Berlin, Germany. The very idea of the city stirs dormant memories that I've long tried to bury beneath the layer of my resolve. It's a place tainted by my association with Hydra, and where my reputation seems to whisper in the wind. But today, we're not here to dwell or reminisce on history. We're here for one reason and one reason only: Zemo.

We follow a guard down the long hallway towards the prison cell where Zemo is being held captive. A silence hangs around us, punctuated only by the distant sounds of the facility. I walk behind Bucky and Sam, following their lead forward. When Bucky first brought up Zemo, I was hesitant because I knew of what he did to Bucky in Vienna. And then, there was when Pine had introduced me to him in Siberia. However, although I know what Zemo is capable of, something about him has always intrigued me. Maybe that's the assassin talking, but if it means he can help figure out who recreated the serum, I'm all in.

We stand outside the corridor where the prisoner is being held. The guard gestures towards the entrance, indicating that he's ready to take us back to see Zemo when we are ready. Taking a moment to exchange glances, Bucky insists on facing Zemo alone. However, he is met with pushback from Sam and myself.

As he tries to convince us, a ripple of resistance stirs within me. I can't help but feel the urge to intervene, to ensure that we approach this encounter with all our cards on the table. I didn't come all this way to sit on the sidelines. "Hold on a second," I interject, my voice firm as I meet his gaze. "I'm going with you."

Bucky and Sam both look at me in response to my assertion. I can understand their skepticism, but they don't understand that I'm the neutral party here. After all, I've managed to maintain a neutral ground with Zemo, a precarious balance that could work to our advantage in this situation. But I stand my ground, unwilling to be dismissed. "If Zemo won't talk to you, let him talk to Red," I add, my tone laced with conviction. It's not just about what's convenient or comfortable; it's about leveraging every advantage we have to achieve our goal. "Remember, he and I had a different sort of rapport. Perhaps he'll be more inclined to cooperate if he sees a 'friendly' face."

Sam nods in agreement, adding, "Yeah, she's got a point. We need all the help we can get on this one." I smile at Sam, appreciating him understanding my perspective.

Bucky's eyes bore into me, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features, but he ultimately nods, accepting my decision. Without a word, we fall into step behind the guard as he leads us towards Zemo's cell. The tension surrounds us like a suffocating shroud, reminding us that this could be a dangerous situation or it could prove itself to be useful. But I'm optimistic-I see this as a situation going my way.

As we approach the entrance to Zemo's cell, the guard swings the heavy door opening, allowing us to walk through before he shuts it behind us. The room is dimly lit, shadows cloaking much of its interior. From what little light there is, we can make out Zemo seated on the edge of his bed, his face obscured by the darkness. Bucky strides forward, stopping just short of the reinforced glass that separates us from the prisoner. He stands there, his posture rigid with both caution and unresolved anger. I hang back a few steps, lingering in the shadows, not yet revealing my presence. The air is thick with anticipation, the silence of the room punctuated by only the faint hum of the overhead lights.

The silence stretches taut between them before Zemo finally breaks it. His voice is low, eerily calm, as he leans slightly forward, his eyes locked on Bucky. "Longing, rusted, seventeen..." His words, each carefully pronounced in Russian, are unmistakable.

A faint smirks begins to form at the corner in his mouth as he speaks. At the sound of those words, a chill runs down my spine. I recognize them instantly-the trigger words used to control Bucky back when he was the Winter Soldier. Each syllable is a calculated strike, intended to awake the ghost of that dark past. However, it will not work on him. His mind no longer recognizes those words as a threat.

"Those days are over," Bucky says as Zemo stands, meeting him face-to-face between the glass. He looks unimpressed, not fazed by the words coming from Zemo.

However, Red reminds me of the truth. His trigger words may be obsolete, but mine still work on me. It is my vulnerability, of the control once wielded over me, not so different from what Bucky endured. But Red and I have prepared for this. After all these years, I've learned to control it, to use Red as my shield of armor. But I don't know what to do if I forget how to control my innate desire to do harm.

Because I know one day, I won't be able to handle my own rage.

As Zemo's gaze fixes on me with an unsettling clarity-as he realizes he is not seeing the dormant assassin-his lips curl into a sardonic, knowing smile. He steps in front of me, inspecting me as he looks through the glass that separates us. In a quick turn of events, his voice drops to a whisper, yet every syllable rings clear and deliberate, "Science, forty-four, red, laboratory..." As he says each word, my eyes instinctively close, preparing for the inevitable shift of identities.

The words hit me like a cold wave, reminders of a past designed to bind me, to control me. Unlike Bucky, the very idea of removing Red-of destroying the other half of my identity-made me sick. She's the person I've confided in, the person I hate the most, but the only thing keeping me alive in this world. Instead of rewiring my mind, I wanted to learn how to control it, to coexist with the chaos, and I did exactly that. However, I know that with the right tools, this can be deemed lethal.

And his last one throws me right back into the passenger seat, "Desolation."

Bucky, instantly on edge, steps closer, his body tensing as he prepares to intervene. The transformation doesn't escape his notice, and his protective instincts flare. "Zemo, that's enough," he warns, his voice low and dangerous.

The prisoner looks at Bucky with an amused smile. Although Zemo cannot control the former assassin, he knows that he can rattle him by targeting Avalon. Zemo doesn't understand that I, the Red Ghost, am no longer just a separate part of Avalon-we are two halves of the same whole. As the shift comes with a practiced ease, his intention aiming to disturb the balance we've fought to maintain, his confidence suggests he believes he's in control. But what he doesn't realize is that my identities are no longer at war with each other; we are one and the same, ready to get answers to these burning questions.

"Hello, Zemo," I greet with a slight, confident tilt of my head. My voice is steady, devoid of the turmoil that once accompanied such awakenings. This time, hearing those words wasn't painful. But we were expecting it. "It's been a while."

"Indeed, Red," Zemo looks at me quizzically, a glimmer of surprise crossing his features as he assesses my newfound autonomy. "It appears you've mastered the chaos within. It's different from when I last crossed paths with you."

Despite the apparent calmness in my demeanor, Bucky remains vigilant, his eyes darting Zemo and I, ready to force a switch to protect Avalon if the situation calls for it. He knows what to do, but right now, the last thing we need is Avalon's inability to focus on the task at hand. I can sense his discomfort, the way his muscles tense with every word I speak as I take control of our vessel. He hates seeing it happen when it's not necessarily voluntary. Yet, he trusts me enough to let it run its course, knowing that I am still the same person he has come to rely on.

"You're lucky to be stuck behind this glass," I sigh, letting my boredom bleed through the words. My fingers guide across the cold glass that separates us from Zemo. I eye him coldly, signaling my indifference to the tense atmosphere thickening around us. It's a subtle reminder to him-and maybe even more to myself-that despite the gravity of our visit, I'm in control, or at least as much as one can be in a situation like this. "We wouldn't be here if we didn't have to be."

Bucky continues to stare at Zemo, his face etched with determination and a dint of desperation that he usually masks well. My eyes bore into him, waiting for him to admit the truth of our unexpected visit. "Someone recreated the super-soldier serum," Bucky says, causing Zemo to turn and meet his gaze. He seems confused-more on the side of he's surprised that it's happening now. "We need to find out who."

His expression shifts-a flicker of confusion crosses his features, not over the fact of the serum's existence but rather its timing. "You are assuming that Hydra has something to do with this. Which is why you came to me. Which means you're desperate," Zemo analyzes, his voice smooth and taunting, the words slipping out with a cold precision, "Lucky for you, I know where to begin."

The atmosphere inside the prison cell is electric, charged with the underlying tensions of past conflict and the potential of future alliances. As Zemo outlines his tentative willingness to cooperate, Bucky's eyes narrow, his protective instinct on high alert. I know what Zemo did to Bucky, and I'm aware that Bucky is going out on a limb here in asking for his help. I'm not too keen on believing he won't try to do us harm. However, the second I sense something off with him, I will eliminate him.

But it's my voice that cuts through the low him of the fluorescent lights overhead, assertive yet tinged with an uncharacteristic gentleness. "I promise I won't hurt you when we break you out of here," I say with a smirk that mirrors his own, my tone light but the underlying threat is crystal clear. As the silence stretches, I lean in closer to the glass, the chill in my voice dropping the temperature of the room a few degrees, "But if you betray us, Zemo, you better hope it's not me who finds you first."

As the last of my words reverberate through the small room, a fleeting discomfort tugs at me. It's strange, this feeling of protectiveness that manifests so aggressively within me-unnerving even. My instincts are protective to Avalon, but now, especially over Bucky. There's a fierce loyalty that ties me to him, born from shared darkness and a past where he was Winter-the partner I worked with, the one who taught me everything I know. The protective streak is more than just mental-it's primal, ingrained in the very fibers of who I am. There is an odd disconnect, as though observing someone else speak through me. I can't help but glance at Bucky, seeking some form of reassurance or perhaps questioning my own intensity.

"I know you will, Red," Zemo responds, not phased by my threat. "However, that rage will be useful where we're going."

Bucky and I devise a clever ruse to spring Zemo from his confines, a plan teetering on the brink of audacity and recklessness. It begins with a surreptitious slip of a key card to Zemo during our tense conversation, disguised within the folds of a seemingly innocent exchange. Now, our big distraction starts as we make our way out through the prison's corridors. We orchestrate subtle chaos among the inmates by disturbing forged notes calculated to sow discord and suspicion amongst their ranks. This deliberate information, passed through covert channels, ensues the chaos we needed to make. This incites just enough confusion and unrest to distract the guards, allowing a window of opportunity for Zemo to make his escape, turning the prison's rigid order into a weapon of our own design.

***

On Zemo's private jet, I recline in a seat isolated from the others. There's an eerie air of tension as the engines roar to life and the aircraft begins its ascent. With every mile we put between ourselves and the ground, I can sense the trio's eyes on me-curious, cautious, and from Zemo, an unnerving interest. They're wondering when or if I'll allow Avalon to regain control. And I am like a predator surveying its domain. Their concern is palpable, almost as tangible as the switchblade I flip open and closed, a mindless tic. It's a comfort in my grasp, but it serves as a silent challenge to anyone who dares question my own authority.

Staring out the window my thoughts seem tumultuous. Zemo's liberation stirs up memories of Siberia, the cold bite of betrayal by those who once claimed to control me for a "greater good" that never seemed to benefit me. It's Hydra's shadow that looms in my mind, their specter that fuels my silent rage. I know it's not Zemo's fault-however, he and I didn't meet by mere accident. He wanted someone to control, but he realized early on that wasn't feasible. But he knew enough to know how to bring me back to the surface. And that makes me...oddly uncomfortable.

As Bucky and Sam sit silently, waiting for Zemo to map out their next moves, Zemo is absorbed in a book. He's flipping through the pages, the sound gaining even my attention, my own curiosity gnawing at the edges of my consciousness. He begins to speak with a casual curiosity that belies his sharp intelligence.

"I was just fascinated by this," Zemo muses, his eyes fixated on a page he's reading. I can't see what it is, but it's hidden within a book, beyond the eyes of the two men sitting by him. "I don't know what to call it, but this part seems to be particularly important." he paused, his gaze lifting to meet Bucky's. "Who is Nakajima?"

Bucky's reaction is immediate and visceral, he rises from his seat with a swift, menacing fluidity. His metal arm, a glinting symbol of his tormented past, shoots out with the precision of a striking snake, wrapping tightly around Zemo's throat. His grip is intense, almost like it has a mind of its own as Bucky leans in, his face mere inches from Zemo's. His eyes, icy and piercing, drill into Zemo with a ferocity that sends an unmistakable message. "Touch that again, and I'll kill you," he hisses, each word dripping with a lethal intent, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Zemo's eyes widen slightly, his usual composure flickering at the edges, but he quickly regains his calm once Bucky lets go. "I understand," he rasps, regaining his voice as Bucky makes his way back to his seat, giving him a deathly glare. "It's a list of names. People you've wrong as the Winter Soldier." He gives a shallow nod, indicating his own surrender.

From my seat, I observe the drama with a mixture of amusement and detachment. I continue to flick the switchblade open and closed in a rhythmic motion that mirrors the ticking of a clock-each click a reminder of the time ticking away from Zemo should he choose the wrong words again. My curiosity got me in trouble once, and his own will do just the same. He is walking on a thin line under Bucky's watchful, wrathful gaze.

The tension between Bucky and Zemo eases slightly, Zemo's sharp, calculating gaze shifts to me. I'm an observer to their conflict, detached yet fully present. But I wasn't prepared to be dragged into the conversation. Zemo begins to speak, "And yet, it seems Red here harbors no such regrets," he observes, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and critique. But him addressing me catches me off guard.

His words resonate with a piercing accuracy that stuns me. His observation, delivered with his usual calm and detached curiosity, aims to unsettle. I know between Avalon and I, I carry my past actions like armor, not shackles. I know what I did and I know the kind of soldier I was. But I don't operate for someone else's cause; I do what's necessary, when necessary. A cold fury simmers beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment. Yet, I remain outwardly composed, fingers tracing the edges of my switchblade with a deceptive calmness.

My actions, however questionable, have always been mine to own. But Avalon didn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire.

His next words, however, strike a nerve. Igniting a spark of defiance in me. "One might even wonder if the Red Ghost has ever come to terms with her actions, or if she merely embraces them." The thinly veiled accusation causes me to freeze, its a challenge begging for a response.

In the silence that follows, my grip on the blade tightens, trying to control the anger that threatens to make an appearance. I don't want to hurt anyone, but I know what I'm capable of. The memories of my deeds, both proud and regretful, swirl in my mind like a tempest, only fueling the distaste that courses through my veins. Yet, beneath my composure exterior lies a tumultuous storm, a relentless fury that threatens to break free from its restaurants. I know the danger of letting this rage consume me, but speaking my mind has never hurt anyone.

"Maybe you should worry less about what I embrace, and more about what I can do."

With a sudden surge of fury, I hurl the switchblade across the cabin, the metal gleaming ominously as it spins through the air. It is a visceral reaction, driven by years of manipulation and betrayal at the hands of Hydra. My vision narrows, fixated solely on Zemo, on the injustice that he represents, on the memories he invokes. At that moment, all I can think of is to extinguish him, to erase the threat he poses, to punish him for provoking me. But I cannot hurt him. Not yet, at least.

With a sharp thud, the blade embeds itself into the plane's interior just inches from Zemo's head, effectively halting his interrogation in its tracks. For a heartbeat, silence reigns supreme, broken only by the sound of my heavy breaths as I sit alone, a long figure amidst the tension-filled atmosphere of the jet. But as the initial shock wears off, a strange sense of detachment washes over me, a twisted humor bubbling up from within. I can't help but find the absurdity of it all almost amusing, a bitter laugh threatening to escape my lips as I survey the scene before me. After all, chaos is what I'm known for.

Once the dust settles and the aftermath is a distant memory, I hear Sam's voice cut through the hum of the jet. "Speaking of Avalon, are you going to fix your fiancée or are we just letting Red take the scenic route through all this?" Sam quips, leaning back with a raised eyebrow.

To fix me. Even Avalon doesn't like that. The meaning to his words lands differently this time. They dredge up memories of a past that fills me with an undeniable rage. The words they used, the triggers they implanted-they still hold power, like a dormant beast waiting to be unleashed. But it's different now. At least, Avalon and I believe it is. Though, part of us knows that if that information gets into the wrong hands, it could make things a hell of a lot more difficult than we anticipate.

And I'd rather control the assassin than letting someone else do it for me.

Bucky shoots him a sharp look, his jaw set. Without waiting for Bucky's response, I watch out of the corner of my eye as he moves to occupy the seat next to mine. I know what he's going to do, but I won't allow myself to be sucked back into the recesses of Avalon's mind. I'm continuously trapped within a box, only used when my abilities become useful for their cause. But I'm angry-we're angry. It's a rage that isn't mine alone; it's a rage that comes with the lives we did not deserve.

Although I refuse to acknowledge him, he starts talking, "Red, we need to talk."

I continue to stare ahead, purposefully avoiding his gaze. "Oh, c'mon, Winter," I taunt, a sly grin spreading across my face. The use of his old moniker, one he desperately wants to forget, hangs heavily between us. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you? We used to have so much fun together."

His eyes narrow, the name 'Winter' striking a nerve. Just as I predicted. "Red, this isn't a game," he counters, his tone firm. "You were aware that I would do this. Now, give it up."

But I refuse to back down, my smirk widening as I continue to provoke him. "Oh, I think it's a game," I retort, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "A game I'm winning."

Bucky clenches his jaw, his patience wearing thin. Getting underneath his skin is what I'm good at. "This isn't about winning," he snaps, his voice sharp with his frustration. "It's about doing what's right for Avalon."

But I remain steadfast, my resolve unyielding. "And who gets to decide what's right for her?" I challenge, "You? Because the last I checked, we were doing just fine."

Bucky's frustration is detectable, on the edge of irritation. His attempts to reach me fall on deaf ears as I revel in my control. "Red," he pleads, almost desperate, "I'm not going to ask you again."

Seeing him so desperate makes my cold heart smile. I may have understood the assignment, but that doesn't mean I was going to make this a smooth sailing situation. I lean back in my seat, a smirk playing on my lips as I toy with him. "But isn't it fascinating?" I muse, my tone laced with amusement. "How easily you forget who I am. How quickly you dismiss the power I still hold."

His gaze hardens, a flicker of pain crossing his features. But his words surprise me, "I know what you're capable of," his voice is a low, threatening rumble. "Let me remind you that I was the one who trained you."

As I glare at Bucky, ready to unleash another sharp retort, my eyes accidentally catch sight of the engagement ring on my left hand. The simple band of gold, encrusted with a brilliant diamond, doesn't just shine; it sears into me. Its presence feels like an alien artifact on my hand-the hands of the assassin, not the gentle fingers of Avalon. Like its very existence doesn't belong to me.

For a moment, I'm transfixed by its symbolism, the promise of a life far removed from the shadows where I've learned to thrive. Avalon's dreams, her hopes, her quiet strength...they start whispering to me, softer than a breeze yet insistent, like the distant echo of a life I once knew, a life that was mine before the Red Ghost was created. I used to resent Avalon and her desire to break free, but she saved me from a deadly fate.

Inside, the conflict is visceral, almost tangible. I, as Red, am here to protect, to fight, to survive. But Avalon, she's the essence of who I was before-before the training, the condition, the missions. She's the real me, the one who can love, who can dream, who can build a life beyond the battlefield. She is the part who strives for something more-a life beyond the shadows, where love and hope reign supreme. And I, the killer who thrives on the chaos I bring wherever I go, am her counterpart, her darker half. We are the light and the darkness; inseparable yet in constant struggle, bound by the ties of fate and the shared experience that have shaped us.

The chill of the ring against my skin becomes a turning point. With each heartbeat, it feels less like a shackle and more like a key, unlocking the parts of me that were once buried. But the transition isn't seamless; it's a jagged shift, forced by Zemo's use of the trigger words that linger in the recesses of my mind. But despite the coercion, there's a sense of liberation in reclaiming control, even if it's under duress. With a deep breath, I allow Avalon to step forward, her quiet strength enveloping me like a warm embrace, causing me to retreat back inside her mind.

Sorry for putting up a fight, Avalon.

My eyes flutter open, the world around me swims in a haze of disorientation. It's as if I've been plunged into an unfamiliar place, one where the boundaries between reality and the remnants of my chaotic past blur together into a dizzying whirl. The cabin of the jet simultaneously too close and too far away, the seats and walls looming over me like oppressive shadows.It feels like emerging from cryostasis, the disorientation wrapping around me tightly. Normally, my transitions are seamless; my memories sharp and intact. But this time, there's a hazy gap, a fog that slows my recollection, and it sends a ripple of unease through me.

A heavy weariness settles over me like a suffocating blanket, dragging at my limbs and clouding my through. Each movement feels like a Herculean effort, as if I'm trying to pull myself out of quicksand. It's exhausting, but yet, beneath it, there's a faint spark of something else. Something that thrums with a familiar energy. It's a sensation I haven't felt in what feels like a lifetime, the electric pulse of adrenaline coursing through my veins like a long-forgotten melody.

When I become Red, I'm transported back to a time when the rush of danger was my constant companion, when every heartbeat was a battle cry and every breath was a victory. It's a faint flicker of excitement, a thrill that dances just beneath the surface of my consciousness. It's a sensation I know well, one that I've felt countless times before in the heat of my missions. The rush of adrenaline, the pulse-quickening surge of energy that comes with staring death in the face and defying it with every fiber of my being. Ultimately, it's an almost comforting feeling, like slipping into an old jacket that's worn and weathered, but still carries the echoes of an archaic past.

"Did you just compare me to an old jacket?" Red's words echo in the recesses of my mind, dripping with her typical sarcasm and disdain. It's a familiar refrain, the mocking tone that has become all too familiar in our internal dialogue.

As I grapple with the remnants of Red's caustic remark, a sudden impulse seizes hold of me, compelling me to respond aloud. "It's only offensive depending on whether it's leather or jean," I quip, my voice cutting through the silence around me. Responding to her has become a regular part of our journey together, but I know it makes me look insane.

Bucky catches on quickly as he hears me talking to myself, his keen perception picking up on the subtle cues of the conversation unfolding in my mind. The sudden shift in his demeanor signaling his understanding of the situation. His gaze flickers towards me, a mixture of relief and concern swirling in the depths of his eyes, silently acknowledging the complexity of my mind.

"Avalon?" he asks softly, the name falling from his lips like a prayer answered. There is a hint of uncertainty coloring his tone as he seeks confirmation of the switch that has just occurred.

I give a slight nod, swallowing against the tide of emotions rushing back to me. "Sorry," I offer, a self-conscious smile tugging at my lips as I fumble for words. "She's a little over protective," I finally admit, the confession laced with the weight of the internal struggle he's just witnessed. It's a feeble attempt to rationalize the complexities of my mind, to bridge the gap of understanding for those unaccustomed to the intricacies of my dual nature.

As soon as normalcy comes back to me, the confined space reminds me of the real reason why we are here. Despite the recent revelations and tumultuous internal struggle, the urgency of our mission resurfaces with startling clarity. The subtle thrum of the jet's engines acts as a constant reminder, steady rhythm underscoring the gravity of our purpose. We're not here for idle chatter or reminiscing on past actions. Our journey to Madripoor is fought with danger and uncertainty, and every passing moment brings us closer to the heart of it.

In the quiet moments in between, Bucky's eyes linger on me, a silent understanding passing between the two of us. Madripoor isn't for the faint-hearted. It is a seedy, crime-ridden nation located in Southeast Asia. Its streets tell stories of intrigue and treachery, its air thick with the scent of illicit deals and hidden agendas. As Bucky recounts its history, I can't help but feel the surge of anticipation mingled with a hint of apprehension. Madripoor isn't just any other destination; it's a labyrinth of danger and deceit.

Zemo's words about icons linger in my mind, a reminder of the power symbols hold in this word. Icons like Steve Rogers, whose legacy looms large even in his absence. His absence is like a gaping hole in our lives, a reminder of all he sacrificed for the greater good. I can't help but think of the countless times he stood for what was right, even when the odds seemed insurmountable. Steve was more than just a symbol; he was a beacon of hope in a world plagued by darkness.

But as Zemo mentions the Red Skull, it sends a shiver down my spine, reminding me of the twisted ideology I once found myself entangled in. Back then, I believed in a cause that promised power and purpose, only to realize too late the horrors it entailed. I was trapped; the conditioning, manipulation-it clouded my judgment, shrouding me in a haze of false purpose. A purpose that was created by Johann Schmitt.

I thought I was fighting for a cause, for something greater than myself. A purpose that was bestowed on me by lethal force. But I learned that it was all a game. And even now, as I strive to atone for my past sins, I know that I can never fully erase the blood from my ledger. It's a burden I carry; my memories remind me of the lives I've destroyed and the choices I've made.I may not have been aware of the horrors I caused, but my actions left scars unseen but felt, marking a path of regret I can never fully escape. But part of me doesn't hate it.

And yet, their legacies continue to shape the world we live in.

However, as Zemo lays out the harsh reality of our situation, The prospect of slipping back into those roles feels like a distant nightmare, a 'reunion' neither of us ever hoped for. Yet, as Zemo speaks, it becomes clear that there is no other option. Where we're going, lies a web of secrets and danger lurking in every corner, demanding a certain level of discretion and blending in seamlessly with its underworld. In this treacherous landscape, there's no room for half measures or hesitation. We must become the assassins we once were, navigating the shadows of Madripoor to unearth the information we seek, no matter the cost.

Bucky's silence in response to Zemo's suggestion speaks volumes. I can feel the weight of his dread, the reluctance to dive back into the role of the assassin, to become the person he once swore he'd never be again. It's a heavy burden, one he's not eager to carry. But for me, the idea is almost exhilarating. Despite the discomfort of the forced switch, assuming the guise of my alter ego feels strangely natural. The darkness that once defined me doesn't scare me anymore; it's a part of who I am, whether I like it or not.

Zemo's gaze lingers on me, his eyes probing as he addresses me by name, a contrast to the alias he's never failed to call me by. "Avalon," he begins, his voice a calculated drawl. "I trust you're prepared to handle the complexities of your former self?"

I stare back at him with the same intensity. The thrill of anticipation coursing through my veins. "Well, let's hope I can make a convincing enough impression," I reply, injecting a hint of wry humor into my words to convey my confidence in the charade ahead.

With that, the conversation concludes, leaving only the hum of the jet's engines to be heard within the cabin. As we hustle towards our destination, there is a tension that crackles beneath the surface, a silent acknowledgement of the trials that await us in the pirate haven.

The prospect of slipping back into the role of Red fills me with a steady rush of adrenaline, the familiar thrill of the hunt coursing through my veins. But amidst the exhilarating, she issues me a chilling warning. Tread carefully, don't lose yourself in the thrill, she cautions, reminding me of the file line between embracing the personal and becoming consumed by it. Yet, even as her words resonate with me, I cannot deny the intoxicating allure of the mission ahead. For the heart-pounding chaos of deception and danger, I find not just a test of skill but a test of self.

As the skyline of Madripoor looms before us, I steel myself for the challenges that lie ahead, ready to navigate the fine line between persona and person.

a/n - coming at you live with an update! sorry for the delay. the words weren't wording in the way I wanted them to. anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter :))) writing red is my favorite thing, so im excited to write the next chapter!! let me know what you think! until next time :) -k