XLV. Emris

The sharp bite of bleach hits my nose before anything else. It cuts straight through the fog in my head, pulling me up from the dark.

There's a steady hum, low and constant, vibrating somewhere behind the walls. Machines. Monitoring. Watching.

When I crack my eyes open, the light slices across my vision—cold, sterile, too bright. The ceiling above me is pure white, a blank sheet. No patterns. No cracks. No escape.

What am I doing here?

The thought lurches up, heavy and sour in my chest.

I shift slightly, and every nerve ending lights up in protest. A slow, pulsing burn flares in my side, hot and sharp. Lower ribs—stab wound, my brain supplies mechanically. My left shoulder feels worse—numbness prickles down my arm, the skin too tight where fresh bandages pull against it.

I drag my fingers across the thin hospital blanket. Scratchy fabric. Cheap. Impersonal. There's a tug at my inner elbow, a cold sensation threading up my veins—IV line. Pumping something foreign through my system.

The air tastes wrong. Chemical. Pressurized. Manufactured.

I peel the blanket back with slow, careful movements. My muscles protest, stiff and unwilling, but I grit my teeth and push through it. Bandages crisscross my torso, clean and clinical, tight enough that my skin bulges slightly at the edges.

The wounds should hurt more.

But they don't.

Just a faint throb, distant and dulled, as if someone turned the volume down on my own nerves. Another Black Lotus enhancement. Dragunov's philosophy echoes through my mind, unbidden:

"Fix the weapon. Never coddle it."

I press my palm against the mattress, testing my weight, and sit up.

Pain slices sharp through my side. I breathe through it. My head swims for a second, vision blurring at the edges, but I blink hard until the room stabilizes.

White walls. White floors. White sheets. Machines, blinking silently beside the bed.

No restraints. No guards. No Black Lotus logos burned into the corners.

But that doesn't mean I'm safe.

I tense instinctively, eyes scanning every inch of the room for exits, for threats, for anything I can use if—

The door creaks.

My body locks up, adrenaline flooding my system so fast it makes me dizzy.

Footsteps.

The door opens fully, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Relief, disbelief, and a warmth I'm not used to having anymore all slam into my system at once. I see him—Tony—standing there, framed in the harsh fluorescent lights, like some glitch in the universe I don't trust but want to.

"Tony," I breathe.

He gives me a look that's all exhausted fondness, the kind that feels like an inside joke we forgot we had. "Hey, kid. You gave us a real scare."

He crosses the room in a few strides, and before I can even brace myself, he pulls me into a hug.

I stiffen for a second—too many years of flinching first and thinking later—but it's Tony. It's Tony. His arms are solid around me, careful, not squeezing too hard against the fresh wound stitched across my ribs. I forget to breathe for a second. It's been so long since someone touched me without expectation, without danger curled beneath their fingertips. I almost don't know what to do with it. I let myself lean into him—just a little. Just enough that the walls in my chest crack a hairline fracture.

He smells like motor oil, coffee, and whatever fancy cologne Pepper probably bullied him into wearing. It guts me how normal he smells—like home.

When he pulls back, I catch the flicker of something tight in his eyes before he schools it away. Guilt? Worry? It's Tony. It's always a cocktail of both.

He turns and walks over to a mini fridge tucked against the wall. The humming machinery buzzes in my ears, too loud in the sterile quiet of the medbay. I watch him rummage around for a second, the plastic rustle of a bag breaking the silence.

He walks back and drops something into my lap. A chocolate bar.

My chocolate bar. The exact brand I used to hoard in the Tower when he wasn't looking.

I blink down at it like it's a grenade.

"You've been out for two days," Tony says, voice lighter than it should be, like if he says it casual enough it'll erase the panic from his eyes.

I peel the chocolate bar open with clumsy fingers, the foil crinkling loud against my too-sensitive skin. I don't even want it, not really. It just feels like something to hold onto.

Tony leans his hip against the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest. There's a moment—a heavy one—where he stares at the floor like he's trying to kill it with his mind.

Then, almost too quietly, he says, "Your heart stopped during surgery. Thought we lost you, kid."

The chocolate bar slips a little from my fingers. I laugh. It's too sharp, too quick. A survival reflex. "You know how I like to scare you guys."

Tony rolls his eyes in the most Tony way possible, that exaggerated, theatrical way like the fate of the world has personally inconvenienced him. "Only you would joke about almost dying."

I grin, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Not my first brush with death."

That pulls a ghost of a smile from him—just a flicker—and then it's gone, tucked away like everything else neither of us can say out loud.

For a second, we just sit there, the humming machines filling the air between us. I pick at a loose thread on the blanket covering my legs. My fingers feel too big, too clumsy. Like the weight of the past two days is hanging off my body and I don't know how to wear it.

Finally, I glance up at him. The words tumble out before I can stop them.

"Were you surprised when Steve called?"

His body goes still. Not visibly, not enough that someone else would notice—but I do. The way his shoulders lock. The way his mouth flattens into a tight line.

He doesn't look at me when he says, "You should get some rest, kid."

Deflection. Classic Tony.

My chest hollows out a little.

Guess I'll never get an answer to that question.

Tony pats my ankle through the blanket in a way that's probably supposed to be reassuring and turns toward the door.

As he walks out, I catch it—the slight hunch to his shoulders, the stiff way he moves.

He's carrying something.

Something heavy.

Something about me.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm left alone with my half-eaten chocolate bar and a thousand questions gnawing their way through my skull.

Something prickles at the back of my neck.

Not the sharp, immediate sting of danger—but something subtler. Slower. The heavy weight of a stare.

I freeze mid-bite of the chocolate bar, every inch of me going alert.

Old instincts flare before thought can catch up. Trained reflexes from a thousand drills and a thousand more real-world mistakes: When you feel watched, you usually are.

My eyes flick up without moving my head.

The sterile lights glare off the glass window that separates the medbay from the hallway.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

Standing just beyond the glass like some ghost even death forgot to collect.

He doesn't flinch when our eyes meet. Doesn't look away.

He just... watches me.

Cool. Steady. Measuring.

I tilt my head slightly, a silent, deliberate challenge.

I use the eye contact to my advantage and slip into his mind. Just for a moment. Just to mess with him.

You got something to say, Soldier?

For a second—barely more than a heartbeat—his lip twitches. Not quite a smile. More like the ghost of one. Like maybe he almost forgot who I am, and what I am, and how messy everything between us is.

Then he turns sharply, boots silent on the tile, and walks away without a word.

I stare at the empty space he leaves behind, a strange tightness coiling low in my stomach.

What was that?

Sympathy?

Guilt?

Bucky Barnes doesn't waste emotion on enemies. And he's made it very clear where he thinks I land.

My fingers tighten around the chocolate bar, crumpling the foil with a soft crackle.

He's supposed to hate me. Distrust me. Blame me for everything I remind him of—the brainwashing, the missions, the violence we both carry like second skins.

He shouldn't be looking at me like that.

Like he knows exactly how much it hurts to wake up in a place you don't trust, wrapped in machines and mercy you don't think you deserve.

I shake the thought off, grinding my teeth against the ripple of unease crawling up my spine.

Maybe it wasn't sympathy.

Maybe it was just strategy.

A soldier assessing a threat.

A weapon inspecting another broken weapon.

I shove the chocolate bar back into the mini-fridge with a little too much force, ignoring the sharp sting in my side as I move.

Whatever it was—

It doesn't matter.

It can't matter.

I hate him. He hates me more.

I'm trying not to fall asleep again when I hear the door creak open again.

Soft footsteps—measured, careful.

Not Tony's heavy boots. Not Natasha's silent tread.

Then a voice:

"Well, look who's finally awake."

I grin before I even see him.

"Sam," I say, forcing a little more energy into my voice than I feel. "You gonna tell me about how I almost died too? Seems to be the popular conversation starter today."

Sam chuckles under his breath, and when I turn my head, he's leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, shoulders loose.

But his eyes—

His eyes are still tight around the edges.

"You scared the shit out of me," he says, no real humor in it this time.

The words hit harder than I expect.

It's weird, having someone say it so plainly. Like I matter enough to terrify someone.

Like my body—broken, bloody, limp—was enough to rip real fear out of someone else's chest.

Sam steps further into the room, hands dropping to his sides, open and unguarded.

"When Bucky knocked down my door with your limp body in his arms," he continues, voice quieter now, "I thought you were dead."

His words slice through the stale air sharper than any blade Dragunov ever pressed against my skin.

I mask the sudden, ugly twist in my gut in the only way I know how.

Deflect. Joke. Pretend it's nothing.

"Thought Bucky killed me?" I say with a smirk, even though my throat feels tight and raw.

Sam huffs a half-laugh, shaking his head.

"Nah. You're a pain in the ass, but you're our pain in the ass."

He crosses the room in a few strides, standing close enough now that I can smell the faint scent of soap and leather on his jacket.

I brace for him to say something else. Something soft. Something that'll make the ache under my ribs worse.

But he just reaches out and ruffles my hair like I'm an annoying little sister he can't quite shake.

A rough, affectionate swipe of his palm across my scalp that leaves my already tangled hair worse off.

I blink at him, stunned by the easy familiarity of it.

Nobody in Black Lotus ever touched you unless it was to break something.

Nobody in the Red Room ever showed affection without a cost.

Touch was control. Touch was correction. Touch was pain.

But Sam?

Sam just ruffles my hair like it's normal. Like I'm normal.

"I'm glad you're okay, Em," he says, voice softer now. Almost a whisper.

He doesn't wait for a response.

Doesn't ask for promises or apologies or gratitude.

Just gives me one last, fond, exasperated look and walks out of the medbay, whistling low under his breath.

The door hisses shut behind him, sealing the sterile brightness back around me.

I sit there, blinking at the empty space he leaves behind, feeling the faint ghost of his hand on my head.

And for the first time since waking up in this too-bright, too-quiet room, I let myself believe—

Maybe I'm not alone.

Not completely.

The medbay lights dim automatically, washing the room in gray shadows.

I lie flat on the narrow bed, stiff under the thin blanket, my body a knot of restless energy.

The air stinks of bleach and antiseptic, sharp enough to burn the inside of my nose.

The hum of machines thrums against my skull — too steady, too alive.

Not my heartbeat. Not mine.

I stare up at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the past pressing down, squeezing the air from my lungs.

Every breath tastes sterile, wrong.

Every beat of my heart feels borrowed.

I try to trick my body into stillness.

Into safety.

But safety is a lie.

I learned that young.

I shut my eyes.

And the darkness leaps at me.

—boots thudding against concrete

—leather straps cutting into raw skin

—the hiss of a cold voice—

"A weapon that sleeps is a weapon that dies."

The words slice through my mind.

And suddenly—

I'm not in the medbay anymore.

I'm strapped to a chair.

Hands bound tight, circulation burning away.

My bare feet planted against wet, icy stone.

A rough cloth yanked over my face.

The stink of mildew and blood clogs my nose, my mouth.

I barely have time to suck in a breath before—

The water comes.

Cold as a glacier, brutal as a fist.

It crashes down, soaking the cloth instantly, sealing over my nose and lips like a living thing.

I can't breathe.

I can't even scream.

Panic detonates inside my skull.

My body bucks instinctively against the restraints, useless, helpless.

My throat convulses.

My lungs burn.

The world narrows to water and pressure, and need.

Need for air.

Need for mercy.

Neither comes.

"Weakness," Dragunov says somewhere beyond the flood. His voice is calm. Detached. "Weakness is treason."

I thrash harder, the chair scraping against the floor.

Black spots explode behind my eyes.

My chest heaves uselessly, pulling in nothing but wet suffocation.

I'm dying. I'm dying.

No one is coming to save me.

No one ever did.

Finally, at the last moment, the cloth is ripped away.

Water and vomit spew from my mouth, my body racked by violent coughs.

I gasp, sobbing in air that tastes like rust and stone.

Above me, Dragunov's silhouette looms.

Dispassionate.

Unimpressed.

"You sleep, you die," he says again, stepping closer.

His boot splashes through the puddle forming under my chair.

He crouches, grabbing my soaked chin with gloved fingers.

Forces my head up.

"Are you awake now, Serpent?"

I want to answer.

I want to snarl, to spit blood and fury in his face.

But all I can do is shudder in his grasp.

Small.

Defeated.

I blink—and the medbay ceiling snaps back into view.

I jolt upright with a strangled gasp, heart jackhammering against my ribs.

My hospital gown clings to my skin, soaked in cold sweat.

Every muscle trembles, refusing to believe the threat is over.

The machines beep anxiously around me, cables pulling taut against my thrashing.

An IV rips loose from my arm, blood trickling down to stain the white sheets in a thin, accusing line.

Good.

Pain means I'm still here.

Still real.

The floor feels like ice when my bare feet hit it.

I grip the edge of the bed, nails biting into the cheap plastic, grounding myself with force.

In.

Out.

Breathe.

The bleach-sour air floods my nose.

The hum of electronics buzzes at the edge of hearing.

No cold water.

No restraints.

No Dragunov.

Just me.

Just now.

Just scars that refuse to stay buried.

I press my palms to my face and sit there, shaking and silent, for a long time.

Counting breaths.

Counting heartbeats.

Counting all the ways I survived the places no one else could.

But some nights, like this one, I wonder if survival was the worst punishment of all.

The clock on the far wall blinks an accusing red: 10:36 PM.

The room is dim, the overhead lights humming low and broken, flickering now and then like a dying star.

I stare at the numbers until they blur.

Until they carve themselves into the inside of my skull.

I can't stay.

Not when I'm a time bomb stitched back together with blood and lies.

Not when I can already feel Dragunov's leash tightening around my throat.

It's not safe.

I'm not safe.

Not for them.

Not for anyone.

My body protests as I swing my legs off the bed, a sharp, slicing pain stitching up my side like barbed wire threading through flesh.

I breathe through my teeth, forcing myself not to make a sound.

Weakness gets you killed.

The floor is cold against my bare feet, the linoleum slick with the ghost of bleach and steel.

Every step feels too loud, too heavy, but I move anyway — slow, deliberate, a shadow among shadows.

My duffel waits, tucked beneath the bed where someone had left it.

Right where I always leave it in safe houses.

Because you never know when you'll have to run.

Sam must have put it here.

The zipper chain scrapes through the silence, impossibly loud.

I flinch instinctively, heart battering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Focus.

Move.

I pull out my suit — the familiar, worn armor of my real life.

Black-green tactical body suit, sculpted from sleek high tech material that clings to my body like a second skin, deep green panels down it broken only by stark black seams that trace my arms, shoulders and sides of my legs.

It smells faintly of gunpowder and salt and something metallic — like old blood.

Home.

I drag it on piece by piece, each movement sending jolts of agony through my stitched-up side.

I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, using the sting to anchor me.

The suit clings tight, wrapping around bruises and half-healed scars, second skin against battered muscle.

Boots next — scuffed black combat boots, soles almost worn smooth but still silent when I move.

I pull them on with trembling fingers, tugging the laces tight, double-knotting them out of habit.

Then the belt — the arsenal.

Each piece finds its place with a mechanical, ritualistic precision.

Throwing knives, razor-sharp, sheathed against my thighs.

Throwing stars, thinner and lighter, tucked along the curve of my hip.

Glock fitted snug against the small of my back — cold, reassuring weight.

Twin daggers cross-strapped to my lower back — curved, brutal, hungry for blood.

My fingers brush each weapon, memorizing their positions by feel.

A symphony of violence.

A lullaby of survival.

This is who I am.

This is what I'm good at.

The thought settles over me like an old, tattered cloak.

Comforting.

Damning.

I glance once around the room — sterile walls, blinking monitors, the faint echo of distant footsteps in the hall.

How many times have I run before anyone could stop me?

How many times have I left chaos in my wake, thinking it was mercy?

They'll understand.

Or they won't.

It doesn't matter.

I find a scrap of paper on the bedside table, next to a dying lamp.

My hand trembles slightly as I scrawl the note, the pen scratching crooked letters into the surface:

I'll be fine - Serpent.

I fold it neatly — a soldier's fold, crisp and deliberate — and set it down on the still-warm bed.

One last glance at the door.

At the place that could have been something like safety.

Then I slip into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but a name and a warning.

The hallway is silent, but it's the kind of silence that feels like it's breathing — like the air is waiting, holding its breath. The overhead lights hum faintly, their weak glow casting jagged shadows that crawl over the walls, making the space feel even colder. I move with a practiced stealth, pressing my back to the chilled concrete, every step calculated, every muscle tense. I'm not just walking through the compound. I'm slipping through a dream—or maybe a nightmare.

The hallway stretches before me, a dark tunnel of emptiness. It smells of antiseptic, the sterile sting that clings to every corner, mingling with the faint scent of oil and metal. I can feel the buzz of security cameras overhead — the red glow of their lenses tracking the movements of the unwary. Not me. I'm a ghost, a shadow with a purpose.

I hug the walls, keep my steps light, each footfall a whisper against the smooth floor. I can almost hear my own heartbeat, loud in my ears, thumping in rhythm with the tension in my limbs. But I force it down. I focus on the mission.

No mistakes.

I round the corner, my breath held, my body taut like a bowstring. The light from the next set of security cameras flickers as if it's dying, casting strange angles across the hallway. It makes me slow, makes me stop, forces me to slide against the walls with care. I can't afford to be seen.

The next hallway is even darker. I can smell the cold air seeping in from outside, mixing with the dryness of the walls, like the place has been abandoned for far too long. I'm almost there. The exit is just ahead.

Then—

I hear them. Footsteps. Solid. Steady. Purposeful. My body freezes.

I slide into the shadow of the nearest alcove, pressing myself as flat against the wall as I can, praying I blend into the blackness.

The footsteps grow louder, closer.

I hold my breath. Every muscle tightens in preparation.

It's him.

Bucky appears at the end of the hall, his broad figure slicing through the dim light, his boots clicking against the cold floor with sharp precision. His posture is tense, his senses as razor-sharp as ever, sweeping the area with a practiced glance. He's alert, his eyes flickering over every corner as if the shadows themselves are a threat.

And then — he's right there. Right in front of me.

I stay completely still, my heart hammering in my chest. If he turns just a little to the left, if he looks in my direction —

I don't move. I don't breathe.

His gaze lingers where I was, just a few inches from my hiding spot. I can see the glint of his vibranium arm as he flexes his fingers, almost as if he's preparing for a fight. But then, after a heartbeat of frozen silence, he moves on, his steps resuming their rhythmic pace as he walks down the hall.

I let the breath I didn't realize I was holding slip out in a sharp exhale.

The tension bleeds out of me, leaving me cold and shaking. My legs feel like they might give way, but I force myself to remain steady.

Get it together.

I don't look back. I can't. Not now.

It's better this way. No awkward goodbyes. No one trying to convince me to stay.

I slip from the shadows, careful not to make a sound. Every step is a test of patience. The door is just ahead, the cold draft from outside whispering through the crack beneath it. I can almost taste the freedom, the chill of the night air that waits beyond these walls.

I reach for the handle. My hand is steady, my movements smooth.

Then the door opens — silently, like it's always been waiting for me.

And I step into the night.

The cold air rushes over me, sharp and biting against my skin, reminding me of everything I've ever lost. The concrete beneath my feet feels harder, less forgiving. The wind cuts through the layers of my clothing, but I don't care.

I don't look back. I can't.

I might not be safe. But they are.