The city hums around me, a constant thrum of life, each footstep echoing in the street as I weave my way through the late afternoon crowds. I've tried sitting still–tried to just let myself be–but the silence was unbearable, an endless reminder of what's no longer there. Red's absence has left a hollow space inside of me, once I can't seem to fill no matter how hard I try. It's strange, feeling whole for the first time and yet, somehow lonelier than ever.

I used to turn to her, that quiet, unwavering presence, whenever I was lost or at war with myself. Her wit or her selfish remarks would always make things more manageable, but even I knew this merge would happen. But I didn't think it would be so soon. Now that she's gone, merged back into the fabric of me, I'm left alone with emotions I can barely control. It's as if all the carefully compartmentalized pieces of me have unraveled, spilling out into something wild and uncertain. And sitting still, doing nothing, only seems to tighten that knot, making it harder to breathe.

So, I walk. I focus on the rhythm of my steps, the murmur of voices around me, the cool edge of the air biting against my skin. Anything to keep from feeling trapped, anything to keep from feeling like I'm drowning in my own head. I let the city become my anchor, hoping the noise and movement will ground me, to pull me out of the endless spiral of thoughts. But it doesn't. Every corner, every step, only reminds me of what's missing. The streets, the lights, the sea of faces–it all feels distant, disconnected, as if I'm watching it all through a glass wall. And the harder I try to feel something real, the further it slips out of my reach.

I turn down a narrow alley that cuts toward the Boston Common, easing into the rhythm of the noise and motion. But then, a flicker–a shadow that lingers a fraction too long. I pause, letting the crowd flow around me, an uneasy prickling at the back of my neck. Someone's there. I can feel it. A familiar tension tightens in my stomach, the instinctual knowledge that I'm being watching.

I know it's him before I see him–Blake Fitzgerald. That dark, unshakable presence that's been following my every step. His shadow lingers just out of sight, hovering just beyond the edges, as if he's been shadowing me since I returned to Boston. I'm sure he's the one who sent those men after me weeks ago, a reminder, maybe, of what happens when I try to escape the past. I know he's watching, waiting, and I wonder just how much longer he intends to stay in the shadows.

I spot the Brewer Fountain up ahead, the quiet hum of its water contrasting sharply with the buz in my mind. People pass by in waves, unaware of the silent tug-of-war happening around them, blissfully ignorant of Hydra's reach in this midst. I sit down on the cloud stone ledge, letting the calm, steady rush of the water ground me.

"Aren't you going to sit?" I ask, a faint, mocking edge to my tone. "Or do you prefer lurking?"

There's a moment of hesitation, a crack in the silence. Then, he steps into view, moves beside me on the fountain's ledge without saying a word. His shoulder is a bare inch from mine, and he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, mirroring mine, like we're two strangers lost in our own thoughts. There's a silence between us, something slow and familiar, but I don't let myself linger in it. It's a strange feeling–one I feel like I remember, but one I cannot wrap my mind around.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see him reach into his coat, fingers curled around a cigarette. The scent hits me as he lights it, the faint trace of smoke drifting between us. It's the same brand he always smoked, sharp and earthy, and the smell claws its way through layers of buried memories I shouldn't have, fragments of a past I was never meant to remember.

He holds it out to me, a silent offer. He doesn't look at me, but I can feel the weight of his gaze, prying, waiting for a reaction. He wants me to remember. Right here, right now.

I hesitate, eyes locked on the cigarette between his fingers. For a second, it's like my mind is split, torn between reaching for it instinctively and rejecting it outright. I don't remember him, not truly–not the way he remembers me–but something in that sharp, smoky scent stirs a restless ache I can't ignore.

My hand lifts before I ever register it, and I take the cigarette from him, feeling the rough texture of the paper against my fingertips. I keep my gaze fixed ahead, refusing to meet his eyes, though I can feel him watching me, feel the intensity of his stare like it's carving through layers of armor I've spent years building. I take a slow drag, letting the bitterness settle in my lungs. The murmur of the Common fills the silence, voices blending into a faint hum, blurring like white noise. I pass the cigarette back to Blake, and he takes a slow drag, the smoke coiling between us. For a moment, I feel his eye boring into the side of my head, sharp and deliberate. He's testing me. Waiting.

He's the one to speak again, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the Common. "It feels odd, doesn't it?" he says, almost wistfully. "Being here again. All these years later."

I keep quiet, keeping my eyes on the water. I won't give him the satisfaction of my gaze, of my acknowledgement, even as the faintest scent of smoke and his cologne drifts over. It's just a memory–the kind you can't outrun, no matter how many times you try to forget it. But I won't look at him, won't let him see what it might do to me. Because even I don't know the effects.

I don't bite, keeping my eyes on the water, watching the fountain's steady flow. Every instinct tells me to stay silent, to let him speak until he's talking into a void. But the scent of smooth, of that familiar cologne, stirs something unsettled beneath my skin. "You must be enjoying yourself," I say with a casual nonchalance, "Following a woman around the world who barely knows you."

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle, "Enjoying? No." He taps the ash off his cigarette, letting it drift down like dust. "But I was hoping you'd remember."

I feel the burn of his gaze, but I still hold my ground, refusing to give way. I've worked hard to get to this point, and my mind is a battlefield as I grapple with the fact that I've become both human and monster. If I turn, if I meet his gaze, I know I'll feel the weight of all the things I've forgotten–and I can't let that happen. I cannot let my past destroy me, once and for all.

But I feel a flash of anger ripple through me, followed by an unsettling flicker of vulnerability. "Remember what exactly?" I shoot back, my tone sharper than I intended. "You're just a stranger I saw in a photograph."

"Strange, isn't it? How easy it was for them to erase me from you. To make you forget everything we were." The cigarette hovers at his lips as he studies me, and I can almost feel his gaze peeling back my layers, searching for any cracks in my composure. "But me?" he continues, "I got the privilege of remembering every moment. Every look, every word, every night spent pretending we had forever."

His words resonate, stirring an echo of emotions I'm not ready to confront. Emotions that I cannot let cloud my judgment. He doesn't see the flicker of pain I refuse to show, and I keep my face blank, focused on the sound of the fountain, on the ordinary shuffle of people around us. The world spins on, oblivious to the war simmering in my silence.

"Tell me, Lonnie," he murmurs, leaning in close to my ear, his voice like the blade of a knife. "Does it bother you? That I still remember what they made you forget?"

The heat of his breath sends a shiver down my spine, but I refuse to react. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, allowing the weight of his question to settle. "Why would it?" I finally reply, my voice is steady, carrying a strength to them, though my heart pounds in my chest. "It's not my fault you can't let go."

As the words leave my mouth, I rise from the stone ledge, determination anchoring my movements. I can't let him see the strange effect he's having on me, of the memories that seem to swirl deep within me that I cannot grasp. I've pieced together the basics of who he is: my former fiancé, a figure linked to my father, someone who was part of the twisted plan that led me to Hydra. That's all I know, and it's enough to keep my guard up.

I turn from him, my feet almost moving on instinct as I navigate through the bustling Common, weaving between families and couples. The laughter of children and the rhythmic splashes of the fountain fade into the background, a distant normalcy that feels foreign to me now.

Every step is heavy with the weight of his words, the memories lurking just beneath the surface. I can feel them stirring, elusive and tantalizing, like the soft caress of a summer breeze that once felt so familiar. I remind myself that this place holds shadows of a life that I can barely grasp, a time when everything felt innocent and bright.

"Just going to walk away from me?" His voice drifts closer, almost mocking, laced with a confidence that's unwelcome.

I don't stop, trying to find any way out of this godforsaken park as quickly as I can. "I have better things to do than sit around and listen to the bullshit that comes out of your mouth," I respond, turning my head slightly so he can hear.

The sharpness in my voice cuts deep, fueled by years of anger honed into something cold and precise. And while I don't glance back at him, I can feel the shift in his demeanor–a flicker of disappointment, frustration, something simmering beneath his casual bravado. This reaction, I realize, isn't the one he was hoping for. Whatever version of me he remembers, whatever soft, compliant memory he's clinging to, it's not the woman he's facing now.

This, I think with a bitter twist, isn't the reunion he imagined. Because for me, this isn't a reunion at all. It's the first real moment of recognition since 1949, and everything I don't remember hangs between us like a weight only he seems to feel. Still, he follows, like he's determined to bridge the chasm he refused to see. I feel the unmistakable weight of his presence trailing behind, persistent and unyielding, just as he always was. He's waiting for me to give in, to turn back and acknowledge him. But every muscle in my body is tense, resisting that pull, trying to focus on the steps ahead, to ignore the ache he's reawakening.

Yet I know he won't let me walk away. Not without something—anything—that will give him the satisfaction of finally breaking through my silence.

In the space between my steady steps and his persistent shadow, my thoughts shift like ice melting in thaw. Inside, I feel the distinct pull of every part of me—the assassin honed to be lethal, a constant hum of instincts ready to snap, and the woman who wants to turn, who wants to remember if he was anything more than this—a stranger in pursuit. The two halves feel almost seamless now, intertwined but in conflict. I can feel the cold, sharp anger rising, tempting me to silence him once and for all, to end this for good.

But it's the vibration in my pocket that startles me, and not the situation at hand. I glance done, seeing Bucky's name flashing on the screen. My stomach twists, a mix of relief and dread. With a small breath, I answer in a whisper, keeping my voice steady as. "Yeah?"

There's a pause on the other end. "Avalon," he says, the concern threatening through his voice unmistakable, though he holds back from pressing. "Where are you?" I can almost picture him, fingers drumming against his knee, waiting for me to say something real.

"Just...getting some air," I force my tone to stay neutral, scanning the empty street ahead. Behind me, I hear Blake's steps slow, and I can feel him watching with a quiet intensity. "Trying to handle a situation here."

"Alone?" Bucky asks, a hint of suspicion beneath his casual tone.

I hesitate, briefly, before quickly responding. "In a way that counts," my voice drops, trying to convey the unspoken, hoping he'll pick up on the meaning behind my careful words.

He doesn't push, and for that, I'm grateful. "I'm understanding now. Just stay sharp," he says after a long pause. "And don't do anything stupid."

I smirk, but he can't see it. "When do I ever?"

"Don't make me answer that," he replies, a roughness in his voice that settles something in me before the call clicks off.

I slip my phone back into my pocket, drawing in a steadying breath as the silence between us thickens. He's still a few spaces behind, but I hear a quiet laugh escape from Blake, low and mocking, cutting through the stillness like a blade. It's the kind of sound that stirs something raw in me, uncoiling anger that I've fought hard to keep in check.

"That was him, wasn't it?" he says, his voice carrying a faint taut, as if he's enjoying some private joke. "Still keeping tabs on you, still checking in like he's got some say over what you do."

I grit my teeth, refusing to rise to the bait,yet his words sink deeper than I want to admit. His mentioning of Bucky makes my blood boil because he will never understand nor will I give him the luxury of telling. Bucky has been my only constant and nothing will ever change that. I don't look back at him, but I can imagine the smug curve of his lips, the satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

We turn a corner, the streets becoming busier, and I focus on staying ahead, keeping us moving towards the heart of the city. But his words keep tugging at me, pulling me back to the edge of this confrontation, testing the limits of my patience.

He doesn't stop, his voice is smooth and relentless, "After all this time, still running to him–your protector, your escape." He pauses, then lowers his voice in a mocking-like tone. "Is that what he is? The one who rescues you when you can't stand on your own?"

I feel the burn of anger flaring hotter, my control slipping away at the seams. "I don't need him to save me. I can handle you on my own," I say, each word deliberate, forcing down the heat rising in my chest. "Don't confuse concern with weakness."

But behind me, he stifles out another quiet laugh, softer this time, almost pitying. "Oh, I'm not confusing anything," he murmurs, as if sharing some twisted secret. "After all these years, he's still there, keeping you tethered. Do you ever wonder if that's what he wants? To be your constant shadow, your fallback?"

I don't bother to utter a response to rectify the situation. But I know he's reveling in every word, every attempt to tear down the very foundation I've fought to build. My fists tighten as he follows, relentless, his voice drifting through the bustling crowd, prying at every vulnerable seam. His taunts aren't just words–they're the remindersI've buried, the doubts I've silenced. And with each step, he's dragging them back into the open.

The narrow streets close in around us, empty now as leave the more crowded parts of the city. I hear his footsteps shadowing mine, each one steady and deliberate. He's following close, enough to make his presence known but just far enough for me to pretend he isn't here.

"You think you're above this, don't you?" Blake's voice lingers behind me, low and edged with a disdain I expect him here. "The Red Ghost herself, too untouchable to even turn around?"

I don't bother with a response. His words are calculated, carefully honed for impact, but he'll have to try harder than that. I've dealt with much worse as I now carry a strength I never thought was possible. I keep my eyes ahead, willing myself to ignore him. Every instinct screams to shut him down, to let my training take over, to end this right here, right now. But the small, human part of me–what remains of it–urges me to listen, even if only to understand how far he's fallen.

Blake quickens his steps, matching my pace once more. "You know, I used to think you were unstoppable," he sneers, "the great Red Ghost. And yet here you are, hiding from a ghost of your own."

I shake my head, realizing that he truly doesn't understand who he's dealing with. But he continues to run his mouth. "What, got nothing to say?" his words dripping with frustration as he tries to keep up "Or maybe...maybe you know I'm right. Maybe you were never that dangerous. Just another project Hydra spit out—"

That hits a nerve, and I come to an abrupt stop, the weight of his accusation settling like ice in my veins. I let the silence between us stretch, choosing my words carefully. He stops behind me, and I can feel the tension radiating off of him. When I finally speak, my voice is low, colder than any weapon I've ever wielded.

"You don't know anything about the person I became," I say, keeping my tone steady, even though it costs me. "What I did...the pain, the torment. After a while, I couldn't feel it anymore. They numbed it. Numbed me. I was more machine than human, something darker than anything you can imagine."

He lets out a dry laugh. "You expect me to believe that? You? Avalon, you were always—"

I turn my head slightly, giving him just enough of my profile to see my expression, icy and unyielding. "You have no idea what I am, Fitz. They built me into something else entirely. There's nothing left of the woman you knew, nothing of the life I might have had. They stripped it all away." The words feel sharp as I speak them, like they're pulling pieces of me out in the open I'd rather keep buried. I'm speaking of things I've never spoken aloud. "Everything I might have been? Gone. Do you understand that?"

I catch a glimpse of his expression, twisted with a sour bitterness. "You think I don't know loss?" he spits, voice shaking. "You think I didn't lose everything, too? But I had to live with it. I had to remember. Every single detail. And you–you just slipped away, disappeared into that perfect little legacy. The Red Ghost. Hydra's prized myth."

I laugh, a short, dark sound. My gaze shifts down to my hands. A glitch in my vision momentarily shows the blood on my hands with all the lives I took. "Legacy? You think this life is something I wanted? They built me to be disposable. They tore me down to nothing and pieced me back together into something lethal and empty." I shake my head, anger pulsing through my veins. "So, yes Blake, I disappeared. It's the only way I survived because it was the only life I ever knew."

I see a flash of movement from the corner of my eye. He now stands a foot away from me. "And look where it got you," he says, a little softener now, his tone poisonous. "You, at the top of their food chain, while they left me to rot. You, with your perfect little assassin life—"

"Perfect?" I snap, unable to hold back the venom in my voice. "You think that life is perfect? You think I wanted any of this?" My voice drops over, deadly. "Hydra took everything from me. They kept taking until I was nothing but survival instincts and muscle memory. But you—" I can keep the edge out of my voice—"you had a choice."

He takes a moment before he responds. My accusation hits him like a wave, but he begins to press close, causing me to take another step away from him. "A choice to be like you?" His words are bitter, aimed to cause a wound. "You act like you're so above it all, like they didn't make me a weapon just like they did you. You think you're some kind of saint for what you did? For escaping the hold they had on you?"

My blood runs cold. I can't contain the fury in my voice because I don't know why he isn't understanding a word I've said. "I never claimed to be a saint. I know exactly what I am. They made me into something monstrous, something I can never escape. But it's not because of what I've done, and it's not because of anything I wanted," I manage out, taking a few steps forward, trying to keep myself together without causing a scene. "They carved it into me, and that's something you'll never understand."

Blake lets out a humorless laugh, cutting through the silence. "Or maybe," he says, just loud enough for me to hear, "maybe you think you were stronger than the rest of us. Hydra's perfect little princess who somehow clawed her way free. Except, it wasn't you, was it?" He edges closer, and I sense his words turning even darker, more probing. "You had help. You had the Winter Soldier–a shadow to hide in when things go too dark, a partner to cover your back when you couldn't manage on your own."

I feel the bite of his words, each one sharper than the last, but I hold my ground. His accusation sinks in, bitter and personal, but I refuse to take the bait. I keep my gaze forward, heart stead. There's an urge to laugh at the absurdity of it all, to dismiss the idea that Bucky ever protected me to keep up with the act, but I couldn't dare lie about that. The undercurrent in Blake's voice still manages to get under my skin. He's testing me, trying to unearth a weakness he thinks is buried there, a dependency that never existed. He will never understand the deadly duo we ever became and the life we made after that life.

"Oh, that's right," he continues when I don't respond, his tone mocking. "You weren't alone, were you? Not when you were in that life, not even after. You had the Winter Soldier to prop you up, to make you something you'd never have to become alone. Tell me, did they exaggerate the Red Ghost's reputation, or did you build it off someone else's shadow?"

And that's when his anger truly hits me, sharp and clear. It's not just about Hydra's experiments, not just about the legacy I carved from blood and broken memories. It's because I got out–twice. I escaped their grip and, somehow, even after all I'd done, was granted a pardon. While I stood on the edge of redemption, at the brink of reconstructing my own life, he was left to rot in the life he thought he wanted.

"Guess that's what really eats at you, huh?" I say, quietly but firmly. "That I got out. That I escaped and you...didn't."

His eyes bore into me, daring me to admit what he already knows. "Did you think you were special because you survived? That you earned your freedom while I languished in that place? You've got it all wrong. The truth is, you never deserved it, and you were never as great as they claimed."

His words are a sickening blow, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. He can't accept that I escaped, that I fought tooth and nail for my freedom while he remains shackled to his own past. I'm done with this conversation, with him, and his refusal to understand that in this life of mine, he no longer has a place in it.

But my mind isn't working with me. I have to give in to my own satisfaction. "You think my escape was some kind of twisted privilege?" I question him, my voice rising an octave. "You think I didn't fight for every inch of my life? I faced a kind of pain and torture no one should have to endure, and yes, I got out twice, on my own. I didn't need anyone to drag me to freedom." For a moment, he's quiet, running out of vulgar things to accuse me and my reputation of. But I don't flinch. Instead, I give him one last piece of my mind.

"I may have been a puppet in the hands of Hydra, but I certainly didn't build my reputation on the shadows of others. I made my mark with my own hands. I never hid behind others. Not him. Not Hydra. No one," I state, my head is turned just enough to see he's about to speak again, but I cut him off before he can twist the knife deeper. "You can keep throwing your accusations, but they won't change who I am. I'm not defined by your anger, and I won't let you diminish what I've accomplished. You can't take that away from me."

Without another word, I turn on my heel, letting the silence settle between us like a gaping wound. I feel the weight of everything bubbling up inside me–years of buried resentment, my merging with Red, the chaos that's been clawing at my insides since the moment I faced my mother, and now...this. All of it, spinning in a storm that I cannot afford to let swallow me whole. Setting one foot in front of the other, I am resolute to put as much distance between us as possible. Every step feels like shedding a weight, as if his accusations and bitterness are finally sliding off my skin.

But then I feel it–his hand clamping around my arm, firm and unyielding, pulling me back in one sharp motion. I grit my teeth as his fingers dig in, refusing to turn and face him, but his grip tightens, his presence consuming the space around me.

"Avalon," he bites out, his voice taut with a barely contained fury, "look at me."

"Let. Go." I say, my voice laced with venom, refusing to give him an inch. My patience, my composure–it's slipping fast, and my hand itches towards the knife at my side, my fingers brushing its edge. I can feel the tension crackling between us, my anger a live wire, ready to snap.

His voice drops into a fierce whisper, his grip tightening further, almost painfully. "You can't keep running for this, from me. Look at me, Avalon. You owe me that much."

For a moment, it's as if the world tilts, everything narrowing down to his hand on my arm, his face inches from mine, and the torrent of memories he's trying to drag me back into. His fingers are unrelenting, each one digging in as if he's trying to anchor me there, trying to pull me back from the edge. And I hate him for it.

My voice is barely a whisper, the words slipping through clenched teeth. "I don't need to remember anything. I don't need you."

As quickly as the words come, I tear my arm free, my fingers already gripping the hilt of my knife, and in one swift motion, I twist, blade raised, stopping just shy of his neck. The knife gleams in the narrow space between us, a slight, deadly promise. But before I can press it any further, he's already moving, his hand catching my wrist, holding it steady. His grip is firm but careful, his fingers curling around mine with a familiarity that's maddening. My pulse hammers against his hold, every inch of me screaming to resist.

"Enough." His voice is steady, commanding, and something in the way he says it breaks through my resistance. He doesn't back down, even as I keep the blade raised, even as every instinct in me urges him to let go. And before I can stop myself, I look at him.

Our eyes meet for the first time since this encounter began, and his gaze pins me in place, searing and unyielding. I see the anger, the envy, the fury–everything he's held onto for a millennium–as his gaze searches mine, daring me to deny the hatred that clings to him like a shroud. He doesn't want answers; he wants vindication. He wants me to remember everything he endured, everything he believes I escaped, everything he was denied.

But as I stare back at him, the memories come rushing in, fragments slipping through the cracks–details I can't shut out. The scar just above his eyebrow, the hint of green in his blue eyes, the way his hand feels around my wrist. As I stare back at him, the memories come rushing in, fragments slipping through the cracks–details I can't shut out. But the memories are already there, circling, teasing the edges of my mind—his laughter echoing in quiet corners, the way his hand used to feel wrapped around mine, the stolen glances, the promises we made before everything shattered. I'm spiraling, my thoughts blurring, and his presence only makes the chaos worse. Each memory hits me like a wave, overwhelming, all-consuming.

His fingers are still wrapped around my wrist, holding me steady, his gaze locked fiercely on mine, demanding that I remember. And I realize he's not just angry–he's desperate for me to see him, to remember who he was to me.

a/n - this chapter basically wrote itself, and i've waited a lifetime to share it with you all. never fret, i'm working on the next chapter as we speak. as always, let me know your thoughts!

until next time,

k