XXIII. Bucky

The tile under my feet is cracked, cold even with the sun pouring through the blinds. This place is old—walls stained with cigarette smoke from tenants long gone, rust creeping along the hinges of every window. But it's quiet. That's what matters.

The sea's not far. I can smell it when the wind hits right—salt and algae, rot and freedom. Marseille is a good place to disappear. Enough noise to blend into, enough silence to stay buried.

I keep my boots by the door. My bag packed in the closet, always. One pan. Two mugs. A single plate. All I need.

The radiator coughs like a dying man and I glance toward it, half expecting it to stop altogether. It doesn't. Just keeps groaning, rattling like it resents me for using it. I ignore it and go back to the table where my knife is laid out. Clean cloth. Bottle of oil. Precision work. A ritual.

Blade, cloth, oil. Wipe. Check. Repeat. My hands remember it better than my head does—Hydra trained it into me. I use it now to forget.

The pistol rests beside it. Fully loaded. Safety off. Just in case.

I check the window.

Nothing but rooftops and laundry lines. Pigeons fighting over crusts. But still—I feel it. A pressure in the air. Something off. I can't explain it, but it's there, scratching along the base of my skull like an itch I can't reach. My left hand—the metal one—twitches against the table.

I tell myself it's nothing. Paranoia. Habit. A ghost walking through the room and brushing the back of my neck.

I stand. Stretch. My back cracks. Muscles sore from a run this morning. I haven't spoken to another human in three days. I like it that way.

The stove clicks as I turn it on. One burner still works. I crack two eggs into a dented skillet and let them sizzle. The sound calms me. Familiar. Normal.

I check the window again.

Just shadows.

But I watch the shadows shift—like something breathed and held still when I looked.

I blink. Shake my head. "No one knows," I mutter to myself. My voice sounds dry, unused. "No one could've found me."

Still... my fingers move to the knife before the eggs are done.

Just in case.

I turn my back on the window.

Then it shatters.

Glass erupts inward with a scream of force, shards slicing through the air like thrown blades. I don't even think—I just drop, body hitting the floor with instinct that's older than thought. A shape barrels through where my head was a second ago. My chair explodes under the impact, splinters cracking off the wall.

I roll. Come up crouched, pistol already in my hand.

She rises.

Black and green suit. Sleek, tactical. Her boots don't make a sound. Black hair whipped back by the wind, still fluttering from her entry. Her eyes—Jesus—those eyes.

Piercing. Unblinking. Dark green, like poison.

My stomach drops.

No.

Not her.

It can't be her.

But it is.

I remember that face. Burned into the deepest parts of me—those long nights in Hydra's cages, when she'd stand over me, press her hand to my temple, and pour thoughts into my head that weren't mine. She never touched a needle. Never spoke much. Just looked at me, and the world tilted sideways.

And now she's here.

Coming at me fast.

I dive back as her dagger whistles past my face. She doesn't shout, doesn't grunt. Just moves—fluid, mechanical, perfect. I barely raise my arm in time—her second blade clangs off my vibranium with a burst of sparks.

She doesn't slow.

I twist, kick, slam my forearm against hers to knock the knife free. She slips out of the grapple like smoke. Comes again.

Another blade slices through the air. I feel it kiss across my side—a hot sting, nothing deep, but it's blood now. The pain is grounding. Anchoring.

She sweeps low, tries to knock me off my feet. I jump back, crash into the counter. Plates shatter on the floor. She moves like she's dancing. Like this is choreographed.

I block again. This time I catch her wrist. She jerks, elbow slamming toward my throat—I duck it, twist her around, pin her arm behind her back.

No reaction.

Nothing.

She breathes silent. Dead-eyed.

This isn't a person. This is—

This is how I used to be.

She spins out of my grip with inhuman speed. Her foot slams into my chest. I hit the wall hard enough to rattle the pipes.

I cough. Wipe blood from my side.

She's already coming again.

And the worst part? She doesn't even look angry.

She just looks... blank.

I get the upper hand.

One good hit to her side, a twist of her wrist—the blades clatter to the floor, skittering across tile. I slam her back into the wall, forearm across her throat. She doesn't even flinch.

She just stares at me.

Right into me.

And that's when it happens.

The air tilts.

I stagger, suddenly unsteady. The walls ripple like heat mirages. My stomach lurches, bile burns up the back of my throat. It's like I've been dropped into a spinning carnival ride with no harness.

Light bends. The ceiling pulses.

The floor sways like I'm on a ship in a storm.

No.

Not again.

Not her.

I remember this feeling. That impossible, inside-out kind of nausea. She used to do this. In the labs. When they wanted to reprogram me. Disorient me. Break my brain just enough so I wouldn't fight the new code. Vertigo.

"Either come with me," she says, voice flat, robotic, "or die."

I hear it.

My own voice. My own tone.

Back when I was theirs, Hydra's.

I shake my head—try to clear it, but the pressure's mounting behind my eyes. I feel like I'm going to vomit. Or pass out.

I drop low, sweep her legs, and take her down hard. She hits the floor with a dull thud, but makes no sound. No grunt. No curse. Nothing human.

I straddle her, pin her arms with my knees. I don't look at her face. I know better. I keep my gaze locked on the floor, the blood, the broken glass. Anything but her eyes.

But then I hear it.

Not with my ears.

In my head.

Come with me.

Soft.

You want to come with me, James.

Gentle.

Get off. Let me up. Come home.

My grip loosens.

It's like honey poured into my mind. Thick and warm and slow. I blink. My breathing slows. My body... wants to obey.

I start to move.

I don't want to, but I do.

Fingers twitch. My weight shifts off her.

She lifts her head.

I almost look at her.

Almost.

Then—

Boom.

A shockwave rattles the walls. The building trembles. Glass cracks, fresh and sharp. The explosion hits like a slap to the brain.

I jolt.

The fog clears.

And suddenly—she's not in my grip anymore.

She's already standing and moving away from me.

Smoke chokes the hallway. Dust drifts through the broken window like ash from a dying fire. My ears are ringing. I can still feel the pressure of the blast echoing in my ribs.

She's on her feet.

She doesn't look at me. Doesn't need to. Her head tilts—just barely—as if hearing something I can't. A voice in her ear. Her next command.

Then she moves.

Fast.

Not like a person—like water poured downhill, like smoke pulled by wind. Smooth, graceful, inhuman.

She sprints for the shattered window.

"No—!"

I launch after her, boots skidding across cracked tile, shoulder slamming into the wall for momentum.

Too late.

She leaps through the broken frame without hesitation. Just vanishes into the open air, four stories up.

I hit the window, heart pounding. My palms grip the jagged edge of the frame.

And then I see her.

Falling—

No. Caught.

A figure rises from below, up through the smoke like a specter.

Blue and black armor. Wings—no, not wings. No tech I can see. She's flying with nothing. Just her.

Dark skin, pale blue hair trailing like sapphire in the wind. Cold eyes locked on her prize.

Nataly.

Another ghost from the old world.

She grabs Emris midair like a doll and banks hard, twisting away from the wreckage.

Their silhouettes disappear into the smoke-drenched Marseille skyline, buildings burning faintly in the distance from whatever that explosion hit. Distant alarms start to wail—police, fire, someone finally noticing the war zone I've just walked back into.

I stand there.

Breathing like I just ran a marathon. My lungs hurt. My ribs scream.

She found me.

Hydra found me.

And she's not who she was before. Or maybe she is—and that's what terrifies me most.

I step back from the window, breath catching.

No more hiding here.

I need to move.

Fast.

The apartment is quieter now. The dust settles, the distant sounds of the city creeping back in—sirens wailing, people shouting, the usual chaos of Marseille. But it's different now. There's a heaviness in the air. It's like the walls are closing in on me.

I move slowly. Purposefully. Like I'm doing this for the last time. My hands move through my duffel bag, methodical. Folding, stuffing, tightening. I start with the essentials—my journal, pages worn with age. The leather feels soft in my hands, the ink inside still sharp, even if my own thoughts are a blur. I leave it open for a second, my fingers skimming over a few words that don't matter anymore.

I don't have time to sit and think, though.

Weapons. I grab the knives, the hidden ones, and slide them into place with a practiced motion. Every click of metal, every piece of gear, is one more thing telling me: This is it. This is the move.

I hear the blood on the floor before I see it. Staining the tile near the window, where she fell. I crouch for a moment, looking at it—the streaks, the small pools. My mind flashes, her face again. Empty, hollow. Like a ghost.

But that wasn't her. Not really. I can't think about that now.

The window. The busted frame. My hand touches the shattered glass on the floor, the edges jagged, glittering under the faint light. I stare out at the skyline, the city stretching beneath me, dark and uncaring.

They found me. She found me.

I swallow, pushing down the tightness in my throat. There's no time to feel anything about it. I can't let myself feel anything right now.

My duffel bag's packed. I check the weapons one last time—my hand wraps around the familiar weight of the gun, the cold steel of the knife. It all feels too normal. Too much like the life I thought I left behind.

It's time to go.

I stand by the door, the tension in my muscles coiling like a spring. The streets of Marseille aren't safe anymore. I don't belong here. Not anymore.

I look at the blood one last time. A piece of me wants to linger, but the decision's made.

Next stop, Bucharest.