The Siberian air bites hard, tearing at skin and breath as Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Bucky Barnes step into the skeletal remains of a forgotten Hydra bunker. Snow slips through cracks in the structure, carried on the howling wind, blanketing the ground in soft death. Their footsteps echo in a silence so profound it feels like the bunker itself is holding its breath.

At the center of the facility, beneath a thin film of frost, they found the pods. Five of them. Each one sealed, each one containing a lifeless form encased in the cruel embrace of cryogenic sleep. Steve crouched, pressing a gloved hand against the glass of one pod. His reflection stares back at him, fractured by frost.

"They never woke up," Bucky murmured, his voice rough and low.

Natasha's sharp eyes scanned the room, noting the burn marks along the walls, the bullet casings strewn like forgotten relics of a war no one fought. "No," she says, her voice taut. "They were executed."

A slow clap breaks the silence.

Zemo stepped out of the shadows shielded by the armored glass, his face sharp with malice, his smile a scalpel cutting through their tension. "So predictable," he crooned, his voice smooth, measured. "I knew you would come."

Steve rose, his shield gripped tightly. "What have you done, Zemo?"

"Nothing more than what needed to be done," Zemo replied, gesturing to the lifeless soldiers. "These abominations didn't deserve to wake. The world has enough monsters." His gaze flickered to Bucky. "Though perhaps one escaped me."

Steve instinctively stepped in front of Bucky, shield drawn taut against his body. Zemo takes his time, circling them like a predator. His words drip venom as he begins his assault, not with weapons, but with truths sharp enough to maim.

"You've all played your roles so perfectly," he began, stopping in line with Natasha. His gaze was cold, assessing. "Tell me, Widow, do you remember Sokovia? My people whispered your name with fear. You, the ghost of EKO Scorpion. The angel of death in a red ballet."

Natasha's eyes narrowed, but Zemo leaned closer, his smile widening. "You think you've buried that past. But the earth remembers, and so do I."

"I don't answer to you," she spits, but there's a crack in her voice, faint but undeniable.

"Oh, but you do," Zemo replies, stepping back. "Because your sins are sewn into the fabric of this place, just as mine are. We are kin, Romanoff."

He turned then to Steve and Bucky, tossing a small device onto the floor through the bullet resistant transaction drawer. The holographic display flickers to life, casting a cold, blue light that paints the bunker in ghostly hues. The footage begins, a montage of horror: the Winter Soldier, gun in hand, assassinating a humanitarian leader. A child wailing in the background. CIA dossiers detailing Stark technology repurposed for drone strikes against civilian targets.

"This is what your noble shield has protected," Zemo said, his voice steady, his eyes fixed on Steve. "Not freedom. Not justice. Corruption, hidden behind stars and stripes."

Steve's face hardens as he watches the footage, his fists clenching at his sides. "S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone," he says, though the conviction in his voice falters.

"S.H.I.E.L.D was the head of a hydra," Zemo sneered. "Cut one off, and another grows. Call it what you want—the CIA, the UN, the Avengers. It's all the same rot, Rogers. And you've been its champion."

Bucky steps forward, his voice failing to mask a quiver. "I didn't... I didn't do those things. That wasn't me."

"No?" Zemo tilts his head. "Then who was it? The Winter Soldier Program? Hydra? Or perhaps you, Barnes. Perhaps you've always been the monster, and you're simply too cowardly to admit it."

Bucky's breathing quickened, his metal arm whirring as his hand clenched into a fist.

"Enough," Steve says, stepping between them. "You want to turn us against each other, Zemo? It's not going to work."

Zemo smirks, his confidence unshaken. "Hasn't it already?"

The rafters begin to quake, the unmistakable whirring of an arc reactor blast echoes throughout the chasm. No sooner had it begun, a silence suddenly enveloped the trio. The tense standoff shattered with the sudden arrival of one Tony Stark. He flew through the steel barrier, towards the trio. Landing with a defiant pose, his voice cut through the air, laced with sharp wit and thinly veiled anger.

"Well, this is cozy," he says, stepping into the room, his repulsors glowing faintly. "You're missing the marshmallows, but I'm sure Hydra's got a stash somewhere."

Steve stiffens. "Tony."

"I reviewed the CIA footage," Tony says, his gaze flicking briefly to Bucky before settling on Zemo. "Did a little digging, and guess what? All roads lead to you."

"Congratulations," Zemo says dryly. "Would you like a medal?"

Tony ignores him, turning to Steve. "You should've told me."

"Told you what?" Steve asks, his voice low.

"That this isn't a team anymore," Tony snaps. "This is a mess. And when this is over, we're going to clean it up. Starting with him." He points at Bucky. "Your personal humanitarian crisis, Rogers."

Steve steps forward, his shield raised slightly. "We don't have time for this, Tony. Zemo—"

"Zemo's mine," Tony interrupts. "You want to run off into the snow? Be my guest. But when the CIA shows up, don't expect me to cover for you."

The tension is palpable, seconds from breaking, when the ground beneath them trembles.

Zemo smiles, backing toward the shadows. "And so the curtain falls," he murmurs, pressing a button on his wrist. "You're all broken. And that's all I ever wanted."

The first explosion ripples through the bunker like a muted roar, shaking the foundations and knocking loose decades-old dust from the steel girders overhead. The walls tremble ominously, groaning under the strain, before a second, sharper blast reverberates through the air. This time, the sound is deafening—a concussive force that flattens anything not bolted down. Tony quickly raises his Iron Man helmet and shoots off toward the sky.

Cracks spiderweb across the concrete walls, fragments breaking away to reveal the icy grip of the Siberian tundra beyond. A third explosion follows in quick succession, and the far side of the bunker caves in entirely, collapsing with a thunderous crash that reverberates through the subterranean chamber. Snow rushes in like a living creature, spilling through the newly formed fissures in the walls, a tidal wave of icy death.

The temperature plummets in an instant, the oppressive heat of the bunker replaced by the brutal, suffocating cold. Frost bites at exposed skin, and the air becomes thick with the choking tang of smoke and shattered stone.

_________________

Lights flicker wildly, casting the scene in eerie staccato flashes of brightness and shadow. Steel beams groan and twist under the sudden pressure, and the once-solid ground trembles with aftershocks, dislodging piles of debris. Overturned tables and shattered equipment slide across the floor, colliding with walls or vanishing into the encroaching snow.

The sound of chaos is everywhere—shouts of alarm, the metallic screech of steel twisting under stress, and the relentless roar of snow cascading through the fractured walls. Smoke and dust create an impenetrable haze, making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. Each breath is labored, a mixture of frigid air and acrid fumes that burns the lungs.

In the center of it all, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky scramble to maintain their footing. Steve throws up his shield instinctively as a piece of concrete the size of a car crashes down from above, shattering against the vibranium with a jarring clang. Natasha grabs Bucky by the arm, yanking him to safety as another section of wall collapses mere inches from where he had been standing.

"We have to move!" Natasha shouts, her voice barely audible over the cacophony.

Steve nods, his face set in grim determination. He gestures toward the only visible exit, now partially blocked by a heap of snow and debris. "That way!"

The trio stumbles forward, navigating the treacherous terrain with a mix of instinct and desperation. Bucky leads the way, his enhanced strength allowing him to shove aside smaller obstacles, while Natasha moves with the fluid precision of a predator, her keen eyes scanning for potential dangers. Steve brings up the rear, his shield raised protectively, deflecting falling debris with every step.

Behind them, the destruction continues to escalate. Another explosion rocks the bunker, this time originating from somewhere deep within. The sound is different—sharper, almost piercing—and it heralds a new wave of destruction as secondary charges ignite. A massive crack splits the ceiling, sending an avalanche of snow and ice crashing down in a blinding white deluge.

The trio dives for cover, narrowly avoiding being buried alive. When they emerge, gasping and frostbitten, the landscape has changed entirely. What was once a maze of concrete and steel is now a ruin of jagged ice and collapsed walls, the entire structure teetering on the brink of total collapse.

Somewhere in the distance, a faint whirring sound cuts through the chaos—the unmistakable hum of an aircraft's engines. It's growing louder, closer, but its source remains obscured by the swirling haze of smoke and snow.

"Go, go!" Steve barks, urgency sharpening his voice.

Natasha and Bucky don't need to be told twice. They press forward, their movements swift and deliberate, as the sound of destruction crescendos behind them. The snow underfoot is slick with melting frost, each step a precarious dance between balance and momentum.

And then, with a final, earsplitting crack, the last remnants of the ceiling give way. A torrent of ice and debris floods the chamber, erasing any trace of the path they've just traversed. The bunker is now a frozen graveyard, its secrets buried beneath layers of snow and shattered stone.

Zemo slips away in the chaos of the collapsing bunker, his movements swift and deliberate. He sprints through the blinding snowstorm outside, the howling wind masking his footsteps. Ahead, his jet waits, engines already rumbling, the only beacon of order in the frozen pandemonium.

But as he nears the aircraft, the ground trembles beneath him. From above, the sleek form of a Wakandan aircraft descends in eerie silence, its vibranium core humming softly. Zemo halts mid-step with gun in hand, his breath visible in short, frantic bursts.

The hatch of the Wakandan craft opens, and T'Challa emerges, his Black Panther suit gleaming even in the dim light of the Siberian night. His stance is unyielding, his claws extended as he drops to the snow with feline grace.

"Zemo," T'Challa growls, his voice low, resonant, and edged with fury. "The living are not done with you yet."

Before Zemo can raise his weapon, another figure lands behind him with a heavy thud. Tony Stark, clad in his Iron Man suit, steps forward, his repulsors aimed squarely at the fugitive.

"Really, Zemo? Running? I thought you fit the 'captain goes down with his ship' vibe," Tony quips, his voice sharp over the suit's modulator.

Zemo freezes, his eyes darting between the two figures. But before either can make a move, Tony's gaze shifts to T'Challa, his helmet retracting to reveal his grim expression.

"Hey, your royal highness," Tony says, his voice suddenly hard. "We've got a lot to talk about, starting with how you're barking up the wrong tree. Bucky didn't kill your father."

T'Challa doesn't lower his claws. "You expect me to take the word of a man who has enabled chaos at every turn? Who defends a murderer?"

Tony's shoulders tense, his hand flexing as if ready to fire. "I don't care what you think. Bucky's not your enemy. Zemo is."

"Step aside," T'Challa counters coldly. "Or you will become mine."

The air crackles with tension, the snow around them a still witness to the brewing conflict. Zemo, standing at the edge of this standoff, seizes his chance. While Tony and T'Challa lock eyes, their growing enmity palpable, Zemo steps back, unnoticed, and edges toward his jet.

The hum of the engines intensifies as he slips aboard, the ramp closing just as Tony's voice rises in anger. Behind them, the jet ascends, cutting through the storm like a shadow, Zemo's smirk hidden within the cockpit. He watches the two titans below turn their fury on each other, exactly as he planned.

"You're letting him go!" Tony snaps, his hand raised, aiming at T'Challa.

"And you are protecting a murderer," T'Challa retorts, his claws slicing through the air as he steps forward.

Tony's repulsor beam clashes with T'Challa's vibranium suit, the impact sending shockwaves through the snow. Neither man can attend  to Zemo's disappearance into the night, his escape complete, his plan progressing further with every bitter second of their infighting. Above the chaos, Zemo's jet vanishes into the clouds, leaving nothing but fractured alliances and rising fury in its wake.

___________________

Inside the bunker, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky stagger through the chaos, dodging falling debris and the growing roar of collapsing walls. The frigid night air rushes in through the shattered structure, biting at their exposed skin. Snow spills in waves, swallowing the remnants of Zemo's hideout.

They burst outside into the Siberian wilderness, the storm an unrelenting force that cuts visibility to mere feet. Steve takes point, his shield strapped tightly to his back, Natasha moving with lethal precision, and Bucky bringing up the rear, his metal hand flexing as if ready for another fight.

Behind them, Tony's voice cuts through the comms. "Steve, stop. You don't have to keep running."

Steve slows, glancing over his shoulder at the distant glow of Tony's suit as he hovers just above the ruined bunker. "We're not running, Tony. We're not stopping either."

Tony lands lightly, his armored boots crunching against the snow. He raises his faceplate, revealing an expression equal parts frustration and fatigue. "This doesn't have to end like this. The CIA can—"

"Can what?" Natasha interrupts, her voice sharp. "Sweep it all under the rug? Keep using Jen as leverage? Keep lying?"

Tony's jaw tightens, the glow of his arc reactor casting a faint blue light across the snow. "You know that's not fair, Romanoff."

"No," Bucky snaps, stepping forward. "What's not fair is that they're still hunting me, even after everything–you're still hunting me. What's not fair is that Jaige's life is in danger, and you'd rather protect their secrets than help us."

Tony raises a hand, placating. "It's not that simple."

"It is," Steve says, his voice steely. "You're either with us, or you're against us."

Tony's hesitation speaks volumes, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment too long. Then, with a heavy exhale, he steps back. "I have to do what's right. And right now, that's keeping the CIA from completely imploding. I can't... I won't choose this fight over everything else."

Steve nods, his expression one of resignation rather than anger. "Then you've made your choice. And we've made ours."

Without another word, Tony's faceplate snaps shut, and he lifts off into the sky, streaking toward the horizon. The trio watches him disappear, a cold silence settling over them.

"He's not coming back," Bucky mutters.

Natasha smirks faintly, though her eyes remain hard. "Good. Less explaining for us to do."

They turn and head deeper into the wilderness toward their jet, the snow swallowing their tracks almost as soon as they make them. 

__________________

In the shadows, another figure watches.

T'Challa's jet sits cloaked atop a nearby ridge, the Wakandan king seated in its cockpit, his gaze fixed on the trio below. His expression is unreadable, his vibranium claws clicking softly against the armrest.

"Let them go for now," he murmurs to his pilot. "But stay close. We'll follow them wherever they run."

As the jet's engines hum to life, T'Challa leans forward, his eyes narrowing.

In the distance, Steve, Natasha, and Bucky press on, unaware of the pursuit. Their breaths come in ragged clouds as they move deeper into the storm, their minds heavy with the weight of Zemo's parting words.

"You're all broken. And that's all I ever wanted."

The phrase circles in their thoughts like vultures, picking at old wounds and unspoken fears. They don't speak of it as they march on, but the silence between them is thick with words unsaid.

Behind them, the storm rages on, hiding the Wakandan jet that silently lifts into the air, its course set to shadow the fugitives through the endless white.