Time and again, I donned the guise of the Golden Lady, stepping in to aid Captain America and his team. Each time I appeared, they took note—sending back detailed reports about her actions and her words. This was precisely why I chose my words carefully, offering only cryptic remarks about my past.

I couldn't afford to do a half-hearted job. Phillips had invested a great deal into the file on the Golden Lady, scrutinizing every detail. When she revealed her name to the team—Kyralia—his excitement was real. Each report documented her actions: aiding, supporting, and contributing to their missions. With every new entry, I could see the tension in Phillips' demeanour begin to ease. The lines on his face softened, his rigid stance relaxed, and it became clear he was starting to trust Kyralia—the Golden Lady.

It was now February 1945, a little over a year since Steve and his team had launched their relentless assault on the various Hydra bases. During that time, the Golden Lady had been by their side at every turn. With each appearance, their reactions shifted—from initial wariness to a warm acceptance. By now, they welcomed me as part of their team, and on some level, I felt they truly saw me as one of their own.

I was at the SSR base, meticulously organizing the numerous reports I had received from Steve's team. Stacks of files surrounded me, each one detailing their missions, successes, and encounters with Hydra—and, of course, the Golden Lady. I carefully combed through each report, my eyes scanning for any mention of "Golden Lady," "Kyralia," or any other words tied to her.

Suddenly, I sensed the presence of a male officer approaching my desk. Rising from my seat, I met his gaze as he offered me a polite smile before handing over a new report. My brow furrowed in confusion for a moment—I was certain I had reviewed all the reports, and I hadn't heard of another mission underway.

As I took the report from the officer, a chill ran down my spine. Something about the solemn look in his eyes and the way he avoided meeting mine unsettled me. My fingers trembled slightly as I unfolded the paper and began reading. The neatly typed words blurred momentarily, and I forced myself to focus, line by line.

The report detailed the latest mission—an ambush on a Hydra train transporting one of their top scientists. My eyes scanned further, my breath hitching as I read the phrase: "Casualty reported: Sergeant James Barnes."

I froze, my lungs refusing to take in air as the weight of those words sank in. The world around me seemed to fade, leaving only the stark black letters on the page. My heart shattered into pieces I couldn't gather. James Barnes, the man who had been so full of life, charm, and unrelenting determination, was gone. The report described the circumstances briefly—a fall from the train, impossible terrain below, presumed dead.

I clutched the paper tighter, the edges digging into my palms, grounding me as the storm of emotions surged. Memories of James flooded my mind—his laughter, his quick wit, the way his smile could light up even the darkest corners of the battlefield. I could almost hear his voice in my ear, teasing me about something inconsequential, reminding me to smile.

But my faint smile quickly dissolved into anger, simmering beneath the surface as realization struck. I was supposed to be informed of their plans, always in the loop about their next move so I could ensure my presence to help. Yet, this mission—the Hydra train—hadn't reached me until it was too late.

"Why wasn't I informed of this mission?!" My voice rose, sharp and demanding, as I shot a piercing look at the officer standing before me. My tone, usually calm and measured, carried a rare edge of fury.

The man flinched slightly under my sharp gaze, his posture growing rigid. "There was an issue with the weather," he stammered, his voice uncertain as he fumbled for an explanation. "They couldn't get a message through in time."

"Go," I snapped, my voice icy and clipped. He hesitated for a moment, then turned and hurried away, leaving me standing alone, fists clenched and heart pounding with frustration and grief.

Death is an inevitable part of life, a force that touches everyone eventually—and one day, it may even come for me. Yet, the pain was undeniable. Tears welled in my eyes, threatening to spill, but I fought to keep them at bay—this wasn't the place to let my emotions take over.

"Karla, I'm so sorry," Peggy's voice broke through the silence, soft and sombre. She stood before me, her expression heavy with sorrow, her own grief evident as she had likely just learned the devastating news herself.

"Thank you," I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible, fragile like a distant echo. I couldn't bring myself to meet her eyes, instead shaking my head slowly in disbelief, the weight of it all pressing down on me.

"Barnes was a good man," she said softly, stepping closer until she was by my side. She reached out, gently taking my hand in hers, offering a reassuring squeeze. Her warmth pulled my gaze upward, and for the first time, I met her eyes, filled with shared sorrow and quiet understanding.

Peggy might not have known him well, and in truth, neither did I—not fully. But as Kyralia, we had shared moments that mattered: laughter, conversations, and battles where we stood side by side, fighting for one another.

"God, Steve..." My thoughts drifted to him instantly—James's best friend, his brother in all but blood. The bond they shared was unbreakable, forged through growing up together and fighting in battles. This loss, I knew, would cut Steve deeper than anything else. It would hit him harder than anyone.

"They're on their way back with Zola," Peggy informed me, her tone steady but tinged with sadness. Despite the tragedy, the mission had been a success—they had captured Zola along with several other Hydra officers aboard the train.

I nodded in acknowledgement, squeezing her hand one final time before gently pulling away. Blinking back the tears, I straightened my uniform, determined not to let my emotions show. In this line of work, women were scrutinized relentlessly, and any display of vulnerability could fuel the belief that we didn't belong here. Grieving openly wasn't a luxury I could afford.

Peggy gave me a knowing look, her expression reflecting an understanding born of shared experience. If our roles were reversed, she would have to do the same. 

I returned to my seat at the small desk, diving into the paperwork with a focused mind, trying to bury the weight of my thoughts. I could feel Peggy lingering for a moment, her concern hanging in the air before she finally turned to leave. She made sure I was truly okay before stepping away. She was a good friend, and at that moment, I couldn't help but feel grateful for her support.

........................

Weeks passed quickly as I stayed busy at the SSR with Peggy, keeping my mind occupied with work. There was no sign of Steve—he had taken time away to grieve the loss of his friend. Meanwhile, Zola was cooperative with Phillips, spilling everything he knew about Schmidt's plans.

Night had fallen, and I stood clad in my armour, the cold metal weight pressing down on my shoulders. My boots crunched sharply underfoot as I trudged through the debris of the once-vibrant Whip & Fiddle pub. The sounds of broken wood and shattered brick. The remnants of a night that had left London scarred. The building had been reduced to near rubble. But it was where Steve was still grieving the loss of his friend. 

As I approached the archway that led deeper into the pub's ruins, I spotted him. Steve sat at an intact table, his army uniform still intact despite the chaos around us. In his hand, he gripped a bottle of whiskey—a futile gesture, I knew, for his enhanced cells would render any attempt to get drunk useless. The liquor would do nothing to dull the pain he was undoubtedly feeling.

A crack of splintering wood beneath my feet made him whip his head around, his eyes locking onto me—the Golden Lady. There, in the dim light, I saw the rawness of his grief. Tears clung to his lashes and streaked down his cheek, marking the pain of loss. He had been crying, and who could blame him?

We exchanged a wordless glance, an understanding passing between us in the quiet of the wreckage. He didn't need to speak for me to know he'd heard the news. His face said it all.

"I'm sorry about Mister Barnes," I finally spoke, my voice soft but laced with sincerity. The words felt heavy. I stepped into the dimly lit space, the flickering remnants of broken furniture casting shadows on the walls. "He... He was a good man," I added, each syllable falling into the silence like a slow, deliberate step.

I could see Steve's eyes, red-rimmed and weary, and yet they held a deep, quiet intensity—grief mixed with the stoicism he had perfected over the years. He didn't answer, but his expression softened just the slightest bit, acknowledging the truth of my words.

"Where were you?" Steve asked softly, his voice calm, devoid of any anger or blame. There was no hint of accusation, no trace of disdain. His words felt more like a quiet curiosity as if he was searching for understanding, not looking to place fault.

"I cannot be everywhere at once," I replied, my voice steady as I grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it toward the round table. The clatter of my armour echoed softly as I sat down, the metal shifting with the movement. Steve's eyes remained fixed on me, his gaze unwavering. 

"I am not the saviour you think I am," I said, my words hanging in the air, catching him off guard. It seemed like he expected me to always be there, to swoop in at the last moment, to save the day. The weight of that expectation lingered between us. "I'm not perfect," I continued, my voice steady but carrying the weight of truth. "I'm flawed, just like any other person. I make mistakes, and I can't always be there when you need me." I let the words sink in, knowing they might sting. "I wish I could tell you that you won't lose more men—or the people you love," I said softly, my voice heavy with the truth I wished I didn't have to share. "But that would be a lie."

Steve's gaze locked onto mine, searching as if he could peer into the very depths of my soul. His eyes were filled with unspoken questions, pain, and a yearning for something—hope, reassurance, or maybe just understanding.

I held his gaze, letting the weight of my words settle between us like a tangible force. "The truth is," I continued, my voice steady but laced with sorrow, "war doesn't stop for grief. It doesn't spare us because we've already suffered enough. And it doesn't give us the answers we want."

"You've seen a lot of war, haven't you?" Steve's voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the weight behind his words. It wasn't a question so much as an observation, one that hung heavily in the air.

I didn't let the truth show on my face, keeping my expression neutral and unreadable. "Death. War. Blood. Love. Hate. Grief." I replied evenly, the words rolling off my tongue with a practised detachment. "Everything."

Steve studied me closely, his gaze searching for something beneath my calm demeanour. Perhaps he was looking for a crack, a sign that the weight of my words affected me. But I gave him nothing. Deep down, of course, it affected me—how could it not? The faces of those I loved, those I fought alongside on countless battlefields, were etched into my memory. Every loss left a scar, even if I never let it show.

"But I keep fighting," I said, my voice steady and resolute. "Because we must. The people we've lost gave everything for something greater than themselves. If we stop now, if we let their sacrifices mean nothing, then what was the point of their fight?" My words seemed to resonate with him, and I watched as a shift occurred in his expression—a moment of realization, as if something deep had settled into place.

"I'm going after Schmidt," he declared, his voice steady and resolute. "I want you there, fighting alongside me," he said, his voice filled with determination.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of my lips as I met his unwavering gaze. "It would be an honour, Captain," I replied with a subtle nod, my voice soft. 

Steve was grieving, no doubt, but I knew he would carry on with the mission he, James, and the team had started. 

*********