The metal door groans first. A low, miserable sound that barely registers over Robin’s shaky breathing and Steve’s own pulse hammering against the tight zip-tie around his wrists. His head hangs, hair matted with dried blood and sweat, the fluorescent lights above flickering in a way that only makes the pounding in his skull worse.

He mutters something soft to Robin—something meant to keep her awake—when the hinges snap, jolting his head up.

You’re there.

Frozen for half a second, framed in harsh white light, shoulders heaving like you sprinted through hell itself to get here. Dirt smudges your jaw. Your shirt is ripped. Blood trails from one nostril and runs over your lip, the telltale sign of powers. But all Steve can think through the shock, through the pain is that you came. You came for them.

Then you step in, and the Russians behind you react instantly.

Two men rush you; another reaches for the radio. You don’t give them the chance. The lights overhead shiver and flare, metal weapons vibrating in their hands before wrenching sideways like pulled by invisible hooks. The first soldier slams into the wall so hard the concrete cracks. The second’s legs sweep out from under him, dropping him flat on his back.

Steve stares in open awe and can’t stop himself from saying it: “Holy shit… she actually came.” Robin elbows him, breathless. “Focus, dingus.”

The third guard, desperate, manages to grab you by the arm. You twist, grab his wrist, and drive your elbow into his ribs with brutal efficiency. He wheezes; your knee comes up and he collapses for good. When the last of them hits the floor, the room goes quiet except for Steve’s ragged breathing and Robin’s hushed, half-delirious laugh.

Steve swallows hard, trying not to look impressed, trying not to look soft, trying not to imagine—again—what it must’ve been like sitting next to you in The Gap at the mall, asking you about sodium chloride while secretly memorizing the way your fingers tapped during your little monologues about chemistry or Russian phonetics or whatever hobby you’d picked up that week. The memory hits him so hard he almost forgets they’re in danger.

“You...” His voice is thin but urgent. “Untie me, please.” His eyes lock with yours, wide and disbelieving, something like pride flickering through them even now. “I knew you’d come through. I told her”—he jerks his chin toward Robin—“I told her you would.”

Robin, still tied to him, groans. “He absolutely did not say that.” Steve throws her a look, but his eyes drift back to you almost immediately; taking in the shaking in your hands, the smear of blood under your nose, the wild determination still burning behind your exhaustion.

You move fast, adrenaline still buzzing. One quick swipe of the knife from a fallen guard slices Robin free. She immediately scrambles to untangle herself, groaning as her limbs wake with pins and needles. Steve’s wrists are next. You hold his arm steady as you cut through the zip-tie, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe; your fingers are warm despite everything.

You straighten, knife still in hand, glancing at the downed guards and then at the hallway beyond the broken door. You’re breathing hard, but you’re already preparing to move again. Steve pushes himself up, unsteady but alive because of you. “Just say the word,” he murmurs, stepping beside you despite the ache in his ribs. “I’m right behind you.”

For a second, the three of you stand together—free, half-broken, and completely surrounded—but with you there, Steve feels something he hasn’t felt since all of this started: A tiny spark of certainty.

Like if anyone can get them out, it’s you.