XIX. Emris

The med bay had changed while I was healing.

Not drastically. Not in any way that screamed home. But in the little things—quiet evidence of lives brushing against mine like ghosts.

A cup, half-drained, sat on the tray beside my bed. Stark's probably. He never finished a cup, just brewed them as distractions. There was a single wilted flower in a cheap plastic vase, something soft and pink. Wanda? I couldn't imagine anyone else bringing something so... fragile. And Sam's tablet was still propped in the corner, forgotten like he'd meant to come back mid-thought.

I lay still, one arm tucked behind my head, staring at the ceiling as if waiting for it to collapse. It hummed softly with electricity. The artificial light wasn't as harsh as the ones I'd known before—it didn't buzz like the old Lotus chambers, but it was still too cold. Too steady.

Too safe.

My body felt whole again. That was the first problem. A couple of days ago, I couldn't sit up without the room tilting sideways and my chest feeling like it was full of broken glass. Now... well, now I could probably spar again. Not win—but survive. And that was the second problem.

I was healing too fast. The kind of fast that wasn't natural. Black Lotus enhancements, stitched into my bones and bloodstream years ago. Dragunov liked his weapons to bounce back quickly. Said time was a luxury only the weak could afford.

My hand curled slowly into a fist beneath the blanket.

They didn't know. Stark didn't know. Sam didn't know. Wanda... maybe suspected. She had those eyes—the kind that looked through you and didn't blink. But none of them truly knew what I was. What had been done to me. What I was built for.

And now they were doing things like leaving me flowers.

I shifted beneath the blanket. The sheets were soft, not stiff like prison linen. But they still felt wrong against my skin. Too clean. Too trusting.

My eyes flicked to the door. I didn't trust the silence. I didn't trust the stillness. Every shadow on the floor was a footstep waiting to form.

This place. These people. They were getting too close.

Tony had started calling me kid. Sam asked how I slept, like that wasn't a loaded question. Wanda just sat with me once, in silence, but that had felt more dangerous than either of the others.

They were trying to make me real.

And real people were vulnerable. Real people could be used. Dragunov didn't forget his assets. He never left a loose thread hanging. Somewhere out there, someone was already on the move. Probably Nataly or Hasen.

The thought settled like cold steel in my gut.

They were getting too close.

And I was going to have to leave.

Soon.

The days start to blur. Not in a numbing, drugged kind of way—my mind's sharp, hyper-aware—but in the slow, dragging way where every hour stretches too long. I measure time in footsteps past my door. In the soft whir of medical tech. In the number of empty coffee cups that collect on the table near my bed, Tony's.

He comes in as if he's just passing by, always casual. Always with something in hand—a tablet loaded with news I don't ask for, tea I never admit I like, a sarcastic comment teed up just waiting to be knocked out of the park.

"This your way of checking on me?" I asked once, eyeing the steaming cup of earl grey.

"Just feeding the houseplant," he replied, deadpan. "Sunlight's next, then a motivational speech."

I didn't smile. Not really. But something in my chest loosened. Slightly.

Sam shows up more often. He leans in doorways like he owns them and always brings the air of someone who could crack a joke or snap a neck—whichever the moment calls for. He talks about flying. About the suit, the sky, the silence above clouds.

"You'd like it up there," he said yesterday, nodding toward the sky beyond the window. "Less noise. Just wind and breath and your own heartbeat."

"Sounds like a death trap. Plus, I already fell from a flying city twice; I think I'm good" I muttered, but I'd been thinking about it since.

Even Wanda came once. She didn't say much—stood near the wall, watching me like she could hear what I wasn't saying. Maybe she could. Maybe she understood it better than anyone. That silence sometimes screams louder than words.

None of them asked about the knife belt lying neatly folded on the edge of the medical bed. Or the boots I kept cleaning every morning. Or the black and green suit draped across the back of the chair, each piece of it a reminder that I wasn't meant to stay.

They probably noticed. They just didn't say it out loud.

Because I was packing. Quietly, bit by bit. The way you do when you know goodbye is coming but can't bear to write the note.

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The suit fits like a second skin. Familiar in a way nothing else has felt since I woke up here. The fabric is tight, reinforced, sleek. Still smells like cold metal and smoke. My hair is tied back the way it always is on my missions—clean, efficient, ready.

The knife belt clicks into place around my waist. Each blade holstered precisely. A comforting weight. Boots laced tight. The med bay lights buzz softly above me, casting sterile shadows on the polished floor.

I stare at the door. My way out.

It's better this way.

That's what I tell myself as I hover near the exit. I haven't said goodbye. Not to Sam, not to Tony. I don't plan to. Too many goodbyes in my life have ended with someone dead—or worse. And I'm not sentimental enough to invite that kind of curse.

Still, part of me listens. Just in case. For the scrape of boots outside. For someone to stop me.

Nothing.

The hallway's clear. Silent. Tony left an hour ago for something with his girlfriend, Pepper.

I take one step forward.

Then another.

One hand lingers on the door frame, just for a moment. Like hesitation could be a kind of anchor. But I shake it off. I can't stay. Not when staying means putting them in the crosshairs.

He's coming.

They always send someone.

And when they do, anyone near me ends up a target.

Tony doesn't deserve that. Neither does Sam.

I breathe in deep, hold it in my lungs like armor. Cold air, sharp and sterile. It smells like endings. Like antiseptic and fear.

No tears. No goodbyes. No second thoughts.

It's better this way.

For them and me, I think.

I almost made it.

Fifteen more steps and I'd have been gone—slipped out like a ghost, no notes, no goodbyes, just a clean break. Just the soft hiss of a door closing behind me and silence.

But the universe apparently has a wicked sense of timing.

"Planning on leaving without saying a word?"

His voice stops me cold.

I don't turn around immediately. I don't want to give him the satisfaction. But I know that voice. Too righteous. Too clean. It's the verbal equivalent of polished boots and vintage patriotism.

I exhale slowly, pivoting on my heel.

Steve Rogers stands in the doorway like he owns the place. Arms crossed. Brow furrowed in that judgmental way that makes me want to punch something. Preferably his face.

"Figured you'd prefer it that way, Captain."

His jaw tightens just a little. I see it. I always see it.

"You're part of this team now," he says reluctantly. "You don't have to keep running."

I laugh. A sharp sound. Too loud in the quiet hall.

"Team? You a comedian now, Rogers?" I take a step forward, boots silent on the tile. "You and I both know I'm not part of your precious little flag-waving squad. I'm just the liability you've been tolerating while I bleed on your sheets."

His eyes narrow. "It's not about tolerance. It's about trust. And I think you're capable of more than this."

"Oh, spare me the after-school special," I snap. "You don't trust me. You don't even like me. And guess what? The feeling is mutual."

There's a beat. Something flickers in his eyes. Disappointment, maybe.

"You don't run because you're dangerous," he says quietly. "You run because you're scared."

That one hits. Not because it's true. Not entirely. But because there's a grain of it that stings.

I square my shoulders, a sneer curling on my lips. "I run because people die when they get close. You want to martyr yourself? Be my guest. But don't you dare pretend you know what this is like."

"Try me," he says, stepping forward. "You think you're the only one who's lost people?"

"I think I'm the only one still being hunted."

And that's when it happens.

The alarms go off. Blaring throughout the compound.

Shrill. Red lights flashing like a warzone memory come to life.

My breath catches. For a split second, the hallway blurs. My mind floods with noise, protocol, instinct.

"Told you they'd come," I say, voice low. Almost bitter.

Steve's already halfway to the comm panel, barking for a location. I don't wait.

He turns back toward me just in time to see my eyes catch his.

A quick burst of vertigo. Not enough to knock him out. Just enough to drop him to a knee and keep him there for a few seconds too long.

"Sorry not sorry, Cap," I mutter, stepping past his reeling form. "Team-building exercise is gonna have to wait."

And then I run.

Not out of fear. Not this time.

Out of inevitability.

Because they're here.

And I'm the reason why.

Red light bathes the hallway like blood.

The klaxons scream overhead, shrill and insistent, like the base itself is panicking. Somewhere deeper in the compound, I can hear the unmistakable sound of boots—running, scrambling. Voices echo over the comms, overlapping. No one has a handle on it yet.

Steve pushes himself up behind me, shaking off the vertigo burst like a champ. Good for him. Not my problem.

He staggers forward a step, hand braced against the wall.

"What the hell is this?"

I didn't bother hiding my smirk. "Please, you know exactly who it is. I warned you."

He looked at me, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched tight. Like he wanted to say something noble and full of meaning. Like he thought he could still stop me.

Cute.

I turn away from him without another word and run.

My boots hit the tile hard, echoing down the corridor, but I don't care about stealth anymore. They already knew where I was. That was the point.

Flashing lights pulse around me in bursts—red, white, red again—turning the walls into jagged shards of color. My shadow dances with every step, warping across glass and steel.

The hallway stretches endlessly ahead of me, but I know the layout. I'd studied it in my downtime, pretending not to care. The med bay wing was close to one of the emergency exits that led to the external training decks. Wide open space. Easy access for someone flying in.

Dragunov wouldn't send a brute for this. He'd send precision. He'd send Nataly.

The thought twists in my gut, sharp and cold.

As I near the corridor split, I slow down. One hand hovers over the dagger strapped to my thigh, the other ready to flare a distraction if I need it. Not yet. Just a little farther.

The base shudders. Not an explosion, but something heavy hitting the ground hard. A landing.

She's here.

I keep moving. Faster now. No hesitation. I was done waiting for the storm—I was walking into it.

Behind me, I can hear Steve call my name, but it's too late.

I don't slow down.

Don't stop.

Let him chase ghosts.

By the time he gets his bearings, I will already be gone—just a silhouette swallowed by red light and silence.

The roar of combat hits me before I reach the upper deck—grunts, metal hitting metal, the sharp zap of energy blasts. I round the corner just in time to see Sam crash into a wall hard enough to leave a dent.

And there she is.

Nataly.

Her armor is different this time—sleeker than I remember, cold steel-blue that shimmered faintly in the red emergency lights. But I'd know her anywhere. The way she moved—measured, exact. Every strike is calculated. Every turn of her head is like a scanner locking onto a target.

Her feet never touch the ground. She hovers, almost still, just above it, like gravity had lost interest in her. A subtle field shimmers around her boots and spine—something Black Lotus-built, no doubt. Maybe upgraded since I last saw her.

She turns mid-air and slams Rhodey down with a single punch. His suit groaned with the impact.

Of course they sent her. Dragunov always knew how to make a statement.

I swallow down the knot forming in my throat. No room for fear. Just precision.

I stepped forward. Raised my hand.

A piercing distortion pulsed from my mind—high-frequency, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop the fight in its tracks.

Everyone turned. Sam is bruised but still upright. Rhodey is groaning but still conscious. Nataly tilts her head slightly, like I'd flipped a switch in her brain.

"Hey, dollface," I call out. "Miss me?"

Her lips don't move, but her eyes lock on mine. Target acquired.

Sam steps in front of me, wings half-extended like a shield. "What the hell is going on?"

I don't take my eyes off Nataly. "She's not here for you, Sam."

Sam hesitates. "Then who—"

"She's here for me."

That lands like a rock in the room.

Sam's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing. "You knew this was coming?"

"I told Stark." I give a humorless smile. "None of you ever listen."

Nataly descends slowly now, hovering just a foot above the floor. Her gaze never wavers. Her fists flex, metal groaning softly in the joints.

I feel the pressure building—like air thinning before a storm.

This was it.

I step past Sam. He says something—my name, maybe. I didn't hear it. All I can see is her and my future once I get back into Dragunov's grasp.

I take another step forward, each movement deliberate. Every inch closer is a page in a story I'd been trying not to finish.

But the ending is already written.

We stared at each other across the chaos.

Everything else—Sam's ragged breathing, Rhodey's suit hissing sparks, the wail of klaxons—fell away. All I can see is her.

Nataly. One class above me at the Black Lotus, her graduation was the most brutal until I dethroned her.

She hadn't aged. Or maybe she had, but whatever the Black Lotus did to us, it buried time beneath programming and progress. Her face was the same—a beautiful, cold weapon sculpted into something that once might've been human. Now? She was just a machine. Directive. Precision.

"Are you ready?" she asks, voice cutting clean through the noise like a knife sliding through silk.

There is no malice in it. No gloating. Just... efficiency.

I let out a breath I don't realize I'm holding. My throat is tight. Chest heavier than it should be.

I give her the only answer that ever made sense between us. "Always."

And then she moves.

Fast—faster than I remembered. Not a blur, not a streak. Just motion, decisive and unstoppable. Wings of force curved out behind her, not mechanical, not made of fire or energy like Sam's, and not actual wings but energy generated from the pressure of her flight. Controlled gravity. Internal propulsion. A trick the Black Lotus perfected long before I was recruited. Or maybe they'd saved it for someone better.

Her hands hit my shoulders like steel. I don't fight. There is no point in pretending to.

Pain radiated down my arms where she gripped me, but I didn't flinch. Let her bruise me. Let it mark me. At least then it would feel real. I guess I might as well get used to more pain, I'm in for a nice punishment once I return to the Black Lotus.

Sam's voice cut through behind me, furious and afraid. "EMRIS!"

I didn't turn around. Couldn't.

Rhodey fires something—a blast of red light that skims past Nataly's shoulder, barely shifting her in midair. She twists, one leg shooting out in a devastating arc, and I hear the crunch of metal as she kicks him aside like a toy. He hits the far wall and doesn't get up.

"Damn it!" Sam shouts, wings flaring as he launches into the air.

But she is already rising. My stomach lurches with the acceleration as we shoot through the broken skylight above. Glass still rains in glittering arcs. Wind roars in my ears. Somewhere below, Sam is still shouting my name, growing smaller and smaller, being swallowed by distance and height.

I don't look down.

Instead, I look at her.

Nataly doesn't smile. Doesn't blink. Her grip doesn't loosen.

And mine does not tighten.

I let her take me.

There is relief in the surrender, twisted and strange. No more pretending. No more waiting for the hammer to fall. It had come. Just as I knew it would.

And in some broken corner of myself, I'm... glad.

I didn't belong in that compound. I didn't belong with Sam's kindness or Tony's second chances. I belong here, in the grip of inevitability, heading straight back into the fire.

It feels like going home in a weird way.

A dark, ruined kind of home—but familiar all the same.

The wind screams in my ears as Nataly carries me higher into the sky, her grip bruising and unforgiving. She doesn't speak, doesn't look down, doesn't hesitate. That's just Nataly, though—sharp, silent, surgical. The world below blurred into streaks of red and silver and black, the compound shrinking beneath us like a dying ember.

I feel weightless, and not in a good way. Like a leaf being ripped from a tree—inevitable, uncontrollable.

But I don't resist.

I don't fight.

This was always going to happen.

Below us, something moves—fast. Wings outstretched. Sam.

Of course he came after me.

I crane my neck just enough to see him, cutting through the air with that stubborn fire in his eyes. His face is set in a hard line, determined. He's gaining on us for a second—just one glorious second—and I almost believe maybe he could reach me.

But Nataly sees him too.

I feel the shift in her muscles before she moves—like a gun cocking. She surges forward with a speed I'd almost forgotten she had. Not from tech, not from gadgets. This isn't a jetpack or a suit. This is her. Black Lotus turned her into something else. Something designed to outrun people like him. She gets to fly, and I get to mess with people's minds.

Sam tries to close the gap, but she widens it effortlessly. One sharp turn. One blast of raw speed. He falls behind like gravity has suddenly remembered it has a hold on him.

Still, he pushes. I could see it in the way he grits his teeth, the way his wings flare, fighting physics, fighting failure.

He shouts something. Orders, maybe. Or something more desperate, telling me to jump to him. The wind steals it before it can reach me.

I twist just enough to see him one last time—wings slicing through the night, the red on his suit glowing against the clouds. He looks like a star trying not to burn out.

I hate how much I want him to catch me.

But this isn't a rescue story. Not for me. Never for me.

I give him a smirk I don't feel, and cock my head just enough for him to see.

"Bye, Birdy," I call out—soft, almost apologetic.

And then the distance swallows him whole.

The air gets colder.

And Nataly doesn't slow down.