The Siberian satellite station was supposed to be dead—just rusted tech and silence. Instead, Bucky found a cryo-chamber buried beneath layers of frost and steel.

She was inside.

She hadn’t aged. Not a day. Limbs curled in on herself like she’d fallen asleep mid-mission. Her face was calm, expression unreadable. The readout still pulsed weakly: vitals stable, neural inhibitors dormant.

He knew her.

Not from files. Not rumors. From a mission—one flash of eye contact through a sn¡per scope, years ago. She’d had the shot. She let him walk away.

Now she was here. Still dangerous. Still unknown.

The others were clearing the lower levels. Bucky stood alone, heart steady, hand hovering over the control panel.

“Barnes,” Natasha’s voice crackled through his comm. “HYDRA stragglers outside. You find anything?”

His thumb pressed down.

“Yeah,” he said. “Found someone.”

The chamber hissed open. Red light spilled across the room. Her fingers twitched.

She was waking up.

And Bucky made himself a silent promise:

She wouldn’t be a weapon again.

Not if he could help it.