Chapter 96:

[Wanda Maximoff POV]

[Months Later, AVENGERS HQ, New York City]

[Medical Bay.] The pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It rips through my body like wildfire, leaving nothing untouched. I feel the heat of it burning deep inside, spreading with each contraction. My hands grip the edges of the hospital bed, knuckles white, muscles trembling. The sterile scent of the medical bay is drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears, and somewhere in the distance, I hear the soft, rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor. It's a faint hum beneath the cacophony of my own ragged breathing and the screams that tear from my throat, uncontrollable and raw. I didn't know it would be like this—so overwhelming, so consuming. I've faced enemies that could level cities, held chaos magic in the palm of my hand, and bent reality to my will, but none of that could prepare me for the reality of giving birth. This is different. This is a power I can't control, can't harness. My magic surges and pulses around me, reacting to the agony, swirling like a storm threatening to break free. I can feel it, just beneath my skin, ready to explode outwards with every breathless scream that escapes my lips. "Breathe, Wanda, breathe," I hear someone say, though the voice feels distant like it's coming from underwater. It takes me a moment to register who it is. Spartan. His voice is calm, but I can hear the tension beneath it, the quiet desperation as he tries to keep himself steady for me. I focus on him, pulling myself out of the haze of pain just enough to meet his gaze. He's standing right beside me, his hand holding mine, though I can barely feel it with how tight I'm gripping him. His face is drawn with worry, his eyes a storm of emotions—fear, love, helplessness. The super soldier who has faced down enemies with no hesitation now looks like he's on the verge of breaking apart.

"I'm here," he says softly, leaning down so that his forehead rests against mine. His breath is warm against my skin, a contrast to the cool sweat covering my face, "You've got this, Wanda." He's been my anchor through so many storms, and now, I need him more than ever. Another contraction hits, and it feels like I'm being torn apart from the inside. My vision blurs, and I scream again, a sound so primal, so filled with agony, that I barely recognize it as my own. My magic flares again, flickers of red energy sparking in the air around me. The lights in the room flicker with them, responding to the chaos swirling within me. I try to rein it in, try to contain the power surging through me, but it's impossible. The pain is too much, too relentless. "Focus on me," Spartan urges, his voice cutting through the noise in my mind, "Just focus on me." I nod, even though I'm not sure if I can. I try. I force my gaze to stay locked on him, on the familiar lines of his face, the strength in his eyes. He's the only thing keeping me grounded right now, the only thing stopping me from spiraling completely out of control. The medical staff moves around us, their voices hushed but hurried. They're professionals, used to handling the extraordinary, but even they seem tense. I see them exchange glances every time my magic flares, every time the air around me crackles with power. They're worried, and they should be. I'm worried, too. What if I can't control it? What if, in the middle of this, I lose myself completely?

Another wave of pain hits, and this time, it's stronger and more intense. It steals my breath away, leaving me gasping for air. My grip tightens on Spartan's hand, and I feel the bones beneath my fingers, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't pull away. He's solid and immovable, even as I squeeze with everything I have. "You're almost there, Wanda," one of the doctors says, her voice cutting through the fog of pain, "Just a little more. The baby's almost here." Almost. The word feels like a lifeline, something to hold on to in the middle of the storm. I try to focus on it, try to believe that this will end, that soon, I'll be holding our son in my arms. The thought of him—the thought of seeing his face, of feeling his tiny heartbeat against mine—gives me strength. I close my eyes, inhale deeply, and brace myself for the next contraction. It comes harder, faster, and this time, I scream with everything I have, my magic exploding outwards in a wild surge of energy. The walls tremble, and the lights flicker again, brighter this time, almost going out completely before they stabilize. The heart monitor beeps frantically, and I can hear the nurses murmuring urgently to each other. But none of it matters. All that matters is the overwhelming pain that consumes me, the relentless pressure that builds and builds until I think I might break apart completely.

And then, suddenly, there's a shift. The pressure changes, the pain sharp and focused, and I hear a sound that cuts through everything. A cry. A tiny, piercing cry. My breath catches, and for a moment, the world stills. The pain fades into the background, and I blink, trying to clear the haze from my vision. Through the blur of tears, I see the doctor holding a tiny, squirming figure, his body slick with life, his cries filling the room. Our son. Spartan's hand tightens around mine, and when I look at him, I see tears in his eyes. He's staring at the baby, his expression a mixture of awe and disbelief. It's like the entire world has narrowed down to this one moment, this one perfect moment where nothing else exists but the sound of our child's first breath. "He's here," Spartan whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. I nod, my own tears spilling over as I watch the doctor place him gently in my arms. The weight of him is light, so much lighter than I expected, but the reality of it hits me like a tidal wave. He's here. He's real. Our son.

I look down at him, his tiny face scrunched up as he cries, his little hands balled into fists, and I feel something inside me shift. The pain, the exhaustion, the fear—it all fades away, replaced by something deeper, something more powerful than anything I've ever felt. Love. Pure, overwhelming love. I've held power beyond comprehension in my hands, but nothing compares to this. Nothing compares to the weight of him, the warmth of him, the way his tiny chest rises and falls with each breath. He's perfect. Absolutely perfect. "Little Jericho," I whisper, the name slipping from my lips like a prayer. Spartan leans down, his arms wrapping around both of us as he presses his forehead against mine. "Jericho," he repeats softly, his voice filled with awe and reverence. Our son. Our beautiful, perfect son. I can feel Spartan trembling beside me, and I realize that he's crying too. Silent tears, the kind that only comes when you've been holding something inside for too long. He presses a kiss to my forehead, his lips warm against my skin. "You did it," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, "You did it, Wanda." I smile through the tears, my gaze locked on Jericho's tiny face. His eyes are still closed, but I can feel his life force, the warmth of his energy mingling with mine. It's like a piece of my soul, born into the world. I brush a trembling hand over his tiny head, feeling the soft wisps of hair beneath my fingers. "He's so beautiful," I whisper, my voice breaking. Spartan nods, his hand coming to rest gently on Jericho's back. "He is," he says, his voice filled with a quiet wonder.

The room feels still now, the chaos of the past hours fading into the background. The doctors and nurses move quietly around us, giving us space, though I barely notice them. All I can see, all I can feel, is Jericho. I lean down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead, breathing in the sweet, new smell of him. He lets out a soft whimper, his tiny fists curling against my chest, and I feel my heart swell with a love so fierce it takes my breath away. Spartan's arms tighten around me, and for a moment, it's just the three of us. Just our little family in this quiet, perfect moment. I can feel his heartbeat against my back, steady and strong, grounding me in a way only he can.

[Spartan POV]

[Common Area.] Walking into the common area, I immediately spot Jericho standing by the large window, his silhouette framed by the city lights beyond. The weight of his presence, even in this moment of stillness, feels heavy. There's something in the way he gazes out at the city, a kind of quiet contemplation I've only seen in those who've lived through too much. He's not the boy I see when I hold LJ, our newborn son. No, this is Jericho—the man, the warrior, the survivor of battles I can't yet imagine, carrying burdens I can only begin to understand. I take a breath, my boots making soft but deliberate sounds as I approach him. "How are you feeling?" I ask, keeping my voice low. It's a simple question, but with him, I know the answer is never simple. Jericho doesn't look at me right away. His eyes remain fixed on the sprawling metropolis below, his reflection faint in the glass. "Lighter," he finally replies, his voice quiet but steady, "Like the heaviest weight has been lifted off my shoulders." I nod, knowing exactly what he means. Defeating Ultron wasn't just about saving lives—it was about erasing a future that haunted him. A future where he was forced to witness the end of everything he knew, powerless to stop it. Now that Ultron is gone, that mission, the one that defined his existence, is over. There's relief in that, but I can also feel the emptiness it leaves behind. "Probably a stupid question, but... there's no way for you to go back to your timeline, is there?" I ask, my words measured, "Don't get me wrong, I like having you around. Just curious." My eyes meet his now, searching for any hint of hesitation or pain. I want to understand. I need to understand what it means for him to be stuck here—if he even sees it that way.

Jericho turns to face me fully, his expression calm but layered with something deeper, something reflective. He shakes his head slowly, the slightest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, though it's not one of joy, "No. I can't go back. This was always a one-way trip." His words settle between us like a heavy stone. Always a one-way trip. Even before he stepped through whatever portal or device that brought him here, he knew there would be no return. That thought sends a shiver down my spine. To leave behind everything you know—everyone you love—and face a new reality without the hope of ever going back... it's a hell of a sacrifice. Jericho continues, "Even if I could somehow travel back, there's no telling what I'd be traveling back to." I frown, confusion knotting my brows. "Uh, you lost me," I say, feeling the perplexity settling in, "What do you mean?"

Jericho glances back at the window as if searching the city for the right words. "There are two theories of time travel," he begins, his voice taking on a more thoughtful, almost instructional tone, "The first is the 'Fixed Timeline' theory, where anything that happens in the past already has happened. You can't change the past because everything you do is already part of it. You were always meant to go back, and whatever actions you took were always part of the timeline's structure. In that case, if I went back, I'd just be walking into the same ruined world I left—because me leaving was always meant to happen, and nothing would change." I nod slowly, trying to wrap my head around the concept. It's a strange thought—being part of a loop where even your attempts to change fate only contribute to it, "Okay, and the second theory?" "The second theory," Jericho continues, "Is the 'Multiverse' or 'Branching Timeline' theory. In this case, whenever someone travels back in time, they create a new, alternate reality—one that's separate from the timeline they left. So, even if I could go back, it wouldn't be to my timeline. It would be a new one, a branch of reality where things played out differently. But..." His voice trails off, and I can see the weight of this hitting him. "But?" I prompt. Jericho sighs, "But that means I wouldn't be going back to the people I knew, the world I left behind. It would be a version of it, maybe, but not the same. I might not even exist in that world. The people I loved... they might not even remember me."

That realization strikes hard, deeper than I expected. The idea that even if Jericho found a way to return, it wouldn't be to the same life he fought for—it would be to a hollow imitation. "Damn," I mutter, trying to process everything, "So, either way, going back isn't really an option." Jericho nods solemnly, his eyes shadowed by the memories of what he's left behind, "Exactly. Even if I had a choice... there's no point. The past is gone. The only thing I can do now is move forward." I stand there, the gravity of his words sinking in. Time travel isn't the clean, simple solution I once thought it was. It's messy and heartbreaking. Jericho isn't just from the future—he's a man without a timeline, stranded in a present that wasn't meant for him. And yet, he's here, with us, part of our lives now. "I'm sorry," I finally say, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for. Maybe for the pain of what he's lost. Maybe for the fact that I asked the question at all. Jericho shakes his head, offering a small, almost reassuring smile, "Don't be. I made my choice when I stepped through that gate. And now, I have something I didn't think I'd ever have again." I raise an eyebrow. "What's that?" Jericho's gaze softens as he looks back at the window, the city stretching out before us, "A future."

[Steve Rogers POV]

[1 Day Later, New York City]

The night air feels cool against my skin as I walk alongside Betsy, the sound of the bustling city streets below fading into the background. We're in Chelsea now, taking our time as we stroll along the overhead walkway, high above the chaos of the streets. The overhead lights cast a soft glow, illuminating the greenery that lines the path and the occasional flower still in bloom despite the chill in the air. It's a quiet, almost serene place, and I can't help but think how different this feels from the world I'm used to—how different my life feels when I'm with her. I glance over at Betsy, her dark hair catching the light as she walks just a step ahead of me. She's always been a force of nature, with her sharp intellect and quick reflexes, but there's something softer here tonight. It's in the way she moves, the quiet ease between us as we walk together. It's been months since we decided to give this another try, and I won't lie—there were moments of hesitation back then, moments where the past weighed on me, and the ghosts of our first attempt still lingered in the back of my mind. But those moments are long gone. We've spent so much time rebuilding and reconnecting, and there's no doubt in my mind anymore. Not about her, not about us. This is where I want to be. "You're quiet tonight," she says, glancing over her shoulder at me with a teasing smile, "That's unusual."

I chuckle, shaking my head as I catch up to her. "Just thinking," I reply, my hand brushing against hers as we walk. It's a simple touch but one that grounds me. With everything I've seen, everything I've done, moments like this—where it's just me and her, no missions, no threats looming overhead—feel like a rare gift. "About what?" she asks, her voice softening just a little, her curiosity piqued. Betsy's always been good at reading people, especially me. She can sense when something's on my mind even before I fully register it myself. That's part of why I fell for her in the first place—her ability to see right through the layers I've spent years building up. She never lets me hide behind the uniform or the shield. I hesitate for a moment, searching for the right words. "Us," I finally say, my eyes meeting hers, "How far we've come." Betsy's smile softens, and she stops walking, turning to face me fully, "You mean since...?" "Since the first time," I finish for her, nodding, "Since we tried this before."

There's a brief silence between us, the distant hum of the city filling the gap. I know she's thinking about it too, those early days when we were still figuring things out—how to balance being Avengers, being fighters, and still trying to hold on to something real between us. It didn't work out back then, and it hurt like hell when it fell apart. But standing here now, I realize that maybe we needed that time apart to really appreciate what we have now. "I've been thinking about it too," she admits after a moment, her voice barely above a whisper, "But not in a bad way." Her eyes search mine, and I can see the honesty there, the openness that's come with time and trust. "We've grown, Steve. We've learned from it. I don't think we could have made it work back then... but now? Now, it feels different. It feels right." I reach for her hand, lacing my fingers through hers as I step closer. "It does," I agree quietly, "It feels like we're finally on the same page."

For a long time, I wasn't sure if I'd ever feel this way again—if I'd ever let myself get close to someone like this. After everything with the war, with losing so many people I cared about, I'd built walls. It was easier that way, to focus on the mission, to keep my distance. But then Betsy came into my life, and before I knew it, those walls started coming down. She challenged me in ways no one else had, pushing me to open up, to let her in. And now, standing here with her, I realize just how much I needed that push. "I don't have any doubts," I say, my voice steady because it's the truth, "Not anymore." Betsy's eyes soften, and for a moment, I see the vulnerability there, the same fear of loss that I carry. She's lost people too—too many people—and I know she's felt that same hesitation, the same reluctance to let herself feel again. But she's here, standing in front of me, her hand in mine, and that means more to me than I can put into words.

"No doubts," she repeats softly as if testing the words, letting them settle between us. Then she smiles—a real, genuine smile that lights up her whole face, "Good. Because I don't have any either." I exhale, the weight of those unspoken fears lifting as I pull her a little closer. The walkway is quiet, save for the occasional sound of footsteps from a distant passerby, and for a moment, it feels like it's just the two of us in the entire city. "I've been meaning to ask you something," I say, my voice dropping to a more serious tone. Betsy arches an eyebrow, curiosity flashing in her eyes as she waits for me to continue, "About the future." Her expression shifts, becoming a little more guarded, though she doesn't pull away, "What about it?" "I know we've been taking things one step at a time," I begin, choosing my words carefully, "But I can't help thinking about where this is going. About what comes next for us." Betsy is quiet for a moment, her eyes studying my face as if searching for something. Then, after what feels like an eternity, she nods. "I've thought about it too," she admits, "More than once." Her lips quirk into a small smile, "I think it's only natural, given how far we've come."

I nod, feeling a small sense of relief at her words, "I want this to work, Betsy. I want us to have a real future together." I pause, feeling the weight of what I'm about to say, but knowing it's something I need to be honest about, "But I also know our lives are complicated. We're not exactly living the white picket fence dream." Betsy chuckles softly, her fingers tightening around mine. "No, we're definitely not," she agrees, her voice laced with humor, "But then again, I don't think either of us would know what to do with a white picket fence." I smile at that, the tension between us easing. She's right. We're not the type to settle down in the traditional sense. We're fighters and warriors, and the world we live in doesn't lend itself to normalcy. But that doesn't mean we can't have something real—something lasting. And standing here with her, I realize that's exactly what I want. "Whatever the future holds," I say quietly, my eyes locking with hers, "I want us to face it together. No matter what." Betsy's smile softens, and for a moment, the world seems to slow. She steps closer, her free hand resting gently against my chest as she looks up at me. "Together," she repeats, her voice steady, full of certainty, "I want that too."

There's a warmth that spreads through me at her words, a sense of peace that I haven't felt in a long time. For the first time in years, I'm not just thinking about the next mission, the next battle. I'm thinking about us—about the life we're building, the future we're carving out, one step at a time. The city stretches out beneath us, the lights of New York twinkling like stars against the darkened sky. It's a familiar sight, one that I've seen countless times before. But tonight, with Betsy by my side, it feels different. It feels like home. We continue walking along the overhead walkway, our steps slow and unhurried. There's no rush tonight—no mission waiting for us, no danger lurking around the corner. It's just us, and for once, I allow myself to fully enjoy the moment.

As we walk, Betsy starts talking about a new art exhibit she's been meaning to check out, her voice light and animated as she describes the different pieces she's excited to see. I listen, smiling at the way her eyes light up when she talks about something she's passionate about. "I think you'd really like it," she says, glancing over at me with a grin, "There's this one piece that reminds me of something you'd appreciate—bold, classic, but with a modern twist." I chuckle, shaking my head, "You know me too well." Betsy laughs, her hand squeezing mine as we continue our walk. "I've had plenty of time to study you," she teases, her eyes twinkling with mischief. I can't help but smile, the warmth between us growing with each passing moment. There's something about being with her that feels effortless like we've fallen into a rhythm that just makes sense. Eventually, we find ourselves near the edge of the walkway, where the city sprawls out before us in all its glory. We stop, leaning against the railing as we take in the view. The Empire State Building stands tall in the distance, its lights shining brightly against the night sky. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" Betsy says softly, her voice filled with quiet wonder.

I nod, but my gaze isn't on the skyline—it's on her. "Yeah," I agree, my voice just as soft, "It is." She turns to look at me, her expression softening as she catches the way I'm watching her. There's a vulnerability there, one that she doesn't show often, and it tugs at something deep inside me. At that moment, I realized just how lucky I am. To have her in my life, to be standing here with her after everything we've been through—it's more than I ever thought I'd have. And I don't plan on letting it go. Without thinking, I reach up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face as I lean in. Our lips meet in a soft, lingering kiss, the world around us fading into the background. When we finally pull away, Betsy's eyes are bright, her smile soft and content. "I love you, Steve," she whispers, the words so quiet that they're almost lost in the night air. But I hear them. And they hit me with a force I wasn't expecting. "I love you too," I reply, my voice steady and sure.

[Karai POV]

[New York City]

The night in New York is always restless, and tonight is no different. The streets below are alive with the usual sounds of the city—horns blaring, people shouting, and the faint rumble of trains in the distance. But up here, on the rooftops, it's quieter, almost peaceful in its own way. The breeze brushes against my face as I move, leaping from building to building, the skyline of the city stretched out before me like a painting. Normally, this would be Spartan's territory, but he's got his hands full right now—with his newborn son and Wanda needing him more than ever. So I offered to cover his patrols. After all, I owe him more than a few favors, and besides, it's good to get out and keep my skills sharp. There's something about patrolling the city at night that reminds me why I do this. My eyes scan the streets below, but it's quiet here in this part of the city, at least for now. The calm before the storm, maybe. I've been at this long enough to know that trouble always finds its way to the surface, no matter how peaceful things might seem. It's just a matter of time. I stop on the edge of a building, crouching low as I survey the area. The lights of Hell's Kitchen blink like tired stars in the distance, and I feel that familiar pull in my gut—something's off. Spartan warned me about this area before. He's tangled with enough of the city's underground to know when things are about to go sideways, and right now, I've got that same feeling. I hear the sound before I see it—the sharp crack of a fist connecting with flesh, followed by the unmistakable thud of a body hitting the ground. It's faint, but I can hear it. I move quickly, my body instinctively reacting as I leap across to the next building, narrowing down the source of the sound. There. A warehouse just on the edge of Hell's Kitchen. Of course. The perfect place for a gang to hide out or for someone looking to cause trouble. I drop down into the alley, my feet making barely a sound as I land. The warehouse looms in front of me, dark and foreboding.

[Warehouse, New York City]

I move quietly, slipping into the shadows as I approach. There's a flicker of movement inside—someone's fighting. No, not just someone. As I get closer, I catch a glimpse through the cracked windows and see him. Daredevil. The man who watches over Hell's Kitchen like a guardian devil. His movements are precise and fluid, even in the dim light. He's taking on a group of thugs, and they're not doing too well. He doesn't need my help. At least, not yet. I stay low, watching for a moment as Daredevil moves through them, his strikes landing with lethal efficiency. It's almost like watching a dance, the way he anticipates their attacks, dodging and countering without missing a beat. But there's one figure in the middle of the chaos who's giving him more of a challenge than the others. A woman dressed in dark tactical gear, moving with speed and precision that matches Daredevil's. She's quick—quicker than the rest of them—and her strikes are sharp, calculated. I recognize that kind of training. Whoever she is, she's no ordinary thug. My curiosity gets the better of me, and I shift closer, trying to get a better look at her. I don't know who she is, but there's something about the way she moves, the way she's holding her own against Daredevil, that tells me she's more than just a hired gun. She's good, but he's better. I can see it in the way he's starting to wear her down, his blows landing harder, faster, with each passing second. Still, she's not backing down, and there's something almost admirable in that. She's putting up a fight, even when it's clear she's outmatched.

Daredevil doesn't break his focus, not for a second, but I can tell he knows she's different from the others. I've seen that look before. It's the same one Spartan gets when he's facing an opponent who actually knows how to fight. It's the look of a warrior recognizing another warrior. I stay in the shadows, observing, ready to step in if needed, but I doubt Daredevil will need any help finishing this. The woman—whoever she is—throws a series of quick jabs, her fists moving faster than I expected, but Daredevil sidesteps, his body flowing like water. He counters with a swift elbow to her side, and I see her stagger for the first time. She recovers quickly, though, spinning back with a kick aimed at his head. He ducks and, in one smooth motion, sweeps her legs out from under her, sending her crashing to the ground. She rolls with the impact, coming up into a defensive stance, her breathing heavy. She's good, but I can tell she's running out of steam. I decide it's time to make my presence known. This fight is as good as over, and there's no point in letting her get hurt more than she already is. I step out of the shadows, my movements deliberate but silent. Daredevil's senses must catch me because he shifts slightly, his head turning in my direction even though his eyes remain focused on his opponent. "I was wondering when you'd show up," he says, his voice low and steady. There's a hint of amusement there like he knew I was watching the whole time.

I smirk, crossing my arms as I lean against the wall. "Didn't want to interrupt your fun," I reply, my eyes flicking to the woman who's now eyeing both of us warily, "Looks like you had it under control." Daredevil tilts his head, listening to something I can't hear. "She's not with them," he says after a moment, nodding toward the unconscious bodies of the gang members strewn across the warehouse floor. "I can see that," I say, my gaze lingering on the woman. She's tense, ready to fight again, but there's something in her eyes that tells me she's weighing her options. She knows she's outnumbered now, and she's smart enough to realize that this is not a fight she can win. Daredevil steps forward, his stance relaxed but ready, just in case. "Who are you?" he asks, his tone firm but not unkind. He's giving her a chance to talk, to explain herself.

The woman doesn't answer right away. Her eyes flick between the two of us, sharp and calculating as if she's measuring her chances, weighing her options. It's like watching a cornered animal deciding whether to bolt or bare its teeth, and I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, trying to decide if this is a fight she can still win or if escape is the smarter option. I know that look all too well—desperation mixed with the flickering embers of the fight-or-flight instinct. Her body is coiled, tense, ready to explode into movement at any second, but it's the subtle shifts in her stance that give her away. The way her weight shifts slightly to her back foot, the twitch of her fingers, the quickened rise and fall of her chest—all telltale signs that she's not done yet. She's still thinking about attacking, and it's that stubborn glint in her eyes that tips me off before she even makes her move. I've seen it countless times before—fighters too proud or too desperate to back down, even when they know they're outmatched. I tighten my grip on the handle of my pistol, my senses sharpening as I watch her every move, waiting for the inevitable. She's fast, I'll give her that, but I've been at this game long enough to recognize the moment just before someone commits to an attack.

In a flash, the woman lunges. Her movements are quick, almost too quick for someone already this worn down, but I'm ready. My hand moves on instinct, fast and smooth, as I reach for my stun pistol, quick-drawing it before she even gets close. The barrel is up, locked onto her in the blink of an eye. I don't hesitate. My finger pulls the trigger, and the stun bolt hits her square in the chest with a sharp crackle of energy. Her body seizes up immediately, the momentum of her charge carrying her forward for just a second before the electricity takes over. Her eyes widen in surprise as the shock ripples through her, and then she collapses to the ground with a heavy thud, her limbs twitching as the stun immobilizes her. I lower my pistol, exhaling slowly as I step closer, keeping an eye on her in case she somehow has the strength left to keep fighting. But it's over. The bolt did its job. She's down, her body still tense from the shock but unable to move. I glance over at Daredevil, who nods slightly, his expression unreadable behind his mask, but I can tell he's relieved the fight didn't escalate further. I holster my pistol, my eyes flicking back to the woman sprawled on the ground. "That was close," I mutter, more to myself than to him, but Daredevil's keen senses pick it up anyway.

"She was determined," he replies quietly, his head tilting as if he's listening to her shallow, labored breathing. This wasn't just some random thug caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. She moved with too much purpose, too much skill. "Gang initiation trial," I mutter, piecing it together. It makes sense now—the hesitation, the lone fight she was putting up while the others lay beaten on the ground. She wasn't one of them yet. This was her test, her trial by fire. If she could survive a brawl with someone like Daredevil, she'd earn her place. But she didn't know what she was getting into. She picked the wrong people to challenge tonight.

[Bucky Barnes POV]

[Apartment, New York City]

I jerk awake in a cold sweat, my heart hammering in my chest as if trying to break free from the iron cage of my ribs. The nightmares are always the same—ghosts of my past from the viewpoint of a man I barely recognize anymore. I sit up, the dim light filtering through the blinds casting long, thin shadows across the room, making it feel even more suffocating. My breath comes in ragged gasps as I rake a hand through my damp hair, pushing the strands back from my forehead. The sheets are tangled around me, sticking to my skin, soaked with sweat as if I'd been drowning in my sleep. Maybe, in a way, I was. It's been months since I've been released from SHIELD's Psychiatric Center. Months of slow re-entry into the world, trying to piece together a life that doesn't feel like mine while carrying the weight of memories that don't feel like they belong to me. And yet, they do. Each one is like a knife carved into my brain, remnants of the man I was forced to become. The Winter Soldier. I look around the small apartment, the silence thick and heavy like it's pressing down on me. The room is dim, and even though the sun is starting to rise, it offers no warmth. The walls feel close, too close, and I can't shake the feeling that they're watching me, judging me for the things I've done, for the people I've killed. I throw the sheets off, my feet hitting the cold floor as I stand, my metal arm gleaming in the faint light. It's still hard to get used to sometimes, the way it feels both foreign and familiar at the same time. I flex my fingers, watching the servos and joints move fluidly, silently. It's not the weapon it once was, but I can't forget what it's capable of, what I'm capable of.

I run my hands over my face, trying to wipe away the remnants of the dream, but the images linger—flashes of violence, faces I've long since forgotten or tried to. Men and women I've killed without hesitation, without mercy. My mind is a battlefield, and I'm stuck in the crossfire, caught between the man I am now and the monster I used to be. And no matter how much time passes, that monster never feels far away. He's always there, lurking in the shadows of my mind, waiting for a moment of weakness to resurface. I walk to the small bathroom, the sound of my footsteps echoing in the empty space. The reflection in the mirror is one I'm still trying to come to terms with. Bucky Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes. Steve's best friend. The Winter Soldier. I don't know where one ends and the other begins anymore. I splash cold water on my face, hoping it'll wake me up and chase away the last vestiges of the nightmare, but it does little to help. The dark circles under my eyes are more pronounced than ever, and my skin looks pale, almost sickly, in the harsh light of the bathroom. I look like a man who hasn't slept in weeks, maybe months. And that's because I haven't.

Sleep doesn't come easy for someone like me. Not when every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. I rub my temples, trying to push the memories away, but it's like trying to hold back a flood. They crash over me, relentless and unforgiving, dragging me under until I can't breathe. My chest tightens, and I grip the edge of the sink, my knuckles turning white as I try to ground myself, to remind myself that I'm here, that I'm not him anymore. But it's hard. It's so damn hard. I take a deep breath and force myself to stand upright, letting go of the sink and stepping back into the apartment.

[New York City]

The cold morning air hits me as soon as I step outside, and for a moment, it feels like I can finally breathe again. The streets are still quiet, the city just starting to wake up. There's a strange calm in the early hours before the noise and chaos of New York City come to life. I shove my hands into my pockets, my shoulders hunching slightly as I walk, keeping my head down. I don't know where I'm going. I rarely do these days. I just walk. It's the only thing that seems to help, the only thing that makes me feel like I'm moving forward, even if I don't know where forward is. I've spent so much time looking over my shoulder, waiting for the past to catch up with me, that I've forgotten what it feels like to just exist in the present. And maybe that's because I don't know how to. I make my way through the city, the familiar sights and sounds starting to return as the streets begin to fill with people. Normal people. People with lives, jobs, families. I wonder what it must be like to live without the weight of the world on your shoulders, without the blood of countless innocents on your hands. They look so… free. And I wonder if I'll ever feel that way again. The city feels alive and vibrant in a way that both comforts and isolates me. It's a constant reminder of the world moving on without me, of the years I lost to the programming, to the missions, to the darkness that took me over.

[Gym, New York City]

At some point I find myself in front of a familiar building—a place I've been avoiding for days, weeks, maybe even longer. The old gym where Steve and I used to train together, back before everything went to hell. It's a run-down, forgotten part of the city now, but it still holds memories. Memories of a simpler time, a time when things made sense when the world wasn't so complicated. I push the door open and step inside, the smell of old leather and sweat hitting me like a punch to the gut.

The gym is empty, just like I knew it would be. It's too early for anyone to be here, and that's the way I like it. I head to the back, where the old punching bags hang, worn and beaten from years of use. I strip off my jacket and start wrapping my hands, the familiar routine calming me in a way nothing else can. My fingers move automatically, muscle memory taking over as I prepare myself for the fight I know is coming—not with an opponent, but with myself. I start slow, my fists connecting with the bag in a steady rhythm. The thud of my punches echoes through the empty gym, a steady beat that drowns out the noise in my head. My muscles burn, but I welcome the pain. It's a distraction, a way to keep the memories at bay. I hit harder, faster, each punch driving away a piece of the darkness that clings to me. But it never lasts. No matter how hard I hit, no matter how fast I move, the ghosts are always there, lurking just beneath the surface. I can hear them now, their voices whispering in the back of my mind. Ghosts of the past, of the people I've hurt, of the lives I've destroyed. And no matter how hard I try, I can't outrun them. I can't escape who I was or what I did. I throw one last punch, harder than the rest, and the bag swings wildly, the chains creaking under the strain.

"Hey, you break it, you buy it," a voice calls out from behind me, cutting through the rhythmic thudding of my fists against the heavy bag. The sound is unexpected, a sharp reminder that I'm not alone despite the early hours and the emptiness of the gym. My muscles tense instinctively, my hands pausing mid-strike as I turn to face the source of the voice. Standing in the doorway is a young woman, probably in her mid-30s, arms crossed casually over her chest. She's staring at me with a look that's more amused than concerned, though I can tell by the way her eyes flicker between me and the swinging bag that she's gauging the damage I've been inflicting on her equipment. Her hair's pulled back in a messy bun, and she's wearing a simple hoodie and jeans like she just rolled out of bed and stumbled into her gym. There's a confidence about her, though, a quiet authority that makes me think she's no stranger to places like this. For a moment, I just stare at her, trying to place her face, but she doesn't look familiar. Then again, everything's changed since the last time I was here. "Who are you?" I ask, my voice gruffer than I intend, but I'm still rattled from the dream I can't seem to shake off, and the idea of being watched doesn't sit well with me. I catch the faintest flicker of annoyance in her eyes, but she hides it quickly behind a practiced smile.

"The new owner of this place," she replies, her tone smooth, almost too casual, like she's already had to explain this a few times today, "So I would kindly appreciate that you don't break anything." Her voice is steady and controlled, with just the right edge of humor to make it clear she's not here to start a fight but to set boundaries. Still, the way she says it makes it sound more like a challenge like she's sizing me up, wondering if I'm the type who listens or the type who doesn't. I blink, absorbing her words, and glance around the gym again, the familiar space suddenly feeling foreign. This place has been my refuge for months, a place to escape the noise in my head, the weight of my past. But now, with her standing there, arms crossed and eyes watching me like I'm some kind of threat, it feels like I'm intruding on something that isn't mine anymore. I take a breath, trying to push down the unease that's rising in my chest. "Didn't mean to cause any trouble," I mutter, my hands flexing at my sides, still coiled with the leftover tension of the workout. My mind is already shifting, recalculating. She's new here, and maybe this gym still feels like the only part of my old life that hasn't slipped away. I can't help but feel like it's just one more thing being taken from me, piece by piece, until there's nothing left.

Catching my expression, the weight of my silence, she softens her stance. There's a shift in her tone, light and almost disarming as if she's trying to ease the tension in the air. "I've seen you around the place a few times. Never caught your name," she says, her voice casual but curious. It's the kind of small talk people make when they're trying to find some common ground to bridge the gap between strangers. I almost smirk at the attempt, but I'm too tired for that. "Bucky," I answer, the name slipping out of my mouth before I can think twice about it. It's a name that doesn't feel entirely mine anymore, like an old jacket I've outgrown but still wear because it's the only thing that fits. She nods, rolling it around in her head like she's trying to match the name to the face, to the person I've become. I wonder if she's heard of me—probably not. This gym's too small, too out of the way for anyone to care about ghosts like me. "You a fighter, Bucky?" she asks, her eyes glinting with curiosity as they sweep over me again. It's not an unreasonable question, given where we are, given the way I've been beating the hell out of that bag like it's the only thing holding me together. But it's the kind of question that opens doors I don't want to walk through. Still, I feel the need to answer.

"In relation to sports, no," I say, the words clipped, leaving out the obvious. I'm not a fighter in any conventional sense. No rings, no titles, no crowds cheering me on. What I've done—what I've been trained to do—doesn't belong here, not in the way she's asking. I fight because it's in my bones. After all, it's all I've known for so long that I don't know how to stop. Her eyes drop to my chest, noticing the subtle clink of my dog tags as they swing slightly with the rhythm of my breaths. Her gaze lingers there for a second longer than it should, the realization dawning on her face. "Oh, a soldier," she says, her voice quieter now, like she's piecing together parts of me without even knowing the whole story. There's no judgment in her tone, just a kind of understanding, or at least an attempt at it, "What branch?" "Army," I say, though the word feels heavier than it should. It slips out like a reflex, a part of me that I can't shake off, no matter how hard I try. There's a lot I could say after that. So much more. But I don't. She doesn't need to know the details, the weight of what that title used to mean, what it still means when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the man staring back. In an old life, I think to myself, the thought biting at the edges of my mind, but I don't say it out loud.

She nods again, but this time, there's something different in her eyes, something like respect, or maybe it's just pity. I can't tell. I've seen both too many times to know the difference. I flex my hands, the cool metal of my left arm catching the light, a reminder of the things I've done, the battles I've fought, and the lives I've taken. It's funny—people always see the soldier in me before they see anything else. As if the uniform I shed years ago is still stitched into my skin, branding me as something I can never escape. "Army," she repeats, a little softer now, like she's trying to figure out what that means for me. I watch her, waiting for the inevitable follow-up questions—the ones that poke and prod at the past, that ask about things better left buried. But she doesn't ask. Instead, she just nods, her eyes flicking back up to meet mine. "Well, soldier or not, try not to break my equipment," she adds with a smirk, her tone light again, trying to cut through the heaviness between us.

I chuckle, a quiet sound that surprises even me, the tension easing just a bit. "No promises," I say, my voice low but carrying a hint of something that might be humor. It's strange, this back-and-forth. It feels almost normal, something I haven't felt in a long time. "Fair enough," she replies, and for the first time, I feel like maybe she gets it—at least a little, "My name is Deedee by the way."