Bucky didn't know what rage felt like anymore. Not until now.

Not like this.

Not the kind that threatened to rip your soul straight out of your chest just so it could claw someone else's throat out.

Charlie was standing like a stranger. Her eyes were vacant, her hands twitching faintly at her sides. She looked almost serene—like nothing had happened. Like she hadn't just begged him to kill her. Like she hadn't just been stripped down and rewired into something else.

And the worst part?

She was quiet.

Too quiet.

He could see blood seeping through the side of her ribs again, where the bandages from earlier had been ripped open. Her hair was still tangled and crusted with ash, but she stood as if it meant nothing.

Just like he used to.

"Look at her," the bastard hissed, pacing in a slow, mocking circle. "Efficient. Silent. Yours, but better. No fear. No hesitation."

Bucky's hands strained against the reinforced cuffs that held him to the wall. His metal arm screeched, sparks flying as he fought the restraint, furious and helpless.

"You think this breaks me?" he spat, voice trembling with fury. "You think making me watch her like this is going to end me?"

The man only smiled.

"Oh, James. This isn't the end. This is the beginning."

Charlie didn't move.

Didn't flinch.

But her fingers twitched again.

Bucky saw it—barely. The tiniest tremor in her hand. The faintest crease of her brow.

You're still in there.

He sucked in a breath, his voice cracking as he spoke softer this time. Not to the villain. To her.

"Charlie… it's me. I'm here. You're not gone. You're not theirs. I know you can hear me, doll. Just hold on."

Nothing.

No answer.

But the tremble in her hand didn't stop.

The villain's eyes glinted with something cruel as he stepped back toward Charlie, now standing motionless near the center of the room, her face blank, expression void.

"I want you to kill him," he said, his tone flat, casual. "As your final test. Get dressed."

Bucky froze.

"You don't have to do this," he growled, chest heaving.

The man barely acknowledged him. Instead, he stepped behind Charlie and gently brushed a piece of hair from her face like a father would to a daughter, sickeningly gentle. She moved to a small pile of clothes. Slipping on the tactical pants and the tank top before lacing up a pair of boots and standing straight again.

"Let's see how deep this programming runs, shall we?"

He turned to Bucky, smiling with something approaching triumph.

"Once you're dead, she'll be mine completely. But I want you to see it first. I want the last thing you ever witness to be her putting you down like a dog or…you killing her. Either way you won't be my problem anymore."

Charlie didn't blink. She stood like marble.

But her fingers curled in, ever so slightly.

"Assest," the villain said, voice sharp now, issuing the order. "Neutralize the Winter Soldier."

A pause.

A beat of silence like the world holding its breath.

Charlie turned toward Bucky. Her posture shifted—not hesitant, not awkward. Calculated. Graceful. A soldier.

Bucky saw the change in her stance. Saw the way her chin dipped slightly, the precision in her breath. Every ounce of his body screamed to fight, to stop her, to break free.

No no no no no—

"Charlie, don't do this. It's me," he said, voice cracking. "It's James. You know me. You love me."

Nothing.

No flicker of emotion in her eyes.

The villain watched this with quiet fascination, his hands folded behind his back.

"I'll leave you two to your last goodbye," he said, with venomous amusement. "Don't take too long."

And then he turned and walked out the door, locking it behind him.

The sound of the bolt sliding into place echoed like a gunshot. A buzzer sounding and buckys confines letting him go.

Now they were alone.

Charlie took a single step toward Bucky.

He didn't move.

Didn't plead.

Didn't beg.

Instead, he met her eyes, voice a whisper.

"I'm not afraid of you. I'm afraid for you."

Another step. Her breathing had changed—shallower, faster.

"I don't believe you're gone. I won't. Not now. Not after everything."

She stopped, just a few feet away now, her shadow brushing against his boots. Her hands twitched at her sides.

A memory flickered in her mind, faint but persistent:

Bucky, lying beside her in bed. Brushing hair from her eyes. "You're safe now, doll. I got you."

She blinked.

Just once.

But it was enough.

Bucky stumbled back as her boot connected with his ribs. The impact sent him crashing into the wall, coughing, spitting blood—but he didn't lift a hand to stop her. He wouldn't. Not against her. His mind flashed for a moment saying sorry to having put Steve through this.

But she wasn't hitting as hard anymore.

He noticed it between gasps of air. The strikes weren't as deep. The blade skimmed his cheek instead of plunging into it. Her fist connected with his jaw, but it didn't break it.

She was holding back.

Somewhere in there… she was still fighting.

"Come on," he whispered, eyes locked on hers. "I know you're still in there, Charlie."

She didn't answer. Just walked toward him, knife still in hand, blood running down her arm from the wound that hadn't been treated. Her eyes were hollow. Her face was slack.

But her grip on the knife trembled.

The closer she got, the more he could see it—the cracks.

"You remember me," he said, chest heaving. "You remember what I told you back at the hotel. Before the mission. What I said in the dark."

She raised the knife.

Paused.

Her hand jerked—like something inside her rebelled—and the blade dropped just an inch. Just enough to show him. Just enough to matter.

"That's it," Bucky said, voice cracking. "You're stronger than them. You always have been. They didn't make you—you survived them. That's different."

She blinked slowly. A twitch in her brow. A breath that hitched for just a second too long.

And then—

The knife slashed out, dragging across his side—not deep, not fatal. Just a warning.

His knees buckled.

"Please…" he rasped, reaching for her wrist, not to stop her—but to hold her. "I don't want to hurt you. Don't make me."

She tilted her head, like a curious animal watching a dying thing.

And then—quiet, like a distant whisper:

"I don't want to hurt you either."

Bucky froze.

Her voice was her own.

Broken. Barely there. But real.

"Charlie?"

"I… don't… want…" she murmured, but her hand was already rising again.

Fingers clenching the blade.

A tear slid down her cheek.

And her face… it stayed blank.

She was floating.

No—

Drowning.

The white noise hadn't stopped. It just shifted—became sharper, crueler. Static cutting through her skull like a dull blade. Orders humming beneath her skin. Her body moved like a puppet—jerky, calculated, unstoppable. Somewhere far away, she heard his voice.

"Charlie—please. It's me. Come back to me."

That voice.

That name.

It rattled something loose.

She blinked—once, hard. The static wavered.

He was in front of her, just a few feet away, chest rising and falling like it hurt to breathe. Blood down his temple. Split lip. Those too-blue eyes locked on her like she was the only person left in the world.

"You don't want to do this," he whispered, hands raised, voice thick. "You know me."

The words slammed into her ribcage.

She did.

She knew him.

Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes.

He made her coffee.

He made her laugh when it was the last thing she wanted to do.

He danced with her in the study.

He held her when she cried. He held her when she shook. He held her like she was still good.

And he loved her.

"I love you too."

Her knees buckled.

The knife clattered to the floor.

Suddenly—everything hurt. Her skull, her spine, her chest, her heart—it all fractured open like glass imploding inward.

She choked on a sob and fell forward—reaching.

"Bucky—" she gasped. "Bucky—I'm here—I'm—"

He caught her.

His arms wrapped around her before her body hit the floor, pulling her in like he thought she might disappear again. His breath shuddered against her hair. Her fingers clung to the front of his shirt like a lifeline.

"I've got you," he breathed, voice thick, shaking. "I've got you. I've got you."

Charlie trembled. Blood smeared between them. Her pulse was out of control.

"I didn't mean to—I couldn't stop—I couldn't stop," she cried, fists curled into his chest.

"I know, baby. I know. It wasn't you."

Tears spilled down her cheeks—hot, silent, endless.

And when she finally looked up at him—really looked—her eyes were hers again.

Wide. Wet. Alive.

"Don't let them take me again," she whispered.

"Never," Bucky said, and his voice cracked on the word. "Never again."

The moment lasted all of three seconds.

Three precious seconds where Bucky held Charlie like she might slip through his fingers. Where her body, bruised and trembling, curled into him like she belonged there. Where her breath hitched and her bloodied fingers clutched at him as if he could shield her from the storm still raging in her mind.

Then—

The door slammed open.

Bucky turned sharply, one arm still wrapped around Charlie as the villain strode in like he hadn't just shattered their entire world.

He didn't yell.

Didn't curse.

Didn't even flinch.

He just smiled.

Slow and cold.

Like he'd already accounted for this.

"Well," he said, his voice deceptively light. "Looks like the programming wasn't as permanent as I thought."

Charlie flinched against Bucky's chest at the sound of his voice, but she didn't hide.

She sat up straighter.

Bucky stood, guiding her gently behind him. His eyes were ice. His hands flexed at his sides.

"You're losing her," Bucky said, voice deadly quiet.

The man tilted his head. "No," he said softly. "I'm watching her become what she was made to be."

He nodded to the hallway.

Footsteps—dozens of them—echoed in answer. Reinforcements. Techs. Soldiers.

The villain's smile widened as he took slow steps into the room, gun still in his hand. "You didn't really think I put all that work into her just to let you walk out with her, did you?" he said. "Her father gave her to Hydra. We perfected her. You're just a memory she clung to. A glitch. But I can fix that."

Bucky didn't move. Didn't blink.

"You're not fixing anything," he growled. "She's not yours."

The villain's face hardened. "You think love saves her?" he said sharply. "You think a few touches and soft words undo years of programming? You know better than that, Soldat."

At that name, Bucky's jaw locked.

But Charlie stepped forward.

Still shaking. Still bleeding. But standing.

And her voice—though rough, hoarse—was razor sharp:

"I'm not yours," she spat. "I never was."

The man turned toward her, expression shifting. Something cold and murderous passed through his eyes.

But before he could speak again—before he could do anything—Bucky was moving.

Like a gunshot.

Like a storm breaking loose.

The villain ducked behind the group of men for safety.

Bucky charged the first man through the doorway like a freight train.

Metal met bone with a sickening crack as he grabbed the soldier by the vest and threw him into the wall, then spun to catch the next one by the throat and slammed him to the floor. It was clean, fast, and feral.

Behind him, Charlie wavered.

Blood dripped from the reopened wound at her side, sweat stung her eyes, and her limbs felt like lead. But her mind was clear now—cleared by pain, love, and the shattering realization that her entire life had been built on lies.

And somewhere inside her—she knew how to fight.

It came back like instinct.

The third man came for her.

He was big, armored, fast. She didn't flinch.

Instead, Charlie ducked under his swing and turned, driving her elbow into his ribs, then twisted around and shoved her heel into the side of his knee. He dropped with a snarl, and she didn't hesitate—she took his baton and used it, flipping it into a hard strike across the base of his neck.

He went still.

Bucky caught it all in his periphery—his fists still moving, his blade drawn from the sheath at his back. He saw her drop the man like she'd been doing it for years and for a split second—

He was stunned.

She stood, breathing hard, blood and ash painting her skin. Her body shook, but her stance—her stance was solid.

They locked eyes.

And she nodded.

Then they were moving together.

Like a storm rediscovering its second wind.