The base was far too quiet.

Sam had told the others to give Bucky space. No one argued.

Bucky paced the briefing room like a caged animal. His jaw was clenched tight, fists balled at his sides, his vibranium hand flexing again and again like it was ready to punch through the reinforced walls.

The table in front of him was littered with surveillance stills, maps, the schematics of the reception hall, and the grainy image of the man who had taken Charlie—wearing her father's face. The last glimpse of her before the blast. The heat bloom of the explosion caught in the next frame. Then… nothing.

Bucky turned, breathing hard, running his hand through his hair. He looked wild. Barely hinged.

"She was right there," he muttered. "I heard her. We all did. I should have gotten to her faster."

"Bucky," Sam started carefully from the doorway.

Bucky's head snapped toward him. "Don't."

He didn't yell. He didn't have to. It was cold, and low, and vibrating with something darker than grief.

"I told you using her as bait was a mistake."

Sam didn't respond right away. He'd known this was coming, and honestly, he didn't blame him. The expression on Bucky's face was dangerous. The metal arm twitched like it wanted blood.

"She volunteered," Sam said gently. "You know she did."

"She trusted us," Bucky growled. "She trusted me."

Sam stepped fully into the room now, though he kept his distance.

"She still does," he said quietly. "Wherever she is right now, she's holding on. Because she knows you're coming."

Bucky turned his back again, gripping the edge of the table like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

"I can't feel her," he whispered.

"What?"

"I used to… I don't know, feel her. Like there was this thread between us. I could tell when she was near. Or hurting. Or safe. It's just… gone."

The silence that followed was heavy. Sam didn't know what to say. None of them really did. He, Joaquin, and Sharon were doing everything they could on the intel side, trying to track where the man had taken her. But Bucky was operating on something far deeper than strategy.

This was personal.

The kind of personal that made killers out of men.

Bucky slowly straightened and turned toward the wall of monitors, his eyes scanning the surveillance feeds, the traffic cams, the feeds from government satellites. None of it had helped.

And yet he refused to leave.

"She screamed," Bucky said suddenly. "Right before the explosion. She screamed like—like she knew something terrible was about to happen. Like she saw the truth."

He shut his eyes. The scream played again and again in his mind. It tore him in half every time.

"It wasn't him," he said hoarsely. "That thing she saw—it wasn't her father."

"You're right," Sam confirmed, voice tight. "We have facial mapping, and we're running it against the image of the guy from the club. It's the same man. Nanotech, maybe even biotech. But it's not Ward."

Bucky turned back toward him, face pale and unreadable. "Then he's dead."

Sam hesitated. "That's what it's looking like. We think the real Tiberius died years ago. Maybe even before the accident. But it being her must be the biggest coincidence of all time. They get you and Captain America? This is calculated."

"And someone used him," Bucky muttered. "Used her. To get to me."

The room fell into silence again, and Sam could practically feel the old ghosts rising up inside Bucky—the years of being a weapon, being used, and now watching someone he loved be used too.

His voice was gravel when he spoke again. "He knew I'd come for her. That's why he took her. He wanted me to suffer."

Sam didn't respond. He couldn't deny it.

"I'm going to find him," Bucky said quietly. Too quietly.

"And when I do, I'll make him wish he stayed buried in the past."

He turned away again, shaking, jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. The Winter Soldier sat right beneath his skin—an old, sleeping beast whose claws were starting to scrape at the edges of Bucky's control.

Sam watched him carefully. "We'll find her, Buck."

"No," Bucky said, grabbing his coat and heading for the door. "I'll find her."

The room was dim—cement walls, flickering fluorescent lights, a metal drain in the floor stained dark red. A single camera sat mounted in the corner, watching.

Charlie was still strapped to the steel chair in the center of the room.

Gone was the elegant dress from the reception.

Now she wore nothing but a sweat-soaked black sports bra and matching boyshorts—both grimy with soot, ash, and dried blood. Her skin was mottled with bruises. There was a gash across her ribs, another at her temple. One eye was starting to swell shut. She had been beaten for hours. She wasn't even sure how long she'd been there. It felt like days.

But she was upright.

Breathing hard. Jaw clenched.

A strand of hair clung to her cheek as sweat dripped down the side of her face. Her hands, bound behind the chair, were raw from struggling. Her knees were shaking, but her spine remained straight.

She hadn't made a sound in hours.

Across from her, the man in her father's face watched her with calm interest. A monitor sat nearby, already active—waiting.

"You know," he said softly, crouching beside her, "I always thought you'd break faster. I expected screaming. real you has gotten tougher."

Charlie's one good eye glinted.

"Guess I'm just full of surprises," she rasped.

He smiled. It wasn't warm.

"Let's see how long that attitude lasts."

The monitor screens in the war room flickered.

Static.

Then an unfamiliar IP address began feeding into the encrypted server. Alarms went off. Sharon and Joaquin scrambled toward the keyboards, trying to shut it down—but it was already too late.

The image filled the largest screen in the room.

Charlie.

Bound. Bleeding. Battered. Head hanging from exhaustion.

And then he stepped into frame.

The man from the club. Wearing her father's face like a mask made of lies. He walked slowly, theatrically, standing behind her with a calm expression.

The entire team froze.

Bucky, already halfway across the room, nearly tore the monitor off the wall. His face drained of color.

"Charlie—"

Sam gripped his shoulder before he could destroy the screen. "Wait."

The man turned toward the camera, his smile wolfish.

"James Buchanan Barnes," he said like he was announcing royalty. "You're watching, I assume."

He pulled Charlie's head back by her hair. She grunted but didn't scream.

"Here's your little songbird. She's been singing for me all night."

Bucky's hand clenched so hard the metal creaked.

"You know I have to admit I thought she'd be much easier to break but she's proven her real self is just as strong." The man said before drawing a large handgun and pointing it to her head. Bucky felt the bile rise in his throat. Charlie looked up at the man in disgust.

"Tell him to come for you."

"Eat shit." she said. The man laughed before racking the gun and returning it to her head.

"You have until the count of three."

"You're not gonna kill me you asshole. I'm the only thing you've got. You kill me, he doesn't come. So fuck you." Charlie spat the words at him. She knew she was right. That didn't stop the devious smile that enveloped the man's face.

"I hate when I'm wrong," the man said before lowering the gun to her leg and firing. Charlie screamed in pain. The gun made her ears ring and the bullet passed right through her leg.

Bucky screamed and collapsed to the floor.

"You want her back?" the man continued. "Come and get her. Alone."

He leaned closer to the camera.

"Let's see what's left of the Winter Soldier." he said before the screen went back to black.

Bucky didn't move.

Not at first.

His body had gone entirely still, like a statue.

But inside, something had snapped.

The room exploded into motion—Joaquin yelling, Sharon ripping into the firewall breach, Sam trying to call out to someone—but Bucky didn't hear them.

He was already walking.

No. Storming.

His eyes were pure ice.

Sam caught up with him, grabbing his arm.

"Bucky—"

"Let me go."

"Bucky—listen—"

"LET ME GO!"

The sound of his voice shook the walls.

He shoved past Sam, the cold fury of a trained killer radiating from every part of him. The Winter Soldier wasn't just close.

He was awake.

And someone was about to pay for what they'd done.

The room was cold.

Industrial lights buzzed overhead as Bucky stood in front of the weapons locker, stripped to his black tactical pants. His shirt lay discarded on the floor. The metal arm gleamed under the overheads like a weapon of its own—alive, deadly, barely contained.

He moved with silent efficiency.

Vest. Holsters. Ammo.

Each piece slid into place with mechanical calm, but his jaw was clenched tight, and his breath came fast and shallow through his nose. His chest rose and fell like he'd been running miles, though he hadn't moved more than a few feet.

His hand shook only once—just slightly—when he reached for a combat knife.

He jammed it into his boot with a violent shove.

Behind him, Sam stood in the doorway, watching.

"You're scaring the rookies," Sam said quietly, nodding toward the hallway where Joaquin lingered, pale-faced.

Bucky didn't look up. "Good."

Sharon entered next, tablet in hand. "We've traced the signal. Masked, re-routed through a dozen ghost relays, but the last ping was somewhere off the coast near a decommissioned naval research base. The whole island's off-grid."

"Coordinates?" Bucky asked, his voice flat.

Sharon handed him a slip of paper. "You go in alone, you'll die. That place is a fortress."

"I'm not asking permission."

He finally looked up—and his expression was lethal.

Sam took a step forward, trying to ground him. "Bucky, man, we'll go with you. Don't go in half-cocked—"

"I watched him hit her," Bucky snapped. "He put a gun to her head and made her bleed on camera like it was a fucking message. You think I'm waiting around for another strategy session?"

Sam held up a hand. "I get it. I do. But going full Winter Soldier isn't the answer."

Bucky looked down at his hands, flexing the metal fingers.

"It's not about him," he murmured. "It's about her. I'm not leaving her alone again."

Joaquin finally spoke from the doorway, clearing his throat.

"I've got the sat feeds pulling up terrain scans. There's a dock near the northwest corner. If you hit it low and fast, you might be able to breach without alerting the upper levels."

Bucky nodded once.

Sam stepped closer and pulled something from his pocket—a small comm unit.

"You'll stay on this frequency. We'll be listening the whole time from a boat 'll drop by jet."

Bucky took it without a word and clipped it to his belt.

Then, at last, Sam added, quieter now: "You'll get her back, Buck."

There was a pause. Then Bucky looked up again—and for a moment, the pain showed through the rage.

"I'll fight to the death." he said, slinging a rifle over his shoulder.

Then he was gone, the door hissing shut behind him.

And for the first time since Charlie disappeared, the hunt truly began.