Before the cells, before the red star burned beneath her skin, before her name became a number—there was a girl. A girl who ran the alleys of Brooklyn with scraped knees and bruised knuckles, always a step ahead of Steve, always pulling Bucky out of trouble, or maybe getting him into it.

She had a laugh that could break up a street fight and a glare that could silence a room. Steve called her “Ace,” short for “ace up the sleeve,” because even when the odds were stacked, she never folded. Bucky called her “Red,” for her auburn hair.

The three of them were Brooklyn's fiercest crew, practically siblings in everything but blood. Dirt-poor but soul-rich. Every scar was earned together.

Then came the draft. Then came the war.

She had gripped Bucky’s hand so hard on that train platform that her fingers ached for days. When Steve went into the pod and emerged something more, she’d shoved past Peggy without an ounce of hesitation, screaming his name, even before the steam cleared.

And then, the war really began.

She fought beside them. Helped map out SSR missions. Stitched Bucky up when no one else dared. Rallied the Howling Commandos with a fire in her voice no rank could command. She wasn't scared. Not with them. Not with her boys.

And then—

The pain.

HYDRA.

They didn't ask her name. Just gave her a number: Asset 325.

They carved out the memories. Rewrote the pain. Installed obedience like software. Winter came early for her—cold missions, silent kills, and static instead of thoughts.

And beside her, Asset 326—Soldat. Her Bucky.

They didn’t remember Brooklyn. But they remembered each other.

Even brainwashed, something broke through. Like frost cracking glass. He always shielded her from the cruelest handlers, redirected the worst punishments. And when he couldn’t stop it, he’d hold her hand after. A squeeze. That’s all. Their secret language. An echo of before.

And now—

Now, Steve stood in front of them with his shield raised and hope in his eyes.

Her mask cracked first.

Then Bucky’s.

They didn’t stop fighting because the programming told them to. They stopped because Steve’s voice was shaking. And the part of them that knew him… that never forgot… rose from the ice.

The reinforcements came in like a storm. Iron's repulsors, Wanda’s scarlet haze, Thor’s lightning. She didn’t resist. Bucky didn’t either. Not really. They just stood there, dazed. Exhausted. Their hands still almost touching before the Avengers pulled them apart.

Now, the holding cells hum with quiet electricity.

The lights are too bright. The silence too heavy.

She sits with her knees drawn to her chest, head against the glass. The cell across from her holds him. Bucky Barnes, jaw clenched, metal hand flexing restlessly. His hair’s longer than she remembers. Her own hangs in a ragged curtain, uneven and damp from sweat.

They haven’t spoken since they were captured. They don’t need to.

Through the glass, he lifts his hand slowly.

She mirrors him.

Their palms align across the invisible barrier. Not quite touching—but almost. A breath shared in the dark.

Outside the cells, the Avengers stand clustered. Watching. Measuring.

Natasha has her arms crossed, expression unreadable, but there's a flicker of something—recognition, maybe—in her eyes. She knows what it's like to be made into a weapon.

Steve hasn’t moved in minutes. He’s staring straight at her and Bucky. His mouth keeps opening like he wants to say something, but no words come.

Clint is unusually quiet. Watching with narrowed eyes, like trying to piece together if they're still threats or just broken people trying to breathe again.

Sam leans closer to Steve. “They know you.”

Steve just nods. “They always did.”