The humid air of Madripoor embraces us as we traverse through the crowded streets of Lowtown.  We feel like we are moving through a labyrinth of danger and deceit, every step we take being surrounded by vendors hawking their wares and the murmur of illicit deals being struck in the shadows. For in the heart of this lawless city, where alliances are forged in blood and betrayal is a constant companion, there is no room for hesitation.

Draped in the familiar attire of my former self, the sleek lines of the Hydra uniform hug my frame like a second skin, a ghost from a past wandering amidst the living. The mask, with its cold, unyielding façade, conceals my features from prying eyes, shrouding me in anonymity as we make our way through the throning masses. With each step, I am transported back to a time when my allegiance was to a cause greater than myself, when the mission always came first and the cost of failure was too terrible to contemplate.  Its fabric weathered and worn, bearing the scars of countless battles waged during my reign. Each crease and fold tells a story, every frayed edge a testament to the chaos that was left behind in my wake.

Navigating through the city, I find myself hyper-aware of every shadowy alcove and hidden alleyways, my sense heightened by the adrenaline coursing through my veins. My years of training settles over me like a cloak of darkness, the instincts honed through years of relentless conditioning guiding my every move. Every passerby becomes a potential threat. The glint of concealed weapons, the subtle shift of body language–all speak volumes in a city where trust is a commodity traded sparingly.

Zemo leads the way, his stride purposeful and assured, as if he knows this place like the back of his hand. We come up to the entrance to the Princess Bar, its neon pink sign illuminating the dark streets. As we make our way through the crowded bar, the dark room obscures the faces of the patrons scattered across the bar, their conversations a mere whisper against the sounds coming from within. The patrons eyes us with wary glances as we pass by, their expressions guard and mistrustful. And then, in a breathless moment of realization, I hear it–the whispered names of our past lives, uttered in confusion, surprise, and a hint of fear. Red Ghost and Winter Soldier.

As we approach, the bartender, a rugged man with a scar tracing down his cheek, sizes us up with a mix of curiosity and caution. His eyes linger on me a second longer, perhaps puzzled or intrigued by the Hydra insignia adorning my uniform.

"Hello, gentlemen...and lady," the bartender says as he walks over to greet the four of us. His gaze shifts as Zemo leans forward, offering a nod that serves as both a greeting and a command for attention. "Wasn't expecting you, Smiling Tiger."

"His plans changed," Zemo interjects smoothly. "We have business to do with Selby"

The bartender doesn't question Zemo's motives, but he does seem a little wary as to why we're here. His response is casual, almost nonchalant, as he addresses Sam. "The usual, Smiling Tiger?"

Sam's nods in response, and I can sense his reluctance as the bartender prepared the concoction named after his alias. The drink's ingredients–gin, triple sec, the heart of an equatorial spitting cobra, and a finger lime–make my stomach churn in disgust, but I maintain my composed facade, my eye betraying none of my inner thoughts.

The bartender's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of recognition–or is it concern?--passing over his features. With a practiced composure, he swiftly retreats, seamlessly moving towards another part of the bar. My senses heighten as I scan the roo, every nerve on edge as I search for any sign of danger. It's then that I notice a fiugre approaching, weaving through the throng of patrons with purposeful intent. My eyes narrow in as the newcomer draws nearer, his presence casting a shadow over the our already precarious situation.

Everyone's attention goes to the man as he approaches us. "I got word from on high, you ain't welcome here," says one of Selby's thugs to Zemo.

Zemo wastes no time in asserting his authority, deftly handling the exchange with one of Selby's men. "I have no business with The Power Broker," Zemo says, exuding an air of confidence that I can't help but admire. "But if he insists, he can either come and talk to me, or bring Selby for a chat."

The thug turns away, walking back to the same direction he came from. Bucky's skepticism is palpable as he stares at Zemo, the dim lighting of the saloon casting deep shadows over his features. "The Power Broker? Really?"

Zemo's expression remains unreadable, his gaze fixed on the array of bottles behind the bar. "Every kingdom needs its king," he muses quietly before looking in our direction. "Let's just pray we stay under his radar."

As their conversation unfolds, I remain silent, my role not one of words but of vigilance. My instincts are on high alerts, the atmosphere in the bar thick of the murmur of covert dealings and the clink of glasses. I notice figures inching subtly closer to our group. Their intentions masked behind casual strolls and feigned disinterest. However, I know exactly how this is going to pan on.

Zemo, engrossed in his discussion with the two men, doesn't see the approaching figures, but I do. My hand grazes the hidden knife at my side, a reassuring feeling against my palm. Zemo catches the slight movement out of the corner of his eye and gives me a brief, sharp glance.

As the tension in the bar reaches its zenith, Zemo's sharp command cuts through the air in Russian, his words directed at Bucky with an urgency that brooks no disobedience. "Winter Soldier. Attack"

Bucky's response is immediate, a seamless transition from the calm face to lethal weapon as he springs into action, his movements fluid and precise. The air crackles with the sounds of bodies colliding, the chaos of the ensuing brawl a stark contrast to the muted conversations that had filled the space moments before.

I stand poised to join the chaos, my instincts taking a hold of me, urging me to join Bucky in the fray. But before I can take a single step forward, a subtle movement of Zemo's hand catches my eye. It's a brief yet unmistakable gesture, a warning to not disrupt the carefully orchestrated facade we've created. For a fleeting moment, the urge to act surages, fueled by years of conditioning and pure instinct. But beneath that impulse lies a deeper understanding of the delicate balance we must maintain in this perilous game.

His unspoken directive is clear; I am to act as the soldier, to play my part without deviation or hesitation.

"Soldier," Zemo says to me in Russian, the phrase drawing my attention like a magnet. It is a subtle warning that speaks volumes without uttering another word. I turn my head slightly, meeting his gaze with a steely determination that mirrors his own. But there's something else to it. He knows the reputation that precedes me, the whispers of the Red Ghost that haunt the darkest corners of the world. The Winter Soldier may be lethal, but Red? She is something else entirely–a specter of death and destruction, leaving nothing but chaos and carnage in my reign.

As Zemo begins to speak once more, I feel a presence behind me, but before I react, I listen, "Let your actions have consequences."

Those simple words sound like a forgotten melody. Ones that I've tried to outrun. As the adrenaline courses through my veins, my instincts surge to life, a primal rhythm pulsating beneath my skin. It's a familiar cadence, one that I've danced to countless times before.

Before I can turn, I feel the weight of a man's hand on my shoulder, his grip tight with intent. The sensation jolts me into action, igniting a surge of primal instinct courses through my veins like wildfire. With a fluid motion, I disarm him, twisting his arm, leveraging his momentum against him as I wrench the weapon from his grasp. With a flick of my wrist, I send it clattering to the ground, the metallic clang lost amidst the cacophony of the bar.

It's as if I'm a puppet dancing to the rhythm of my conditioning, the training that once forged me into a weapon. Every movement, every calculated, it's all second nature to me, an extension of myself that I can't deny. I manage to still operate on autopilot, every movement executed with the precision of a machine.

Before we can react, I close the distance between us, my movement a blur of calculated precision. With a lighting-fast jab, I drive my elbow into his sternum, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs in a startled gasp. Taking advantage of his disorientation, I press the attack, my movements fluid and relentless. With a swift pivot, I deliver a series of rapid strikes, targeting vulnerable pressure points with pinpoint accuracy. Each blow is to incapacitate, to render him defenseless against the onslaught of my assault.

In this moment, he knows–as they all do–that he's come face to face with a force of nature, a predator in human form. I am not simply a woman. There is a primal satisfaction in the sound of my fists connecting with flesh, the metallic tang of blood mingling with the acrid scent of sweat and fear. In the heat of the moment, I'm lost to the frenzy of combat, my sense dulled to anything beyond the immediate threat before me. His blood stains my hands, a tribute to the violence that flows through my veins, but I pay no mind to it.

All that matters is the fight, the dance of death that consumes every part of my being. As he lies sprawled on the ground, helpless beneath my onslaught, I pin him down, my boot pressing down on his throat. He struggles beneath me, his attempts at resistance feeble against the iron grip of my control. And as I hold him firmly in place, I feel a thrill coursing through my veins, the rush of the hunt singing in my blood.

Standing over the fallen assailant, a sense of detached satisfaction washes over me, a silent acknowledgement of a job well done. But as I look up, my eyes land on a scene that mirrors my own. Bucky, his metal arm gleaming in the dim light, holds another man against the var with a grip that speaks of steel and menace. For a moment, I find myself entranced by the raw power he wields, the silent efficiency with which he dispatches his opponent.

It's only when the distinct sound of guns being loaded cuts through the air that I snap out of my reverie, my senses suddenly on high alert. The atmosphere in the bar shifts, the tension thickening with each passing moment as the four of us freeze in place, caught in the crosshairs of an unseen threat. Instinctively, I release my hold on the man beneath me, allowing him to gasp for air as I straighten my stance. The bartender comes from the crowd, his gaze passing between the four of us.

"Selby will see you now"

***

In the dimly lit back room of the Saloon, the air hangs heavy with anticipation, the faint scent of cigarette smoke mingling with the lingering tensions that permeates the space. Selby reclines in her chair, an enigmatic smile dancing on the corners of her lips as she surveys the four of us before her with a  mixture of amusement and curiosity.

    Zemo stands tall and composed, his demeanor betraying none of the trepidation that simmers beneath the surface. Sam, still in disguise, maintains his façade of nonchalance, though the tension in his shoulders gives away his unease. And then, there's me, masked and silent, a spectral presence that seems to unsettle even the most hardened of criminals.

Beside me, Bucky stands like a silent sentinel, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of uncertainty that surrounds us. I can sense his eyes glancing over at me, burning into my skin, but I dare not meet his gaze, let I reveal too much. For a moment, I'm tempted to reach out, to grasp his hand in mine and draw strength from the connection between us. But I know that such displays of vulnerability are a luxury we cannot afford, not here, not now.

"You should know, Baron," Selby's voice cuts through the silence like a knife, her tone laced with a subtle undercurrent of warning. "People don't just come into my bar and make commands."

Zemo, ever the picture of composure, meets her gaze with a knowing smirk. "Not a demand. An offer," he retorts smoothly, his words dripping with his own calculated charm.

Her eyes dance with skepticism as she listens closely to Zemo. "By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison," she quips, a note of incredulity tinging her words. "How did you escape?"

"People like us always find a way, don't we?" Zemo's response is nonchalant, almost dismissive, as if the intricacies of his escape are of little consequence. A wry smile tugs at the corners of Selby's lips as she leans back comfortably in her chair, her gaze lingering on Zemo with a mix of fascination and amusement. "I'm sure you've already figured out what I'm here for."

"What's the offer?" Selby's voice is cool and composed, her demeanor is poised, patiently waiting for Zemo to give her the reason why he's here.

Zemo leans in, his expression unreadable as he ladies out his proposal with the precision of a master strategist. "Tell us what you know about the super soldier serum. And I give you him," he gestures towards Bucky, who stands silently beside me, "along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want."

As Zemo speaks, the woman's gaze flickers briefly towards me, the silent figure standing at his side. There's a curiosity in her eyes, fueled by the allure of the unknown and the legend that surrounds my existence. "And what about her?" she asks, her tone tinged with fascination. Rising from her seat she begins to approach me with graceful strides. A slow, predatory smile spreads across Selby lips as she approaches me. "I've heard the ghost stories, but never had the pleasure of meeting the Red Ghost. You know, someone else was in Madripoor recently, hoping to run into you."

I stiffen at the hint of Blake, but I keep my composure. Selby's hand reaches up, and before I can react, she tugs at my mask, pulling it away to reveal my face. Her eyes widened in recognition, taking in the monster that used to terrorize the West. Slowly, she reaches out and grazes her fingers along the long, dark scar that runs from my temple to the edge of my jaw. I flinch slightly–a reaction that has persisted even when Hydra had a grip on me.

"Well, well," she murmurs, "so the stories are true."

I locked eyes with her, my gaze steady and unyielding. There's no fear, no hesitation–just the cold, hard determination of someone who has faced countless horrors and emerged stronger each time. Taking back my mask, I slip in on with practiced ease as Zemo seizes the moment, steering the conversation back to his offer.

Zemo seizes the moment, steering the conversation back to his offer. "Now, about the serum..."

Selby nods, still fascinated by me but turning her attention back to the matter at hand. "The super-soldier serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. William Nagel is the man you want to thank. Or condemn, depending on what side of this you're on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum."

"And is Nagel still in Madripoor?" Zemo inquires, prying for a little more information.

"That information will cost you more. You can't find Nagel without me," Selby says, a sly grin on her face as she takes her place on the chair she was sitting on previously.

Before the negotiation can proceed, a phone rings. Goddamn it, Sam. Sam wearily pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, trying to send the call to voicemail. However, Selby has other plans. She has Sam answer the call on speaker, inquiring on who this Sarah person is. Sam does so, and the woman tells him that they need to talk about a certain situation that I'm not familiar with. In a strange turn of events, this is the exact moment that I realize our cover is blown.

Selby's eyes narrow with suspicion. "Who's Sam?"

Selby's suspicion turns into realization, and she orders her men to kill us all. Chaos erupts instantly, but before anyone can make a move, a shot rings out, piercing through the wall and striking Selby. Her body crumples to the floor, lifeless.

"We have a problem," Zemo warns, his voice steady amidst the chaos. "Give me your weapons and follow my lead."

Sam and Bucky exchange glances before handing over their weapons. I silently pass mine as well, my instincts already assessing every possible escape route. We move swiftly, slipping out the back and into the crowded streets of Lowtown.

As we make our way down the street, I can see bystanders receiving texts about Selby's death and the bounty now on our heads.  The tension is palpable, and the air thrums with the promise of imminent danger. Suddenly, shots start ringing out, and men begin to open fire on us from every direction.

"Run!" Sam shouts, and we dart down a narrow alleyway, our quick footsteps echoing off the walls. The sound of motorcycles roars behind us, growing closer with every second that passes by. I glance over my shoulder to see two motorcyclists closing in on us, their intent is clear.

Just as they are about to reach up, a sharp crack pierces through the air, and the men are taken down with precision shots. We keep running, rounding the corners to find more motorcyclists in pursuit of us. Another series of shots ring out, stopping them in their tracks, and a figure steps out from the shadows, gun honed in on Zemo.

"Well, this is too perfect," the woman states, taking off her hood as she aims the gun at Zemo. "Drop it, Zemo." Zemo listens to her orders, not trying to cause any issues.

I blink, trying to place her face. I don't know who she is, but the others clearly do. "Sharon?" Bucky moves closer to the woman, surprise evident in his voice.

"Sharon, wait," Sam chimes in, holding his hand up to try and stop her from causing Zemo harm. "Someone recreated the super-soldier serum and Zemo has a lead."

Sharon's gaze flickers between Sam and Zemo. "Well, that explains why you guys are here. And Selby's dead, she notes, her tone a matter of fact.

"So, what are you doing here?" Sam asks, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"I stole Steve's shield, remember?" Her voice is bitter, her words sharp. I'm not familiar with what happened between them while I was back under the control of Hydra, but I"m sure I'll understand in due time.  "I also took the wings for your ass, so that you could save his ass from his ass. Unlike you, I didn't have the Avengers to back me up, so I'm off the grid in Madripoor."

At this exchange, I hang back slightly, my gaze shifting between them. I don't know this woman, and trust doesn't come easily to me. It never has; not with the circumstances that I've faced. Especially not here, in Madripoor. Sharon turns and starts leading us through the twisting alleys of Lowtown. The narrow streets are dimly lit, shadows creeping along the walls. We all follow her, the atmosphere thick with tension. The earlier adrenaline from the fight still courses through my veins, every sound amplified, every movement scrutinized.

Sharon laughs, obviously fed up with the situation. She turns, expecting us to follow her lead as we take. "I have a place in High Town. You should be safe there for a while."

***

We all sat in silence in the sleek black vehicle that provided safety to us as we made our way to High Town. The buildings here are sleek, modern, and adorned with glittering lights that cast a vibrant glow over the bustling street. The air is filled with a mix of exotic scent from street food vendors and the rhythmic thump of distant music. Despite the apparent wealth and luxury, there's an underlying tension, a sense of danger that lurks beneath the surface. Or it's the feeling of being watched by someone I cannot see.

At last, we arrive at the unassuming building, its exterior blending in seamlessly with the opulent surroundings. Two guards stand by the open gate, watching us with a quiet fascination. The front door swings open, revealing a hidden world of extravagance. The safehouse is an art gallery filled with genuine masterpieces–Van Gogh, Monet, Rembrandt. Every square foot is filled with paintings worth millions, each piece more breathtaking than the last. The soft, ambient lighting highlights the art, casting an ethereal glow across the room.

Sharon moves with purpose, guiding us through the gallery while making slight conversation. Her irritation from earlier still hasn't dissipated, but there's a sense of temporary refuge in this place. I understand her frustration and her lack of trust, but having those feelings can cloud her judgment at all the wrong times. Regardless, we ascend up the long, metal staircase at the back of the gallery, reaching a more private area that serves as her living quarters and operations center.

Once we're upstairs, Sharon finally breaks the silence, "I have clients coming in an hour. We need to clean up and look presentable." She looks around at each of us, assessing our current state. Without missing a beat, she turns to me, "Avalon, you're gonna need something other than that uniform. Follow me."

As the trio stays back to gather themselves, I follow Sharon through a corridor, passing more rooms filled with priceless art, until we reach a smaller room in the back. It's a well-organized space with racks of clothing, all high-end and meticulously kept. Sharon starts rifling through the clothes, pulling out a few options that she thinks would work on me. And in all honesty, I'm glad she's helping me with this because my sense of style is heavily outdated.

I reach up and tug off my mask, dropping it to the floor. The relief is immediately, like a weight lifted off my shoulder. Hydra has conditioned me to stay silent, and the mask was a reminder of that control. But playing the part has always come with a price. You know what will happen if we fall back into old habits. Sharon watches me carefully, her expression curious. I take a moment to let the cool air soothe my skins, the absence of the mask a welcome respite from the suffocating grip of its influence. Yet, even as I revel in the newfound freedom, the memories of past missions linger like shadows in the recesses of my mind.

"You know," I begin, my voice tinged with a hint of wry amusement, "I never was much of a fashionista. Hydra tended to frown upon personal expression."

Sharon's lips twitch with the hint of a smile, her gaze softening as she regards me with a newfound appreciation. "Well, lucky for you, I happen to be an expert in the art of dressing up," she quips, her tone a matter-of-fact. "Consider it a crash course in high-end fashion."

As she continues to sift through the clothing options, I begin to realize the camaraderie forming between us, a shared understanding born from the trails we've both endured. It's a fleeting moment of connection amidst the chaos of our circumstances, but one that offers a glimmer of peace in the looming place of Madripoor.

"You know, you could pull off just about anything with your build," Sharon comments, holding up a sleek black dress. "But maybe something a little more tactical?" She shifts to a stylish but practical outfit that looks like it could blend in at a high-society event and a covert mission alike.

I give a half-smile, appreciating the attempt at levity. "As long as it's not too flashy. I don't do well with the attention."

Sharon pauses as she places down the outfit on the other side of the bench I'm sitting on. "You know, Steve mentioned that about you. Said you were like a ghost–never seen, only leaving your mark."

I chuckle a dry, humorless sound. My hand grazes the soft fabric of the pantsuit that I'll be wearing, trying to figure out how I want to go about this conversation. "That's the idea. The Red Ghost. Never to be seen, only to haunt. Only to cause chaos wherever I went."

"Must've been lonely," Sharon says, her tone turning more serious.

I hesitate, then decide to be brutally honest. "It was. Still is, sometimes. Being a ghost means you're always on the outside, looking in. Always fighting, always hiding. I may have escaped a few times, but I know I'm being watched. It's a lonely existence."

Sharon's expression softens, and she takes a seat next to me on the bench. "You don't have to be a ghost anymore, Avalon. You've got people who care about you, who want to help."

I nod slowly, feeling the depth of her words. "I know. It's not as lonely now. I have Bucky. We're both... somewhat human again."

Sharon's eyes widen in surprise, and then a genuine smile spreads across her face. "Well, that's something I didn't see coming. I'm glad for you."

"Thanks," I say quietly, feeling a warmth spread through me at her reaction. You see, Avalon, not everyone is out to hurt us. "It's just... hard to think about the future when the past keeps pulling you back."

Sharon nods, "I get it. We all have our ghosts. But sometimes, it's the fight that defines us, not what we're fighting against."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Thanks, Sharon. It's nice to hear that."

She smiles, getting up to give me space. "Anytime. Now, let's get you ready. We've got a party to attend, and you're going to look fabulous." She goes to stand in front of the full length mirror to fix up her own appearance.

Maybe, just maybe, there's still a chance for redemption. For all of us. Even me, Avalon.

Before I can get up to change into the outfit she's lending me, I decide to share more. "There's something else. Someone's after me. A man named Blake was in Madripoor looking for answers, asking about the Red Ghost. I have to find him before he finds me."

Sharon turns back to me, her expression serious. "Why?"

"Because my existence is a threat to his reputation. This is my problem," I explain, my voice steady. "My past is coming back to haunt me. Bucky would never let me face him alone, but I need to do this. I need to face it head-on, no matter what the consequences are. If I die in the process, I'm okay with that, as long as I eliminate Blake first."

Sharon's eyes narrow in concern and understanding. She doesn't exactly know all the details, but she does know when to not run away from underlying issues. "You're serious."

"Dead serious," I reply, firmly. "I didn't escape from Hydra to have them on my tail again. This ends now, one way or another."

She looks at me with a resilience that I haven't seen from her yet. And then, she takes me by surprise. "What do you need?"

I manage a small smile, appreciating her straightforward approach. "Information. Resources. Anything that can give me an edge. I know you have connections here in Madripoor. Anything you can find out about Blake's movements would help."

Sharon considers this for a moment, then nods. "Alright. I can do that. But promise me one thing–don't shut out the people who care about you. We're in this together now."

I nod in agreement. "Thank you, Sharon. I owe you."

Maybe, just maybe, there is a chance that I will make it out alive once more.

The art gallery transforms into a dazzling spectacle of opulence and intrigue, a complete one-eighty of the circumstance around our reasoning for being here. Massive chandeliers cast a warm glow over the priceless painting by Van Gogh, Monet, and other masters, each piece carefully curated to impress Sharon's wealthy clientele. The booming electronic music creates an electric atmosphere that fills every corner of the space. Revelers move to the beat, their laughter and shouts blending with the music, creating a cacophony of sound and color.

One thing I truly appreciate is that Sharon hasn't told Bucky about my true motive for Madripoor. Yes, I missed the thrill, the action, everything that has defined my existence over the years. However, there are things that I must deal with myself. Although I may be considered a ghost in the present day, I must face those who I never remembered and ones I'll need to discover again. Withholding this situation isn't an easy feat, but it does give me a small measure of control over my situation. Despite the underlying tension, I'm grateful for the chance to experience a moment of normalcy with Bucky, away from the constant danger or chaos. Or at least, as far away as we can get to it in this place.

During the party, Bucky and I find a quieter corner of the gallery, away from the throngs of party goers. His presence is a comforting anchor, a reminder of the life I'm fighting to reclaim–to create once more. For a fleeting moment, we can forget about the threats that loom over us and simply enjoy each other's company.

"Bucky, listen," I start, trying to piece together the right words. "If things go south at any point, promise me you won't risk your life for mine."

He frowns, searching my eyes for an explanation. "What are you talking about? There's no reason for me to promise that."

"Just hear me out," I insist, more urgently this time."Promise me you won't risk your life for me. No matter what happens moving forward, I don't want you caught in the crossfire. We've spent a lifetime fighting wars that were not our own. This one, it's mine to fight."

Bucky's jaw tightens. "No. I'm not doing that."

"You have a future, Bucky. We've talked about this," I try to reason with him, but my efforts are failing. But everything I'm saying isn't to hurt him; it's to make him realize that there will always be a life after me. There always has been. Looking up at him, I continue,  "But if it comes down to it, you need to save yourself. You need to leave me behind."

"I can't do that, princess. I won't," he says, his grip on my arm tightens, his eyes a storm of conflicting emotions. The lights from the chandeliers cast shadows across his face, highlighting the unreadable expression over his features. His expression hardens, his jaw clenching as he processes my words.

The gallery around us pulses with a unique rhythm, the crowd lost in their own worlds of indulgence. But here, the world narrows down to the two of us. I can see the quiet storm in his eyes, the internal battle between his desire to protect me and the fear of losing me. His grip on my arm is both a promise and a plea, grounding me in the here and now.

"I need you to understand," I say, my voice steady despite the conflicting emotions that threaten to consume me whole. "If it comes down to it, you have to save yourself. Not me."

The music swells around us, the beat matches the pace of my racing heart. Each inch of this space is filled with strangers, good or bad, with not a singular care in the world. His expression hardens, his jaw clenching as he processes my words.

"I can't make that promise," he says, pulling me closer towards him. "I'm not breaking mine."

I lean into him, taking comfort in his strength. I knew what he would say, but part of me is happy to hear that. The other part wants me to scream, trying to get him to put his life before my own. "Just promise me you'll try," I whisper back, knowing that this is the closest I'll get to a promise from him.

He nods slightly, and for now, it's enough. It'll have to do for now. You know what must be done. Regardless of his push back, I know now what I knew before; he will stick by his own promise he made decades before. But I didn't expect to be in the position I've found myself in.

We stand there, wrapped in each other's arms, taking solace in this moment before the chaos. The party continues around us, a blur of colors and sounds, but in this corner, we find a fleeting refuge from the storm brewing just beyond our reach.

I relish in the calm, knowing that it has never stayed long enough to enjoy. But maybe, this is how things were supposed to be. After all, my existence was mapped out for me, every detail a spectacle in a bigger picture.The darkness that has always been a part of my whisper that this peace is temporary, a fragile illusion that will shatter at any moment. Yet, Bucky's warmth, his unwavering presence, offers a glimmer of light that pierces through my doubts.

As I stand her in his embrace, lost in thought, I can't help but feel a strange sense of hope. Maybe this moment, this connection, is a sign that things can be different. That despite the shadows that haunt me, there is a chance of something more. Something better. A life that I can enjoy without feeling like I have to keep fighting every step of the way. But the rage continues to build, and I have no doubt that falling back into old habits is inevitable.

My rage will be the downfall of us all.

A/N - sorry I've been mia!! life has been so hectic lately, but I promise you all it won't take another month for another update. I'm excited to get through these next few chapters because I'm ready to pull out my ideas I have for avalon. I can't wait to share that with you all!! for now, enjoy and let me know what you think :) - k