LVII. Emris

The air shifts the second I open the door.

It's hotter than usual down here. Muggy and stale with the scent of sweat, leather, and something cleaner underneath—disinfectant, maybe, sharp and biting at the edges. The lights hum low overhead, casting a dull white glow over the mats and sparring dummies. But it's the sound that draws me forward—the rhythmic, brutal thud of fists slamming into the heavy bag, over and over, relentless.

Bucky.

I move quietly, staying in the shadows at first, the rubber soles of my boots silent against the mats. He hasn't noticed me yet. Or maybe he has and just doesn't care.

He's wearing a black compression shirt, soaked through and clinging to him like a second skin. Sleeves rolled to the elbows, veins prominent, muscles flexing with every punishing hit. Combat pants, his boots braced wide for balance. The arm—the vibranium arm—glints under the harsh lights with each strike, a silver blur cutting through the air like a blade. He looks lethal. Focused. Dangerous.

Annoyingly good.

A part of me wants to leave. Turn around and walk right back out and pretend I didn't see the way his shirt sticks to his back, or how his jaw clenches as he breathes through his teeth. But I can't. Not this time.

Because Luke knows.

And that changes everything.

I take another step forward, and the memory slams into me before I can stop it.

The last time we were down here.

His hand on the back of my neck, my fingers digging into the hard ridges of his abdomen, his mouth hot and reckless against mine. The heat. The tension. The taste of him still on my tongue.

I blink it away. Force my voice into the space like a weapon.

"Luke knows who you are."

Thud.

One last punch. Harder than the rest. The bag swings wildly, the chain creaking above.

Silence.

He doesn't turn immediately. Just breathes. Chest rising and falling with controlled fury. The kind that comes from muscle memory and discipline, not surprise.

Then he slowly reaches out, steadies the bag with one hand. Lets it settle.

And turns to face me.

His hair's tied back in that messy way he always does when he doesn't care what he looks like. Sweat beads down his neck. There's a bruise forming on his right jaw—fresh, deepening to violet. I want to ask who he sparred with. I want to ask if he won.

I don't.

His eyes lock on mine. Blue. Flat. unreadable. "What did you say?"

I open my mouth, hesitate. The phrase wants to come out fully formed. Luke knows you were the Winter Soldier. Luke knows everything. Including what Dragunov wants to do with us.

But that last part sticks in my throat. I swallow it.

"Luke knows who you are," I repeat.

His jaw shifts, just barely. A microexpression. The kind I would've missed before—but I've spent too many nights trying not to think about him. I know that look. The flicker of something raw underneath the stillness. Guilt? Shame? Rage? All three?

Winter Soldier.

I don't say it. I don't need to. The silence hums with it.

He gives a slow nod. No questions. No shock. No panic.

Just... acceptance.

That unnerves me more than anything.

"You're not going to ask how I know?" I say, crossing my arms. My skin's prickling under my sweatshirt. Too hot. Too many feelings I don't want to deal with right now.

"No," he says simply.

The bag swings once more behind him, grazing his shoulder. He steps aside. Walks to the bench and grabs a towel, running it over his face, his neck. The silence between us stretches, thick with everything unsaid.

I stay planted near the door. Safe distance. I can still bolt if I have to.

"Did he say what he wants?" Bucky asks without looking at me.

I hesitate again.

"He didn't say much," I lie.

He doesn't call me on it. Just tosses the towel aside and looks back at me with that unreadable expression. That weight in his gaze like he's searching for something I'm not ready to give.

I hate this.

I hate that he didn't flinch. That he didn't yell, or curse, or react at all. I hate that he's calm while my stomach's a mess of barbed wire and adrenaline.

I hate that I wanted him to say my name.

This is going to go badly, I think, before I can stop myself.

Because it is.

Because I can feel the shape of what's coming like a bruise under the surface. Because the quiet between us is no longer safe—it's charged. Every step, every breath feels like walking a line I can't see. One wrong move and we'll spiral again. Into a fight. Into another kiss. Into something neither of us knows how to survive.

He walks toward me.

I stiffen automatically, unsure if I should move.

He stops just close enough to reach me if he wants to. He doesn't.

"Let's go," he says.

I raise an eyebrow. "Go where?"

"Upstairs," he says. "I figure you wouldn't have come down here just to say that and walk away."

He's not wrong.

My pulse stutters.

I hate him.

And I hate that I don't.

I nod, wordless. Move to the side as he passes, and follow him up the stairs.

Neither of us speaks.

His footsteps are heavy. Mine are too light. I'm trying not to look at the muscles shifting beneath his shirt or the way his hands curl slightly at his sides, like he's expecting trouble. Like he always is.

The silence feels personal now. Not avoidance. Not comfort. Something else. Something volatile.

I stare at the back of his head and wonder if he's replaying the last time we touched.

I am.

The walls up here are quieter. Dimmer. Cooler. But I still feel too warm.

I glance at his back again.

This is going to go badly, I think, for the second time.

And for once, I'm not sure if I want it to.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Engines roar like twin beasts unleashed.

The wind slams into me the moment we're clear of the ranch, tearing through my hair, howling in my ears. The desert opens wide in front of us—endless, raw, sun-blasted. The road cuts through it like a scar, narrow and cracked, flanked by scrub brush and bone-white fence posts half-swallowed by dust.

Bucky rides slightly ahead of me, always just enough to lead. Like he doesn't trust me to pick the pace. Like control is something he can't let go of, even now.

Maybe especially now.

His posture is rigid, shoulders squared under his jacket, the bulk of his frame tight on the bike like a coiled weapon. The sunset casts him in copper and shadow, painting streaks of blood across the sky. He doesn't glance back.

I don't blame him.

The tires hum beneath us, vibrating through the frame into my spine. Every bump in the road is a jolt. Every gust of wind pulls at me like fingers trying to rip me apart. But I ride faster, chasing the tail of his bike like it means something. Like if I just stay close enough, I'll figure out what the hell I'm doing.

I try to focus. On the mission. On Luke. On what happens if we screw this up.

But my mind won't stay still.

It keeps dragging me back.

Back to the heat of Bucky's mouth on mine.

Back to the sound he made when I bit his lip.

Back to the way his hands didn't shake, but mine did.

It was a mistake.

It meant nothing.

It meant everything.

I blink hard. The road narrows. A cloud of dust kicks up as we pass a stretch of dried-out field, fence wire sagging between rusted posts. The sky's dimming fast now, burning gold at the edges like the world's bleeding out one last breath of light.

My thoughts are a battlefield.

Bucky kissing me was a bullet I didn't see coming. And now the shrapnel's lodged somewhere I can't dig it out.

I hate him. I do. He's cold, annoying, and impossible. He keeps score like it matters. He looks at me like I'm still a ticking bomb.

But his mouth—

His mouth didn't lie.

The bike shudders beneath me as I hit a divot. I curse under my breath and refocus. Dust plumes in the rearview. The wind rips across my face like razors.

Focus.

We're heading into town. Luke's bar is maybe ten minutes out. A low place, half-buried in sand and sin, like it knows it doesn't deserve to be remembered.

The air smells like gasoline and heat and gunmetal. My fingers ache on the handlebars. My back's tight. My chest is tighter.

Bucky still hasn't looked at me.

I wonder if he's thinking about it, too.

I hope he isn't.

I hope he is.

He accelerates, just a touch. I match his pace, the two of us twin shadows carving through the dusk. Heading toward something I can't name. A bar. A man. A mission.

But it feels like a descent.

Not just into enemy territory—but into whatever the hell this is between us.

My engine snarls.

I bare my teeth and ride faster.

The second I step into Luke's bar, the stench hits me.

Stale beer, engine oil, and smoke cling to every surface like rot. The ceiling fan above spins uselessly, doing nothing to stir the humid air. The lighting is low, the corners dark, but not dark enough. I clock every face without meaning to—two bikers at the pool table, a woman in leather counting bills by the register, and Luke.

Smug. Leaning against the bar like he owns the world and everything in it.

Which, in his own pathetic corner of it, he does.

"Well, well," he drawls, arms spread wide like he's welcoming royalty. "If it ain't babygirl and the tin soldier."

I clench my jaw so hard I hear a click in my skull.

He hasn't changed. Same shit-eating grin. Same overconfident slouch. His jacket hangs off one shoulder, and his tattoos crawl up his throat like vines trying to choke him. I wish they'd succeed.

Bucky's beside me, silent and still, but I feel the way his body shifts slightly forward. Protective. Or territorial. Either way, it sets my nerves on fire.

"Luke," I say flatly.

"Emmy," he grins, and I nearly punch him right there. "Was startin' to think you'd forgotten all about me."

"You wish." I move closer, slow and controlled. "We didn't come to reminisce. Who and where?"

He leans forward on the bar, cocky. "No?" He taunts, ignoring my question. "And here I was thinkin' we could share a drink, talk about old times. You still like that cherry whiskey?"

"Answer the damn question," I snap. "You said you needed help."

He shrugs. "I do."

I wait. His silence is bait, and I hate that I fall for it.

Bucky cuts in, voice like ice over glass. "She asked a question."

Luke's eyes flick to him. Something shifts. He straightens just a little.

"Well now," he says, tone light but guarded. "Aren't you just a ray of fuckin' sunshine."

Bucky doesn't blink. Doesn't move.

Luke gives a mock sigh. "Fine. You want names? The gang's callin' themselves the Hornets now. Yellow bikes, matching jackets, real creative. New leadership. Russian ties."

That gets my attention.

"Russian?" My voice dips into something low, dangerous.

"Rumor is," Luke says, watching me closely, "they're working with someone real scary. Imports, exports, some kind of mercenary expansion. Thought of you when I heard."

I step back, suddenly needing space, needing air.

Not Dragunov. Not yet. Not here.

"We're done," I mutter, already turning.

Luke's voice follows me like a needle to the spine. "Not gonna ask why I want them dead, Baby?"

I stop. My hands curl into fists before I even register the motion.

"Don't," Bucky says under his breath.

Too late.

Luke leans forward, lips pulled into a vicious grin. "Not even curious why I didn't go to someone else? Thought maybe we could bond. You know... over grief."

I turn. Slow. Controlled. My boots click against the warped floorboards.

Luke grins wider.

"You and me—we've both lost people." He tilts his head. "You remember my brother, yeah?"

My heart stutters. Ice down my spine. My jaw locks.

"Shut up, Luke."

He chuckles. "Aw, come on. Don't be like that. You don't want to talk about the night you killed him in the alley?"

The world snaps.

I'm over the bar before I know it, fist in his hair, the other slamming his face into the counter with a bone-jarring crack. Wood splinters. He cries out, blood spraying across the surface like some grotesque Rorschach test. I yank him up again, slamming him down harder. His nose breaks this time. I feel it give.

The bar goes silent.

I breathe hard through my nose, chest rising and falling like I've just run ten miles through fire. My fingers twitch. My whole body buzzes.

Luke groans beneath me. "Still got that temper, huh?"

I grab the front of his jacket. Pull him close. "You're lucky I don't kill you instead, Luke."

He laughs, wet and choked. "Like you killed my brother?"

And that's it.

Everything inside me turns to stone. I let him go. I step back.

The blood drains from my face, but my heart keeps hammering.

Bucky's at my side now, watching me like I'm a live grenade.

I can't breathe.

I killed his brother.

I knew I had. Knew it in the same quiet way I know my own name—shoved it down so deep it became background noise. But hearing it. Saying it. Feeling it in my bones.

The guilt rises fast and sharp, bile in my throat. My vision narrows to a pinpoint.

I walk.

No words. No explanation. I storm out, the screen door slamming behind me as I burst into the night. The air is cooler now, but I can't feel it. My skin's burning, my chest tight, my pulse drumming against my ribs like it's trying to break out.

I don't stop walking. I want to punch something. I want to scream.

I hear boots behind me.

Of course, he followed.

Bucky doesn't say anything. He never does when I need him to. Just shadows me in silence like he's afraid I'll collapse if he speaks.

Maybe I will.

Maybe I won't.

But the second he's close enough, I feel it—the tension between us snapping taut again. Not from the kiss. Not from lust or hate.

From truth.

From things we never wanted each other to see.

I can taste blood where I bit the inside of my cheek. My boots crunch gravel, every step an explosion of fury.

"You didn't have to do that," he says finally, voice low but firm.

I whirl on him, fire licking up my throat. "Don't you start with me, Barnes."

His eyes flick up to the bar doors, then land back on me. "You didn't have to slam his head into the counter."

"Yes, I did." My voice is sharp. Brittle. I press my hand against the ache pulsing in my temple. "I did."

We reach the row of motorcycles. I go straight for mine, trying to shove the chaos back down where it belongs. "Just let me get rid of them," I mutter, swinging my leg over the seat.

"No," he says.

I freeze.

I turn my head slowly to look at him. "No?" I repeat. "I thought you were trying to get away from killing. Be better than what they trained you to be?"

He doesn't respond. Just walks over to his bike, quiet and immovable like a damn glacier.

I lean forward on the handlebars, laughing bitterly. "I can kill them, Barnes. I don't have the moral obligations like you do."

He glances at me. "No."

That's it. Just that one word again. Flat. Final.

"Stop saying that." I shove off the bike and march over to him.

He sits there, completely still, legs astride the motorcycle like he owns the damn world. His eyes trail up my body—slow and infuriating.

"No," he says again.

I see red. My hand flies up before I can stop it.

But he catches my wrist. Effortlessly. Fingers tight around my arm like a shackle. And then everything freezes—my breath, my thoughts, the anger suspended in the space between us.

We just stare.

His eyes are darker than usual. Like storm clouds ready to break. I hate the way he's looking at me—like he knows me, like he sees every fracture in my skin.

I yank against his grip, but he doesn't let go.

"Let. Me. Go."

And then suddenly he's standing—rising off the bike like a storm surge, towering over me. His human hand moves before I can process it, sliding to my throat, not choking, just there. Pinning me. Possessive. Hot.

My breath catches.

And then he kisses me.

It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's a clash of fire and teeth and fury. His mouth crashes into mine with brutal force, and I hate how fast my body responds—how my hands fist in the front of his shirt, how I melt into him like I've been waiting for this.

His grip stays firm on my neck, just pressure, just a promise.

But the moment I realize what's happening—who it is—I shove him back.

He lets me go instantly, like I've burned him.

We're both panting. Wind cutting through the air between us. I can still taste him—heat and regret and something darker.

And god help me, I want more.

I grab his collar and yank him back down to my level, slamming my mouth onto his.

He growls against my lips, his hand coming to my hips like he's finally lost the leash. I feel the leather of his glove, but never the cold weight of the vibranium. He doesn't touch me with that arm. Not once.

I don't care.

He walks me backward, mouth never leaving mine. I hit the wall of the building behind us with a soft thud and gasp as his tongue parts my lips again. He's not careful. He's not slow. His teeth catch my bottom lip and I moan into his mouth before I can stop myself.

One of my hands tangles in his hair, yanking his head closer. The other grabs at his shoulder, pulling, anchoring. My back arches against him and he presses into me, his thigh slotting between mine like we were made for this ugly, desperate rhythm.

His hand—his human hand—finds my throat again. Still not choking. Just claiming. My skin burns where he touches me.

I clutch him tighter.

His breath hitches like he can't believe I'm letting him do this, and honestly, I can't either. Every part of me screams to pull away, to remind myself this is Bucky fucking Barnes, the man I swore I'd never trust. The man I hate for everything he reminds me of.

But his lips bruise mine and I forget all of it.

For one horrible, electric moment, I need him.

We kiss like we're trying to erase the world. Tongues sliding, mouths open, hungry. He lifts me slightly off the ground, pinning me harder against the wall, and I wrap one leg around his hip for balance—no, for control. I'm taking control. That's what I tell myself.

But, in reality, he's in control.

His mouth is everywhere—my lips, the edge of my jaw, the pulse point under my ear. And I feel like I'm drowning.

His breath is hot against my cheek. "We have to stop," he rasps.

I can't. I won't.

So he does.

He rips himself away, chest heaving, eyes burning. His lips are swollen, hair a mess from my fingers, jaw tight with restraint.

I take a breath that feels like glass.

He steps back, and it's like someone just yanked me out of the fire.

Silence stretches between us, vibrating with everything we didn't say.

Then he turns, jaw clenched, and gets on his bike.

I watch him for a moment, heart slamming against my ribs. My legs are shaking. My lips are raw. I feel drunk. Stupid.

But I swing my leg over my own bike and start the engine anyway.

We ride into the dark. Not saying a word. Not looking at each other. Pretending that kiss didn't happen—again.

But it did.

And the worst part?

I want another.

The bar reeks of beer, leather, and cheap sweat. It hits me the second I walk through the door—along with the drone of some old-school rock song thudding through the speakers and the heat of a dozen eyes tracking me like prey.

Perfect.

Bucky's beside me for all of three seconds before I feel his gaze narrow. I can practically hear his jaw clench as my hand slides from his bicep. We don't speak. We don't need to. This is my part.

I scan the room like a predator casing the herd. Patches stitched into leather. Hornets. The emblem's unmistakable—a skeletal hornet with a serrated stinger dripping red. Seventeen visible jackets. Three at the bar, six playing pool. Four against the back wall. Two near the bathrooms. One on stage shouting at the drunk guitarist.

And my mark: the cocky one with a handlebar mustache and a tattoo of a coiled snake choking a woman.

He's mine.

I toss my hair back and slip into the crowd like I belong here—hips swaying, boots clicking. My tactical instincts log every bottle, blade, and concealed pistol. But outwardly, I'm just another girl looking for a bad idea.

"Hey there, sweetheart," the man purrs when I pass, and I pretend to be startled, blinking up at him like I'm debating how stupid I want to be tonight.

I lean in, just enough that he can smell my perfume—or what's left of it after the kiss outside Luke's bar with Bucky. "You gonna buy me a drink or just keep staring?"

He grins like it's already done. "Depends. You gonna stick around long enough to finish one?"

I laugh—low, breathy, fake—and trail a finger up the front of his chest. "Meet me in the bathroom. Twenty seconds."

He chokes on his beer. "Deadass?"

I just wink and walk away.

Across the room, Bucky is a glacier of muscle and fury. His blue eyes cut through the haze, following my every move like a sniper sighting his mark. I flash him a smile that's all teeth.

Let him stew.

The hallway is narrower than I'd like—no exits except the way I came in. Doesn't matter. I only need a minute.

I push open the bathroom door and lock the handle. One stall. One sink. Cracked mirror. I check my reflection. My lips are red. Eyes sharp. Fingers already curling around the handle of the blade tucked in my jacket.

Footsteps.

Then a knock.

"Open up, sweetheart," the man calls, amused. "Brought friends."

Of course he did.

I unlock the door and step back just in time for three men to stumble in—laughing, loud, drunk enough to believe I'm the one who's vulnerable.

They don't notice the bloodlust in my smile.

"Dibs," the man says, reaching for me.

My blade sinks into his gut before his fingers brush my waist. He gasps, confusion collapsing into pain as I twist. Warm blood gushes over my glove. I step into his body as he falls, spinning him as a human shield as the second guy lunges.

"Bitch—!"

I flick my wrist. A silver star flashes through the air, slicing through the thick fog of beer and testosterone.

It embeds in his throat.

The gurgling sound he makes is almost musical. He staggers back, hands clawing at the star, but it's too deep. Too late. He slams into the wall and slides down it, leaving a crimson trail.

The third one freezes. Not drunk enough, apparently. His eyes go wide. "What the f—"

I grab the dying first man by the collar and shove his corpse into the third one. He stumbles, off balance. My blade's already slicing across his throat before he recovers. Arterial spray hits the sink. It paints the cracked mirror, the walls, my face.

The bathroom reeks of copper now. Blood coats the tile floor, sticky and hot beneath my boots.

I hear the third man wheeze.

Still alive.

Barely.

He reaches for a pistol tucked into his waistband, but I'm already there, crouching beside him.

I press two fingers to his temple.

His brain short-circuits before he can blink.

He spasms. Jerks once. Then lies still.

I exhale, sitting back on my heels, panting. Not from exhaustion. From the aftermath. My heart's still hammering. My blood's still singing.

This used to thrill me.

It shouldn't anymore.

Why does it still?

Why does part of me—deep, dark, and hungry—still like it?

I rise slowly, rolling my neck as the tension starts to settle in my muscles. My jacket's sticky with blood. I tug my sleeves down, wipe the blade on the jeans of the man I just gutted. Check my reflection again.

There's a smear of blood across my cheek like warpaint.

Good.

I unlock the door and step into the hallway like nothing happened, but my pulse is still thunder in my ears.

Three down.

Ten to go.

The bar's a war zone.

Glass crunches under my boots as I step out of the hallway. Chairs overturned. Tables shattered. Shouts overlapping the distorted whine of a jukebox still trying to play Back in Black. The scent of spilled whiskey, sweat, and fresh blood clings to the air like fog.

And in the center of it all—Bucky.

He's holding his ground against three Hornets, moving like a damn machine. Calculated. Efficient. He's not killing, just disarming and breaking bones. A punch to the ribs, a twist of the wrist, a solid kick to a kneecap. They scream. They fall. But they don't die.

Of course not. He's better than me.

I don't hesitate.

One of the men charges him from behind. I vault off a broken table, wrap my legs around the bastard's neck mid-air, and twist. His neck snaps with a wet crack, and we hit the ground together.

Bucky blinks at me. "Didn't need help."

I smirk, breathless. "I could have used some in the bathroom."

He blocks a bottle aimed at his skull, then glances sideways at me—just a flicker of amusement in those eyes. "I knew you could handle your own."

The words hit harder than they should. I falter—just for a second. Heat flashes across my chest. Compliments from Bucky Barnes are rare and disorienting, like finding a soft spot in granite.

"Asshole," I mutter, mostly to myself.

A beer bottle shatters beside my head. Another Hornet slams into me from the side, and suddenly I'm airborne, hurled like a ragdoll into the jukebox.

The speakers shriek and short out as I crash through the glass. Sharp edges bite into my back and shoulder. I hit the floor hard, wheezing. For one disorienting moment, all I hear is my blood in my ears.

Then I open my eyes.

And I see red.

I drag myself up, fury pumping through my veins hotter than pain. My knives are already in hand before I fully stand.

The first man lunges—wild, messy. I sidestep, slice him open from groin to sternum. His intestines spill out onto the floor with a wet slap. He drops before he even realizes he's dead.

The second one swings a bat. I duck, slam my knife into his thigh, then pivot and drive the second blade straight into his eye socket. He twitches once, then crumples like wet paper.

The floor's slick now—blood and beer pooling at my feet. I brace myself against the jukebox, breathing heavy.

A scream draws my attention to the bar. Two girls are crouched behind it, shielding each other with shaking arms and horrified eyes. Civilians. College kids, maybe. Wrong place, very wrong time.

Behind them, two more Hornets raise pistols—aimed straight at Bucky's back.

I move before I think.

Two quick steps, drop to one knee, and draw my pistol. Pop. Pop.

One shot each.

One takes a bullet through the neck. The other through the eye.

Both drop like puppets with cut strings.

Bucky spins at the noise, eyes finding mine across the chaos. He nods once.

I don't nod back.

No time.

Another hand grabs me—meaty, calloused, brutal. Thick fingers wrap around my throat and squeeze. My back slams against the bar. My vision tunnels. I choke, trying to suck air through a throat that's rapidly closing.

His face is close—grinning, snarling. Spit hits my cheek as he growls something I can't hear over the ringing in my ears.

I stop struggling.

And I reach.

My power lashes out, sliding into his mind like a scalpel under skin. I find his fear. His instincts. His breath.

"Stop breathing," I whisper.

His eyes widen.

He gasps—but no air comes in.

He panics. His grip loosens. He claws at his own throat, stumbling back, making choking sounds that escalate into frantic sobbing.

I should let him drop. Let him pass out. Let the oxygen deprivation take care of it.

But I don't.

I step forward, grab his jaw—

—and twist.

His neck breaks with a crack like thunder.

I stare down at him as he collapses, still twitching.

I stand there, panting, my hands shaking.

Why does this still feel good?

"Emris."

Bucky's voice is close now. Steady. Firm.

It pulls me out of the haze.

I look up. He's watching me—really watching me. Blood on his knuckles. Sweat on his brow. Concern in his eyes.

I swallow. "I'm fine."

I'm not.

But I move past him anyway, already scanning for the next fight.

Because guilt is slower than adrenaline—and right now, I can't afford to feel either.

The fight's over.

Silence settles like ash. Thick and choking. The kind of quiet that follows after blood, not before it. My boots crunch over glass and grit as I walk through the ruins of the bar, breathing hard, gun still in hand. My shoulder throbs. My temple is bleeding. The jukebox lets out one final sputtering note before dying completely.

Bodies everywhere.

Most of them men.

But not all.

I spot them near the back booth—four of the female Hornets. Two already dead. One with a shattered skull, the other with her throat slashed open like a second mouth. The last two are slumped against the wall, huddled together. Crying.

Not screaming. Not fighting.

Just crying.

Their leather vests are streaked with blood. One of them has got a knife wound through her thigh—mine, probably. The other has a broken arm, bone jutting out like a snapped wing.

They look up at me, wide-eyed. Young. Late twenties, maybe. They're still breathing. Still blinking. Still alive.

I don't hesitate.

I raise the gun.

Two shots.

One through the forehead. One clean through the chest.

They go down like the others.

And I just stand there.

The silence presses back in. Heavier now. My hand shakes. The gun feels like it's fused to my palm, metal and bone indistinguishable. I stare at the two bodies, waiting for the numbness to swallow me whole.

But it doesn't.

All I feel is wrong.

And that's worse than guilt.

Because I've killed before. Hundreds. Men. Women. Teenagers in Black Lotus uniforms who couldn't even tie a chokehold. I've slit throats in the dark and poisoned coffee mugs and walked away humming. And back then, it was easy. Clean. Purposeful.

So what the hell is this?

I drop the gun.

It clatters to the ground louder than the gunshots.

Behind me, the floor creaks.

I don't turn around. I don't need to.

Bucky's quiet when he moves—he always is—but I can feel him anyway. That careful stillness. That contained force. Like a mountain waiting to fall.

He doesn't say anything.

Doesn't have to.

His hand settles between my shoulder blades. Warm. Solid. Steady.

I close my eyes and lean into it.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to remember I'm still here.

He doesn't pull away.

We stand there for what feels like hours, but is probably only ten seconds.

Then I breathe in—shaky and sharp—and step forward.

Glass crunches again as we move through the wreckage. My hands are sticky. My head pounds. Somewhere in the far corner, a ceiling fan spins lazily, blades soaked in blood.

We don't speak as we push open the front doors. Cold air hits my face like a slap. I welcome it.

The bikes are still there.

Parked where we left them. I climb onto mine.

"Emris," Bucky says behind me.

I ignore him.

"Emris."

This time I look.

His eyes are dark, unreadable.

"I'm gonna kill him," I say, voice low. Calm. Like I'm stating the weather. "Luke. I'm gonna put a bullet right between his eyes."

Bucky's jaw tightens. "No."

I laugh once. It's bitter and sharp and tastes like rust. "You don't get to tell me what to do."

"You can't kill him, Em."

The words hang there. Heavy. Unfair.

I grit my teeth. "Why? Because I already killed his brother?"

He flinches.

Good.

"Because if I take out Luke," I continue, "then both of them will be gone. I'll be the only one left."

My voice breaks on the last word. Just slightly.

And there it is. The truth of it. The awful, aching truth.

I don't want to have both of their blood on my hands.

I never wanted that.

Not really.

"Fuck," I whisper.

It comes out hoarse. Small.

I slam my visor down and gun the engine. Gravel kicks up behind me as I peel out onto the road, the roar of the bike loud enough to drown everything else out.

Even the guilt.

Even him.

I'm not going to Luke, though. I'm going back to the safe house because, as much as I hate to admit it, Bucky is right.

I can't kill Luke.

Not when his brother's blood is still stained onto my hands.