XLIV. Emris

I jolt awake.

Not from a dream. Not from the usual flickering hellscape of blood and screams and broken bones. No—this is different.

This is now.

My eyes snap open to darkness. Stillness. A silence that feels off. Not peaceful, not soothing—hollow. Like the air itself is holding its breath.

My heart's already hammering. I stay still, muscles tensed, listening.

There's no wind against the window. No creak from the old radiator. No muffled cough from Sam down the hall.

Too quiet.

Something's wrong.

My pulse climbs into my throat. I feel it pounding behind my eyes, hot and thick. Every nerve fires like a tripwire. My breath is shallow, measured. Controlled. My hand slides beneath my pillow and curls around the handle of my knife. Cold steel. Familiar. Comforting.

I don't move yet. I just feel.

There's a weight in the air. A heaviness pressing against the walls like they're about to cave inward. The kind of pressure that used to come right before a mission—when we were told to kill and told not to ask why.

My instincts aren't just nudging me now. They're screaming.

I push the blanket back slowly, letting my bare feet hit the cold floor without a sound. Every movement is precise. Rehearsed. Muscle memory carved into my bones.

Combat pants. I tug them on without looking. Black long-sleeve shirt next, tight and breathable. No noise, no hesitation. I wrap my holster around my thigh, slide my pistol in. Safety off. The weight settles against my leg like an old friend.

Boots. Tighten the laces. Tuck the knife into the inside pocket. Hair up in a knot. Quick. Efficient.

Once a weapon, always a weapon.

I creep toward the bedroom door, easing it open with just two fingers. The hinges don't squeak—I oiled them yesterday. Paranoia is a time-saver when you're always expecting ghosts.

The hallway yawns before me like a throat waiting to swallow. Every door is closed. Too closed. Sam's room. Steve's. Bucky's. I should hear someone snoring. Shifting. Breathing. But there's nothing.

Nothing.

My fingers twitch on the pistol.

The living room is a pool of black. I blink, adjusting, scanning corners. Corners hide things. Corners have always hidden things.

No shadows move. No drapes flutter. But my skin crawls anyway.

The porch light should be on. I always leave it on. Beatrix said to keep things routine, visible, normal. Lights mean life. Lights mean "don't come here."

But it's off.

And the darkness out the window feels watching.

I inch forward, knees slightly bent, gun raised. One step, two. I sweep left, then right. Clear.

I open the door and take a step outside into the darkness. Clear.

My hand reaches for the light switch—slow, steady. I keep my eyes on the window, the hallway behind me.

He wouldn't find me here. Not this fast. Right?

My fingers brush the switch.

And I feel it—not the plastic.

A shift. A breath. A presence behind me.

I freeze.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise like they've been yanked.

My grip tightens.

Something is here.

I turn toward the darkness—

And she's there.

Just there.

Inches away.

Nataly.

I freeze mid-breath. My finger curls tighter on the trigger, but I don't raise the gun. I can't—not yet.

She's still in that same Black Lotus flight suit, matte black, seamless, hugging her like armor. Her long braid hangs over one shoulder like a noose. She doesn't smile. Doesn't blink. Just stares at me with those dead, dark eyes.

"You're slipping," she says. Her voice is calm, clipped. "He doesn't like that."

My blood goes cold, but I keep my chin up. Keep my face sharp. "He can choke."

A flicker of something—amusement? Disappointment?—crosses her face. "Final warning, Serpent."

God, I hate that name.

I raise the gun a little higher, enough to make my intent clear. "Take me, then."

Nataly doesn't flinch. She just tilts her head. "You know how Dragunov likes to play with his puppets."

I grit my teeth. "I'm not his anymore."

Her smirk is as sharp as the knife I don't see until it's already in me.

Cold steel punches into my side.

I gasp. My body jerks sideways, like I've been yanked off a wire. The pain is immediate, searing, raw. My knees buckle. I drop to one.

"Son of a—" I choke, clutching the wound as warmth floods between my fingers.

Nataly doesn't speak. Doesn't gloat. She just watches me suffer like she's waiting for a lab rat to stop twitching.

I force a breath. "You always did go for the cheap shots."

I try to reach for my gun.

Then comes the second one.

A soft phfft—the sound of a silenced pistol—then impact.

A bullet tears into me just below the shoulder.

I don't scream.

My vision flashes white. I fall back hard, shoulder slamming into the porch.

The pain is blinding. Worse than the knife. Worse than anything I've felt in months. It burns deep, radiating like fire under my skin. My arm goes numb. My gun clatters from limp fingers.

I try to sit up—fail. Try again—collapse. My breath stutters, shallow and ragged. Blood soaks my shirt, sticky and hot and far too much.

Above me, Nataly steps back.

"You'll be back soon," she says, voice distant now, like it's coming from inside a tunnel. "Next time, I won't be so gentle."

I manage a glare, lips twisted with pain. "This is gentle?"

She doesn't answer. She just moves.

With a single step, she's at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door. Her boots don't make a sound.

Then—her feet leave the floor.

She rises like a shadow pulled upward by invisible strings. No wires. No tech. Just her.

I watch through blurred eyes as her silhouette ascends into the dark. Moonlight glints off her blade—still wet.

Then she's gone.

I lie there, gasping. My hands are slick with my own blood, and my shoulder feels like it's been torn apart. I can't think. Can't move.

But I'm alive.

Barely.

And she left me breathing.

That's a mistake.

All I know is cold—cold concrete against my cheek, cold sweat plastered to my spine, but there is warm blood leaking in rivulets from my side and shoulder. The pain's gone from sharp to static, like I'm underwater, nerves screaming one moment, numb the next.

Move.

That voice isn't mine. It's his. Dragunov's. Sharp and scathing and buried deep in my subconscious where I can't claw it out.

Weakness gets you killed, Serpent. Weakness gets you forgotten.

I grit my teeth and roll onto my side, gasping as fire burns through the bullet wound. My fingers tremble against the floor, searching for anything to grip. The door handle. The railing next to the door. I latch on like a drowning woman and pull.

My elbow slips in blood. I go down hard—cheek cracking against the floor again—and for a second, I just lie there. Let it take me. Let the darkness curl in and drag me back under. My vision warps. The house stretches out in front of me like it's a mile long.

But then I hear him again.

You were always a disappointment.

My nails dig into the frame of the door. "Shut up," I whisper, or maybe just think it. The pain is the only thing keeping me tethered. I hate that it helps.

I drag myself forward. First a crawl, then a stagger when I find the edge of the wall. My hand leaves a bloody print as I push up, spine curving like I'm learning how to walk again. One foot plants. The other trembles. I press my shoulder to the wall and move.

Left, right, breathe. Left, right, breathe.

The hallway tilts. My stomach turns. I pass the first door—Sam's. I lift a hand, try to knock, try to say his name.

Nothing comes out but a wet cough.

I keep going.

Natasha's room. I shove the door open, blood-slick fingers slipping on the handle. The bed's empty, covers tossed back.

"Of course she's in Steve's bed again," I rasp, chest hitching. I want to laugh. It comes out like a sob.

My knees give out. I crash to the floor and crawl. I can't die here. Not like this. Not where they'll find me in a puddle of my own blood like a broken thing. Dragunov would love that. Nataly would smile.

No. No, no, no.

I claw toward the next door, nails scraping hardwood, side screaming every time I move. My blood leaves a trail like breadcrumbs for whatever bastard wants to finish me off.

The hallway pulses. Or maybe that's just my heartbeat in my ears. My vision edges in and out—dragging me from Denmark back to the Red Room, where voices bark orders and hands shove me to my feet again and again and again.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

I overshoot the last door.

Bucky's.

I twist too fast, almost collapse again. My shoulder screams. I barely manage to stay upright, blinking hard to bring the frame into focus. My hand lifts, knuckles brushing wood. I knock once. Weak. Pathetic.

I try again.

The door opens—and then I'm falling.

Arms catch me. Warm and solid and real.

The last thing I see before the darkness swallows me is his face—wide eyes, sleep-ruffled hair, shock written all over him.

Then nothing.

Bucky

I hear something.

Soft. Muffled. A pop more than a bang. Could be a pipe. Could be nothing.

But something in my gut twists.

I exhale through my nose, rub a hand over my face, and grab the hoodie off the back of the chair. It's the black one. The one Emris stole for her morning run because she "liked the fit." Which was bullshit, because it hangs off her like a damn curtain.

Still smells like her. That warm, vanilla scent that curls into the back of my throat and makes me grit my teeth.

I pull it on anyway. Immediately regret it. The smell hits me harder this time, like heat—like memory. Like that night she sat too close on the quinjet and called me "Sergeant grumpy " for the fifth time just to get a reaction.

I shove the sleeves up with more force than necessary.

Stupid hoodie.

Stupid scent.

Stupid—whatever the hell this is.

The sound is probably nothing.

I tell myself that again.

But I'm already moving.

I'm already halfway to the door when I hear it—that noise. Not loud. Just... wrong. A scrape. A breath. The unmistakable shuffle of someone in pain.

I barely have time to brace when the door swings in, and she's there. Emris.

And then she's falling.

I catch her before my brain catches up. Warm blood smears across my chest. Her weight crumples into me like a ragdoll. Dead weight. Limp. She's limp.

"This isn't—" My voice chokes off. No, no, no. This isn't happening. She's bleeding. She's bleeding on me—

I hook an arm under her knees and lift. She's light. Too light. Blood is soaking through her shirt, hot and wet against my skin, already trailing down her side, dripping from her fingers. Her head lolls against my shoulder. She doesn't make a sound.

I don't even think.

"Sam!" I bellow as I slam his door open with my boot. "SAM!"

The lights flick on, and Sam bolts upright in bed. "What the hell—"

"We have to go. Now."

He sees her.

Eyes widen. No questions. He's up in a second, grabbing pants, boots, and Emris's bag from the floor in her room. "I got the med kit in mine. Let's move."

I'm already moving. Down the stairs. She groans once—barely more than a whisper—and my arms tighten around her instinctively.

"Stay with me," I mutter. "C'mon, Em. Stay awake."

No answer.

Steve meets us at the front door, barefoot, shield already strapped to his back. Nat's behind him, fully dressed, expression grim. One look at Emris and her mouth presses into a hard line.

We don't need to say a word. Everyone's already moving.

The Quinjet's prepped in under ten minutes. By the time I lay her out across the stretcher, the floor beneath her is already streaked with red. I rip open her shirt and nearly gag. The stab wound is deep—ragged. But it's the bullet wound that scares me. High, near the collarbone. Clean entry, no exit. Close to the heart. Too close.

"Pressure," I snap, grabbing gauze and pressing it to her side. "She's losing too much—"

"Let me." Natasha is beside me, tugging off her long-sleeved shirt in one practiced motion, leaving her in a black tank-top. She doesn't blink. Doesn't hesitate. Just moves. "We need to stop the external bleeding before we check for the bullet."

Her hands are quick. Precise. Not gentle.

Emris flinches under the touch, eyelids fluttering. Good. Pain means she's still here.

"Talk to me," I murmur, brushing sweat-matted hair from her forehead. "Tell me to shut up. Tell me I'm annoying. Say something."

She barely moves her lips. I lean closer.

"...he found me."

Ice floods my chest.

"Steve!" I bark. "Where are we going?"

Natasha chimes in before Steve can respond, "Steve, you know where we need to go."

"Coordinates are already in," he calls from the cockpit.

"She needs more than gauze and good intentions," I growl, pressing harder on the gauze.

Sam drops into the co-pilot seat beside Steve, talking low and fast. I catch the tail end.

"—can't stay on the move forever. This is escalation."

"Agreed," Steve says. "If Dragunov sent someone to France, we're out of time."

My attention snaps back to Emris.

Her breathing's shallow. Skin cold. Eyes fluttering, unfocused.

I lean closer, lower my voice. "You're not dying in this damn jet, you hear me? Not like this. You don't get to check out. Not after all the hell you put us through."

My hand cups her jaw, just to ground her. Just to remind myself she's here. She's burning up and freezing cold at the same time.

"You don't get to leave."

Another ragged breath from her. Barely audible, but I think she says my name.

Or maybe I just want to believe that.

Nat doesn't look up from her work. "She'll live. But we're going to need to dig that bullet out before it shifts. She's not stable."

I nod once, jaw clenched tight.

She will live

I don't even realize my hands are shaking until Natasha swats them away from the med kit.

"Hold her still," she snaps, already tearing open a disinfectant pack.

I nod, kneel at Emris's side, and press one palm to her sternum, the other to her wrist. Her skin's clammy and pale, slick with sweat and blood. Too much blood.

Her tank-top is soaked through—black fabric glistening dark red. Nat's already got scissors, slicing it open with brutal efficiency. I avert my eyes as she peels the fabric back. This isn't about modesty. It's about focus. The bullet wound is just below her collarbone, but it's clean—an entry, no exit. Deep, close to bone.

Nat moves the strap of her sports bra down and out of her way.

"I've got the side," I mutter, grabbing the curved needle and surgical thread. The stab wound isn't as deep, but it's messier. Torn muscle. Blood won't stop pooling.

Natasha starts on the gunshot. I go to work below it.

Emris stirs.

"Shit," I hiss, bracing her with my arm. "Emris—hey—stay still."

Her eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide, unfocused.

"No—no—don't touch me—don't—"

"Emris," I say her name softly, pressing down to keep her from thrashing. "It's me. You're okay."

She doesn't see me.

Her body jerks like she's back in a cell, fighting ghosts.

"You're safe," Natasha says firmly, low and even. "You're on the jet. Just breathe—"

But Emris isn't listening. She's gone again, eyes rolling back, breath shallow.

And then—words. Broken things, spilling from her lips like fragments of a nightmare.

"...Dragunov... failed the order... reset the neural lock—"

I freeze, hands hovering inches from her skin.

"...Black Lotus... command protocol... protocol seventy-two..."

Her voice is raw, cracked. I've heard her taunt assassins, threaten Stark, rip Sam apart with sarcasm, irritate the hell out of me—but I've never heard this.

It sounds like....me.

Too much like me.

"...can't go back... please, I didn't break—I didn't—"

Steve curses under his breath.

I glance up. He's white-knuckling the controls, jaw clenched tight. Natasha doesn't even look up from where she's packing gauze into the wound. But I can see it in her shoulders—rigid, wound like steel cable.

Emris flinches again.

My hand tightens over hers. "You're not there. You're not his. You're with us. You are not her."

She doesn't respond. Just keeps mumbling.

"...the room with the red light... can't move... he's watching... always watching..."

My vision blurs for a second—not from tears. From memory.

The red chair. The cold table. The soft click of a tape recorder right before the world disappeared.

I shake it off. Stitch the next row. Pull the skin closed.

Nat drops bloodied gauze into the waste bag and pulls out a field dressing.

I keep my palm against Emris's ribcage, grounding her. Grounding me.

Steve moves, says something into his comms that I can't hear.

A beat passes. Then:

"Tony has a stretcher waiting for her," Steve says.

I don't answer.

Just press a fresh gauze pad to her side and keep holding on.