XXXII. Emris

The hallway is too clean.

Sterile white walls. Seamless floor panels. Lights that buzz faintly overhead, casting everything in a pale, clinical glow. The air reeks of bleach—sharp, artificial. It claws at the inside of my throat with every breath.

Behind the glass wall in front of me, machines beep with cold consistency. Monitors flash muted colors. Electrodes run from Rhodey's still body like strings holding together a puppet that's no longer capable of moving on his own. His eyes are closed. There's a brace around his neck, his arms stiff at his sides, unmoving.

My spine stiffens.

This is punishment.

Not mine. Not yet. But I've seen this before—the aftermath of someone else's failure. The silence. The fragile line between restraint and rage. The way no one breathes too loudly in case it snaps.

Tony stands beside me, unmoving except for the minute, compulsive twitches in his hands. He fiddles with his watch, then stops. Shifts his weight from one foot to the other, then freezes again. His jaw clenches and unclenches. His tongue runs across the inside of his cheek, chewing something invisible. Every so often he drags a hand down his face, leaving fresh tension behind.

He hasn't said a word in ten minutes.

I don't speak. I don't move. I barely let myself blink.

Because when Dragunov was mad, silence was survival.

And Tony? He's beyond mad. He's wrecked. But he's holding it in like it's something radioactive. One wrong move and it'll detonate.

So I default to training. Stay still. Stay quiet. Watch. Wait. Don't make noise when the man is angry.

The only sound is the distant hum of the machines and the faint pulsing in my ears—my heartbeat thudding louder than it should. I stare at Rhodey's chest, watching for any sign of movement beneath the thin hospital blanket. Nothing.

God, he's not even fighting it. He's just lying there.

The lights buzz overhead. A fly pings uselessly against the glass panel near the ceiling. My fingers twitch.

Then, finally, movement.

Tony's shoulders hitch—barely perceptible, but I feel it like a tremor. His breathing shortens. One hand curls into a fist at his side, trembling for half a second before he forces it open again.

Then—

Footsteps.

I don't turn, but I know it's her. The way her stride cuts cleanly through the silence. The barely-there swish of leather and fabric. Controlled urgency.

Natasha.

She doesn't acknowledge me. Doesn't need to. Her eyes go straight to Tony.

They speak in low voices—too quiet for even my sharpened hearing to make out fully. I hear the names: "Rhodey." "Vision." "Zemo." Broken sentences. Short bursts of Russian, clipped and strained. None of it matters.

I tune them out.

Because the bleach is burning my nose and the lights are buzzing louder now and the beeping behind the glass is crawling under my skin. The walls feel like they're inching closer. Compressing. Like Dragunov's old isolation box.

Breathe.

I shift my weight back onto my heels, fingers curling at my sides. My nails bite into my gloves.

Then Natasha stiffens. It's sudden—sharp. Her spine straightens, her hand drops to her hip like instinct. Her eyes cut to Tony's wrist.

Something changed.

Then she turns on her heel and walks quickly down the hallway to the exit.

I lift my head. Tony's watch pulses with light—a hologram flickering over the face. His eyes are locked on it, laser-focused. I don't have to read his mind to know he's making a decision.

A breath. A beat. Then:

"I gotta go," he says, voice flat.

I step into his path before he can take the first stride. My voice slices cleanly through the silence. "I'm coming with."

He doesn't look surprised. Annoyed, maybe. Tired, definitely.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhales hard through his nose, and mutters, "You're gonna follow me anyway, aren't you?"

I shrug one shoulder, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth like it doesn't belong there. "Yep."

His eyes flick over me—calculating, resigned. Another beat of silence. Then he turns and walks. I follow.

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

The sea is black.

It swells and churns beneath us, endless and cold, swallowing the horizon in every direction. Wind lashes against the helicopter's sides, whining through the sealed metal hull. The sky is the color of bruises—deepening into night with every passing second.

I sit with my back pressed to the wall, knees drawn up slightly, arms braced across them like I'm trying to fold myself smaller. The vibration of the rotors pulses through the floor and into my boots, steady and mechanical, a heartbeat I can't control.

Tony sits across from me, not strapped in, face lit faintly by the screen on his watch. His jaw is tight. Shoulders stiff. A permanent tension vibrates off him, like a storm waiting for the right frequency to explode.

I say nothing.

Let him speak first. That's the rule. That's always been the rule.

"FRIDAY," he says, voice loud over the wind and engine hum. "What did you find?"

Her voice comes through the comms—smooth, British, unnervingly calm.

"Colonel Helmut Zemo accessed the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre's secured database using forged credentials. He posed as a psychiatrist. Unchallenged."

Tony doesn't flinch. I do. Just a little.

"He manipulated the psychological evaluation protocols to gain access to James Barnes."

FRIDAY continues. "Analysis of detonation residue from the Vienna bombing confirms your suspicion: Barnes was not the bomber. Zemo framed him."

Silence.

The kind that hits harder than sound.

Tony lowers his hand slowly. His fingers curl around the edge of the bench, knuckles white. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't have to. His brain is sprinting. I can feel it like static on my skin.

I stare past him, out the tiny reinforced window to my left. Nothing but waves. Violent and gray.

Framed. Barnes was framed.

And I had known. I had told Tony but I guess he needed more evidence, I get it. You don't exactly trust the trained assassin who has tried to kill you more than once.

The wind howls through the seams. My fingertips twitch against my knee.

Help Tony... betray Dragunov.

Or take Barnes back... and earn my place again. Be what I was built to be. Weapon. Obedient. Useful.

My breath fogs faintly in the cold air. My pulse stutters.

Images flash across my mind uninvited—like a film reel out of order, scenes bleeding into one another.

Dragunov's gloved hands.

The crack of a jaw beneath my boot.

Blood on white tile.

My own voice whispering a name I'd been ordered to forget.

A metal door slamming shut.

Screams.

I blink hard. Focus.

This isn't the first time I've been in the air, heading toward the Raft.

Last time, it wasn't as a guest. I was the ghost slipping through its cracks. The shadow under the cameras. I remember pressing my fingers to a guard's temple and watching his eyes go blank. Slipping a keycard from his pocket. Moving without hesitation because I wasn't allowed to think—just complete the mission.

Break someone out. Kill someone who might talk.

Now?

Now, I might be the one dragged inside.

I glance at Tony again. His face is unreadable. But I see it—the grief, the rage, the calculation. He's doing the math in real time. Trying to balance the ledger. Figure out how to make it right.

And I—

I'm not sure where I land in that equation.

I press my gloved fingers to my temples for a second, grounding myself in the thrum of the engine. In the burn of the sea, air was leaking in around the doorframe. I inhale. Exhale. Count the seconds like it'll help keep the fragments from slicing through me again.

A prison in the middle of the ocean. Unbreachable. Impenetrable.

Except it isn't. Not really. Not if you know the right access points. Not if you've been there before.

I've walked those cells. Stepped over bodies. Stared into eyes that begged for mercy and offered none.

My fingers curl tighter.

Funny.

I used to break people out of this place.

Guess now I get to see the other side.

The Raft rises out of the sea like something dredged from a nightmare—steel and shadow and sharp corners meant to pierce the sky. Razor-wire lines the exterior walkways like veins, pulsing with electric threat. Floodlights sweep the helipad as we descend, their beams slicing the dark in rhythmic arcs. Thunder grumbles in the distance, low and rumbling, a promise of worse to come.

I don't speak. Haven't since the chopper lifted off. Words feel useless here.

The second we touch down, the tension shifts. I feel it like a wire pulled tight between my shoulder blades.

Tony steps out first, wind flattening his jacket to his frame. He's iron-clad now—emotion buried under protocol. But his hands twitch at his sides. Tiny tremors.

I follow, keeping my posture tight, movements economical. I know the language of threat assessment—how to make myself smaller, quieter, less like a bomb waiting to go off.

Even so, the guards flinch. I catch it in their eyes—recognition, fear, and maybe something worse. One grips his rifle a little too tightly. Another angles himself unconsciously between me and the nearest security console. These men have read the files. They know what I've done.

What I was built to do.

Thunder cracks again, closer this time. The wind tastes of salt and cold metal.

Secretary Ross is already waiting at the platform's edge. His coat flaps behind him like some ragged flag, and his expression is carved from stone. Eyes sharp. Jaw locked.

His gaze lands on me and sticks like tar.

Tony doesn't blink and steps in front of me. "She's not the reason we're here."

Ross barely glances at him. "We'll talk about her later."

Translation: We'll deal with the weapon once we've cleaned up your mess.

I say nothing. But my eyes flick up—to the cameras mounted in every corner, to the turrets tucked just out of sight. This place is a fortress. A prison built to hold monsters.

We move inside. The air changes immediately—colder, sterile. Recycled and chemical-slick. The scent of bleach and electricity burns at the back of my throat. My boots strike the metal walkway with clean, measured steps. Every sound echoes too loudly.

Control room.

It's all screens and commands. Surveillance footage from every floor flickers across the walls. Doors. Hallways. Cells. Motion sensors track each breath. Heart rate monitors ping faintly from the console to my left. Even in here, paranoia bleeds through the seams.

Tony freezes.

I follow his line of sight to the largest screen in the center wall.

Wanda.

She's in a containment cell—not just bound, restrained. Metal cuffs anchor her wrists and ankles. A neural dampener wrapped tight around her head like a crown of thorns. She's curled into herself, not crying, not moving. Just folded. Like something fragile and already broken.

Her eyes don't even register the camera anymore.

Something twists in my chest. An old, sick familiarity.

I've seen this before. I've been on the other side of that glass—watching prisoners slowly forget they were people. Watching the light drain from their faces, day by day.

My stomach knots. I look away.

Tony doesn't. His fists clench slowly at his sides, knuckles whitening.

No one says anything. The silence is a scream.

Ross breaks it with a clipped command, directing one of the guards to start preparations. I don't hear the details. My focus has narrowed—heartbeat in my ears, the buzz of the monitors, Wanda's stillness frozen in my mind like an infection.

This place—it remembers me. My footsteps feel too familiar. Like I've walked these halls before under a different name. A different face.

Maybe I did.

The walls hum with power. The floor vibrates faintly with the energy shielding below. Every part of me is on alert.

I force my breath slow.

The Raft doesn't kill you fast.

It breaks you piece by piece, until you stop noticing.

The corridor stretches like a throat about to swallow me whole.

Harsh fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting everything in a jaundiced pallor. The metal walkway hums beneath my boots, echoing back every footstep like it's cataloging our presence. Cell doors line the corridor, identical and merciless. Each one is sealed, each one filled with ghosts.

Tony walks ahead, shoulders square, jaw set like stone.

I follow in his shadow, eyes low, arms crossed tight to hide the twitch in my fingers. I feel every camera tracking us, every heartbeat behind the doors. The Raft watches. It judges.

We stop at the first cell.

Clint.

He stands just inside the glass, eyes tired but still lit with the low-burning fire of a man who's had everything stripped away but his pride.

He sees Tony first, then me. His mouth curls into something bitter.

"Well. Look who came to gloat."

Tony doesn't answer. His silence is a slab of granite.

Clint leans closer to the glass. "We're criminals now, huh? Traitors. Terrorists. And what about her?" He jabs a finger toward me like it's a knife. "You brought her in here?"

I don't flinch. I don't blink. I just stare at the floor like it might open up and swallow me whole if I'm quiet enough.

That's fair. I am a criminal.

Tony moves on. I trail him, the heat of Clint's anger still clinging to the back of my neck.

Next cell.

Scott.

He's pacing, agitated, like a caged animal. His eyes land on Tony and narrow instantly. "Hank Pym always said you never could trust a Stark."

Tony stops, face unreadable. "Who are you?"

The deadpan makes me snort before I can stop myself. Just a breath. Barely audible.

Scott's head whips toward me. His face drains a little.

Right. He remembers me.

He remembers the pressure in his skull, the jolt of his nervous system short-circuiting. He backs up instinctively, and I smile—just enough to show teeth. Then I give him a lazy wave.

He doesn't return it.

We keep walking. The corridor feels longer than it did a minute ago. My stomach is a rock now, my heartbeat stubborn and slow.

Then we reach the last cell.

Sam.

He's turned away, facing the far wall. Shoulders stiff, arms crossed.

Tony steps closer, his voice quiet. "Rhodey's alive. Paralyzed. They don't know if it's permanent."

Sam doesn't react at first. Then, slowly, he turns.

I suck in a breath. His face is a roadmap of bruises and restraint burns. His lip is split, and his left eye still carries the purplish shadow of the last beating. And yet his expression is... calm. Resigned.

His eyes flick past Tony—and lock on me.

I look away. Can't meet them. Guilt scrapes along my spine like a dull blade. I let this happen. I didn't stop it. I could've done something—anything.

He shakes his head once. Not in anger. Just... disappointed.

I don't deserve that kind of mercy.

Tony waves a hand, and the nearby surveillance cameras go dark with a soft bzzt and a flicker. It gets quieter. Like the air knows what's coming.

"I was wrong," Tony says, voice low.

Sam lifts an eyebrow. "About?"

"All of it."

A beat.

Then Sam sighs. "You want to find Steve?"

Tony nods. "I need to fix this. I have to."

Sam studies him for a long moment, then looks past him again—at me.

I say nothing. Let myself fade into the background, like a stain you learn to ignore.

Finally, Sam nods. "You want to find him? Fine. But you go alone. No suits. No backup. And you go as a friend. Or you don't go at all."

Tony swallows that. Doesn't argue.

"Siberia," Sam says. "That's where he's going."

The name slices something open in me.

Siberia. Frozen soldiers. Hidden bunkers. Cold, clinical corridors buried in ice.

Hydra.

It always loops back to Hydra.

Always.

The door at the end of the hall bursts open.

Ross.

His footsteps are a thunderclap, his glare a sharpened spear. He storms toward us, barking. "I knew it. I know who she is."

Tony steps slightly in front of me, but Ross is faster. His hand clamps down on my shoulder.

I freeze.

His thoughts hit me like a flood—undisciplined, loud, raw.

She's too dangerous. Too unpredictable. We'll never trust her. Permanent containment. Weapon status. No release. No rights.

"They want to keep me here," I say quietly.

Tony's voice hardens. "No."

I look at him. Really look.

There's fear behind his eyes. Not of me—for me.

I force a smile. It wobbles.

"It's okay," I murmur. "Go find Steve."

He opens his mouth—but I'm already stepping forward.

I press two fingers gently to his temple. My skin barely touches his.

And I let my voice whisper into his mind, soft and careful.

"You can come back for me when you fix this mess. I believe in you, Tin Man."

His eyes burn. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

He turns to Ross, steel in every word. "You touch her, you die. And I want her cell next to Wilson. Or I tell the world how this place really runs."

Ross grits his teeth.

Then he relents.

The door beside Sam hisses open. The cell is small. Cold. Bare metal and restraint bolts in the wall.

They shove me in.

I turn as the door seals behind me.

After Tony and Ross leave I lean against the cell wall, I can't see Sam but I know he's there. I speak up after a moment, needing to say something about the last 24 hours.

"I'm sorry, Sam," I say, voice cracking around the edges.

Sam just shakes his head again. "It's fine, Em. I get it."

I slide down the wall and bury my head in my hands.

And this time, I let the silence swallow me whole.

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

The lights flicker before I even open my eyes. I'd been here for a week or so, the lights had never done that.

A low bzzzzt hums through the cellblock, followed by a high-pitched whine. Red lights flash in slow pulses, painting everything in violent crimson. Sirens howl like wounded machines.

I jolt awake.

My hands slam against the cold metal floor, instincts snapping to life. Muscles coil, heart jackhammers. My breath comes fast. Too fast.

Something's wrong.

Very wrong.

I rise to my feet, fists clenched, every nerve tuned to threat. The sirens stab at my ears. My cell pulses red—then dark—then red again. The emergency systems are online.

They're here.

I whirl toward the cell beside me. Across the corridor, Clint is standing now too. He lifts a brow and shrugs, his expression tired, grim.

Resigned.

They're here.

Black Lotus is coming for me.

My stomach flips. The thought lands hard and cold in my gut, and the rest comes with it—fast, sharp, uninvited.

Four days strapped to a metal table.

Two weeks of needles and codes.

A month of being broken down and rebuilt.

I see a scalpel flash under a heat lamp. Hear the hiss of restraints tightening. Smell blood and antiseptic and metal.

My screams. Someone else's. Adrien's.

No. Not now.

I force myself to move. Pacing helps. Or maybe it just gives me the illusion of control.

I was always expendable. A weapon, nothing more. A project. A failure, maybe. Easy to replace.

They're coming to finish it.

I slam my palm against the glass, breathing hard.

"Em," Sam says weakly through the divider. "You okay?"

I don't answer. Don't think I can.

Then—movement.

Two shadows flash past the end of the corridor.

I stop breathing.

Steve. And behind him—Bucky.

My heart doesn't know what to do with that sight. It races, stalls, kicks again.

They reach Sam's cell, override the lock. He stumbles out, grunting in pain, but he's on his feet. He's free.

I step back from the glass. Just watch.

Steve's eyes find mine.

I don't move. Don't ask. Don't beg.

I cross my arms. I won't expect a rescue that's never coming.

He hesitates.

Then—

Pssssssshhhh.

An eerie hiss behind me.

I turn. A vent above the bed releases a pale, colorless gas.

No smell. No warning. Just the hiss and the faint sparkle of chemicals catching red light.

My vision warps.

No no no—

I stagger back, hit the wall. My throat burns. Lungs seize. The gas crawls into my skull like smoke through a keyhole.

A failsafe.

Ross's idea of a compromise. Keep her close, but never unshackled. Not like Wanda. Not free.

I drop to my knees, coughing. Hard. Violent. My chest feels like it's folding in on itself. My fingers scrabble for the wall, searching for something solid, real.

The glass in front of me is a blur of light and shadow.

"Steve!" Sam's voice, hoarse and panicked.

The world tilts sideways.

A muffled slam. Then another. I barely register it.

Steve is pounding his fists on the glass, eyes wide, yelling something I can't hear over the sirens and the high whine inside my head.

Another shape joins him.

Bucky. His vibranium arm gleams red under the pulsing lights. He slams it against the glass. Once. Twice. A hairline crack blossoms like a spiderweb.

Please, I think, but I can't speak. My mouth won't work.

The gas burns hotter now, blistering down my throat. My ears ring like I've been dropped into deep water. Sound dims. Warps. Warbles.

Another impact—CRACK.

The glass splinters.

The last thing I see is two blurs—one in blue, one in black.

Then the world shatters.

A gust of air. A crunch of glass under boots.

Arms grab me.

One warm, one cold.

One human, one... hard?

I blink through the tears clouding my vision. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes full of something fierce.

Bucky.

My fingers close weakly around his bicep as I try to snap out of this daze the gas has put me in.

And then—

Darkness.