XLVI. Bucky

The compound is too damn quiet.

Boots echo against the cold floors as I pace, hands shoved deep into my pockets, metal fingers tapping against my thigh. The walls feel closer tonight, tighter somehow, like they know everyone's keeping secrets.

I stop, pivot, start pacing the other way.

I shouldn't even be thinking about this. I shouldn't care. Emris can take care of herself. She doesn't need anyone, least of all me, skulking around like some half-assed bodyguard.

I roll my shoulders, the joints grinding faintly.

Anyway, Steve should be the one checking on her. Captain America, Mr. Good Decisions, always doing the right thing. Except he's too busy sneaking around with Nat, thinking nobody notices how weird they've gotten since they started... whatever the hell they're doing.

I clench my jaw, a muscle ticking.

It's not like I care. Not really. It's just—

It's just weird. Steve's not supposed to have secrets from me. And now it's like he's carrying this whole other world around on his back, and I'm not allowed through the front door anymore.

Whatever. Let him have his secrets. Let Nat smirk and Steve stumble over his damn words every time they're in the same room. It's none of my business.

Just like Emris isn't my business.

My boots thud harder against the ground as I stalk toward the Medbay wing. The air smells like bleach and steel and something softer buried under it—vanilla.

Her.

I shove the thought away with both hands.

Fine.

Maybe I'll go for a walk.

Maybe I'll pass her room.

Not like I'll go in.

I snort under my breath, a dry, humorless sound that bounces off the walls. I'm pathetic. Acting like a goddamn teenager circling the block around his crush's house.

Except this isn't a crush.

This is... concern. Tactical awareness.

Because if she snaps again, if Dragunov's poison still has its claws buried deep, someone's gotta be ready.

It's not like I care.

I flex my vibranium fingers, listening to the faint creak of the servo joints. It gives my hands something to do, keeps them from curling into fists I don't need.

I catch myself glancing toward her hallway again. Grit my teeth. Adjust the strap on my glove like it matters.

Maybe she's asleep.

Maybe she's awake, sitting in the dark, thinking about all the ways she could kill us in our sleep.

My gut twists.

The last time I saw her look that cold, she was walking through a firefight like she didn't have a soul left. Just blood and purpose. Just survival.

A shiver works its way down my spine, and I'm not even sure if it's fear or something else.

I move, boots scraping against the floor.

Not toward her room. Just... nearby. Casual. Like I'm stretching my legs. Like I'm just restless because of Steve and Nat's awkwardness, not because there's a part of me that won't shut the hell up, screaming at me to check on her.

I pass a flickering light panel, the buzz of the faulty wiring sharp in my ears. It smells even stronger here—vanilla and something burned.

I slow down without meaning to, my shadow stretching long down the hallway.

This is stupid.

I should turn around. I should go back to my room, shut the door, and pretend I don't care what's happening behind hers.

My thumb runs over the edge of my belt, a restless habit. The leather's worn smooth from years of doing exactly that—stalling. Hesitating.

I don't hesitate anymore.

Except when it comes to her.

I grind my teeth and force myself to keep walking, the decision hitting like a fist between my ribs.

Just a walk.

Maybe I'll pass her room.

Not like I'll go in.

Not like I'll do something stupid.

The corridor stretches out ahead of me, sterile and empty.

Lights buzz faintly overhead, too bright against the washed-out walls. My boots strike the floor with steady, hollow thuds, the sound loud in the dead silence of the compound at this hour. Every footstep feels like a goddamn gunshot.

Cold drafts leak from somewhere overhead, brushing the back of my neck, slipping down the collar of my jacket. Goosebumps prick my arms anyway, and I don't even bother blaming the chill.

It's too quiet.

Too clean.

Like the whole place is holding its breath.

I roll my shoulders again, trying to shake it off. Trying to shake her off.

Because I'm not worried.

I'm not.

Emris is fine. She's a survivor. A fighter. She's more dangerous half-dead than most people are at their best. She doesn't need anyone looking out for her—especially not me. Especially not now, when I'm not even sure who the hell's side she's on.

My hand ghosts over the wall as I walk, fingertips brushing the smooth, cold surface. I don't need to check. I don't need to be here.

I tell myself that with every step.

And then I smell it.

I freeze mid-step, boot scuffing loud against the floor.

Vanilla.

Not just any vanilla.

Hers.

It's faint, but sharp enough to drive the air from my lungs for a second. Sharp enough that my mind stutters, cracks open for a beat.

A memory slams into me like a punch:

—Emris standing in the training room, breathing hard, blood dripping down her temple, that scent rising off her skin every time she moved—

—Emris pressed against the wall in a safe house, laughing low and dangerous under her breath, vanilla and sweat and something darker curling off her in waves—

I blink hard, clearing the ghosts.

The corridor's still empty. Still cold. Still humming too bright under those overhead lights.

But something's wrong.

My pulse kicks up, hammering against my ribs. My fingers twitch at my sides.

It's stupid. It's nothing. Probably just residue—perfume she left clinging to the walls. Hell, maybe it's just my mind playing tricks on me, desperate to find something to fixate on besides the fact that Steve and Nat are sneaking around like teenagers and everything's falling apart.

But my feet are moving before I can stop them, carrying me faster down the hall.

Something's off.

I shove the thought down deep, but it crawls back up anyway, itching under my skin, setting every instinct I have on edge.

I pick up the pace, boots hitting harder against the ground now, breathing tight in my chest.

It's nothing.

It's something.

It's her.

And she's close.

The Medbay door looms ahead, steel-gray and too still.

I slow down, boots whispering against the tile. My heart's hammering loud enough I swear I can feel it in my fingertips.

I glance through the wide observation window. Just a peek. Just enough to shut my damn instincts up and move on.

Except—

The bed's empty.

The sterile white sheets hang limp, half-pulled to the floor, a tangle of medical wires swinging uselessly where they should be anchored to her wrist. The room is deserted. Silent.

I slam my palm against the access panel. The door hisses open and I shove inside, boots scraping hard against the floor.

"Emris," I call out, voice low, rough. No answer.

The air smells like antiseptic. Sharp and clean, but underneath it — vanilla. Faint, stubborn. Her scent clings like smoke.

My hands ball into fists without me meaning to.

I move fast, sweeping the room. Check the corners first—one by one. Under the bed. Behind the cabinets. Scan the ceiling like some part of me expects her to be spider-crawling across it like a damn horror movie.

Nothing.

The bathroom door's ajar.

My chest tightens. I stalk over and nudge it open with two fingers, body coiled tight enough to snap.

"Emris," I say again, quieter this time.

The bathroom's empty.

The mirror's fogged around the edges, water droplets still clinging to the sink like someone just washed up and walked out.

My gut twists hard.

I back out into the room, scanning again, looking for—anything. A sign. A clue. Something to tell me where the hell she went.

And then I see it.

A scrap of paper sitting dead center on the crumpled bed.

I cross the room in two long strides and snatch it up, heart in my throat.

Three words, scrawled in sharp, slanted handwriting:

I'll be fine. - Serpent

I stare at the note like it might catch fire in my hand.

"Fuck," I mutter, crumpling the paper in my fist.

Of course she wouldn't stay put. Of course she wouldn't sit around waiting for someone else to save her. Emris doesn't do helpless. She doesn't do waiting.

My muscles lock up, blood thrumming in my ears.

I look around the room again, slower this time, catching the smaller details I missed in the panic: the IV stand is knocked slightly askew. A faint scuff mark near the window ledge. The blanket half-dragged toward the floor like she tore herself free and left without a backward glance.

She planned this.

Every part of me wants to punch the nearest wall. I grit my teeth instead, shoving the crumpled note into my pocket.

The vanilla scent lingers. Stronger now that I'm standing still, breathing it in like a ghost of her is still here, watching me from the shadows.

"You stubborn, reckless idiot," I mutter under my breath, not sure if I'm talking about her or myself.

Probably both.

I scrub a hand through my hair, already turning toward the door.

She's out there somewhere. Alone. Hurt. Thinking she can handle it all herself.

And I'm going to find her.

My boots hit the floor hard as I tear through the hallway, the cold air biting at my skin even through my clothes. The corridors blur past — all harsh lighting and sterile white — until I nearly slam into Tony and Sam standing outside the conference room.

"She's gone," I bark out, chest heaving.

Tony's head snaps up. His face drains. Sam curses under his breath, already pushing off the wall like he's ready to bolt.

Steve and Nat appear seconds later, moving fast, tension rolling off them like a second skin. Steve's eyes lock on mine, reading the worst of it before I even say more.

"Four guards dead. Nine injured. East gate," Natasha says sharply.

The words hit like a hammer to the gut.

I stand there, blinking, like maybe if I stand still long enough, the facts will rearrange themselves into something less awful. They don't.

Dead. Injured. Emris's work.

A muscle ticks in Steve's jaw. His hands flex uselessly at his sides. He opens his mouth — hesitates — then forces the question out like it tastes bad.

"Where is Emris?"

I don't want to say it.

Saying it makes it real.

"Gone."

The word falls between us like a landmine.

No one moves. No one breathes.

The silence is suffocating, pressing down on my chest, a slow, crushing weight. I shift my stance, metal fingers flexing automatically, desperate for something to ground me.

Tony's laugh cuts through the stillness — a short, bitter sound. It has no humor in it.

"Of course," he mutters, almost to himself. "Of fucking course."

Sam glances toward the hallway, like he's thinking about chasing her down. Like any of us could catch her now.

I scrub a hand over my face. My fingers catch on the stubble along my jaw. The ghost of vanilla still lingers in the air — sharp and sweet and cruel. It clings to my clothes, my memory, like a brand.

Of course she ran. She doesn't trust us. She doesn't trust anyone.

The silence cracks again as FRIDAY's voice snaps over the comms.

"Warning: Secretary Ross approaching the perimeter. Estimated arrival: three minutes."

Every head whips toward the sound.

Sam swears again, louder this time. Steve's already moving, barking orders.

"We need to move. Now. We're still wanted. Ross gets in here, we're screwed."

"We split," Natasha adds quickly, already three steps ahead. "Quinjet's still fueled. We can lift off before he hits the gate."

Tony shakes his head once, a tight, jerky movement. His mouth is pressed into a thin, furious line.

"What about Emris?" Sam demands. "We can't leave her—"

"We're not," Steve says, voice iron. "We find her. We will find her."

"But not from a goddamn prison cell," Natasha snaps.

Tony's fists clench at his sides. For a second, I think he might punch something. Maybe me. Wouldn't blame him.

He exhales sharply through his nose, and Steve starts again. "We get clear. We regroup. Then we find her."

"And pray she hasn't already gotten herself killed," Sam mutters.

The knot in my gut tightens until it feels like it might tear open.

I should've stayed. I should've watched her closer. I should've known.

Steve claps a hand on my shoulder, jolting me back to the present. His grip is firm, grounding.

"You good to move?" he asks, low enough only I can hear.

I nod stiffly. My legs already itch to run.

Find her. Fix this. Before it's too late.

The team moves as one, coordinated even in chaos. Natasha and Steve grab gear. Sam checks the escape routes. Tony snaps out orders to FRIDAY about jamming surveillance.

We run across the tarmac, boots pounding against concrete slick with mist. Tony leads the way, snapping a wrist-mounted hologram open, barking into it for FRIDAY to authorize the emergency Quinjet. I trail behind Steve and Nat, my lungs burning even though I could run circles around them all day. It's not the speed. It's the weight of everything.

The Quinjet is tucked under a camo-sheeting rig, engines purring low, waiting. Waiting like it knew we were gonna screw this up eventually.

Steve throws a look over his shoulder at me. Tight. Grim. I nod once, jaw clenched so hard it aches. We reach the ramp just as it starts lowering with a mechanical groan.

For a second — just a second — Steve and Tony lock eyes. No words. No forgiveness. Just a nod. Heavy. Final. The kind of nod that says everything they can't.

I shove past them up the ramp because I can't watch it. I can't stomach it.

This is my fault.

If I hadn't come back... they'd still be together. Still be friends. Still be the goddamn Avengers.

I hear Sam swearing under his breath behind me. Feel Nat's sharp, assessing gaze on my back. Hear the thunk of the ramp sealing shut, cutting Tony out, cutting the past out. I stumble toward the co-pilot chair, fingers flexing, fists clenching, unclenching. I can't sit. I can't stop moving.

Steve slides into the pilot seat like he's been doing it his whole life. FRIDAY's voice is calm, too calm, over the speakers:

"Stealth mode activated. Emergency protocol engaged."

The Quinjet lifts. Smooth, silent, slipping free from the airstrip and into the low-hanging clouds.

Invisible.

Gone.

Just like her.

I sag against the bulkhead, scrubbing a hand over my face. Every muscle in my body feels wrong — too tight, too hot, too useless. My left shoulder twitches, phantom memories of old fights pulling at it.

Leipzig airport.

Shields crashing.

Steve's face, twisted with pain as he swung at Tony.

Tony's voice, wrecked with betrayal.

You don't deserve that shield. My father made that shield.

I squeeze my eyes shut. The ship hums around us. No one speaks.

Sam's the one who finally breaks the silence. He leans against the wall near me, arms folded, eyes hard. "We have to find her."

His voice cuts through the guilt fog choking me. It's not a question. It's a mission.

I open my mouth — to argue, to agree, I don't even know — but nothing comes out.

Natasha straps into the seat behind Steve without looking at any of us. No objections. No mocking comments. No usual snark. She just fastens the belt and stares dead ahead like she's already planning.

Steve nods once, barely perceptible. "We will."

The way he says it — like a vow, like a promise carved in stone — makes my stomach knot tighter.

I shove off the wall and start pacing. Short, stiff steps. My boots thud against the floor, too loud in the quiet. My fingers itch, the vibranium ones curling into a fist. I can't shake the feeling that this... all of this... was set in motion the second I let myself come back. The second I let them drag me out of the shadows.

Maybe if I hadn't. Maybe if I stayed buried like I should have.

Maybe then the team wouldn't have splintered. Maybe Tony and Steve wouldn't hate each other. Maybe Nat wouldn't have that dead look in her eyes.

I push the thought down hard, bury it under anger and adrenaline. It doesn't matter.

We find her. We bring her back.

That's it.

I slam my fist once against the wall just to feel something, just to anchor myself.

The Quinjet slices through the clouds, silent as a phantom, and somewhere out there — Emris is alone.

Or worse.

And this time, I'm not gonna let her disappear without a fight.

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

We chase Emris across continents, each time arriving too late, finding only chaos and death. The trail of bodies stretches for months. Each stop, each place where she's been, leaves us more frustrated, more obsessed. I should've known where she was. I should've seen her. My training should've picked up on something.

Asheville, North Carolina.

We find three Hydra operatives, their throats slit with clean precision. No sign of a struggle. Just death.

It's all too neat. Too personal. I know the feeling — the way Emris works. The way she moves when she's in control. Her scent lingers in the air, but she's long gone. I don't even need to look at Steve to know we're thinking the same thing: she's still out there, and we missed her.

Boise, Idaho.

Two Black Lotus agents. Headshots. Clean.

No witnesses. Nothing.

The blood pools on the cracked floor, staining the old wood. But Emris is a shadow, a whisper. By the time we arrive, she's already on to the next place, leaving us nothing but dead men and women and unanswered questions. I can feel my jaw tightening, my fists clenching. Every time, it's the same. Another lead. Another dead end. Another moment I'll never get back.

Santa Fe, New Mexico.

Red Room operatives. They suffocated, but not in the way you'd expect. Their throats are crushed, their eyes wide with terror. It's mind control. She made them kill each other.

I can see it in their faces. The terror. The confusion. She did this, and we were too late. The smell of burnt skin and sweat lingers, the remnants of power used to make them do things they didn't want to. Each time, she's a ghost, slipping through our fingers like sand.

Coimbra, Portugal.

The motel is a bloodbath. Red Room agents lie sprawled in pools of crimson. The walls are spattered with it. She used her knives again. Clean. Precise.

The place reeks of violence, of a fight long finished. She's already gone. We missed her. We always miss her. Her knives marks are embedded in the walls like a signature, marking where she was. But she's gone before we get there. I stand there, fist clenched, staring at the bloodstains. My anger rises like a wave. We're hunting the wrong ghost.

Tallinn, Estonia.

This is the closest we've come.

We nearly have her. Sam's eyes widen as he realizes something too late: Emris brushed past him unnoticed, moving like a shadow, too fast. Too clean. The note he finds in his pocket makes my gut twist:

"Stop following me - Serpent."

It's a warning. And Sam feels the weight of it, the guilt crushing him. He should've noticed. I should've noticed. We both should've. And the rage inside me boils over — I'm a trained soldier. I should've seen her, should've caught her, but instead, we let her slip away again.

Hobart, Tasmania.

The safe house is burned to the ground. The remains of Hydra experiments are scattered across the wreckage.

She did this. I can feel it. Emris torched the place, erasing any evidence that could lead us to her. There's nothing left but charred remains and ash. We missed her again. Every time we arrive, it's like she knows we're coming. Like she's waiting, taunting us.

Exeter, England.

The safe house is abandoned, but the signs of a brutal fight are everywhere.

Multiple dead agents. Some have snapped necks, others shot in the head.

I feel it in my bones — she was here. Her mind manipulation is obvious, the brain short-circuiting I've seen before, the way she can make someone's mind implode on itself. And the others... well, they're just victims, caught in the crossfire. We've seen it all before. And each time, I feel that same gnawing feeling in my gut, knowing we were so close.

We're chasing shadows.

Everywhere we go, Emris leaves her mark: bodies, blood, destruction. She's being hunted by Black Lotus, and we're hunting her, but it feels like she's hunting us, too. Each time, it's the same — no trace left behind but the damage. Every place, every person, every moment is a reminder that we're always too late. Always one step behind.

And the worst part is, I know she's out there, watching us, waiting for us to make the next move. But we can't seem to catch up.

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

We've been chasing shadows for weeks. Every lead, a dead end. Every whisper, a lie. I can feel the weight of it all pressing down on me. Emris is always a step ahead, leaving us in the dust. It's like we're chasing a ghost — and with every passing day, my hope is starting to fade.

Then, finally, a whisper.

Natasha leans in, her voice low, but sharp. "The Serpent's been spotted in Lille, France."

I don't react immediately. It's like a breath I've been holding in for months, finally escaping, but I'm not sure whether to exhale or hold it longer. The team doesn't say anything at first, but I know everyone's thoughts. Emris is alive, she's out there, and we're closing in.

"We fly immediately," Steve says, his jaw set. He doesn't need to say anything more. We all know the stakes now.

The Quinjet lands smoothly in the night, engines humming softly as we touch down in Lille. The city's lights flicker in the distance, but there's a heaviness in the air. A quiet, eerie tension that I can't shake. This feels like the calm before a storm.

Inside the safehouse, the mood is tense. Natasha stands at the front, her arms crossed, eyes scanning the room as she lays out the plan. "We'll divide and conquer. Steve and Sam, you two go to meet a former Red Room agent. You've got the best chance of getting the info we need."

Steve's eyes flick to me, then to Natasha, and she nods at him. "Bucky, you and I are heading to a club. Emris was spotted there. We'll blend in, stay low, and see if we can get any more intel."

It's a simple plan. Divide the team, cover more ground. It makes sense. But it doesn't sit right with me.

I glance at Steve. He's already slipping on his jacket, his face stoic, like he's been made of stone. Sam's behind him, eyes darting around the room. I can tell he's anxious, just like the rest of us. We're all worn out. Fractured. But we're still here, still moving forward.

"Everyone agrees?" Natasha asks, her voice cutting through the silence.

The room's quiet for a beat, then Steve answers, his voice sharp, low, and resigned. "We'll find her."

Sam, his tone quieter than usual, chimes in. "No choice, really."

I nod, my stomach sinking. I feel the same way. There's no going back. If we're not able to find Emris now, we might lose her for good.

Natasha doesn't waste any more time. "Let's move."

As we head to the garage, the air is thick with the weight of what's coming. Steve and Sam take a car — they'll head to the Red Room agent. I glance over at Natasha, my fingers brushing against the cool metal of the motorcycle I'm about to ride. The roar of the engine feels like a death knell in my chest.

Riding out with Natasha feels different this time. We've been partners before, but this — this is different. I don't know if it's the weight of the mission, or the fact that we're chasing Emris — someone I'm still not sure how to feel about. But right now, I'm more focused on the task than anything else.

Natasha revs the engine, a sharp, metallic growl that cuts through the tension in the air. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. Every move feels heavy, and I can't shake the feeling that this is a suicide mission. We're walking into an unknown, with no guarantee we'll even find her. Hell, if we do find her, who knows what condition she's in.

But what choice do we have? We can't stop until we find her. Until we fix this mess.

I look over at Natasha, her face cold and unreadable. There's a part of me that wants to trust her, to believe we're going to catch her and fix everything. But that part of me is buried deep, overshadowed by the guilt and the fear.

The engine hums beneath me, pulling me forward, and I shake off the creeping doubt. Whatever happens next, I can't afford to hesitate.

The wind rips at my face as we speed through the city streets, my mind racing. Every turn, every corner — it's a hunt. And I know we're getting closer. I have to believe that. Because if we don't find her here, we might never get another chance.

The engine roars beneath me as I grip the handlebars, my knuckles white. The night air cuts at my face, cold enough to bite, but I barely notice. I've been in colder places. The city around me blurs into a smear of neon and darkness, the streets empty except for the occasional stray pedestrian or car. It's like the world is holding its breath, waiting.

Natasha is behind me, the hum of her motorcycle close enough to remind me she's there, but far enough for me to feel like I'm still in control. I lead, and she follows — always watching, always ready.

I hate this. I hate everything about it.

I hate the hum of the engine, the way it vibrates through my body. I hate the smell of exhaust and cold metal. But mostly, I hate the idea of stepping into that club. The noise, the bodies pressing in on each other. The lights flashing in strobe patterns that make it impossible to focus. It's the kind of place I avoid, the kind of place that makes my skin crawl. The kind of place where I'll have to act like I belong, blend in, and pretend like everything isn't falling apart.

And I hate the idea of seeing Emris again.

I don't even know if I want to find her.

She got into my head. She still gets into my head. And I can't forget that. Every damn day, I hear her voice, see her face, feel the weight of her presence lingering. It was a mistake, letting her help with my nightmare. A weakness I can't afford to repeat.

A sharp jolt cuts through my thoughts, and I catch myself leaning too far to the right as the bike swerves. I straighten up, pushing the thought aside. But it's like I can still feel her hands on my mind, soft and insistent. The way she calmed my nightmare months ago, her voice a thread of quiet reassurance in the chaos.

I can't let myself go there again.

It was a mistake. I wasn't supposed to let anyone do that to me. She wasn't supposed to do that to me.

I push the memory down, tightening my grip on the handlebars. The cold air stings my face, a sharp reminder that I'm here, alive, and in control — or at least, I should be. The city is an endless maze of dark alleys and neon-lit corners. The cobblestone streets below the tires are slick with rain, the sound of water trickling from gutters the only real noise. Everything feels too quiet, too still, like something is about to explode.

Natasha's bike hums behind me again, cutting through the silence. I force myself to concentrate on the road ahead, blocking out everything except for the task at hand. I can't afford distractions. Not now.

I can't afford to let myself think about her. I can't afford to let myself care.

The club is coming up ahead, its lights blinking like some kind of warning. It feels like the place is waiting for me, pulling me in. I don't know if I'm ready to walk in there. I don't know if I'm ready to face her again.

But I'm here. And there's no turning back.

The club looms ahead, a glowing beacon of chaos in the middle of the darkened street. Neon lights flash across the facade, casting an unnatural glow on the damp cobblestones. The bass from inside thuds against the night air, a pulsating rhythm that sends a wave of unease through me. It's too loud, too bright — everything I hate.

But it's not the lights or the noise that stops me.

It's the motorcycle.

I spot it first — a dark, sleek bike parked just off to the side, tucked into a shadow like it's trying to hide. My pulse picks up, the sudden spike of adrenaline hitting like a punch to the gut.

There's something about the way it's parked. Too deliberate. Too calm. As if the person who left it there knows exactly what they're doing. And I know exactly who rides a bike like that.

I can feel Natasha's gaze on me, her sharp eyes narrowing as she follows the direction of my stare. Her mouth tightens, the corners turning down ever so slightly. She doesn't have to say it. We're both thinking the same thing. Emris could be inside.

I take a step forward, but Natasha holds her hand up, stopping me. I glance at her, trying to keep my focus on the bike. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she pulls it out, tapping away with quick, precise movements. The glow of the screen lights up her face, casting harsh shadows across her features.

"Bucky," she murmurs, her voice low, like she's trying not to disturb the air around us. She taps the phone again. "Keep your eyes peeled. Could be her."

I don't respond. I can't. The knot in my stomach is too tight, the weight of what's happening pressing down on my chest. I take a deep breath, the cold wind biting at my neck, the chill crawling beneath my skin. The club's music leaks into the alley like it's trying to drown out everything else. A sharp beat. Another thump of bass.

I don't want to go in. Every part of me wants to turn around and walk away. This doesn't feel right. I can feel her somewhere out there — out of sight, but close enough that I know she's watching. She's always watching.

I glance at Natasha again, her lips tight as she presses her phone back into her pocket. She doesn't need to say anything. The tension is thick, filling the air around us, thick enough to cut through. She's waiting for a sign, just like I am.

I take a step forward, the sound of my boots tapping softly against the stone. Every movement feels amplified in the quiet of the alley. The club's music grows louder, vibrating through my chest, making it harder to think.

Natasha catches up with me. "Ready?" she asks, her voice clipped, controlled. It's not the question that makes me hesitate, it's the way she asks it. Like she already knows the answer.

I don't want to go in. I don't want to see her. Not like this. But I know what I have to do.

I nod, the decision final.

We both step toward the entrance, the flickering neon lights casting long shadows behind us. The bass beats louder, and the door opens with a low groan, the heat from the club rushing out to meet us.

The moment we step through the door, the club swallows us whole. The air is thick, heavy with sweat and cheap cologne, thick enough to make it feel like I'm breathing through molasses. The bass thuds through my chest, rattling my ribcage like a second heartbeat, and the strobe lights cut through the darkness in sharp, blinding flashes. It's disorienting. The noise, the flashing lights, the chaos — it's too much.

I hate clubs. I hate crowds. But Natasha and I slide into the edge of the room like we belong here, our steps measured, quiet, as we move along the perimeter. I keep my back to the wall, keeping my head on a swivel. I hate this. I hate the way everything feels like it's closing in. Every footstep feels like it's echoing too loud. Every shift in the crowd feels too deliberate.

I'm not here to enjoy myself.

I'm here to find her.

My eyes dart across the crowd, scanning the swarms of people. Men in casual clothes, women in dresses, bodies grinding against each other in time to the music, their faces bathed in flashes of neon. It's all a blur, but I don't stop moving. I can't afford to stop moving. My instincts are on high alert, my senses sharp — hunting.

And then — there she is.

I freeze. It's like the room shatters around me.

Emris.

She stands at the far end of the club, not far from the bar, surrounded by people but still alone. She looks out of place, and yet, somehow, she fits perfectly. The soft curve of her back in the black mini dress, the cowl neckline flowing effortlessly over her shoulders, the way the dress clings to her, drawing attention to the sharp lines of her body. The open back that leads down to the curve of her spine. Her raven hair cascades down her back, curly and wild, catching the flashing lights. She moves through the crowd with that same unsettling confidence, like she owns everything she walks past.

My stomach tightens.

It feels like I got punched. Hard.

I tear my gaze away from her, but it's like I'm fighting a magnet pulling me back. I want to look again. I want to study the way she stands there, calm and dangerous. But I can't. I shouldn't.

What am I doing?

I shake my head internally, forcing myself to focus on the mission. I shouldn't care. I hate her. I'm here to bring her in, for Sam, not get lost in whatever.... this is.

I nudge Natasha, a quick tap of my elbow. She feels it, knows it. I see her tense for a split second, then relax. Her eyes scan the crowd.

Her sharp exhale is the only sound I hear over the pounding music.

"Found her," she murmurs, and her fingers fly to her phone. I catch the slight shift in her expression — relief, maybe. She's been looking for this moment just as much as I have.

She texts Steve, no doubt letting him know we've got eyes on Emris.

"Now what?" I murmur, my voice drowned by the music around us. I keep my eyes on Emris, watching her move, her every action calm and controlled, like she's waiting for something. Or someone.

Natasha looks at me, her lips curling into that small, dangerous smile. "Corner her in," she says, the words barely audible over the thrum of the club.

I scowl. I don't like the sound of that.

"Don't worry," she adds, smirking now, "I've got a plan."