XXXIV. Emris

Somewhere in Denmark — 4:03 AM

The ceiling hasn't moved in forty-seven minutes. I know, because I've been staring at the same crack running diagonally across the plaster like it's trying to draw blood. Every time the wind howls outside, the roof groans, and the damn thing seems to pulse—just a little—like the house is breathing.

It's not.

I wish it would. I'd sleep better if this place felt alive. Instead, the safe house is dead quiet, all bones and creaky floorboards and shadows that don't belong.

A soft tick... tick... tick... slices through the silence. The analog pocket watch Tony made me take from the compound—"nostalgia," he'd said when I snuck into the compound to talk to him before I left. It ticks like a bomb. It's a miracle I haven't thrown it out the window.

I blink.

The ceiling doesn't blink back.

Voices slither through my skull like water down a drain. Not mine.

"We need a better fallback location."

"If Ross finds us, it's over."

"She's not stable. Not yet."

Sam. Steve. Their thoughts skate just under my skin, humming like wasps in my eardrums. They're not trying to be loud. They never are. But I'm cracked open lately. Brittle. Everything gets in.

I press my palms to my eyes until stars burst. Doesn't help. Doesn't stop the spiraling loop of panic that starts in my chest and worms down to my gut.

This isn't like New York. At least the compound had structure. Security. Tony's over-caffeinated thoughts bouncing like pinballs. Sam's weird dreams about skydiving into volcanoes.

Now? It's Steve's war memories bleeding through the walls. Sam's strategic fear masquerading as courage. Bucky's silence—so loud it screams.

And mine.

Mine are the worst.

I shift in the narrow bed. The sheets are cold and damp with sweat, though I haven't moved much. Just a little tossing. Some turning. Maybe a silent scream or two.

My throat's raw. I don't remember making a sound.

I sit up. The mattress protests with a sharp groan. I freeze, listening for footsteps. Nothing.

They're asleep.

Or pretending.

Or gone.

Paranoia slides in like a knife. I breathe through it. Four counts in. Hold. Six counts out. Again. Again.

It doesn't help. My heartbeat's stuck in a sprint.

I run my hands through my hair. It's damp. Again. That dream—no, memory—of the Black Lotus cell. Steel restraints biting into my skin. Dragunov's voice, a cold whisper curled behind my ear:

"Have you learned your place?"

No.

Yes.

Maybe.

He hasn't come for me. Not since Bucharest. Not since the last time I slipped. But I feel him watching from somewhere deep. Like he carved himself into the marrow of my bones and left me here to rot.

Has he forgotten me?

Or is he just waiting for me to let my guard down?

I shake my head hard, like that'll rattle him loose. It doesn't. The thoughts crawl deeper. They always do.

I slide off the bed, feet hitting the hardwood with a dull thud. It's cold. Of course it is. Denmark in spring still feels like winter.

I tiptoe to the window, peel back the curtain.

Fog rolls low across the empty street. Dim orange from a streetlamp pools against the mist, casting long shadows. Too long. The kind that look like men with guns and quiet feet.

I blink again. They're gone.

I'm fine.

Liar.

I let the curtain fall and lean my forehead against the glass. It's cold and grounding. I need that. Something solid. Something real.

But the reflection looking back at me is a ghost. Pale skin. Dark circles. Hollow green eyes that haven't seen peace in weeks.

I wonder—if I ran right now, would they follow?

Would they stop me?

Would Dragunov?

No. He wouldn't stop me. He'd wait. He always waits. And when I'm weakest, he strikes.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I step back from the window. The clock's still going.

So is my heart.

Sleep isn't coming tonight.

But something is. I can feel it.

And I don't think it's going to knock.

The water's louder than it should be. The faucet gurgles as it fills the glass in my hand, echoing like a waterfall in this dead-silent house. I grip the counter to keep my fingers from trembling. No reason. Nothing's wrong. Just... exhausted. Frayed.

I take a sip. Cold. Clean. Boring.

Then I feel it—that itch at the back of my neck. The sense that I'm not alone.

I turn, just enough to look over my shoulder.

And nearly throw the damn glass.

He's sitting in the corner of the kitchen, half-blended with the shadows, hood pulled low over his face like some ghostly gargoyle on night watch. One arm braced on the table. The vibranium one. Fingers tapping slowly against the wood like he's playing a game only he knows the rules to.

Of course, it's him.

Of course, he didn't say anything when I came in.

My heart stutters, a fraction too hard. I don't flinch. He doesn't get the satisfaction. Not tonight.

"You know," I say, taking another sip just to keep my voice casual, "one of these days I really am going to drop dead from one of your brooding stares. You'd love that, wouldn't you?"

He doesn't respond.

Typical.

I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. "And the silent treatment lives on," I mutter, shoving the glass into the sink harder than necessary. It clinks loudly against porcelain. "You should bottle that energy. Sell it as a sleep aid. Call it Brood: Eau de Trauma. You'd make a killing."

Still nothing.

I busy myself with the coffee pot. The ancient machine rattles when I turn it on, like it might die on the spot out of spite. I load it with grounds anyway. The scent hits fast—sharp, bitter, grounding.

The silence doesn't go away. If anything, it thickens. It's like the kitchen's holding its breath, waiting for one of us to explode. Probably me.

I glance at him again.

He hasn't moved. Not a muscle. Like some perfectly carved monument to aggression and unresolved daddy issues. I can't even see his eyes under the hood, but I feel them. Burning into my skin like laser sights.

I cross the room and drop into the chair across from him.

Correction: his chair.

I know it's his because he always takes this one—back to the wall, full view of every entrance. Classic paranoid soldier. I also know it's his because his jaw ticks the moment I sit.

Gotcha.

I lean back, stretch my legs out under the table. I don't touch him, but I let my boot nudge the chair leg just enough to make a point. He still doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. His body language is a full-volume threat—coiled muscle, clenched jaw, a thousand-yard glare that could peel paint.

Why does he always act like I kicked his dog?

It's been weeks since Bucharest. Weeks since I nearly took his head off under orders I didn't choose. I apologized. Once. Through gritted teeth. And mostly to myself. Not that it mattered. Nothing matters with him. He still looks at me like I'm a ticking bomb strapped to his team.

Like he's just waiting for me to blow.

Fine. Let him.

The coffee machine hisses behind me. I don't move.

I want to punch him. Just once. Right in his stupid, beautiful face.

The thought must flicker too loud across my expression because his head tilts slightly, just slightly, like he has read my mind and dares me to try it.

The machine beeps.

I rise slowly, pour myself a mug.

I don't offer him one.

I take a long sip, then look him dead in the eye.

"You're a real joy, Barnes. Sunshine in human form."

Still no answer.

But for a split second, I think—just maybe—I see the corner of his mouth twitch.

The coffee's cooled. I sip it anyway, curled on the edge of the counter like a cat in a war zone. The silence has settled back in, thick as the steam curling from my mug. Bucky hasn't moved from his shadowy post, and I don't bother acknowledging him anymore. We've reached the ceasefire part of our morning routine.

Outside, the sky's starting to change—charcoal smudged with silver. Another hour and the birds will start screaming.

I press my temple with two fingers. The dull throb behind my eyes is building again. It's not a headache. Not mine, at least.

I know the signs. The static hum. The invisible thread tugging at the edge of my consciousness. The wrong thoughts, creeping in like smoke under a locked door.

"No," I whisper. "Not again."

But it's already too late.

The kitchen fades.

Red lipstick. Dark curls pinned into victory rolls. A silk blouse tucked into high-waisted slacks. She stands beside a desk, sunlight streaking across her face like gold paint. Her voice is soft. British. Devastating.

"You're going to have to go, Steve."

He reaches for her. He doesn't want to.

He always reaches out anyway.

The window panes rattle. Sirens. War in the distance. But none of it touches her. She's too perfect. Too still.

Then water.

So much water.

Crushing silence.

A cockpit fills with ice as the world slows. His breath fogs the glass. One last thought: I'm sorry.

And her name.

Peggy.

I snap back with a gasp.

My grip slips on the mug. It clatters into the sink, sloshing the last of the coffee down the drain. My palms sting. My heart's in my throat.

Steve's still asleep upstairs. But not peacefully. Not ever.

The ghosts are louder in him than most. Sometimes I wonder if his mind ever rests, or if it just paces the same frozen cage every night.

I rub my temples, teeth clenched against the migraine pressing behind my eyes. "Shut it out," I whisper. "Shut the door. Lock it."

I try.

The dreams don't care.

They barge in anyway.

I hate how familiar it feels. That helpless spiraling into someone else's memories. That drowning sensation. His isn't so different from mine. Just colder.

Peggy's face haunts him.

Dragunov's voice haunts me.

Twisted symmetry.

At least Steve's ghost loved him.

Mine built me. Broke me. Named me something I didn't choose and called it love.

I glance at Bucky. He hasn't noticed. Or maybe he has and he's pretending not to. Typical.

Another sharp pulse behind my eyes. I grit my teeth until the pain fades to a low hum.

The air's thick with memories that aren't mine. Frozen oceans. Last words. Goodbyes that never landed.

They all think I'm the one who gets in people's heads.

Funny how sometimes, I'm the one who can't get out.

I change in silence. Compression leggings. Black hoodie. Running shoes still caked with dried dirt from wherever we were last. I lace them tight, double knot.

Behind me, I feel it—his eyes.

I don't look back.

Bucky's shadow looms in the hallway as I open the door. He doesn't say anything, but I feel his stare like a cold wind brushing my spine. Maybe he's waiting for me to disappear. Or maybe he's memorizing the sound of the door creaking shut so he can tell the others exactly when I left.

Fine. Let him watch.

The air outside is colder than I expect. Damp, sharp, still tinged with the ghost of last night's rain. My breath fogs immediately, curling in front of my face like smoke. I start running.

Sam usually comes with me but I'm running earlier than usual today. He'll have to run alone.

The neighborhood's asleep. Rows of identical houses, hedges trimmed too neatly, streetlights blinking against the morning mist. Everything smells like pine and old frost. A dog barks somewhere in the distance, but I don't see it.

Left. Right. Straight. Feet pounding pavement.

I focus on the rhythm. The burn in my calves. The dull pulse in my side. Anything but the buzzing in my brain that never shuts up. One breath, then another. Again. Again.

But the silence doesn't soothe me. It's too quiet.

No cars. No movement in windows. Not even the flutter of a curtain.

Too still.

My pace falters for half a second, just enough to scan the edge of the streetlamp's glow. The shadows ripple—just wind. I think. Probably.

I turn down a different street.

Faster now.

My feet hit the pavement harder than they should, each step an echo. My senses stretch like taut wire—something's wrong. I know wrong. I've been trained to smell it.

Still feels like I'm being watched.

I check a storefront reflection. Empty sidewalk. Just me. Just fog and streetlamps and the pulse screaming in my ears.

"Get over yourself," I whisper, breath catching. "You're paranoid. Just run."

Then I hear it.

The scrape of gravel.

I pivot, but it's too late.

A shadow crashes into me from the side—solid, fast, trained. I hit the ground hard, elbow jamming into wet concrete. Instinct kicks in.

I roll, twist, slam a knee into his side. He grunts—voice muffled by a black mask. No time to think.

He's on me again, heavier this time. Pinning my arms. I snap my head forward, crack his nose with my forehead. He stumbles. I shove both hands under his mask and against his temples and push.

A neuroelectric pulse surges from my fingertips.

His brain short-circuits under my hands.

He goes limp. Not dead. I think. Don't care.

I don't stay to check.

I'm up. Running again.

Every nerve screams now. A full-blown siren wailing under my skin.

Footsteps.

More of them.

They're behind me.

Slower than me, but close.

I swerve down another street, heart jackhammering. My vision narrows. Tunnel focus. Just pavement and breath and the white-hot edge of fear sharpening everything. I glimpse something in the window to my right—just my reflection, blurred and pale—but I slow anyway.

Rookie mistake.

Another pair of footsteps now.

No—three.

They're hunting me.

I cut through a hedge, sprint into someone's backyard. Clothesline catches my shoulder—I drop low, roll, keep running. Gate. Locked. I scale the fence instead, land hard. Ankle twists, I grit my teeth and push through it.

Voices now. Low. Commanding. Too far for words, but close enough I feel the vibration of them.

Dragunov taught me this part.

Tune in. Sense the shift in the air before it moves.

I stop breathing. Listen.

The wind's changed. Faint rustle—left side.

I pivot just as another figure charges me from the shadows.

I duck, grab his wrist, twist hard enough to hear the pop. He screams. I throw him into a trash bin and bolt again.

The safe house is four blocks away. I don't know if I'll make it.

But I do know one thing.

This wasn't random.

Someone found me.

Someone sent them.

And this time, they didn't come to talk.

I slam through the front door so hard it nearly tears off the hinges.

"We have to go!" I scream, already diving for the kitchen island.

Gunfire erupts behind me—sharp, brutal cracks of sound that shatter the window and slice through the quiet like razor wire. Shards of glass rain across the floor. Something whizzes past my shoulder and embeds in the wall with a vicious thunk.

Sam's already moving. His silhouette blurs as he darts past, grabbing the duffel bag we never unpacked. His wings snap into place with a mechanical hiss, metal gleaming in the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains. No hesitation. Pure muscle memory.

Steve bursts in from the hallway, half-dressed, shield already strapped to his arm. He doesn't ask questions. Doesn't blink. He lifts the shield like it's an extension of himself and boom—the first bullet ricochets off the vibranium, spinning into the corner.

"Go, go!" he barks.

I scramble behind the counter, heart thundering. I duck low, fingers slick with sweat as I yank open the drawer where Sam keeps the sidearm. It's not mine. Doesn't matter. I flick the safety off and pop up just long enough to fire three shots toward the front window.

Something screams. Human? Not sure. Doesn't matter.

Bucky appears like smoke. Silent. Deadly. His hoodie's gone, replaced with body armor and that damned knife glinting in his hand. He moves with ghost-quiet precision, eyes scanning, calculating. A shadow darts near the hallway and he throws the blade without looking.

It lands.

Hard.

"Clear left," he says flatly.

Gunfire continues—short bursts now, scattered. They're trying to flush us out.

I press my back to the counter and suck in a breath that burns like fire. My legs shake, not from fear—no, not anymore—but from adrenaline, from the jolt of remembering what it feels like to be hunted.

Then—

Silence.

Too fast. Too clean.

I freeze.

Even Sam pauses mid-step. Steve lifts his shield a fraction higher. The only sound is my own heartbeat, thunderous in my ears. The kind of silence that shouldn't exist after gunfire. The kind that precedes something worse.

Bucky's head snaps up.

I follow his gaze just as—

Crash!

The ceiling explodes.

Debris rains down in chunks of plaster and wood. A pipe snaps, sprays cold water in a shrieking arc. Through the wreckage, they drop.

Black figures—six, maybe seven of them—descending like spiders. Rappelling ropes. Black armor. Matte-finished helmets with mirrored visors. No insignias. No names. Just smooth, inhuman movements. Their bodies creak with the sound of synthetic fabric and death. Ross found us.

"Above!" I shout, throwing myself backward.

Sam blasts into the air, wings slicing upward. One of them lunges mid-drop to intercept him, and they collide in midair, spiraling into the wall.

Steve raises his shield just in time to catch a baton strike that would've cracked his skull. He pushes forward, shoving the attacker back into the island.

Another grabs me.

Big. Strong. A hint of cologne beneath the Kevlar.

I twist, elbow up, slam it into the side of his helmet. No reaction.

Fine.

I drive my thumb into the soft spot just under the jaw, feel the spark of power hum in my fingertips, and zap his nervous system like a breaker switch. He drops.

But there's another.

Always another.

I spin, duck under a punch, and feel wind whistle past my temple. My knee comes up—gut strike. I go low again, hook his ankle, yank. He hits the ground, and I stomp the inside of his elbow hard enough to dislocate it.

He screams.

Another shadow descends. I raise my stolen pistol and fire. The shot goes wide. Damn it. I dodge left just in time to avoid getting caught in a bear hug. Not dying in a headlock, thanks.

Bucky is a blur on the staircase, his metal arm crushing one of them against the banister. Wood splinters. The agent slumps, unconscious or worse.

"Back exit!" Steve shouts.

But there's no way out—not yet. They're swarming too fast. Coordinated. Not amateurs.

"Where the hell are they coming from?" Sam yells, launching another attacker through the kitchen window. More glass. More cold air.

"This was a trap," I hiss. "They waited for me to lead them here."

Steve doesn't argue.

He knows I'm right.

Usually, I take joy in being right, but in this situation, I hate being right.

Another agent comes at me—this one fast, fast enough to be enhanced. He swings. I block, barely. My wrist flares with pain. He grabs my shoulder.

Then he stops.

Frozen.

His body jerks. Eyes roll back behind his visor. I don't wait—I slam my boot into his chest and shove him into the fridge, letting the psychic backlash knock him out.

My lungs burn.

The floor is slick with blood and broken glass.

Still not over.

Then I hear it.

Whirr. Mechanical. High-pitched.

I look up.

A second wave is coming—ropes descending from a black hole in the ceiling like venomous threads.

More agents.

Too many.

We have to move.

Now.

Arms lock around my throat.

Too fast.

I didn't even hear him come up behind me.

I thrash, nails digging into leather and Kevlar, but the grip is iron-tight. My air cuts off like a slammed door. A second agent barrels toward me, baton raised. I twist, legs snapping up in reflex.

Dragunov taught me this—use your body like a weapon. So I do.

I hook both legs around the first agent's waist and throw myself backward. The second guy's momentum carries him forward. I twist mid-air, just enough to catch his shin and flip him off balance. He slams into the floor with a satisfying grunt.

Still choking.

Still can't breathe.

I reach for skin—anything—just to send a shock into his nervous system. But he's fully covered. Black gloves. Full helmet. No exposed flesh. I can't get in.

My vision starts to shimmer at the edges. White static blooming behind my eyes.

I claw at the arm around my throat, panic surging.

No.

Not like this.

My fingers find the emergency sheath I had tucked into my leggings, grip the tiny dagger with knuckles gone bloodless. I drive it backward—once, twice, three times—into his thigh.

He yells, loosens his grip.

I inhale sharply, but it's not enough. Air tastes like blood and plaster.

I plant my boots against the nearest wall and push.

We fly.

Both of us slam into the floor hard. The impact knocks the wind out of me. Everything flashes white. I lie there for a heartbeat too long—ears ringing, ribs screaming, lungs gasping.

Then the arm closes around my throat again.

Rage floods me. I twist, elbow slamming back into his ribs, and with a snarl I grab his wrist and snap it backward. I feel the bone give. The scream is muffled through his mask, but I hear it. I roll off him and lurch to my feet, legs trembling.

Every breath hurts.

Every inch of me screams.

Footsteps—more coming.

Then—

"Let's GO!" Sam's voice, desperate and raw.

He grabs my arm, hauls me toward the hallway. I stumble, but he doesn't stop, dragging me through the smoking ruins of the living room. The ceiling still sags dangerously. Fire licks across the curtain rods, embers raining from splintered beams.

We burst through the back door into cold, biting air.

The sky is gray with smoke. The wind tastes like ash.

There—half-shadowed beneath a canopy of trees—the Quinjet. Ramp already lowering. Its engines hum, low and angry, like it knows what's coming.

"Cover!" Bucky calls from somewhere to our left.

Bullets ping off concrete. Steve runs past, shield deflecting a burst of gunfire from behind the shed. He throws it—perfect arc—and it slams into one of the pursuing agents, knocking them off their feet.

Sam lets go of me and takes to the air, wings snapping wide. He flies above us, dropping smoke pellets behind him. The world turns gray and stinging. My feet pound over cracked pavement, boots slipping in wet grass as I sprint for the Quinjet.

Gunfire again. Too close.

I duck instinctively. Something grazes my side—hot, sharp. I bite down a scream and keep moving.

The ramp looms ahead. Steve grabs me from behind and throws me up into the bay.

I hit hard.

Bucky's right behind us, arm shielding his head from a final volley of shots. Sam swoops in last, wings folding as he lands and slaps the ramp controls.

It starts to close.

Engines whine louder—rising pitch, heat rippling the air. We lift.

Up, up—trees whipping past as the Quinjet claws into the sky.

I collapse against the wall, gasping, bleeding, coughing smoke. My throat's raw. My side is wet—either sweat or blood or both. I don't know. Doesn't matter.

And then—

BOOM.

The safe house explodes.

I jerk forward, the shockwave slamming into the side of the Quinjet. The whole ship rocks. I press my hand against the cold metal wall, staring out the rear window.

Fire consumes everything.

Orange and red flames pour through the roof, windows, doorways. The back wall collapses inward. A plume of black smoke twists into the sky like a curse.

Acrid heat stings my nose, even from here. The roar of it fills my ears, deafening. Glass sparkles midair like falling stars.

We fly higher, leaving nothing but smoke and ruin behind.

No one speaks.

Not for a long minute.

Then I finally whisper, half-laughing, half-breathless, "Guess we're not going back to Denmark."