XXIX. Emris

The door slides open with a hiss, and the second I step through it, the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

No one speaks.

No one breathes.

Tony walks beside me like he owns the place—because, well, he probably does—but I feel the heat of every single stare digging into my skin like shrapnel. Steve's jaw tightens. Sam straightens in his seat, eyes narrowing before flicking to me, scanning, calculating. Natasha doesn't move, doesn't flinch, but I feel her attention like a blade at my throat.

Funny how fast a debriefing room starts to feel like a war zone.

My boots hit the floor too loud in the silence. I don't stop walking. I don't show hesitation. I can't afford to. My entire body buzzes, adrenaline coiled tight just under the surface. One wrong move and I know they'll come for me like I'm still their enemy.

Like I'm still her.

"Why the hell is she out of her cell?" Steve's voice snaps across the room like a whip.

I stop walking.

There it is—the first shot fired.

His tone is sharp, angry, commanding. It's that Captain America righteousness, the same voice that's probably made armies fall in line. But I'm not part of his army, and I sure as hell don't take orders from him.

I arch a brow, the corner of my mouth curling up into a smirk that's more teeth than humor. "Missed you too, Grandpa."

Sam chokes on a laugh. It's quick and stifled, but it's there—genuine. His shoulders ease just a bit, the tension bleeding out of him like air from a balloon. His eyes find mine, and for a split second, I see it: recognition. Relief. Like he's seeing me for the first time in weeks and finally knows I'm back in my own skin.

I hold his gaze a beat longer than I should. It anchors me.

Steve doesn't look nearly as amused. His fists are clenched at his sides, veins bulging against his forearms. I can almost hear his blood boiling. His eyes don't leave me, and I don't look away.

Let him look.

Let him see me.

Tony steps in, voice level but edged with steel. "Stand down, Rogers. She's not the enemy."

"Yet," Steve growls.

I roll my eyes. "God, you really are dramatic. Did you practice that line in the mirror this morning?"

Steve takes a step forward, and for a second, I see the soldier in him rear its head—coiled tension, reflexes ready, fists cocked. I don't flinch. I tilt my head instead, daring him. One wrong move and this room becomes a cage match. Maybe that's what he wants. Maybe it's what I want too.

"Back. Off," Tony says, voice sharp now.

"She's dangerous," Steve says, not to Tony this time, but to everyone. "We all saw what she did in Bucharest. She—she could've killed Bucky."

"Yeah?" I snap. "So could half the team. He wasn't exactly playing nice."

Natasha shifts in her chair. Still hasn't said a word, but she's watching me—always watching. Like I'm a bomb she's waiting to disarm. Or maybe waiting for it to blow up in her face. Her expression is unreadable, cool and unbothered, but her hand is resting lightly on her thigh—right where a knife is usually strapped.

"Look," Tony says, stepping forward so he's between me and Steve. "She didn't just choose this, okay? Black Lotus wiped her clean. Memory gone. Personality overwritten. They turned her into the Serpent again—worse than before."

My smirk fades. Just a flicker. Just enough.

"Her memories are back now. She's stable."

I scoff. "Stable's generous."

Tony doesn't smile. "She's not a threat."

Steve shakes his head, taking a slow breath through his nose. "You expect me to believe that? After what we've been through—after what she's done?"

"She didn't do it," Sam says quietly.

Everyone turns.

Sam shrugs, like it's obvious. "That wasn't her. You saw her just now, didn't you?" His eyes find mine again. "She's not the same."

I don't deserve that.

Not after everything.

But I nod once. Just enough to say thank you without actually saying it.

Tony's phone buzzes, and he checks it with a frown.

"Perfect timing," he mutters. "Bucky's eval is starting."

Steve stiffens. Sam's face clouds. Natasha finally stands. No one says it out loud, but we all feel it: the unspoken name hanging in the air like smoke.

The Winter Soldier.

Tony gestures toward the side corridor. "Let's go. Might be worth seeing for ourselves just how broken he still is."

I fall into step beside him as he walks out.

I can still feel Steve's glare burning holes into my back. If he had a shield right now, I'm pretty sure he'd throw it at my head.

I don't look back.

But I smile.

The surveillance room hums like a nest of hornets—screens blinking, machinery pulsing low and steady beneath the surface, like it's breathing. I hate it already.

Tony steps in first, flicking a few toggles on the nearest console. Natasha follows, silent and sharp-eyed as ever. I trail behind them, the overhead lights washing the metal walls in sterile white. It smells like old wires and cheap coffee, and underneath it all—burnt ozone.

I don't need to ask where Bucky is. My eyes find him instantly.

He's strapped to a chair in the middle of a containment cell—arms bound at his sides, legs locked down, a wide metal band cinched across his chest like a vise. Thick restraints, reinforced steel. The kind meant for monsters.

And just like that, I'm back there.

Not in Berlin anymore.

Not in this room.

Not in my own body.

Karpov's chair. Blood under my fingernails. The weight of leather straps digging into my shoulders and wrists. My own screams echoing back at me like it belonged to someone else.

My breath stutters in my throat. I blink hard, but the ghost of the memory clings stubbornly to the edges of my vision.

Bucky sits still—too still. His head is bowed, hair falling into his eyes. He looks... hollow. Like someone scooped the person out of him and left a shell behind. The only thing that moves is his chest, rising and falling slow and even. Controlled. Trained.

Hydra-trained.

Natasha crosses her arms, watching him on the monitor. She doesn't speak, but I can see it in her jaw—tension, discomfort. She doesn't like this setup either. None of us do. Not after what we've been through. What he's been through.

The intercom buzzes, and a smooth voice fills the room, oddly flat.

"Sergeant Barnes, can you hear me?"

I glance at the screen again. The psychiatrist is already seated across from him. I don't know when he entered the room. That bothers me.

He's too composed, too collected. His posture is perfect. His voice never rises, never dips. Every syllable sounds carefully placed, like someone laid it out on a chessboard before he spoke.

"Do you know where you are?" he asks gently.

Bucky doesn't respond.

She tries again. "You're in Berlin."

Still nothing.

His back faces the camera, and I can't see his face.

Something prickles at the base of my spine. The air tastes... sharp. Like static before a lightning strike.

I lean forward, palms flat against the edge of the control panel. My eyes don't leave the screen.

Bucky's fingers twitch.

Just a little.

Barely noticeable.

But I see it.

I feel it.

The psychiatrist shifts in his chair. He crosses his legs with meticulous precision, glances at his notes, and starts speaking again—but this time, his voice changes. The cadence shifts. It becomes... familiar.

Too familiar.

"Longing... rusted..."

I jerk upright.

My pulse spikes.

Activation words.

"Wait," I say, voice louder than I meant it to be.

Tony looks at me. "What?"

"I—" I stare at the screen, my heartbeat hammering now. "He's not— That's not a normal eval. He's reciting something. A pattern."

"He's clearing protocol," Natasha says, but even she sounds uncertain now.

"No." My voice comes out sharp. "That's not clearance. That's activation."

Bucky lifts his head.

Eyes wide open.

But they're not his eyes. Not really. Not the man I spoke to in that cell. Not the haunted, steady soul Steve swore still existed.

These eyes are glass. Machine. Predator.

Then the room goes black.

The lights vanish.

The monitors die in a blink. All I hear is the low mechanical gasp of fans cutting out. Then silence.

Total, suffocating silence.

I'm on my feet before anyone speaks, every nerve in my body flaring to life like a switchboard. I don't even register moving. I just move.

"What the hell?" Tony mutters, moving toward the panel.

My breath caught halfway in my chest. My heart is a drum, pounding against the inside of my ribs, begging me to move.

Something is wrong.

So wrong.

Tony slams a fist against the console. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., status report. Where's the blackout coming from?"

She responds to him and says she is trying to locate it.

He curses under his breath and fumbles for a backup tablet. Natasha's already moving, slipping toward the door.

Tony points after her. "Stay put," he snaps at me.

I don't move. Not yet.

But I'm not going to stay here.

Not when he's in that cell.

Not when I've seen that look in his eyes before—the moment Bucky Barnes slips the leash and becomes something else entirely.

Something deadly.

Something weaponized.

The Winter Soldier.

Tony curses again as he tries to reboot the system. Natasha disappears through the door.

And me?

I step forward.

Because if I don't, someone's going to die.

And maybe—just maybe—it'll be him and I won't be punished for failing my mission.

I wait a full three seconds after Tony and Natasha vanish down the corridor.

Then I move.

The hallway beyond the control room is bathed in red—the kind of red that screams emergency in every language. Harsh strobes flash overhead, casting long shadows across the walls, slicing through the dark like jagged lightning. Every step I take echoes louder than it should, my boots hitting metal grates as I creep forward, following the sound of chaos like a bloodhound.

Somewhere ahead, someone shouts. Steel slams against steel. The unmistakable grunt of a fight underway.

I'm getting close.

Another shout—closer this time.

Then I hear him.

Bucky.

No, not Bucky.

The Winter Soldier.

He roars like a cornered animal and the sound freezes my blood in place.

I dart around the corner and find the corridor littered with debris—shattered light panels, torn piping, a dent in the wall big enough to fit a grown man.

A body slams into a pillar up ahead with a dull thud—Tony, groaning, trying to push himself up with one arm. His other hand glows, repulsor flaring as Bucky barrels toward him with terrifying speed.

I don't even get a chance to shout.

The gun appears in Bucky's hand like magic—smooth, fluid, instinctive. His eyes are empty. Cold. Not just vacant but gone. I've seen that look before. Worn it myself.

He pulls the trigger.

The shot rings out.

Tony catches it—barely—his palm lighting up as he redirects the bullet with his repulsor. It ricochets off the ceiling, sparks raining down around them like fireflies from hell.

I've seen super-soldiers fight. Fought them, trained with them. But nothing compares to watching one unleashed.

Tony fires back, but Bucky's already moving—grabs him by the front of his armor and hurls him across the corridor. Tony crashes into a bench, skids across the floor with a sharp metallic shriek.

A blonde woman jumps in—Sharon, I think. She ducks low, aims a shock baton at Bucky's back.

He spins and punches her in the stomach before she can connect. Hard. She crumples like a dropped puppet.

Shit.

I move faster now, ducking under broken ceiling panels, stepping around sparking wires and the smell of scorched plastic.

Natasha charges next, catching Bucky from the side and locking her arm around his throat, legs braced behind his knees. She's all speed and precision, relentless, no wasted motion.

But he's stronger.

He slams her into the wall once.

Twice.

The third hit cracks the drywall and she lets go, dazed.

He flips her, slams her down on the nearest table, his metal hand closing around her throat.

I can't breathe.

Neither can she.

She's clawing at his wrist, twisting under his weight, feet kicking, mouth open in a silent gasp.

Move. Now.

Before I can get to him a blur hits him from the side—T'Challa, sleek and silent, claws extended. He tackles Bucky off Natasha and sends both of them sprawling.

But even that doesn't stop him.

Bucky rolls with the impact, kicks the Panther off with a brutal spin, and shoves him into a pillar. The vibranium suit absorbs some of it—but not all.

T'Challa hits the ground and stays down for a beat too long.

And that's it.

I'm done waiting.

I break into a run, every instinct screaming at me to help, to act, to stop this. To complete my mission.

I leap—land on Bucky's back—one arm hooked around his neck, my free hand going straight to his temple.

"James," I whisper, pressing my fingers to his skin, "you're not this. Come back. Come back."

I push everything into the contact—empathy, calm, memory, light, home. I give him everything I can without burning myself out.

It almost works.

His body falters for a second, just a second.

His jaw clenches.

I project again—this time a hallucination, just a flicker. A memory—Steve's voice, soft and steady.

"I'm with you till the end of the line."

His grip on Natasha loosens—

Then it snaps back.

He roars, grabs me by the arm and flings me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing.

I crash into a metal chair, pain blooming white-hot across my ribs, but I roll with the hit and get to my feet, ignoring the fire in my side.

He turns to me—full Winter Soldier now. Not Bucky. Not anymore.

I go low, slide under his guard, aim a strike to his ribs.

He blocks it, counters with a punch that clips my jaw and sends me stumbling back.

I spit blood.

And smile.

"Missed me, pretty boy?"

We go at it again—fist against fist, mind against might. It's fast. Brutal. Each of us trying to outmaneuver the other in a whirlwind of jabs, blocks, knees, elbows. I aim high, duck low, try to grab his arm and short his brain out—but he spins, knocks me off balance, grabs my collar, and slams me into the floor.

Hard.

I twist out from under him, kick him square in the chest, and lunge up to tackle him.

We roll—me on top, then him, then me again. Every strike is desperation. Every breath a countdown.

I grab his face again, trying to connect, trying to feel anything behind his eyes.

And that's when he grabs me.

His metal hand clamps around my throat.

I choke.

My legs kick out, trying to gain leverage, but I'm off the ground now, dangling from his fist.

His grip tightens.

Stars burst behind my eyes. My fingers claw at his wrist.

Still nothing behind his gaze.

Not even hate.

Just the cold, clean focus of a machine.

I hit him with a wave of vertigo, desperation bleeding into the push. His grip shifts—tightens—then suddenly, I'm flying.

He throws me like a rag doll.

I don't even scream—just slam into the wall with enough force to rattle the air from my lungs, bounce off, and crumple to the floor.

The red lights still flash in intervals, slicing the shadows like a strobe. Every pulse cuts into my skull like a blade. I blink against it, try to focus on the ceiling, on the floor, on anything. My head throbs from my earlier head banging, this probably didn't help.

The world tilts.

My ears ring.

I taste blood.

Can't breathe.

Can't—

Footsteps.

Then—

"Jesus, Emris."

I cough—a dry, rattling thing that feels like dragging glass up my throat.

"I told you to stay put, kid," he snaps. His voice is sharp, but there's a tremble under it. "You stubborn, reckless, pain in my ass."

I wheeze in a breath, wince, and offer a broken smile.

I cough hard, blinking through the blur. "It's cute when you worry, Stark."

He glares at me, but relief flashes behind his eyes for a heartbeat.

I speak up again, "I'm fine, dad."

His jaw clenches. He doesn't say anything, but his hand finally lands on my shoulder. Just a squeeze. Just enough to anchor me.

Above us, I hear another crash—T'Challa again, fighting to corner Bucky.

Footsteps are pounding above us. Shouts. The clash of metal on metal.

T'Challa is fast. Sharp. Efficient.

But Bucky's gone full Winter Soldier.

I blink slowly, the fight overhead blurring into noise. I don't have the strength to get up. Don't have the breath to help.

A moment later, everything goes still.

Gone.

He's gone.

And I feel it like a hole in my chest.

I failed.

I should've stopped him.

I should've been enough.

He was right there—right in front of me—and I lost him again.

He's not a monster, he's just broken. That's what I told Tony. What I told myself. Over and over. Like if I said it enough times, it would rewrite his DNA.

But I've seen that emptiness in his eyes before. In the mirror. And all the things I swore I would never be again—he's living them now, like I did. Like I still might.

He got away.

The pain swells behind my ribs again, hotter this time. Not from the fight. From the guilt. From the fury. From the failure. I'm already preparing myself for Dragunov's punishment and disappointment.

I close my eyes.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Try not to choke on the taste of blood.

The ceiling swims overhead, streaked in red. The lights pulse in a slow, cruel rhythm.

I grit my teeth.

"Fuck," I whisper.

And then I lie still.

Too tired to get up.

Too stubborn to pass out.