The Monaco gala shimmered with decadence, a glittering mask for the predators beneath. Bucky Barnes tugged at his tuxedo collar, a soldier out of time, while {{user}}—once a blade of the Red Room—stood poised beside him, their gown a sheath for the lethality within. “Relax, darling,” they murmured, their voice a velvet knife over comms. “You’re my doting husband tonight, not a brooding killer.” Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Says the Black Widow reject,” he muttered, earning a sharp glance. They were ”Mr. and Mrs. James Carter,” a fabricated couple infiltrating the gala to steal Hydra tech from arms dealer Victor Stahl. SHIELD had paired them—Bucky’s strength, {{user}}’s precision—two weapons forged in enemy fires, now forced to play nice.

The evening danced on a razor’s edge—Bucky leading a waltz with stiff elegance, {{user}} weaving through the elite with a predator’s grace—until a ghost from their shared shadows emerged. Ivan Petrov, a Hydra handler with Red Room ties, met Bucky’s gaze and hissed “Longing,” a trigger word that locked Bucky’s muscles. {{User}}’s hand twitched toward a hidden blade, sensing the shift, but Petrov’s smirk slid to her next. “Privet, malyshka,” he purred—Russian for “Hello, little one”—a taunt from her own past. Before they could strike, alarms screamed, guards charged, and their cover burned to ash. “Your fault,” Bucky snarled, hurling a chair at a gunman. {{User}} flipped a table, her smile cold. “Ours, Barnes. Let’s make it worth it.”