just walking in the same direction, pace even, enjoying the night air. But a tension lingers, pressing against his ribs, nudging him forward. 

Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets. His eyes are scanning the street in front of him, tracking the man, analysing his movements, calculating threat levels. 

A man heading home wouldn’t be so cautious with his steps, wouldn’t hold his shoulders so tight, wouldn’t glance behind him, then pretend he didn’t. 

Bucky keeps a careful distance. Out of sight but never out of range. There one second. Gone another. Invisible. Alert. 

He adopts this persona a little too easily, embracing the cold detachment without resistance. 

“This kind of being should not be allowed to walk the streets.” 

Bucky’s steps falter, just a little. Enough for his mask to crack. 

He imagines his conversation with Dr. Raynor in the morning. 

“What did you get up to last night?” she’ll ask, glancing between him and her notebook. Pen poised over the page, ready to translate his furrowed brow and grumbled answers in her sharp scrawl.

“Oh nothing. Just followed a man four blocks home because he looked at a woman wrong.”

Bucky cringes and lets out a dry, humourless laugh. 

Paranoid? Probably. But Bucky wasn’t betting on it. 

The man is still moving at a decent pace. Determined. Confident. 

Bucky inhales, slow and deep. The damp air clings to his skin, thick with the scent of wet pavement and gasoline. 

Just go home, he urges the man. Don’t make any trouble. Bucky’s hands curl into fists in his jacket pockets.

Up ahead, the man turns. The movement is so sharp, so calculated. Bucky’s instincts snap into place like the bars of a cage. 

He knows that move. Knows what it looks like when someone spots their target. 

Before he can react, before he can track the man’s new path, a door beside him bursts open. A young couple tumble out into the street, hands in each other’s hair, lips on skin. 

Bucky steps out of the way, muscles tightening. It’s only a split second. But it’s enough to put a considerable distance between himself and the man. 

He quickens his pace, scanning the street. Searching for that purposeful gait.

The pressure on his ribs grows, pressing harder, constricting his breath. His heartbeat remains steady. His focus sharp. 

Then - there. 

Bucky’s head whips to the side, following the flash from the corner of his eye. 

An alleyway. The man, walking, quicker. Following something. Someone. 

Bucky turns so fast the night breeze whooshes in his ears. He stalks towards the alley, vision focusing with each step. 

It grows quieter. The noise of the street dissolves. The air is thicker, heavy with a feeling he knows all too well. 

The light fades at the gap between buildings. The streetlight’s orange glow dilutes to a pale echo, circling the alley’s entrance.

The alleyway is long, narrow. Its darkness stretches, ending in a faint glimmer. 

The scent of garbage is striking, intensified by the rain. Bins are overfilled, spilling over. 

Bucky hesitates. Pausing at the mouth of the alley. Reality tugs at the edges of his mind. No cold words have been spoken. No electrical currents have flooded his brain. He can keep walking, bet on his own paranoia. 

He rolls his shoulders. Not tonight. 

Bucky steps into the blackness, following a shadow. 

No, two shadows. 

There’s a vague shape of movement at the far end. A figure. 

The man isn’t just walking towards it. His posture has changed, his steps fall into a pattern that matches Bucky’s. 

Predatory. 

Bucky loosens a breath, slows his steps. Frigid instincts dictate his every movement. 

Slowly, carefully, he takes his hands out his pockets. Flexing his fingers, testing his control. His head tilts, only slightly, keeping the man in his periphery as he scans the rest of the alley. 

Footsteps silent, heels barely skimming the wet ground as he balances his weight. Ready. 

The man moves. Locking in on his target. 

The figure at the end of the alley. A silhouette against the streetlight’s remaining brightness. Dark jacket. Tousled hair. 

She’s turning, just slightly. There’s a flicker of her profile. 

Recognition slams into him. 

Her. 

Paranoia be damned. 

Something cold flares inside him, ice floods every vein. Muscle memory overrides. 

His weight shifts, he moves, vibranium arm raised. 

Too late. 

A sharp grunt. A body hits the wall. 

Bucky stops short, boots skidding against the concrete. His mind is computing, struggling to catch up with the sight in front of him. 

The man. Pinned to the wall. Knife to his throat. Sharp silver reflecting the light from the end of the alley. 

Bucky’s eyes shift to the woman. Her breathing is ragged. Stance steady. Her grip on the knife is strong. 

But there’s a tremble to her hands, betraying her shock. 

The man’s eyes are wide, frozen in his panic. He looks down at the woman like he’s seeing her for the first time. The victim in his mind has vanished. Replaced by a predator. 

Bucky swallows. His muscles are coiled tight, desperate for release. But he waits for a signal, a struggle. 

The woman turns. Her dark gaze snaps to him. 

It’s wild, burning, frightened. 

Then it shifts, her eyes narrow. Something registers beyond her panic. 

She recognises him. 

Fear bolts through him. Then, no, he realises, not from the news - from the cafe. 

Bucky can see the moment she pieces it together. Her eyes flick between him and the man. 

No, he wants to say. I’m not with him. 

She inhales, sharp and sudden. Her grip on the knife tightens, the point grazes the man’s thick, leathered flesh. His skull presses against the brick. 

The look she throws Bucky’s way is repulsed. 

“Are you next?” she demands, a slight tremble cloaking her words but not quite disguising their bite. 

Bucky watches her carefully. A heartbeat passes between them. Her gaze doesn’t falter. 

He raises his gloved hands slightly, just enough to show he’s not a threat. His posture is casual but his muscles remain tight. 

“Relax,” he answers, voice calm. “Not here to hurt you.” He nods towards the knife in her hand. “Or to get stabbed.” 

His tone is even, dry, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes.

She just stares back. Expression unreadable.  

“Wouldn’t be the first time, but I’m really not interested.” Bucky deadpans, lowering his hands as he shifts his stance, feeling her out, testing the tension. 

Her eyes don’t leave his face. 

“So, what? You just follow women into dark alleys?” she accuses, shifting on her feet, flexing her fingers around the knife. 

“No,” he denies quickly, a slight furrow forming in his brow. He nods towards the man. “I was following him.” 

The man’s body jerks as the knife digs deeper, biting his skin. Blood beads at the wound and rolls down his neck. 

The woman blinks, her breathing hitches. Her eyes flash with something - guilt, maybe. She clearly didn’t mean to press that hard. A slow, shaky breath releases from her lips. 

Unease begins to build beneath Bucky’s skin. His gaze sharpens, instincts taking over. 

The man pinned to the wall is only seconds away from realising that her grip on the knife has loosened slightly. One quick grab would have her disarmed. 

A second passes. Bucky sees the man’s shoulders stiffen. The shift of his jaw. The twitch of his hand. 

He catches the woman’s eyes. There’s a flicker of hesitation there. She doesn’t know where to go from here. Not sure what to do. 

She doesn’t know whether to trust him. 

Then it happens. 

The man moves, hand snatching for the metal blade. 

Instead, it meets vibranium. 

Bucky steps forward, his hand slamming around the man’s wrist. Twisting it at such an angle that the man releases a sharp hiss from between his teeth. 

The knife clatters to the wet concrete as the woman jumps back, a gasp escaping her lips. 

The man struggles against Bucky’s grip, swinging his other hand in a desperate attempt to land a few blows. Bucky doesn’t even flinch. His fingers tighten, the vibranium almost humming with restrained force. His other hand lifts slowly to curve around the man’s throat. 

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he holds the man in place. 

Ice returns to his veins. Muscle memory is taking over. Bucky knows he should let go. But he doesn’t want to. 

His voice cuts through the air, cold and commanding. “Grab the knife. Go,” he snaps, turning slightly towards the woman, his eyes not leaving the man. 

There’s an anger rippling in his body, hot and foreign. Melting the ice. He’s done his job, he’s saved the girl. So why doesn’t he want to stop? 

The woman doesn’t hesitate. Bucky sees her hurried movements out of the corner of his eye. She bends to grab the bag that had fallen from her shoulder during the struggle, then swiftly swipes the knife off the ground. 

The man’s eyes follow her. Bucky’s fingers tighten around his throat. A sharp warning. 

Bucky waits, listening for her retreating footsteps. But the only sound is the man’s ragged breathing and his own rapid heartbeat, pounding in his ears. 

“Get out of here. Now.” Bucky’s voice is low, final. 

She stands still for a moment. The seconds stretching his patience. 

Then, with a shaky breath, she turns and walks towards the glow of the streetlights. Footsteps slow, weighted. 

Bucky watches her go from his periphery, his teeth clenched, muscles tight. The alley is quiet, colder now against his burning skin. 

It’s just Bucky and the man. 

Bucky’s lips twitch. 

The man’s body tenses under his grip, feeling the shift. He knows what’s coming. 

Both hands, vibranium and flesh, flash to the man’s shoulders. A quick pull back, then he slams forward. Skull thudding against brick. The impact ripples through Bucky’s arm. 

A choked sound escapes the man’s throat. 

Then Bucky’s lips are at his ear. 

“If you even think about following her again, I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you,” he promises, his voice a low growl. 

Fire and ice crackle under his skin, but he holds back. He has to. 

The man says nothing, just groans under his breath. 

Bucky releases his grip in one sudden movement. He steps back slowly, eyes never leaving the man. 

The man’s eyes dart to him before he swallows hard, peeling himself off the wall. He glances in the direction the woman went, but then, reconsidering, he turns and heads back the way he came in, his steps hurried and uneven. He doesn’t look back. 

“How can we ensure that a man with this kind of history isn’t going to hurt anyone again?” 

Bucky’s chin dips, a heavy exhale slipping from his body. 

How quickly it returned - that cold, biting detachment. The frost that controlled his actions.  The bitterness that hardened his restraint. It was pure instinct. Calculated. Methodical. The way he stalked the man, slammed him against the wall, threatened his life. The lack of remorse. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

His jaw tightens, teeth grinding.

The anger was new, this time. 

Bucky wasn’t used to it, the white hot burn beneath his skin. The fire, fueling his movements. 

As the Winter Soldier, he had felt nothing. Only echoes of emotions, lingering in the back of his mind, frozen. Sometimes they’d melt, dripping through the cracks. But every time he reached out, they slipped through his fingers like water. 

This anger was new. Or maybe it wasn’t. An old feeling, perhaps, now returning to him. 

He could have killed that man. He wanted to. But he didn’t. 

“The Winter Soldier is gone.”

No. Bucky still struggled to accept that. 

But maybe he has adapted, transformed into something new. 

He stands there in the dark alley, listening to the rain splash off the pavement. Whatever buzz the caffeine had given him had worn off, and a deep, heavy tiredness begins to tug at his bones. 

The sun will be up soon. He’ll go to therapy. Dr. Raynor will ask him about his night, how he’d slept. He’ll lie. She’ll know. 

Then he’ll return home to a dark, empty apartment to watch more reporters debate about his right to exist. 

The same question will linger in mind, heavy and unshakable: 

What’s the point? 

……………………………….

His phone buzzes from the desk, pulling his focus from the computer screen. 

Bored eyes glance over the notification, quick to dismiss the distraction, before he catches sight of the words: 

BREAKING NEWS: James Buchanan Barnes, formerly known as the Winter Soldier, officially pardoned by the U.S. government. 

His phone is in his hand. Fingers quick, urgent, as they seek more information. 

As the confirmation settles over him, his pulse slows, along with his breathing. Everything around him pauses, forgotten, inconsequential to the information now plaguing his brain. 

Flashes of memories, once thought buried, resurface. Building, growing, cracking in his mind. 

His hands begin to shake. His vision burns - red hot. 

The phone is no longer in his grip. He throws it, hard, across the room. 

It smashes against a wall with a sharp crack, pieces scattering across the floor.

Chapter 5:

A scalding, oppressive blackness exists beyond my eyelids. My senses are sharpened to the heartbeat against my back, thumping slowly, melodically, in time with my own. 

The truck roars to life around us. Its vibration shivers throughout my body, sending shock waves through my bloodstream. 

It’s time. The truck is moving out. I’m leaving the QZ. 

My tongue is a dry, dead weight in my mouth. I ache to call out, to stop this whole operation. Dangerous, sabotaging thoughts circle my mind: would dying at the hands of the QZ guards be kinder than what awaits me outside its walls? 

I swallow them down. 

My dad… my dad would kill me himself if he knew how close I was to giving up. 

Cold metal bites into my face. My body is thrown against the edge of the truck bed as the truck turns a sharp corner.  

I wince when I hear the body slide towards us. 

Joel’s fingers splay out across my stomach, pulling me into his chest, caging me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

The truck continues driving, and driving, forcing me away from the only safety I’ve ever known.

The silence is heavy. We don’t say a word, utter a single sound, as the vehicle moves through what I imagine are the streets of the open city, stopping and starting as they manoeuvre the threats that infect every inch.

I don’t know where we’ll stop. I don’t know how we’ll get out of the truck bed. I don’t know where we’ll go next.

Only Joel knows the answers to every question that’s eating me alive, chipping away at the bravery I’ve so desperately gathered. 

Only Joel knows why we’re running in the first place.

……………..

The engine dies. 

My eyes flash open to the awaiting dark. Minutes feel like days as they tick by. 

The doors slam shut, shaking the entire vehicle. I hold my breath as I wait for them to come around the back and open the truck bed, find us lurking in the hollow space, and kill us before we can even cry out. 

But nothing happens. 

I don’t hear a thing. 

It makes sense, some rational part of my brain thinks for me, in the open city, the QZ guards are searching for potential threats, surveilling and documenting. It’s in their best interest not to draw any more attention than the truck has already gathered. 

Joel’s hand twitches against my stomach, his fingers flex and stiffen. Heat sparks across my skin. 

Without warning, his lips graze my ear again. 

“We gotta wait,” he murmurs. “They’re leavin’. Listen.”

I do. I close my eyes and calm my breathing enough to hear the crunch of gravel as footsteps move further and further away from the truck. 

And I wait, just as Joel asked me to. Because I have decided to trust him. I have decided to trust that he will keep me alive, that he will keep me from whoever is chasing us.

Yet, I know that the trust doesn’t extend beyond my safety.

My dad is dead. I’ve been forced to flee my home. 

And I know that Joel is the cause. 

The look in the man’s eyes. The confused, biting words as he tried to kill me for a crime where shared blood was my only involvement. 

“You think this is about some stolen weapons?” 

I swallow it all down, with my fear. 

“Now.”

Joel releases his hold on me. I’m alone in the darkness. 

The canvas is unleashed and light floods the truck bed. I blink, attempting to adjust, but there’s no time. 

I start to crawl, avoiding, with every movement, the dead man beside me. 

“Move,” Joel orders, his voice is quiet but his desperation is loud. 

My breaths are strangled gasps as I claw my way out the truck, into Joel’s awaiting hands which catch my waist in his solid grip. 

My body slides down his. I hold my breath. 

When my feet touch the ground, Joel’s hand is around my wrist as he drags me away from the truck.

As I scramble to match his stride, I raise my head to find buildings towering above me. The smaller ones have smashed windows and flashes of green sprouting from the cracks. Some buildings are so tall I have to tilt my chin to the sky to find the top. 

My feet trip over a thick crack in the concrete. I stumble but Joel hauls me up, refusing to let go of me for a second. 

“Eyes on the ground,” he commands.

A rush of air releases from my tight throat. Pressure starts to invade my chest as the wonder of the open city begins to decay and thick panic swells. 

This isn’t like the QZ at all. The streets are untouched, nature has fought and won. 

Cars, smashed and burned, clog every road we rush down. Everything is brutal and sharp, destroyed and reclaimed. 

My feet burn and my wrist aches as Joel leads me along his invisible path. I turn to look up at him, desperate for some indication of where we are going. I know not to ask. 

Joel looks like the man I’ve always known him to be: strong, capable, frightening. His eyes are locked on the road in front of us, scanning for threats. There is no hint of those softer edges I thought I saw in him only a few hours ago. 

He’s a killer again, a smuggler, someone who lies and keeps secrets. But he knows where he’s going. 

“This way,” he grunts out before pulling me to the left. I crash into his side and Joel shoots me a savage look. 

“Sorry,” I murmur. Joel looks away. 

With every step we take, I fight the urge to look behind us. The threats in the open city seem limitless. If I turned around, would I find QZ guards chasing us? A hoard of infected? The people who killed my dad? 

Dread crawls up my spine and wraps around my throat.

Is this my life now? Running? 

My spinning thoughts are paused with the sound of Joel’s low, hard words:

“We gotta find some higher ground, scan the city, make sure our exit’s good,” he says under his breath. There’s a hint of reluctance in his voice, as though he hadn’t planned on letting me in on his next move. I’m not even offended by his hesitation. I’m just grateful for even a taste of what’s going on in his head. 

I nod eventually, agreeing with his judgement, despite having no understanding of how the open city works or how to keep myself safe. 

Regret starts to burn under my skin, lurking alongside with my fear. 

We walk for a little while longer. I keep my eyes on the ground, just like Joel told me to. Two days ago, I would have been mortified to be so loyal to him. Now, he’s the only thing standing between my life and death.  

“Shit,” Joel breathes as we round a corner. He slows his steps.

My entire body, already sparking with fear, is set aflame.

“What? What is it?” I demand, scanning Joel’s face and the road in front of us. 

Joel stops walking. I stumble to a stop by his side. 

His hand tenses against my wrist. That’s when I begin to hear the rumble vibrating through my boots. 

“There’s a hoard coming,” he explains through clenched teeth. “Those stupid fuckin’ guards must have set them off.”

What I thought was fear a moment ago is nothing compared to the terror that now floods me. 

A sharp ringing in my ears cuts off my hearing. My mind stretches back in time to a heavy, feral body on top of me and my tiny limbs trying to fight it off. 

The ringing in my ears is replaced by the memory of screeching and loud sobbing. 

I shake my arm free from Joel’s hold and stagger backwards. It’s muscle memory from an old fear, one that has festered over time, 

They’ll kill me.

His eyes are on me. They’re wide and furious.

They’re coming and they’re going to kill me. 

I take another step backwards, my legs shaking. 

It won’t be like like last time, there isn’t - 

“Alex.”

Joel’s voice drags me back to the present, to his raging stare and the shake of the ground beneath our feet. 

“We gotta move,” he fumes as he attempts to snatch my wrist. 

I dodge his touch with a sharp gasp. 

My feet are trembling with the promise of tens or even hundreds of infected clawing and speeding their way to us.

I knew it. I knew this would happen. We were wrong to leave the QZ. We should have taken our chances with the enforcer. 

The city is crawling with infected - my dad was right. Why did I think that I could do this? That Joel would protect me? 

I’m going to die. 

I’m going to -

“Fuck, Alex.”

Joel’s sharp curse is the only warning I’m given before his hands grip my waist with a force hard enough to bruise as he tosses me over his shoulder. 

My scream is caught in my throat. 

He wraps his hand around my thigh. I swing my head around, my eyes seeing everything in a blurry panic. Then he starts moving, racing forward at a speed I didn’t know Joel was capable of. 

The staccato of my breaths nearly choke me as my body pounds against Joel.

We’re rounding the corner now. Joel slows. 

I force my head to lift and my eyes to focus on our surroundings. 

I wish I hadn’t.

There - in the distance - I see them. 

A sea of jerky, twisted, movements; a flood of beasts rushing through the street. 

Without warning, Joel tugs on my legs and forces my feet to the ground. I look up at him, breath caught in my throat, mouth open. My entire being is laser focused on the expression on his face. 

He doesn’t even look my way. 

Joel’s attention is split between the approaching terror and the ancient lock on the door in front of us. 

Veins pop in his neck as Joel twists the handle. Then, he snarls a low curse, plants his feet firmly on the ground and throws himself forward, hitting the door with his shoulder. Once, twice - 

“Shit,” he growls when the door doesn’t budge. 

Joel’s head whips around to the scene behind us. The infected are getting closer. I can make out their faces now: rotten, peeling skin and mangled features. 

The numbness in my body fades as fear finds its firm grip on my heart again. Adrenaline pumps through my bloodstream. 

I can’t do this again. I can’t be under their heavy, rotted bodies, begging to live. I can’t die like this.  

I push in front of Joel, aided by his distraction, and I use every bit of terror in my body to throw myself against the door. 

There’s a loud crunch. It isn’t from the lock. 

My mouth opens in a silent scream. Black ink curls at the edges of my vision. 

“What the hell?” Joel shouts but his voice sounds muffled in my pain soaked mind. I feel a hand curve around my uninjured shoulder as I’m moved out of the way. 

The right side of my body is on fire. I fall back against the brick wall as my eyes swim with tears. I register nothing other than the sight in front of me as the infected charge forward towards their next victims. 

I wonder if I’ll feel it, when they sink their teeth into my skin. Or maybe my brain will block it out, in a final act of defense before it becomes just another bit of meat for the infection to devour. 

Sorry, Dad. I think. 

There’s the sound of a loud crack and a low, almost animalistic growl. Through the haze of panic and pain, I suddenly register that I'm being lifted again, this time with a hand under my legs and a chest against my good shoulder.

I’m hauled through the door in one quick movement. Relief dances in my stomach. I inhale a choked breath. 

Then I am unceremoniously dropped onto the dusty, newspaper covered floor. 

I yell out as the impact thuds through my tailbone. With gritted teeth, I curl in on myself, tipping to the side. The newspaper crinkles as I press my cheek into its cold, weathered  surface. 

“Shh,” Joel issues a sharp command. Not in an attempt to soothe, but rather, to warn. 

I hear him struggle with the locks, then drag a large cabinet over to hold against the door. Joel’s breathing is harsh and fast, his palms are flat against the wood, muscles flexing as he pushes his strength into the broken door. 

The ground still rumbles, shaking the legs of the cabinet. 

I’m lying on the floor, a true picture of a coward, when the infected swarm the street. The rumble of the ground is replaced by loud groaning, hissing and writhing. Some drag their fingers across the frosted glass, some push against the door. Joel’s face is red with the effort to hold them back. 

I feel a tear roll from my eye onto the newspaper, smudging the memory of ink. Every inch of me is trembling. I am utterly immobilised, through pain and fear, both old and new. 

Guilt eats at me, with sharper bites than the infected could ever take. 

For minutes or hours, I lie there, forcing myself to watch every second of Joel’s struggle against the door. Some distant part of my brain attempts to tell me this isn’t my fault. 

I tell that part of myself to fuck off. 

If I knew how to fight, if I was better at spotting the infected, If I had any courage at all, maybe we wouldn’t have ended up in this situation. Maybe I would drag my injured body to my feet and stand beside Joel, ready to fight or die. But I don’t. 

Mortification joins the feast in my mind. 

We’re completely silent, with only our strained breaths staining the air. But the infected know we’re in here. At least, they do until something else catches their attention. 

There is no warning given before the infected move on. We are seconds away from death, then, we are not. The pressure on the door lifts. Joel’s muscles tentatively relax, his fingers flex against the chipped wood. 

Someone else has caught their rabid attention. Someone else will die by their black, rotted teeth. 

We’ve been spared. 

With the frigid splash of relief comes the wave of pain that my brain had been suppressing. As Joel eases away from the door, I unconsciously release a long whine from my bitten lips. My fingers claw at the newspaper beneath my body as I try to push myself up but the ache in my tailbone screams at me to stop. 

“Don’t,” Joel commands, then pauses. “Don’t” he says, softer this time, almost pleading. I spot his heavy boots through my hazy vision, making their way over to me.  

I slump back against the dirty ground. My breaths tremble as they escape my mouth. 

“My arm -” 

“I know,” Joel cuts me off as he bends down. His eyes are wide and angry, pupils blown out. But his hands look gentle as they reach for me. 

I flinch away from him. I can’t help it. My hesitation towards Joel is hardwired, programmed through years of resentment, shaped through his violence. 

Joel sighs. Then, almost like that switch has been flipped, he abandons his attempt at tenderness. Instead, Joel grips my uninjured shoulder with one hand, and slides his other hand under my neck. 

I let out a sound of protest before I’m dragged upwards onto his lap, with my back against his chest. 

My pain is like wildfire, set ablaze in my shoulder but refusing to slow until it has consumed every inch of my body. 

Before the scream can unleash from my mouth, Joel’s hand is there, moving from my neck to my lips. His palm covers half my face, pressing down, masking my suffering. 

I claw at his thigh with the hand of my uninjured arm. But Joel doesn’t let up. 

The pain eases enough for the sound of his whispered words to sink in. 

“If you start screamin, those infected are gonna turn back towards us. And I don’t know if I’d be able to hold them back this time,” he warns against the shell of my ear. 

I take several heavy, panicked breaths through my nose before my head dips in a nod. 

Joel’s hand is gone in an instant. 

“I - I can’t feel my arm,” I somehow manage to whisper as a hot tear slides down my face. 

The numbness has made its way to my fingers, which have now begun to twitch. This can’t be good. 

“Shit,” Joel curses, then grabs my waist to adjust my position on his lap. “Your shoulder is dislocated. I gotta put it back into place.” 

A bolt of fear shoots through my chest. I squeeze my eyes shut, immediately picturing the pain that awaits me. 

Joel’s palm is at my back, indicating that I should sit forward. I grit my teeth as I follow his command. Then, a balled up bit of fabric is in front of me, gripped in Joel’s hand. 

“Open your mouth,” he demands.  

I shudder. 

You decided to trust him, remember? Even if he’s keeping secrets, he’ll still keep you alive. I remind myself. 

I unclench my jaw. 

Joel stuffs the fabric between my teeth. 

“I’m gonna count to three, okay?” 

A tear drips onto Joel’s lap. My whole body is shaking. I squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Alex?” 

I realise Joel is waiting for my acknowledgement. I drip my head forward, consenting to this necessary torture. As soon as Joel notices my confirmation, I feel the echo of his hands as they move around my injured shoulder. 

“One.” 

Don’t scream. Don’t scream. Don’t scream. 

“Two.” 

Joel moves and my teeth clench down so hard that I hear a crunch. Don’t fucking scream, I yell inside my head. 

My throat unleashes a wild groan against the bit of fabric. 

“It’s done,” Joel confirms after my racing heartbeat starts to calm. He reaches a hand around and pries the fabric from between my teeth.

My shirt is soaked in sweat. I fall back against Joel’s chest and somehow forget to be mortified at this strangely intimate position we’re in. 

“You said a count of three,” I accuse in a near whimper. 

I know I must be hallucinating from the pain because I swear I hear Joel huff out a laugh and run a hand across my forehead, pushing away the hair that stuck to my soaked brow. But that didn’t happen, because Joel would never do that. 

Joel’s lack of compassion is confirmed when, seconds later, he slides out from behind me and deposits my body against a mould covered wall. He’s up and walking away before I can even catch a glimpse of his face. 

I cradle my injured arm against my chest and finally take a look around this room we’ve found ourselves in. It’s a long narrow space, with a counter and a couple aisles of shelves. It must have been an old store. 

There’s a door behind the counter. Joel is heading there now, walking with that slow, calculated stride. His gun is in one hand, his torch in the other. 

Joel tries the handle. It’is unlocked. He pauses for a second, adjusting his grip on his gun before he pushes the door open. The hinges scream and I hold my breath as Joel disappears into the next room. 

If he dies, this is all over. 

I would never survive on my own, and everything he knows about my dad, and how he died, will die with him. 

I hear movement in the next room and I freeze, pausing the rapid clenching and unclenching of my hand. There are no snarls or yells or bangs, so after a long minute, I remember to take a breath. 

Eventually, Joel’s thick boots announce his return into the room. I glance up, eyes sharp and inquisitive as I instinctively scan him for injuries. But that’s not what I notice. Instead, my gaze is locked on his hands and the strange, tied together fabric housed in his tanned skin. 

“Here,” he says as he throws the fabric towards me. I’m not quick enough so it hits my chest and falls onto my lap. I look up at him in surprise as my hands curl around this odd gift.  

Joel has moved closer and is staring down at me. There’s that anger again, etched in every fine line around his eyes. But there’s something else, too, something like worry or concern. It’s gone quickly. 

“What is this?” I ask quietly as I attempt to spread it out on my lap. 

“A sling,” he answers, nodding towards it. “Put it over your head and it’ll take the weight off your arm. Give it time to heal.”

I open and close my mouth, unsure how to respond. Joel has clearly made it himself, he must have found and ripped apart a couple bits of fabric in the next room, knotting it together. My eyebrows furrow at the gesture, then I remember his promise and I straighten. 

“Thanks,” I murmur as I reach up and attempt to put the sling over my head with one hand. A scalding heat stains my cheeks as the knot gets caught in my hair and I mutter a curse under my breath. 

Joel’s footsteps draw closer before I feel his hands pull the sling down over my head and gently move my injured arm into the cradle of fabric. I wince when he touches my shoulder and feel him pause before continuing his movements.

He’s perched so close to me, and without the haze of pain and panic, I remember to be afraid. My eyes flick to his narrow gaze, and I swallow. 

With another examining glance at the makeshift sling, Joel perches back on his heels, places a hand on his thigh and pushes himself up with a low groan. Then he takes two steps back and turns away.

I let out a breath and allow my head to drop back against the wall, too tired to care about the mould that stains its surface. 

My dad is dead. I left the QZ. I nearly died. I’m still alive.

I’m still alive. 

It doesn’t seem possible that only two days ago I was begging my dad not to leave. I try not to imagine a reality where he listened, where he didn’t go. It’s too painful to picture what could’ve been. 

I feel my eyes fill with tears. I blink them away, already embarrassed enough. 

A rough sigh escapes my lips and I look up. 

Joel is staring down at me again. A shiver races across my skin. 

I blink again, clearing more of the tears, and I catch sight of the look in Joel’s eyes. It’s not anger this time, but disgust that lies in the depths of the deep brown. 

My blood turns cold, my mood changing just as fast as Joel’s. 

I narrow my eyes. “What?” I demand. 

Joel clenches his jaw and curls a fist against his jeans. The disgust in his eyes has turned to repulsion. 

“You nearly got yourself killed back there. Nearly got us killed,” Joel declares. 

Flashes of the past hour flash across my mind: the empty city streets, the hoard of infected, Joel’s grip on my wrist, the way I pushed him away. 

I flinch. A sick, heavy sensation crawls over my skin, something rotten and inescapable. 

I attempt to shift against the wall but I’m hit by another wave of pain. I straighten my spine and steel my expression to hide the ache. 

He’s right, there’s no denying it. I did nearly get us killed. 

“I know,” I sigh. “I’m sorry.” 

Joel scoffs. My eyes flash to his. 

“Sorry isn’t gonna cut it,” he scolds. “You do what I say, when I say it. Not when you fuckin feel like it.”

I feel like a child. Joel makes me feel like a fucking child. 

I grit my teeth and look down at my hands. “Fine.” 

“Fine’s not good enough,” he grumbles, taking a step forward. 

I feel the pressure of his presence like a hand around my neck. 

“What do you want me to say?” I ask quietly, hating how defeated I sound. Joel’s the only thing standing between me and death, I need to stay on his good side no matter how I feel about it. 

Joel huffs out a laugh and takes another step closer, until his boot rests beside my own. I have to tilt my chin up to see him, and I watch as a muscle twitches in his cheek. 

“Tell me that you’ll do what I say, follow my instructions, and stop bein’ so fuckin’ stupid,” he says slowly, his voice dark and threatening. 

My skin is burning hot now and my fingers tremble with the mortification of being at the mercy of Joel’s commands. I hate him. I should never have let him help me with that sling, I should have thrown it back in his face and let myself become an even bigger burden. 

I know he’s waiting on my response, and he won’t move away until he gets one. 

So, I tilt my chin up to look him in the eye and allow the edge of my mouth to curl into the soft memory of a smile. “I’ll do whatever you want, Joel,” I reply, my voice sickly sweet. 

I expect to see that rage return to his eyes. I expect him to scowl and laugh in that dark, unamused way he gets when he’s annoyed. I even expect him to make some sort of threat. 

But he doesn’t. 

Joel winces. His stone face shatters for a moment and I catch sight of black, flared pupils roaming over every inch of my face as he swallows roughly. 

Then, the moment is over, and the repulsion returns. Joel takes one last look at me before he turns and storms towards the other side of the store. 

I’m the one who’s annoyed now. 

“What’s the plan, Joel?” I demand, only allowing my voice to stretch across the room. 

He stops walking, but doesn’t turn towards me. I watch as the muscles in his back move under his shirt. 

“You’ve got one hour to rest and then we’re gettin’ out the city,” Joel replies, his voice clipped and detached, like he’s reading off a script. 

An hour isn’t long, but I’m grateful for even the small respite. 

Joel still hasn’t moved, as though he’s waiting on another question. I lick my lips and take advantage of his moment of transparency. 

“And then what?” I ask hesitantly. 

It was supposed to be a regular Wednesday. I was in the scrub room, hands sterile, mentally running through the procedure I was about to perform; delicate spinal reconstruction for a young man injured in a car crash. Standard case, nothing I haven’t done before.

Until the door slammed open. 

Before I could turn, something yanked me back with a force so brutal it knocked the air out of my lungs. A hand clamped over my mouth, another locked around my waist, crushing me against an unyielding chest. Cold air rushed over my skin as I was dragged backward like prey.

The scalpel tray crashed, echoing back a sharp sting against the tiled floor. I thrashed as my instinct was taking over, but I was no match for the iron grip that was holding me in place.

"If you fight, we’ll make it worse."

My heart stopped in its movement. I jerked my head to the side, only to see masked men in black tactical gear, covered from head to toe, impossible to identify. The realization slammed through me like ice.

It wasn't a robbery. Not of an object, at least.

I'm being kidnapped.

My body surged with adrenaline, muscles tensing, legs kicking as I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth clamped down harder, suffocating the sound before it even left my throat.

That is when something cold and sharp pressed against my neck.

"Quiet, Doctor."

A sting. Then, nothing.

Now, I wake up to complete darkness. They blindfolded me. My head is pounding, my mouth dry as sandpaper, and my wrists ache from the zip ties digging into my skin. I try to move, but my body is sluggish. They drugged me. There’s a sickly smell in the air, something like oil, metal, and rotting. The floor beneath me vibrates faintly while I spot the unmistakable, muffed sound of engines roaring. 

A plane.

I’m on a goddamn plane.

The realization shocks the grogginess right out of me. There's no fucking way. I yank at my restraints, testing their hold, but it’s useless. I can barely lift my hands. My breath is coming in too fast, and I can feel a panic attack forming in my chest, but I take a deep breath.

Stay calm, Lena. Think. If they wanted to kill you, they would've by now. They need you for something.

Just as I manage to regulate myself, I hear footsteps approaching from the front of the aircraft. A chair then scrapes against the metal floor.

"You’re awake, Dr. Mirea."

The accent is thick, Russian or something close. He's calm, almost polite, which makes the situation comical to me. I can’t see him from the blindfold that is strapped tightly around my head, but I can hear the smirk in his voice. 

"Where am I?" I ask, the sound coming out all raspy and dry.

"Does it matter?"

"Since I’m the one you kidnapped, I’d say it does." I force the fear out of my voice. I won’t let them hear me break.

I hear papers rustle in his hands before he sighs, like I’m his 10-year-old child throwing a tantrum.

"Professor Doctor Elena Cătălina Mirea. Thirty-two years old. Romanian immigrant, naturalized citizen of the United States. Harvard Medical School for M.D. and Ph.D. Double board-certified in trauma and neurosurgery. Specializing in combat injuries, reconstructive procedures, and neural damage. Published in at least seven international medical journals. Former consultant for the Pentagon’s advanced rehabilitation program. Shall I go on?"

My stomach twists to the size of a tennis ball. I always knew I had a reputation, but to hear it spoken back to me in a situation like this, in his voice, makes my blood run cold.

"Impressive credentials," he muses, flipping through the file. "The kind that would make a person very difficult to replace."

I scoff. "If you needed a surgeon, there are easier ways to book an appointment."

He laughs, and I swear he sounds amused. "Not for this project."

I lick my cracked lips, trying to swallow the fear clawing at my throat. "Why am I here?"

He doesn't answer for a couple of seconds. I can hear him shifting in his seat, the sound of saliva popping in his mouth as he grins. The motherfucker must be enjoying this.

 "It’s no use pretending you don’t understand what’s happening. You were chosen for a reason."

I grind my teeth. "If this is about money—"

A sharp laugh cuts me off. "This isn’t about money, Professor. This is about purpose." He pauses, then continues in a tone laced with thinly veiled amusement. "You will be saving an asset of great value. An asset that has been damaged and requires repairs."

An asset? Repairs?

"You’re mistaken," I say, forcing steel into my voice. "I’m not an engineer."

"Oh, Professor." A gloved hand pats my knee in a deeply condescending way. "You’ll learn soon enough… There’s no difference."

I stiffen.

"You’re needed to repair it," he continues. "Our most valuable weapon. It sustained extensive damage during a recent mission. Tissue damage, internal injuries. And there are… complications."

I don’t know what horrifies me more—the way he speaks, or the fact that I still don’t understand what the hell he’s talking about.

"What exactly is ‘it’?" I bite out.

He pauses. Then, as if indulging a particularly stupid child, he clarifies.

"The Winter Soldier."

Excrutiating cold creeps down my spine.

I’ve heard that name before briefly, in fearful whispers among government officials and intelligence circles. A ghost story, an assassin that doesn’t exist. Well, at least that's what I've always thought.

"You’re talking about a person."

He clicks his tongue. "It was a person. It is now a machine—one that needs to be maintained, serviced, and controlled."

I shake my head, rage bubbling in my chest despite my fear. "I’m a doctor. I save lives. I don’t reprogram murderers."

"You don’t have to," he says, and though I can’t see him, I can hear the smirk in his voice. "You just have to make sure it doesn’t fall apart before we do."

The plane jolts slightly, and my stomach lurches. I didn't spend fifteen years of my life dedicated to practicing medicine to patch up cold-blooded assassins. I refused so many offers from high-ups asking for the same thing, just to be put on a plane at gunpoint to do the exact thing I swore I will never do. I press my lips together, forcing my mind to stay focused. 

There has to be a way out of this. 

The man beside me shifts, his voice dropping to something almost bored. 

"Make no mistake, Professor. You will do what we ask. If you refuse… well." A deliberate pause, stretching just long enough for my skin to crawl. "We’re quite experienced in making people… cooperative."

A chill scrapes down my spine, but I don’t let it show. I know exactly what he means, of course I do. I've been around men like him before, so I force my breathing steady. I keep my face blank and I decide to stay silent.

For now, silence is survival, and if they think I’ll go down easy, they haven’t done their research properly.

The base I'm dragged into is nestled deep in the mountains, buried beneath ice and stone where no one dares to look. Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it; the air bites like sharp razor blades slicing through my skin; my hospital scrubs are practically useless against it.

My feet barely touch the ground before the air is sucked out of me. My body convulses, shaking so violently that my teeth clatter. Every inhale burns my throat like I’m breathing in the very ice from the surface. I begin to think I'm not even going to make it inside, when someone shoves a bundle of clothing into my arms; a thick, insulated jacket, thermal gloves, sturdy boots. I don’t hesitate—I tug everything on, my fingers already stiff with frost.

The guards nod at one another, exchanging looks of quiet acknowledgment. I’m not shackled, no one is grabbing me, forcing me to my feet. In their eyes, I am an asset, a necessary tool. 

Good. I will try to use this to my advantage.

I feel my body reaching a somewhat healthy temperature as I am being taken more and more underground. The deeper we go, the more guards appear in the corners, next to the doors—they are everywhere. I can't even begin to comprehend what kind of horrors they must be guarding—at least until the door at the end of the corridor groans open, and the world tilts.

I have seen the worst of human suffering. Open chests, shattered skulls, intestines spilling onto the floor. I have peeled burned flesh from bone, held dying hands, seen life leave bodies in ways too violent to be poetic. I have witnessed agony, stitched it together, carved it out, buried it in the hollow spaces of my mind.

And yet.

And yet.

When they drag him in, something inside me shatters.

At first, my eyes can’t process what I’m looking at. A figure barely standing, hunched, trembling, a mass of exposed flesh and metal swaying between two guards who have to hold him up by brute force. He stumbles, his boots scraping against the floor. He's barely conscious. His head lolls forward, making all his damp hair cling to his gaunt, bruised face.

He breathes—or tries to. A wet, ragged gasp leaves his mouth, as if each inhale is a battle he’s losing.

Fucking hell.

He’s dying on his feet.

Mortifying cold sinks into my gut, as sharp as the wind outside. I ignore how my own hands shake and my throat tightens, and before I know it, I’m already assessing and diagnosing.

His skin is pallid, almost gray, lips cracked and tinged with blue—hypothermia. The deep bruising across his ribs, the uneven hitch of his breath—at least one fractured rib, likely more. The way his left leg drags slightly—hip injury? Nerve damage? His metal arm twitches and jerks at his side—malfunction, misfiring signals, nerve trauma in the shoulder.

He lifts his head slightly, which is when I'm met with his eyes. They're unfocused, but not empty—no. They hold horrors so severe it makes my stomach turn.

"Oh, don’t look so shocked, Professor," one of the men drawls. "It’s not like it feels anything."

Laughter ripples through the room. It makes me want to throw up.

The soldier sways, and no one moves to help him. Hell, they laugh at him like he is some kind of spectacle in a circus. My hands twich at my sides as I'm starting to realize what I've got myself dragged into.

This isn’t just suffering. This is torture. Systematic, calculated destruction. 

This is what happens when a body is kept alive not for the sake of living, but for the sake of being used and owned. When the person is carved out, reduced to something that breathes but does not live. I've seen it with assault survivors, people who's been trafficked, but what I'm looking at could never compare to that.

My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as my throat tightens, my vision flat out rejecting the inhumane torture I'm witnessing. I don’t even realize I’m moving until a rough hand grabs my upper arm, yanking me back.

I had stepped toward him.

God—I had stepped toward him.

I don’t remember deciding to do so, it is just some instinct that had taken over; something so deeply ingrained in me as a doctor, as a human, that for a moment, I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was dealing with.

He sways again, his whole body trembling with overexhaustion and agonizing pain. The weight of his own existence is too much for him to bear, and still, no one is helping him.

I swallow, blinking rapidly, forcing the burn behind my eyes to stay put. 

Fucking hell, I will not cry. Not in front of them.

A sharp laugh suddenly cuts through the room, yanking me back to my unforgiving reality.

"Oh, look at that," one of them sneers. "Got yourself a little fan, Soldat."

Another chuckles. "Careful, Professor. It bites sometimes," he grins and leans closer to me. "But if you like it so much, it can also be trained to keep its mouth busy in… other ways."

I wrench my arm free from the guard’s grip, my jaw locking as they all burst out laughing. A sickening wave of horror crashes over me and I feel it like a punch to the gut. Good fucking God. My stomach churns so violently I have to swallow against the bile rising in my throat.

They’re still laughing like fucking idiots.

I glance at the soldier, like I need to prove to myself that this is some cruel joke, that this isn’t what it sounds like. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t anything. He just barely exists, silent and still as a corpse, his head slightly bowed, his gaze locked somewhere far, far away. 

A tremor runs through my hands as my heart beats so loud in my ears, I'm convinced my brain is trying to shut out the stress. My vision tunnels and not from fear, but from something sharper, and I know right away that it's rage. Not even rage—it's all-consuming fury. 

I bite my tongue until it nearly bleeds, because what the absolute fuck am I supposed to do? Scream at them? Attack them? They’d drop me in an instant, put a bullet in my skull and find someone else; someone worse. Then he would just stay here trapped and used, in God fucking knows what sick ways.

I feel my breath shake as I force myself to move, to do something before they notice the way my hands tremble. I straighten my back, lock my jaw, and turn to the soldier once more. He's looking at me like I'm glowing.

"How much time do I have?"

The guard chuckles, shaking his head. "Efficient. I like that." He glances at the other men before looking back at me. "How long does it take to patch up the weapon, Professor?"

I clench my jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My gaze flickers back to the soldier—his body locked in place, his face a mask of empty obedience, but his pain is evident.

"I need a full assessment," I say, my voice clipped. "But from what I can see?" I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "This isn’t a patch job. This is a rebuild."

The smirk falls from his face. "Be more specific."

I lift my chin. "Four weeks. Maybe more."

His expression darkens, clearly unimpressed. "You have three."

A muscle jumps in my jaw.