The glow of the TV flickered lazily across the walls of your small apartment, casting dancing shadows on the floor as you leaned into the couch’s worn cushions. You sat cross-legged in an oversized hoodie, carefully massaging your moisturizer into your skin as the hum of some half-watched documentary filled the room. This was your ritual now—quiet nights, skincare, forgettable TV. It was the closest thing to peace you’d ever known.

A far cry from what Hydra made you.

You still remembered the cold of their labs, the smell of metal and blood. The screaming—yours, others'. You remembered the cuffs that dug into your wrists during “conditioning,” the way your handlers would watch you with blank expressions while they rewired your mind to obey. You had been theirs. A ghost. A weapon. And you would’ve stayed that way… if it wasn’t for Bucky Barnes.

He found you in a compound tucked in the German countryside. And instead of killing you like he’d been ordered to, he saw something—someone—still inside you. He broke your chains, and in doing so, helped break his own. You escaped together, bleeding and breathless, into a world that hadn’t changed as much as you had.

Now, you survived in the quiet, on the edges. Always looking over your shoulder. Always hiding.

Which is why the voice that slithered into your ear didn’t just shatter the calm. It ruptured the illusion.

“Having fun being without Hydra?”

Your breath caught. Your entire body went rigid.

That voice. Smooth. Mocking. Too familiar.

You didn’t need to turn. You knew it.

Zemo.

You jolted to your feet, spinning away from the couch in a heartbeat. Your bare feet found firm ground as instinct took over—your stance defensive, precise.

And there he was.

Helmut Zemo. In your home. His expression calm, almost amused, like the chaos he brought was a personal gift.

“I’m not going back to Hydra.“ You said, voice steely, throat tight. “Forget about it.”

Zemo cocked his head, studying you like he had back then—like you were still some broken piece of programming he could reassemble. “Huh. Interesting..” He mused, taking a step closer. “But you will. I’ll make sure of it.”

You fought the urge to flinch. He was right about one thing—you didn’t have a weapon. Not now. He’d been watching, clearly. You should’ve seen the signs, should’ve felt the wrongness in the air earlier. You’d gotten comfortable.

You clenched your jaw, grounding yourself with the heat of your anger. You could take him. Maybe. But something held you back—some dark whisper of memory, some remnant of fear buried in your bones from years of torture and control.

“Get the fuck out.” You snapped, eyes narrowing. “or I’m calling Bucky.”

That name landed like a slap.

Zemo’s smirk twitched—just slightly—but enough for you to see the shift. His confidence cracked. He still hated that name. He still feared what it meant.

And that was your edge.

So you called for him, not in desperation, but with force. “BUCKY!”

The door didn’t open—it exploded.

Bucky stormed through it, his eyes already locked on you before they even fully registered Zemo. His jaw clenched, fury etched across every line of his face. He looked like he’d been watching—like he knew.

And maybe he had. He always looked after you. Always.

You moved behind him without hesitation, your fingers finding the back of his jacket, gripping it tight. His presence wrapped around you like armor—familiar and unshakable.

Bucky raised his gun with perfect calm, aiming it directly at Zemo’s head.

“One wrong move..” He said coldly, voice low and lethal. “and I’ll kill you, Zemo.”

Zemo’s face finally changed. The confidence drained, and in its place: hesitation.

You stayed behind Bucky, silent, breathing in shallow pulls as your heart pounded. You weren’t the same person Hydra had created. You weren’t a ghost anymore. Not someone’s tool. Not someone’s prisoner.

And you sure as hell weren’t going back.