A heavy hand cracked against my cheek, snapping my head to the side. My vision blurred, shadows dancing in the edges of my sight as I tried to focus. The pounding in my skull was relentless, a dull throb that echoed with each beat of my heart. Slowly, I lifted my head, my neck stiff and aching. The dim light from a bare bulb above cast harsh shadows, and the figure retreating into those shadows became clearer.

The smell hit me next: dank and sour, with a sharp tang of mothballs that made my nose wrinkle. My wrists twisted, testing the bonds holding me to the armrests of the rickety chair. Duct tape. Of course.

"Really?" I muttered, jerking my arm uselessly. "Duct tape? That's a bit cliché, isn't it? If you're going to kidnap me, at least invest in zip ties."

The Soltero woman's silhouette appeared in the doorway, her arms crossed and her expression sharp as broken glass. The other guy stood behind her, his shoulders hunched as though he could shrink out of sight.

"Scratch my nose, will you? Just the side. It's driving me crazy—"

"Shut up!" she shrieked, her voice grating as it ricocheted off the wood-paneled walls.

The force of her anger startled him, who flinched back, nearly tripping over his own feet.

"Damn," I said, smirking despite the circumstances. "The torture begins."

Her nostrils flared, her breaths growing heavier as she stared me down, her fingers curling into fists at her sides.

"Careful," I added, cocking an eyebrow. "You might short-circuit."

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then narrowed into furious slits. In two quick strides, she was in front of me, her hand whipping across my face. The sting burned, but I refused to look away, meeting her glare with defiance.

"You won't want to be a smartass much longer," she spat, her voice trembling with rage.

Her eyes darted around the room before landing on a dishrag hanging from the sink to my left. She snatched it up, her movements jerky and desperate, and yanked it tight around my mouth. The bitter taste of mildew and grease filled my mouth, and I fought the urge to gag.

Satisfied, she spun on her heel, her hair whipping as she stormed out. He hesitated, glancing at me with something that might have been pity—or guilt—before following her. The door slammed, the lock clicking into place.

I let my head fall back, staring at the single high window above. The pane was dirty, the faint glow of grass beyond barely visible. A basement window. Even if I got free, I'd never fit through it. My eyes scanned the room, taking in the stacked washer and dryer, the utility sink, and a box of cleaning supplies. No weapons. No tools.

"Fuck," I whispered against the gag.

I'm going to need a miracle.

I'm going to need James.

Oh, God, where is he?

___________________________________________

In the living room above, Zemo paced in tight circles, a burner phone clutched to his ear. His usually calm demeanor was frayed, the cracks showing as his free hand tugged at the hem of his jacket.

"We can't stay here, Lorea. They'll find us," he said sharply, his voice low but urgent.

Lorea slammed a cupboard door, her movements erratic as she rummaged through drawers. "I don't have anywhere else to go! This rental's a dump, but it's all I've got."

Zemo stopped pacing, leveling her with a look. "And you think keeping her taped to a chair in your basement is a sustainable plan? This isn't the movies, Lorea. They will track you down. They will end this. And you."

Her hands stilled, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. "She's the key. Don't you see that? She's—practically poetic."

"You're losing it," Zemo said, his tone softening but not enough to hide his exasperation. "I never agreed to this. You changed the plan."

Her head snapped toward him, her eyes wild. "You're not leaving. We're in this together. Or I swear, I'll drag you down with me."

Zemo sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. "I can get you out of here. To Sokovia. But it will exhaust every contact I have left."

Her breathing slowed, her gaze drifting as she considered his words. "Sokovia," she murmured, the word barely audible. Her lips curled into a small, unsettling smile. "Yes. You're right. You still have work to do. I'll take care of her."

"Excuse me," Zemo said curtly, ducking out of the rundown rental.

Lorea stood at the window, watching as Zemo paced the driveway, his burner phone pressed to his ear. She chewed her lip until it bled, her hands wringing in a nervous rhythm she couldn't seem to stop.

Somewhere far away, she thought. Somewhere untraceable.

But Sokovia?

The thought twisted in her chest, tightening her throat. She pushed away from the window and stumbled into the kitchen. The sour stench of rotting food hit her, making her stomach churn. When had she last cleaned? When had she last cared?

The sound of the faucet was a welcome distraction as she splashed cold water on her face. The shock of it steadied her, at least for a moment. She reached for a mug, but the door banged open behind her, startling her so badly she dropped it into the sink, where it shattered.

"We're leaving," Zemo said, his voice clipped.

Lorea didn't answer. She was already moving, yanking open the basement door and snatching up a tool bag on her way down.

Jaige's gaze snapped to her, the duct tape fraying slightly from her earlier struggles. Her voice muffled through the dirty rag. "What do you want now?"

Lorea dropped the bag at her feet and pulled something from behind her back. A frying pan.

"We're leaving," she said, her voice almost cheerful.

Jaige's stomach sank. "And I assume I don't have a say in that?"

"No," Lorea said with a giggle. "But I'll need you unconscious."

"Wait—"

The pan swung hard and fast, and Jaige's world went dark.