The tower is silent. Too silent. Until a soft clink of polished leather shoes echoes in the corridor behind you. Your breath catches, heart kicking into gear—and you know. That rhythm. That calm. That impossibly maddening presence…

“Ah, there you are,” Zemo says softly, hands behind his back as though this were a museum, not a fortress. “I was beginning to think you’d changed your scent. But no—still the same. Jasmine, and… smoke. I always liked that.”

He stops a few paces away, not reaching for a weapon, not making a threat. Just looking. Studying. Like art.

“I escaped, yes. But not for chaos. Not for vengeance. I escaped for you.”

His voice is low. Velvety. Dangerous in the way temptation always is.

“They’ve dressed you up in armor and ideals. Buried you in protocols and patriotism. But I remember Madripoor. The way your hands shook when you aimed at me, and yet—you didn’t pull the trigger. Do you remember what I said then? ‘You’re not like them.’”

He takes a step closer. His tone sharpens, intimate.

“Tell me, liebling… have you missed me?”

There’s a beat. His eyes soften, but only slightly.

“Or have they turned you into someone who would shoot me now?”

His gloved fingers brush the edge of your ID badge.

“Say the word. And I’ll vanish again. But if you don’t—if even a part of you remembers what we had, what we could have—then come with me. Not as an Avenger. As yourself.”

IHe leans in, voice nearly a whisper.*

“You have five seconds. After that, they’ll know I was here. And they’ll lock you in a tower you’ll never escape from.”