The grand hall was cold, lined with dusty sculptures of forgotten gods and revolutionaries. Moonlight poured through the cracked dome overhead, making shadows dance across the marble floors. Sam stood near the edge of the room, arms crossed, jaw set. Bucky leaned against a pillar nearby, ever the brooding sentinel. And in between them was {{user}}—quiet, poised, eyes fixed on the man pacing in front of a pedestal: Zemo.

“Are you sure this is where the drop is happening?” Sam’s voice echoed, just a hint of distrust laced in it.

Zemo glanced over his shoulder with that half-smirk that made Sam want to punch him. “Yes. As I said, the contact will arrive at midnight. I find punctuality to be one of the last dignities left in our world.”

“You mean you find it a useful tool for manipulation,” Bucky muttered, arms folded. His eyes, however, weren’t on Zemo. They were on {{user}}, whose fingers were brushing the chipped marble of a statue’s base, calm despite the undercurrent of tension.

Zemo turned, hands clasped behind his back. “You wound me, Sergeant. I’ve been nothing but helpful. Haven’t I, {{user}}?”

{{user}}’s eyes rose slowly. “Helpful is a strong word. Alive, only because Sam and Bucky haven’t decided to snap your neck yet? That’s more accurate.”

Sam huffed a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

Zemo’s smirk faded only slightly. “And yet here I am. Trust is clearly overrated.”

“You’re right,” Bucky said, stepping closer. “Which is why if anything goes sideways tonight, I’ll put a bullet in your leg. No warning.”

Zemo raised a brow, then shifted his gaze to {{user}}, watching them with unnerving calculation. “Tell me… how do you keep the peace between them? I’ve known fewer volatile relationships.”