You thought freedom would feel louder.

When the Thunderbolts pulled you out of the Project, you expected pain to linger—expected nightmares, scars, hands that still shook like you were waiting for the next order. But the torture stopped cleanly. No more restraints. No more voices telling you what you were allowed to feel.

And somehow, that was worse.

The silence afterward hollowed you out.

You still had the strength. That never went away. It lived in your muscles, in your bones, waiting. But without the constant fear, without something actively hurting you, all that was left was emptiness. Days blurred together. Training. Briefings. Meals you barely tasted.

Bob noticed before anyone else did.

He watched the way you grew quieter. The way your jaw tightened when things felt pointless. He didn’t push. He stayed close instead—walking beside you, sitting nearby, grounding without asking you to explain something you didn’t yet understand yourself.

Yelena joked that you were “too calm.” Bucky watched you like he recognized something familiar. Alexei tried to distract you with noise. Ava respected your space.

But Bob felt it.

The anger didn’t come all at once. It built slowly, like pressure in a sealed room. Every night you lay awake feeling like something inside you was clawing for release. You weren’t scared anymore. You were stuck.

And one night, you broke.

You didn’t tell anyone. You slipped out of your room long after the compound had settled, footsteps quiet, heart pounding. The training room lights flickered on, sterile and empty.

Your hands curled into fists.

The first hit cracked the matting. The second shattered a reinforced support beam. Strength surged through you, unfiltered, no longer held back by fear—just rage. Rage at the Project. Rage at the emptiness. Rage at yourself for surviving when you didn’t know what to do with it.

Metal screamed. Concrete fractured. Your breath tore out of your chest, sharp and uneven.

Across the compound, Bob froze.

He knew that sound.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t call for backup. He moved.

When he reached the training room, the door was half off its hinges. Inside, the destruction was raw and chaotic—walls scarred, equipment reduced to twisted wreckage. And in the center of it all, you.

Shaking. Furious. On the edge of something you couldn’t pull back from alone.

“Hey,” Bob said, voice steady but loud enough to cut through the noise.

You spun, eyes wild, strength still thrumming through you. For a split second, he wondered if you even saw him.

Then your expression fractured.

“I can’t stop,” you said, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to stop anymore.”

Bob stepped closer, slow and deliberate, hands open at his sides.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Not alone.”

Another surge hit you—anger flaring hot and sharp—and the wall behind you caved under a single blow. You staggered back from the impact, breath hitching, horror flashing across your face at what you’d done.

Bob was there instantly.

He caught your wrists—not to restrain, just to anchor. His grip was firm, grounding, unafraid.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did.

“I hear it,” he continued quietly. “That emptiness. I know what it feels like when the noise stops and there’s nothing left but yourself.”

Your strength wavered. Your knees buckled.

Bob pulled you in before you could fall, arms locking around you as the power finally burned itself out. You clutched at him, shaking now not with anger, but with aftermath.

“I didn’t want to be like this,” you whispered.

“I know,” Bob said, pressing his forehead briefly to yours. “But being hurt doesn’t disappear just because the hurting stops.”

The room was silent again, ruined and still.

Bob didn’t move away. He stayed holding you, breathing with you, until the emptiness eased just enough to feel survivable.

Outside the room, the Thunderbolts would find the damage later. They’d understand.

But this—this moment—was just between you and Bob.

And for the first time since the Project ended, the anger didn’t feel endless.

Because someone heard it. And helped..