#cynnwrites

You traced the lines of rooftops in your notebook, drawing bridges, archways and open doors. New routes that could lead somewhere else.

Not that you could use them. Not yet. But it was something of yours; rebellion in graphite only.

You drew what you could not see. Built when you could not run; reordered what you could not fight.

A camera caught your reflection in the glass, and your pencil paused mid-line.

You resembled a mother you barely remembered, safe for the fact that you had found her beautiful beyond measure.

You had learned long ago that beauty could be both a trap and a tool, and you were glad she had given you both.

The surveillance feed blinked before the camera turned to other angles of your large room.

Control existed below and beneath the snow, with locked doors and black SUVs always watching.

You had planned for this.

Your memory flickered: evenings spent stealing minutes on the internet between music lessons and horse riding.

Podcasts downloaded over trafficked wires. A notebook tucked in a bible, listing all the universities most likely to be approved.

Months of careful, quiet preparation, each tiny act of defiance folded into the cracks of a wealthy household that prized obedience.

“Good evening, papa.”

He does not look up from his tablet.

“Good evening, daughter.”

You have five minutes before his right-hand returns with news. Two if he’s stressed enough by the crises that always brew in his empire of lies.

You smooth the hem of your dress, hiding the tremor in your fingers. Missteps would bring nothing but disapproval.

“I would like to consider studying abroad.”

A ripple in his grey eyes steals your breath. You misspoke. You should not have presumed that you could have any say in the matter. You should have…

“What brings this, sweet girl?”

The endearment is saccharine. He’d call you by your name if he were truly listening. And he very rarely does.

You throw out the entire rhetoric you’ve painstakingly crafted.

“I’d like to be useful to you. To the family trade.”

The words have the merit of prying him away from his screen.

Father takes a long, hard look at you from head to toe.

In his eyes, you read everything you are to him: the child of a woman who vanished into the wind, a wisp of a girl daring to stand in his office and make demands she is not entitled to.

Useful, perhaps? He considers it.

“And what do you believe you understand from my trade?”

You need to say something, but your tongue has turned to lead.

The gambit is too bold, even for you. You’d gotten by as the good little daughter he parades at dinners and parties.

Now you were challenging that order, and you could either put up or lose that right forever.

A soft sigh goes out from the oligarch.

“You may be right. You have grown.”

He stands, crossing the distance in two careful steps. He smiles at you, and in that smile you see no traps.

Just the placid look of a father who remembers his daughter, not the mercenaries and criminals he hosts daily.

He touches your cheek and invites you to meet his eyes.

“It is time for you to be prepared.” You school your features and allow yourself only to blink.

You do not ask for what.

He could have bought you anything. A scholarship anywhere, a prestigious internship. But he wanted you here, inside this gilded cage, polished, clever, quiet.

Unlikely to bother him or his operations until whatever placement, advantageous match could be found.

The pencil traced another line. A line that might lead out, or a line that might take you down.

A short knock at your door made you remove your headphones and slip the notebook aside.

You stood, straightened into the heiress posture, and found your voice: “Enter.” Two years in Zurich had polished your English accent.

The bulky man shadowing you tonight nodded in your direction. “Miss.”

He made the round of your space, checking under the bed, quickly riffling through your dressings.

You wondered if he was looking for threats or secret lovers. He would find none.

“The car’s waiting.”

You grabbed your coat, smoothing your shirt one last time before following.

You knew this guard had been one of your father's back home. You hadn’t seen him much, because your father had always kept family and business separate.

Truthfully, you’d seen him even less since arriving in Zurich.

Your movements required logistics worthy of a royal affair. He flew to Switzerland rarely. You returned home even less.

You tried so hard to snuff out the wild hope that your existence would fade from his mind entirely; that one day he might forget he even had a daughter.

Soon enough, you were on the school grounds, your entourage ready for transport.

You had found a small slip of power away from the motherland; without your father’s presence, you were just a rich girl, and over two years, you had tested the length of that newfound leeway.

Slow steps: attending cocktail parties, carefully choreographed shopping days. A concert here and there. Calculated freedom was still freedom, and if giving into the college life got you more, you were game. At least until you were completely out.

The cars rolled out from the school grounds in a neat line. Snow clung to the rooftops and streetlamps, glittering under the soft glow of evening lights.

For once, you let your shoulders relax a fraction. The city stretched out like a playground you hadn’t been allowed to explore yet.

You pressed your nose lightly against the glass of the car door, catching glimpses of cobblestones and narrow alleyways that promised shortcuts and secrets.

Traffic slowed, a jam of cars stretching ahead. A small thrill fluttered in your chest. You traced routes in your mind with a grin, imagining which way a brave girl could slip through if she wanted to.

Sergei sat beside you, impassive as ever. You knew better than to try and build rapport with a man whose pay check came from your father’s pockets.

You were thinking about pencils and shorter, flashier tops when the world snapped in two.

A black van slipped out from a side street. Two more vehicles cut the lane ahead and behind, sliding into position with surgical timing.

Men in matte helmets rolled out like a shutter: no shouting, no clumsy threats. Gloves, balaclavas, utility belts glinting like teeth.

You whipped your head to the sound of Sergei swinging his door handle open; other guards reached for weapons.

You didn’t think. You watched.

Cracks of gunfire split the streets. Voices. A guard pushed your head into your knees and you saw nothing, even as your world cracked with violence. 

Your window trembled once before glass exploded all over your tangled hair. Someone shouted and you rose to watch the driver yanked out, a fist clamped at his throat. The radio bursted in static and went dead.

Your door was ripped open by a man close enough for you to see the wear on his gloves. “Out,” he barked.

You slid out, coat collar up, notebook clutched under your arm. You were so afraid you thought your bladder might let go. Be small, contained. Be nothing.

His gloved hand dragged your arm. Another moved toward you, patting over your coat, squeezing hard on your belly, your breasts, the small of your back before dragging you further onto their side.

Sergei reappeared, machine gun in hand, dropping one attacker, then another.

A pistol snapped to your temple before you could fully see it, stopping your guard dead in his tracks. A fist cracked against Sergei’s skull, sending him sprawling onto the asphalt.

Half a second to scream.

Another hand snapped at your wrist. The man steered you toward his black van. Up close, you saw a scar at the corner of his nose.

If you get into that van you die.

If you get into that van you die.

If you get into that van

White light detonated onto the sidewalk. Someone yelled over shots. The scarred man’s head snapped up behind you.

Time fractured, here, a secondary team moving, and for a beat the choreography of your assailants dissolved into chaos.

Fear unrooted your feet: you pivoted toward the narrow gap between two cars and slipped like water, small, quick and, you hoped, successful.

A glove bit back into your coat before you could cross. You twisted. Pain shot your leg, a white-hot blade grazing your calf when they tried to reel you in.

Two of them grabbed you by the arms and hauled you back toward the van. You stopped resisting, shocked into pliancy by the hot blood wetting your skin.

Instead you muffled your groans, listened, braced for when their hold might soften.

Somebody was still out there, throwing flashbangs at their vans, fighting to keep the piece of the game back to their side of the board: you.

A shadow stepped off the curb, then. Someone who moved with a wrongness you couldn’t place with your head almost upside down.

You felt your opening here, as the men paused, and you started buckling with enough surprise than you fell in front of the new threat.

Your eyes landed on a block of winter wrapped in black; the rifle he carried was a foreign architecture, hooked to one hand of cold metal.

One of your attackers fired, but not before his opponent slammed his arm onto the weapon.

The shot sprayed glass from a nearby café window. Your heart skittered; the ground so thin you might fall onto the depths of the earth.

He was on them before they understood the shape of the threat. Hands moved with brutal precision. Metal arm swung, catching a rifle across its stock.

A man went down, not loud, just folded. The lead hitman aimed to run; the soldier’s knife found him in the back of his head, hard and clean.

Panic took over and the cohort collapsed where the soldier fell them in violent staccato. They were trainer killers, and still they ran for their lives.

For a fraction of a second you saw his face; masked mouth, long hair, hard eyes. Everything tilted.

He landed back in front of you, suddenly too close for comfort, and dropped his hand under your elbow. He gripped you back on your legs, and when they wobbled he lifted you fully.

You didn’t question it. Clung to him the moment he pushed you up; his hand on your back was ice cold and hard. Real.

Somewhere a siren began to wail. Your notebook rested against your heart, graphite lines whispering exits that would not be used anymore.

Your leg throbbed where someone’s knife had broken flesh, and when you felt it drip your last clear thought was remorse for staining his arms.

𓅪

You came back in fragments.

Cold first. Then pain.

Your cheek pressed to fabric that smelled like oil and rust. 

You didn’t know where you were. Not a car. Not your room. 

Not tidy, glinting Zurich anymore. 

Something moved your ankle, tugging on your shoe. Pain lanced through your feet as the pressure vanished, and then came a sharp noise: your sock was ripped in two.

The hem of your pants followed the same fate, ripped upwards by a single motion.

Dread slammed into your stomach, and you willed yourself to jerk back.

The room was dark, but you could make out a man crouched at your side, his face hidden by a curtain of dark hair as you lay on a couch. 

The soldier on the snow.

Protest stuck in your throat.

You wanted to flee, but your body wouldn’t move. Wanted to disappear, but your mind wouldn’t shut down. Needed to fight, but fear held you flat against the cushions.

So you pleaded.

“Please,” you whispered, searching for a bargain, anything. “Don’t… Don’t be this.” 

The soldier’s gaze lifted to meet yours, sharp enough to make you flinch. 

His hand lifted to your face. But it stopped there, glistening red with blood. 

Shivers seized you, your eyes dropping to the torn fabric and the strip of bare skin below it. 

The knife that had grazed your skin had also embedded higher, and that tear was pouring a thick rivulet of blood.

Nausea, panic, and horror tangled inside you. And beyond, the sharp relief he wasn’t touching to hurt. But you were bleeding. 

A warm hand pressed to the wound, staunching the flow. You whimpered, but the masked man didn’t flinch.

He moved then, slid a metal arm under your knees, and in one deliberate motion lifted your legs. Your thighs came to rest against the solid line of his chest as he sat at the end of the couch.

A whine escaped you, and you didn’t care how small it made you seem; this was obscene and too close and wrong. 

But his grip was workmanlike, his silence absolute. Nothing in him listened or lingered.

You were an injury being managed. A problem being held still.

And yet your pulse betrayed you, blind to the difference of skin to skin.

You wanted to move, to curl away, to reclaim even an inch of space, but your limbs were pinned by his hands as much as your own fear. 

The smell of iron and salt filled your lungs as the world dimmed at the edges. You wanted to ask where you were, who he was, why you were still alive- but your tongue was heavy, your thoughts slipping like spilled ink.

The world narrowed to blood, metal, and a faint, dizzying scent. 

𓅪

She is here, for once, before it’s time to sleep.

The faint chime of her earrings echo softly as she lean closer, the air scented with jasmine and something calming, warm.

Her dress glitters in the lamplight, liquid red against her skin. 

She closes the book. 

“What did you think about Little Red, love?”

You shot the answer you’re sure is right. 

“She should not have strayed off the path.”

Mom shoots you an amused glance- softer than papa’s disapproval, but your confidence plummets all the same. 

“Why not? We should all be allowed to pick flowers in peace.” Her hand gently glides over your scalp. “What else?”

You’re more cautious about your next words, thinking long and hard about the way the girl almost died. 

“A wolf is not to be trusted.”

“Ah. But we must all trust a wolf once or twice, if only to see another day.” She sighs, and this time her smile does not reach her eyes. “Do you think it was her fault, someone decided to hurt her that day?”

“…No, mama.”

“Then now you know there is nothing you can do if it happens. But you can learn to try and make it out of it safely, to wield the axe if you must or see through its eyes before it leaps. Always look, always prepare, always know the path back.”

Her earrings chime again as she tilts her head, gaze soft but far away.

“Do you promise me, little hummingbird?”

You nod.

“Then I promise,” she takes your hand,“I’ll show you a few things about wolves, hunters and men.”

𓅪

You woke to find another hand, calloused and cold, still pressed against your leg.

Head still pounding, you found it slightly easier to ground yourself to wakefulness. 

You took a shaky glance to your half-opened jeans and the couch under you, where a large stain covered the cracked leather.

You swallowed. Your worst injury up until now had been a sprained wrist. 

You looked at the soldier, still as stone, silent. He wasn’t holding your legs in the air anymore, and you were glad of the minimal contact to your skin. 

There were rolls of bandages crumpled and red littering the floor, and a first aid kit had been torn open at the feet of the couch. 

The glint of scissors caught your mind. 

The sharp inhale you took was enough to catch his attention. Slowly, you perched yourself on your elbow, sweat rolling over your brow.

“It needs...” you pressed your eyes shut to force the words out of you. “Stitches. I think.”

He didn’t answer. You weren’t sure if you were allowed to get up, or if that would even be wise, but you had spent your entire life learning the bounds of obedience; the steps allowed, the silences that kept you safe.

And he had kept you safe. 

You forced the cascade of dread into clean, palatable thoughts: a group had tried to take you. Another had come and succeeded.

Now you were here, unbound, because the man who had decimated dozens in front of you was the one keeping watch.

They had all fought and died.

Ran, and died.

You followed the line of thought all the way to one certainty: you will too.

So you focused on the only thing that mattered: that you were still breathing, and that your worth was tied to your life. It was no struggle to understand why.

Father’s control hadn’t been completely unjustified; the guards, the cameras, the containment. You had understood the necessity. Especially now that it had failed.

You closed your eyes, a pang of idiotic longing for your notebook lost to the ambush. Your fingers ached to trace the mapping of all these threads, if only to smooth your agitation.

Instead, you flexed them against the leather of the couch, trying to feel the solidity beneath you, any foothold in this strange place.

Your thoughts drifted to the state dinners and business deals that had shaped the rhythm of your life; pleasant smiles traded in glittering halls.

No etiquette or perfected music act would get you out of here. Only your father’s will.  

The thought made your stomach twist. 

You tested your weight on your ankle, grimacing at the ache. Each step was deliberate, careful, like walking over glass.

You felt his eyes on you and ignored the huge, dark-haired captor at your back to focus on the place you were.

It was a non-descript flat with three doors and no way to know which was which. 

Anxiety was prickling under your skin. Three paths and only one good outcome out of it.

Always know the path back.

“May I go to the bathroom?” you asked, bracing. 

You turned to watch his head tilting toward the hallway.

Tentatively, you went. Your steps were uneven, every muscle screaming from the cut and the adrenaline still coursing through you.

A misstep made you stumble, and there was a hand to your elbow instantly. Your pulse raced in your ears, your breath shallow.

You reached for the handle of the door, fingers trembling. 

The lock clicked. 

He stepped back at the door but kept it open. You got the sudden feeling then that it would stay that way until you were done, and shame flared through you. 

“I’m not going to run,” you said, and cursed yourself immediately; it probably sounded like it was the first thing on your mind.

It wasn’t. 

You looked for him through the mirror over the sink, and he had no reactions to give.

You could either ask for privacy or get it over with, and neither were appealing, but the latter would only cost you your pride.  

There was something in the way he never reacted, never spoke, no reaction, no sound- only those glacial eyes fixed somewhere on you, or through you. 

It lit something raw inside you. Something you had never allowed yourself, locked away in the tight corridors of your life.

Anger flared, hot and sharp, crawling under your skin, making you want to spin and slam the door in his face.

But you didn’t. Wounded, unsteady, every step a bargain, with this butcher behind you. Your mind raced: would he allow it, or drag you somewhere worse? Why even bother at all? 

You clenched your fists, forcing yourself into whatever control you could grasp. It was blood loss. Shock. Useless. You just needed to find your way out of this. To find your path back.

You sat on the edge of the bathtub, relieved of the pain throbbing above your knee.

There was no hope salvaging your ruined jeans. Your flannel shirt, perhaps, with soap, time, and pretending none of this had ever happened.

You tugged at the waistband of your jeans, hissing as the textile clung to your bloodied skin. Every motion scraped the wound. 

You fumbled, twisting and yanking, frustration tightening like a vice in your chest. Exhaustion cracked into tears; they ran freely before you even had the chance to blink. 

You heard the faint scuff of boots beyond the threshold. 

This time he didn’t step all the way to you, only rose one hand towards your waist and froze, as if awaiting instructions. 

Your pulse spiked. Every instinct screamed don’t let him touch you, and yet, you nodded, expecting force, abrupt efficiency, like on the couch, like in the streets, with the men he had cracked open and shot a breath ago. 

Warm fingers caught the fabric just above the wound. He tore it cleanly, deliberately, without touching your skin once.

The invasive, impropriety of it all grazed your mind without capturing it fully.

You’d never been touched by anyone like that, but you’d also never been shot at, or threatened, and right now you clamoured for something close to softness.

You slid your hands down to tuck the remaining swatches of your pants aside, leaving two long panels hanging loosely on either side. Shivers ran through your skin when you looked down.

There was no dodging the gauze wrapped around your right thigh, the blood crusting around the white soaked red, the angry, split flesh picking out from under the wraps.

You couldn’t pinpoint what was so shocking, what made it so filthy to look at.  

“Can I shower?” You must have sounded a special brand of pitiful, because there was no pause in him this time. 

He bent, sliding his metal arm under you and helped you pivot into the tub fully. 

Like he’d known exactly which muscles were needed to step over the edge, and knew none of those would work for you. 

You pushed the implications of that knowledge out of your mind. 

Your heartbeat thundered against your ribs. Every rational thought screamed that you were putting yourself in the hands of a weapon; but here, now, nothing happened. 

The only move he made was to turn the water on. 

The only thing he looked at was the tip of your feet when they landed, the places on your face where cuts and bruises prickled your skin.

As crazy as it sounded to your own mind it wasn’t a hard decision to turn around and face the tiled wall away from him, unbuttoning the flannel of your top until you could remove it.

If anything could happen, it would have. You did not blame it on blood loss, or shock. 

You just wanted to be clean again. 

When the water hissed from the tap, he pushed the showerhead above you. You let that warmth wash over your skin, seeping into every tense muscle, never forgetting for a moment that you weren’t alone in this space. Surrendering. 

You stayed like this for what felt like an age, until a slight movement touched your spine. 

You couldn’t see, much less hear over the sound of the shower running, but you knew for a fact the soldier was still here, and a quick glance over your shoulder showed a single human hand holding a washcloth to your body. 

You hugged yourself to hide your chest but you didn’t cower or retreat, remaining within reach.

When the cloth touched a spot on your collarbone you felt a sharp sting, the echo of a bruise you didn’t know you had until now. 

He brushed similar spots, none of which were as lethal as your leg wound, until it stopped.

You rested your chin on top of your knees, and traced the lines of the white tiles over your head until you could see them with your eyes closed. 

You turned to the side, letting the tub hide your body from his eyes, which were still not looking.

He handed you the washcloth, and you realized that all this time he'd been standing in the fogged up bathroom with his face mask, his reinforced jacket, his padded pants. 

He looked ready for war, washing your skin for longer that you dared to admit. 

What was he?

The water ran a final hiss before you could answer, letting the steam curl around you like a fragile shield.

You wrapped yourself in the towel he was already handing you, shivering, and stepped out of the tub. He did not move until you came back to him. 

One careful gesture of his metal arm guided you toward the bedroom, not the couch, and you let yourself settle onto it.

The room was cold. Sparse. Impersonal. A rented unit at best: a single window with closed curtains, a dresser with drawers that didn’t match, and a bed that had seen better days. Your eyes roamed. 

A few pictures hung crooked on the walls. Did he live here, or was it just convenience? Did he even own the place, or had he broken in?

You found yourself counting your pitiful blessings: you were alive, clean, and under the watch of a man who could have ended you instead of wrapping you in bandages and relative safety. 

It was day one of your abduction. It was one more day. To see another day, mom repeated in your mind.

Surely this wasn’t what she had thought about when she cautioned you. Or did she know, better than most, where your father’s life would take you? 

He waited until you laid back, the towel sticking around you as your only barrier, before moving closer with a fresh roll of gauze in his bare hand. 

The dressing he’d done in the urgent hours of your injury was soaked by your shower, and now you had to go through the two-pronged sting of shame and discomfort again. 

His metal hand hovered briefly over the bed, then rested lightly on your limb, lifting it just enough to make room for his other hand.

You hugged the towel closer to you, locking your arms across your chest and inhaled.

The gauze unrolled between his fingers with quiet precision. 

When he pressed it to the wound, you felt the careful tension of his grip; firm enough to keep the wrap tight, never enough to bruise, even when you hissed at that dreadful contact. Now that your head wasn’t swimming under, you could watch his movements, practiced, and clinical. Not warm; simply devoid of light.

That alone felt foreign enough to unnerve you.

You observed him without meaning to: the shift of muscle beneath armor, the faint furrow in his brow, the slight dip of his head as he worked.

His clear eyes never strayed from his work. Never even shone with anything but the light of the room. 

They didn’t flick to your face, your chest, your hair, not even the towel slipping against your collarbone.

You noticed the set of his jaw, the way the metal fingers flexed in tandem with the human ones.

You understood what it was the moment you heard the soft whirr under his plated limb. 

The metal wasn’t protecting his arm; it was his arm.

Your own arms shot to your abdomen, clutching harder until you could barely breathe.

The kind of wealth, of means it spoke of; the sheer force and precision you had seen him apply… structural models came to your mind, tiny trusses and beams you studied late at night. 

How every hinge, every lever, every torque had to align perfectly or the whole thing would fail.

You could see it here, in him. A body redesigned with the same ruthless efficiency.

You shouldn’t have been watching. You shouldn’t have felt the slow pull of fascination tangled with fright.

But your mind, empty of anything safe to land on, clung to detail: to the way he worked, the quiet rhythm of him existing near you. 

Relief and fear tangled in your throat until you couldn’t tell them apart.

You let out a slow breath, the first you realized you’d been holding, and sank a little deeper into the mattress.

It wasn’t supposed to feel good, the quiet between you. It wasn’t supposed to feel anything but danger.

Still, the thought crept in, unbidden: perhaps he was the gentlest captor. Perhaps you were the most compliant captive.

The awareness shamed you enough to make you speak, to reclaim some of yourself before you could stray further away.

“The men in the vans,” you said finally, voice steadier than you felt. “You fought them.”

He had. And then had taken you for himself. 

And it didn't make sense, not even because you were still dizzy and bent out of shape.

If he had taken you, why kill the men who wanted you too? If he had saved you, why weren't you back to your school or your home?

You had no idea what made you speak so openly when you had learned to be quiet and careful your entire life.

Still, you went on.  

“Are you part of my father’s detail?”

His fingers stilled against your flesh, barely half a breath, but you noticed. 

You didn’t think the head of your family ever had loyalty issues. But then again there was so little you knew about where the wealth came from, safe that it was dark and lawless and everybody knew, looked away, profited off in some ways.

Maybe the soldier had seen a way to step higher with you. To reach for more.

It was just the thoughts that had been swimming in your head. Facts and hypotheses. If watching you bare body did not give him any kind of reaction, neither would this.

Or perhaps he would shut you up, and you would know not to do it again. You knew how this worked, at least. 

“You don't look like it.” You looked back to him, fighting hard to keep your eyes open and your voice even. “If you need me, it is for reward or leverage.”

And then, so soft it might have been for yourself. 

“You saved my life.” Took a dozen to do so. 

A ripple swam into his blue eyes, and he finished one last loop of tissue before tying it snug against your bare leg. Your mind was back to the matter of your clothes when his gaze captured your own.

The sound of his voice was rough, like gravel shifting. 

“You are my mission.”

𓅪

There was food waiting for you in the living room, and water too. The soldier watched while you ate, impassive. 

He didn’t join you. Truth be told he didn’t even seem to have needs of his own. If that tall dark-haired assassin did, they were locked away with the rest of him.

You weren’t sure if it was good to wonder about any of it.  

What was he? Not your savior. Not your enemy. Not fully man, not fully machine. Here, with you, he was something in between. 

Something hard. But something that also made the world outside, the gunfire, the blood fall away.

There was a sound you almost did not register, a click of a magazine sliding home; by the time you looked up, he was already by the door, all his weapons strapped on layers of black.

A single gesture: come.

You followed, your leg stiff beneath the bandage, the borrowed clothes heavy on your skin.

The cold bit through the seams of your coat as he led you down a narrow stairwell and out into the grey of early morning. 

Zurich looked different now. No snowlight, no polish: just wet pavement and the hiss of tires on slush.

A car waited at the curb, engine running. He opened the door, and you hesitated only a breath before sliding inside.

You watched the city peel away behind you, its skyline blurring into the glass, and for the first time since last night, the realization you had traded one danger for another hammered into you. 

You are my mission. The words spun in your mind, replaying until they lost all meaning.

Four words. Neither comforting nor threatening. 

Intense all the same.

You had lost the ability to draw any kind of map in your mind. Lines were easy when they were straight; now, you had lost your notebook, your skill, the belief that you were a clever escapee just waiting on the right moment. 

Dozens of moments had passed between the gunfight and now, and each one left you feeling you had chosen wrong.

The memory of his hands, one cold, the other burning, still ghosted the insides of your legs.

After rest and sustenance, the insanity of it all made your pulse race.

You imagined yourself at the end, safe, interviewed by police officers and agents.

Questions about your assailants.

Questions about the days you’d been missing.

You could frame the couch as coercion. The bandage as survival. But the shower? The slow, deliberate circles on your skin?

You turned your face fully to the window, heat creeping up your cheeks.

The car slid through unfamiliar streets; the buildings lower, older, the asphalt scarred with neglect.

You fought hard to stay conscious, to stay present, unsure you’d fare any better in a third location. 

You didn’t want to form the thought of something final, because you could keep it contained if the fear never took shape.

When the car finally stopped, it was in front of a darkened building that sagged under its own weight; the windows were barred, the walls charred. A far cry from the polished walls you knew.

You couldn’t contain a little jump when you heard his voice again.  

“Come.” The gesture was the same as before, but felt tighter here.

Inside, the damp air hit first. The space was messy but functional: crates stacked against walls, rolled-up tarps, a makeshift cot shoved into a corner.

Maps were tacked to the walls, notes scribbled along their edges, and scattered supplies lay in rough order.

You moved carefully, curling instinctively to minimize contact with anything that might touch you, coaxing yourself back into thinking of your lines. Doors, windows, exits.

The soldier knew the space and moved accordingly: checking corners, adjusting equipment. You watched him silently, piecing together what you could of this space. 

He did not give you any kind of attention, but you knew you would have been foolish to think you could get away from his notice. 

But you wondered: the soldier hit hard. Did he run fast, faster than you? 

And did you want to find out? 

He reached for a small, compact device tucked into his jacket. A faint click, a low hum, and a voice buzzed through his ear.

The words were clipped, frequency so low you couldn’t make them out. 

Your blood froze. Something in the cadence made your stomach drop.

“...You should thank us, really. She was about to be taken by far more sinister forces than us. Or would you rather have her back piece by piece? I hear that’s what you did to your rivals’ sons in Oslo.”

The sound popped from the receiver, the lilt of a man clearly unimpressed with whoever he was speaking to. 

But you knew before you even heard him. 

Your father’s mirthless laugh saturated the microphone. 

“Oh, and HYDRA were merely concerned third-parties, hanging out in Zurich? You leaked the intel yourself.”

You froze, stomach tight, fingers gripping the edge of your coat. You barely dared breathe.

You grasped for meaning as the second voice went on. 

“HYDRA does not exist anymore. Besides, we aren’t responsible for your shoddy security.”

“Shall I quote your own motto back at you, or can we dispense with the foreplay?”

A pause hung after your father’s jab, deliberate.

“Truthfully, we helped out. It only feels natural we’d expect some measure of appreciation.”

The words didn’t belong in the same sentence as the threat lingering in your blood. 

Something shattered on the other end. Your father’s mahogany desk? The Chinese vase?

You pictured the blue-and-white motifs instantly. 

“You helped? You helped? Suka- you sent a maniac to steal my daughter, and now you want me to betray my oldest partner all for the sake of your little war of dominance?”

The unknown speaker tutted at your father, like a parent might at a misbehaving child.

“It’s all business, really. You would know, you’ve been at it for some time. The general will have to find supply somewhere else, and you’ll get the girl back. Be gracious about it, will you?”

Another shout came from the line. You’d never hear that sound in nineteen years.

He’d never needed it. Not with you. 

Your mind flickered uselessly.

“You think this is all it’s going to take for me to fuck with the Krasnaya komnata? You are so out of your depth, you good-for-nothing, nazi-shits-for-brains…”

Your father shouted another string of old curses: “You pissed on the wrong tree the moment you went after me and mine-” 

“We could have done far more than that.” The faceless voice snapped, almost bored by the tirade. “Snap a picture or two of what you really carry in your containers, send them to the fine prosecutors of The Hague... But we-didn’t!” It trilled the words like some macabre jingle, and went on.  

“We value what you can do- and we wouldn’t want to disrupt your activities, especially if you start working with us. Besides, look: your sweet angel is here, a little worse for wear.”

The soldier produced a small headset and aimed it your way. 

Hesitation seized you. Why were you freezing?

“Of course,” the voice added, soft as silk, “I could also broadcast the hour-long murder and dismemberment of your daughter. I genuinely don’t care either way.”

Your stomach dropped, a cold hand wrapping itself over your shoulder.

You didn’t dare look at the soldier’s face, afraid of what you might find.

Then a familiar face appeared on the screen.

“My daughter,” he said, a tightness in his voice you’d never heard before. “Are you unharmed?”

Your father looked right through you. 

“I… I’m okay,” you managed.

Not even close.

You were hurt, and scared, and looking at him for the first time in months made you yearn for him, his certainty. His control, even. 

He assessed you quickly across the pixelated screen. 

“You and your foolish outings… I told Sergei to keep a better eye on you.” A sigh escaped from his lips. 

Silence held you close. You hadn’t wished for any of it.

“Listen carefully. I have… constraints. I can’t…” He ran a hand over his face. “This is a complicated situation, and it will require patience from you.” 

Something cold coiled in your stomach.

You had never seen your father… He was never rattled. Never one-upped. At least not in the house where he had reigned. 

A flash of your mother’s earrings cut through your mind.

Your eyes darted to the soldier standing at your back, a rigid shadow waiting behind you. 

“Do not say or do anything that would provoke them, or give them information they could use against us. I’ll have you back in no time, and I’ll be sure to make you forget all this unpleasantness. Do you understand?” 

You meant to nod at him. You did. But you had been walking on a frayed wire for hours, and you didn’t think you could do it much longer. 

“What do they want from you, father?”

Sudden ire warped his face. “It does not concern you.”  

You never doubted he could retain the ability to make you wince, even behind glass and shoddy reception.

You felt sixteen again. Seven. Small and wrong, no matter what, because being wrong meant pleasing him. 

And pleasing papa had always been the rule of this world.

He still spoke as if you’d flubbed Tchaikovsky’s concerto in front of a magnate, or dared to ask for an education beyond his reach-- while a complete stranger had casually threatened to have you killed in front of his very eyes. 

Your father’s face relaxed back into concern. “It is just money, my girl. Business disputes. Do not trouble yourself over it. You’ll be back home in no time.”

Business. What business did he have in the containers his blackmailer had made a point of dangling over his head?

Business that threatened your life?

You wanted to push. He couldn’t discipline you across the screen, though he never failed to remember it afterwards.

That thought elicited only a small measure of fear. 

For the first time, you wanted answers badly enough to face his wrath.

Or perhaps find a sliver of comfort, of affection, just once. 

The line went dead before you could even try. 

You hung up slowly, the headset slipping from your hands. 

You turned to the masked man, who was looking at you with the first hint of emotion over his furrowed brow. 

Perhaps you shouldn’t have said it to the man holding your life within his hands, but you found nothing where instinct and hope had ruled until now.

“You should have stolen something he’d miss.”

It stung, but you allowed yourself the bitter taste of saying it.

Because the cold, stone-faced murderer standing in your way had hurt you less than your own blood.

You were used to dancing to someone else’s tune.

You liked to think you did it well. Now you were facing the likelihood you’d need that skill to survive more than your father’s temper and expectations. And yet. 

Your guard moved until he was planted so close you jolted. He kneeled beside you, both hands at your hips, and your mind shorted at the forwardness of it all.

Your gaze followed him down to the red pooling over your knee.

“It doesn’t matter,” you murmured, louder, “Leave it be.”

You were sick of the cut. Sick of being touched and ignited by a brick wall.

Sick of holding your fear and your pain in tidy, polite compartments.

He ignored the protest, fingers brushing the spot as if he were inspecting equipment, not real, sensitive flesh under his palm.

You took a step away from him.

The sudden tug of alarm rang sharp in your mind: this was the first time you did not simply obey. 

He rose. “You are bleeding.”

The words were clinical, absurd: did his duty extend to babysitting miserable, unloved heiresses?

“I can bandage it myself,” you said.

“You’re my-”

“Your mission, yes.”You took quick control of the tightness in your voice. “What… What does it mean, really?”

He didn’t blink. You were halfway to giving up when he spoke, reciting with the automatic cadence of someone reading specifications: your name, your age, the description on your passport. 

He enumerated you as facts and numbers.

“Capture and detention. Target must be kept alive and unharmed at all costs, pending further instructions.”

Those last words hit your stomach like a blow.

A thought that had grazed you earlier took hold; that this was not a regular person. Not in the violence he could produce but in the way he was, how he both held intensity and single-mindedness. In the stillness of his hand; the flat light of his eyes.  

You tried to think, to parse what he’d said, but his hands were already on you again, pawing at your belt buckle, brisk, impersonal, pushing you backward until the back of your knees met the cot.

The fever rising through you had nothing to do with your wound.

“No. I’m…” You pressed your palms to his chest, as hard and unyielding as the rest of him. “You’re distressing me. I’m distressed. This is harmful, no?”

Your eyes searched his and you felt his hands still. 

You could only see the blue of his eyes, the hint of his nose and muffled breath under thick black fabric.

But he saw everything that was written on your face, heard the breathlessness in your voice, and perhaps even your pulse thundering under his palm. 

His hold on you relaxed.

You didn’t dare move. Still wedged between him and the edge of the cot, you smelled the leather and acid tang on him, the body heat. 

“Sit,” he turned to grab a tin box and you relented.

When he turned back, you gathered all the courage left in you to look back at his half-face. 

“It’s odd, having you look.” You pointed at yourself. 

There was the tiniest ripple over his brow as he spoke. “I’m not.”

You nodded. 

“I know. But you could.”

His hands stilled for a breath longer than necessary, as if assessing.

This was as many words as he’d ever given you, and you found that his voice kept the same rasping, cracked quality.

As if he barely spoke, or had screamed himself hoarse repeatedly. 

You reached for the kit before he could open it. “I can do it.”

His eyes tracked the movement but didn’t stop you.

You slid down the borrowed pants, careful not to pull at the bandage. The air bit at your skin, and you returned to your indecency.

Not because of his presence, but because this time it was your doing. 

He seemed as uninterested in your bare legs as ever, even when you sat on the cot, knees apart.

The wound was still swollen, red, and ugly. You swallowed and began to unwrap the soiled gauze, cleaning it with hands that shook only a little.

He knelt in front of you, silent, watching as you tended to yourself.

You worked quickly, hating the sting, noting you weren’t as delicate as he’d been.

The bandage soaked through with a pink bloom, and you pressed a new layer over it like he’d done so twice before.

“You follow orders,” you said, looking down to his face.

He didn’t answer. A shadow crossed his face, and you drew this new line in your mind. Best not address this.

You tried again, threading lightly. 

“I’m not sure what my father must do, exactly,” you continued. “But I have the feeling he does not give the orders this time.”

His gaze flicked to yours, brief, sharp, measuring. Then nothing.

You wrote it off as a deadend. He would give you no information on the deal. 

“Are you military?”

The question seemed harmless enough when it left your mouth.

You were only trying to understand the shape of the man in front of you, to place him somewhere you could make sense of.

But something in him blew. 

You saw it: eyes hardening like ice under pressure.

The soldier moved faster than thought. The tin box clattered off the cot as his metal hand caught your wrist hard and you braced.

You didn’t scream. You knew better than to show fear, though the sharp inhale cut through the silence.

A hard, thick, indelible line carved to not touch that part of him.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, and he let go sharply, the veil of his hair falling over his blown pupils.

Your knees trembled, though you wouldn’t let them lock, if only to spare yourself the pain on your thigh.

He stepped back, his entire body taut, and you were reminded of who he was; what he did to the men on the road. 

Your mind scrambled for a distraction, a way out of the pit you had dug.

At a loss, you reverted to the only thing that seemed to matter to him.

“Could you… please, tie the bandage?” you murmured, willing yourself to spread your knee just a fraction to hand him the roll. 

His head snapped to you, then to your hand, and he crossed the distance again.

It felt like giving back the only choice you’d been given here. One small window, shut.

Perhaps you weren’t the clever thing you thought you were.

Sketches and plans had barely worked to get you away from the tomb that your home had been, and it certainly wouldn’t help with this man standing so close you could see his hairline, watch his fingers slide between cotton and skin like a burn racing through your veins and up, up the warm knot just above his hands. 

His hips were touching the sides of your knees.

The metal of his belt snagged on the hem of your sweater, pushing the wool taunt against your belly; his air was in your nose, leather and sweat, flooding you. Sweat. Leather. 

A shameful, unwanted pulse stirred beneath your underwear. You tried to hike up your body, to inch away from the edge of the cot.

Your eyes watered and you shut them tight. You needed to hold it down. You needed-- 

A light touch grazed your cheek.

You opened your teary eyes to meet with the confused twitch of his brow.

“You’re not harmed”, he murmured.

You shook your head. Yes you were. This was too much. Too confusing, too hard to sort it all out.

He was keeping you, and scaring you, and touching you, only to heal you. 

And father, who had to love you, and care for you, and fight for you? 

He had written you off already. You just knew it. You knew. 

You pressed your lips into a thin line, watching as he scanned: your face, your posture, your wounded leg and back up.

You thought he was looking for another injury, because his focus on your health extended only to bones, flesh, and tendons.

Yet what burned beneath his touch lived deeper, in the pit of your stomach, making you painfully aware of him, of every hand and inch of skin.

When his gaze returned to yours, he seemed to have understood your body, if not your mind. 

He rose just enough from kneeling to meet your gaze more fully, guiding you sideways until the edge of the cot supported both of your bodies. 

He settled beside you, turning slightly so you faced each other, his presence a steady wall against your trembling, pressed as he was to your side.

His real fingers threaded around the small strands of hair at the base of your skull, gently moving your head to look at him.

“Breathe,” he murmured, as though reminding himself too. 

Words left you. Reason, too. Preservation, intelligence-- nothing compared to the absence of fear.

To what flooded your brain when he touched you so, when everything else chafed or screamed since the abduction, since Zurich, since your mother had gone. 

Because if this was hell, then, it was also respite. If he was hell, at least, he looked back. 

You closed your eyes, sighing when his callused fingers left your scalp. The sound made him snap back up to your face. 

“You’re… alive,” he murmured again, voice low, rough, used to commands more than care. “Unharmed.”

You clung to your father’s words, in the pale reassurance you had heard, the affection you hadn’t, even when you’d be desperate enough to want it.   

“For how long?” you didn’t dare open your eyes when you whispered it.

The cold arm tightened around your waist.

“A day,” his voice rumbled.

You nodded. 

One more day. 

He stayed there beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when he shifted.

When the pressure of his fingers lightened, your hand found the grooves of his artificial limb and you held it close. 

“Don’t-” you started, meaning go, meaning stop, meaning anything but this.

But the word that came out wasn’t the one you meant.

“Stay,” you whispered, quieter this time. “Please.”

Your eyes flew open, meeting with the raw, plain stare he was setting on you. 

For a heartbeat, it wasn’t the calm, unshakeable guardian, the machine-like caretaker, but the first glimpse of someone real.

His metal hand settled over your stomach, tracing a gentle rhythm with your lungs.

It trailed gently over your sweater and you let him. All the while his eyes never left you, and you found that you could hold his gaze if you breathed slow.  

You tried, tried to push away the cool comfort he was pouring onto you, but your body betrayed your mind. 

When your hand twitched over his, he froze. The pause stretched, and the rhythm of your breathing evened out. He’d stop if you did.

He was tailor-made to hurt and the power he held over you right now was that he did not; that restraint made your pulse spike faster than any fear had.

You wondered if this was him following orders. If you could ask more of him, carefully, within the bounds of this mission. If you dared, would he go lower? Beyond?

You swallowed against the heat creeping up your throat, feeling something brittle inside you bend. 

Mercifully, he shifted, guiding you until your back pressed against his chest.

The hard line of his metal arm curved around you like a brace. You lost sight of the blue eyes, and the stark look above his mask. 

Too numb to cry and too fearful to speak, you honed onto the muffled sound of his breathing until you felt tired, empty, and then nothing at all.

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