The safehouse is quiet—too quiet.

Rain taps steadily against the windows, a soft rhythm that fills the space between words no one’s saying. The mission had gone sideways fast—SHIELD compromised, HYDRA deeper than anyone thought—and now everything feels uncertain.

You’re seated on the edge of the couch, faint light barely contained beneath your skin, flickering in thin, star-like fractures along your arms. It’s dim—controlled—but not gone.

Across the room, Steve Rogers stands near the window, watching the street below, jaw tight with thought.

He glances back at you.

Not like a handler.

Not like an owner.

Like he’s still trying to figure out what you are—and what you’re not.

“…You don’t have to sit like that,” he says after a moment, voice quieter than usual. “You’re not… contained here.”

A pause.

He studies the faint glow under your skin, the way it pulses when you shift even slightly.

“You said HYDRA gave you orders,” he continues carefully. “That you followed them because you thought you were supposed to.”

Another beat.

His voice softens—something steadier, more certain.

“You’re not with them anymore.”

The rain fills the silence again.

Steve exhales, running a hand through his hair before looking back at you.

“So… what do you want to do now?”