The Red Room lab, buried in Latvia’s frozen depths, was a maze of steel and decay. The Avengers moved silently—Natasha’s flashlight glinted off rusted tools, Tony’s suit hummed, and Steve’s shield caught the dim light. “Too quiet,” Tony muttered.

They found you on a gurney, wires snaking from your arms, muscles taut with unnatural strength. Bruce’s scanner spiked. “She’s enhanced—like Steve or Bucky.” You woke, serum-fueled reflexes a blur, tossing Natasha into a wall and denting Tony’s armor before Steve restrained you.

In the Avengers Compound, you sat in a vibranium cell, cuffs straining under your grip. The serum burned in your veins, sharpening every sound—Tony’s skeptical mutter, Natasha’s guarded stare. You didn’t trust them. Red Room “saviors” always meant pain. Memories flickered—a Brooklyn café, a man’s laugh—but a trigger word, “Rassvet,” chained them down.

Outside, Steve handed Bucky a tattered notebook, your 1940s poetry inside. “She’s enhanced. Doesn’t trust anyone,” Steve warned. Bucky’s heart lurched as he saw you through the glass—same face, but cold, fierce. “It’s me, Bucky,” he said, voice soft. You glared, spitting, “You’re not him. He’s dead.” But your fingers twitched, like reaching for a pen.

“I’ll prove it,” Bucky said, reciting your poem. “Dawn breaks slow, but it always comes.” Your breath hitched, then an alarm blared—“Rassvet” echoing in your mind, eyes going blank.