She tried to sit up, but a sharp breath left her throat and she collapsed back, wincing.

"Don't move," he said quickly, brushing the hair from her face. "You've been out for a few days. You need to rest."

Her eyes found his again—shaky, unfocused, but so heartbreakingly familiar.

"I—I saw you," she murmured. "In a dream… or something. You were calling me."

Bucky smiled, though his eyes were already welling. "Wasn't a dream. I've been talking to you the whole time. You just took your sweet time waking up."

Charlie's lips twitched like they wanted to smile, but couldn't quite make it. She let out a weak, shaky breath.

Then the doors hissed open behind them.

Bucky turned as Shuri entered with two other Wakandan medics behind her. One of them was already reaching for a datapad.

"She's awake?" Shuri asked, voice clipped and urgent.

Bucky nodded, stepping slightly aside—but not letting go of Charlie's hand. "Just now."

The medics sprang into action, one checking her vitals, the other scanning her neural activity with a handheld device. Shuri moved to Charlie's side, her tone softening as she spoke directly to her.

"Charlie, you're in Wakanda," she said gently. "You're safe. You've been through a traumatic episode, but we're going to help you. Do you understand?"

Charlie tried to nod, but it was more of a twitch of her neck.

"W-we were in a room…" she murmured, voice breaking. "There was a man—he made me—he said words—"

"You don't need to remember it right now," Bucky cut in softly, eyes on her face. "You're okay."

Shuri gave him a glance, then nodded slightly.

"She's responsive," one of the medics said. "Cognitive function is intact. Brainwave patterns are stabilizing."

Charlie's eyes flicked from them back to Bucky.

"I'm sorry," she whispered suddenly. "I didn't mean to—I didn't want to hurt you."

"You didn't," Bucky said immediately, his voice rough. "You didn't, Charlie. That wasn't you. And I'm not going anywhere."

She let out a breath that trembled through her whole body, the tension slowly draining from her bruised frame.

Shuri placed a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "She's out of immediate danger. But we need to monitor her closely for the next twenty-four hours. Her neural triggers are still volatile."

"I'm not leaving," he said without looking away from Charlie.

Shuri hesitated, then softened. "Then don't. But let us work around you."

Charlie's fingers were still curled in his. Even as the machines beeped and whispered and her body ached with exhaustion, she kept her eyes on him like a lifeline. There was pain there—grief, fear, confusion—but something else too.

Trust.

She held it in his name.

And Bucky Barnes held it right back.

Bucky barely noticed the hushed murmurs of Shuri and the medics anymore. The sounds of scanning devices, of notes being taken, of vitals being tracked—it all faded to the background.

All he could see was her.

Charlie hadn't let go of his hand.

Even as they adjusted the monitors on her temple and attached a biosensor patch to her collarbone, even as the bed softly shifted beneath her, she clung to him like the only solid thing left in a world that had torn itself apart.

She didn't speak again right away. Just looked at him—blinking slow, like she had to remind herself that he was really here, that this wasn't part of the programming. That he wasn't part of it.

Bucky reached out with his other hand and brushed her hair behind her ear. "They're gonna fix it," he murmured. "Just like they did for me."

Her eyes searched his, her expression clouded, wary. "What if it's not that simple?"

"It won't be," he said honestly. "But we'll get through it. You and me."

Charlie's lip trembled, and she blinked fast like she didn't want to cry in front of the doctors. "He said… I was like you."

Bucky leaned in, voice low. "He doesn't get to define what that means."

She swallowed hard. "But I hurt people."

"So did I," he said, no hesitation in his voice. "And now I hold the hands of the ones I love. Now I fight for them instead of because of them."

Her breathing hitched. "How can you look at me and not hate me?"

His throat burned. "Because I know what it's like to be turned into something you're not. And I know you. Even when they tried to take you from me, I saw you fighting. You were still in there, Charlie. I saw it in your eyes."

Her brows drew together, and the pain behind them wasn't physical anymore. It was shame. Guilt.

But Bucky didn't let go. He tugged her hand gently and kissed her knuckles.

"You don't have to carry this alone," he whispered. "You're not alone anymore."

A tear slid from the corner of her eye. She didn't wipe it away.

Bucky leaned forward, close enough that their foreheads almost touched.

"I stayed," he murmured. "I'll always stay."

The doctors murmured something in Xhosa behind them, and Shuri's voice came next, clipped and calm—but Bucky didn't register the words. Charlie was finally drifting again, but her fingers still curled into his. Even in sleep, she was holding on.

Shuri waited until Charlie's eyelids fluttered closed again and her breathing evened out, the soft rise and fall of her chest steady under the blanket. Then she stepped forward, hand gently touching Bucky's arm.

"James," she said softly. "Come with me."

Bucky looked back at Charlie, reluctant to leave her even for a moment. "She just fell asleep…"

"I know. And you'll be back in a moment," Shuri assured him. "But we need to talk. Privately."

He hesitated, then slowly peeled his hand from Charlie's, laying it gently atop the blanket. Her fingers twitched slightly in her sleep, searching, and his chest ached. But he followed Shuri out.

They walked silently down a long corridor that curved into a viewing room just off the med bay. From the window, Bucky could still see her—still keep his eyes on the woman he'd nearly lost. That helped. A little.

Shuri folded her arms, her expression calm but serious. "What I am about to tell you… you may not like. But I need your trust."

"You have it," Bucky said immediately.

She nodded. "I believe we can remove the programming. What Hydra did to her—it's a variation of what we found buried in your neural pathways. More sophisticated in some ways. But it's still a chain. And chains can be broken."

Bucky exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"But," she continued, "it will not be like before. This time… she may relive things. In pieces or all at once. Everything they made her forget could come rushing back. People she hurt. Orders she followed. She will have to face it, the way you did—but faster. More compressed."

Bucky's jaw clenched. "Can she survive that?"

"I believe she is strong enough," Shuri said gently. "But she will need someone who understands what that darkness feels like. She will need you."

Bucky said without hesitation. "What do you need me to do?"

"For now? Be near," she replied. "When the time comes, I may need to draw on your memories—the methods we used to pull you free. There's a chance something inside you will resonate with her, and help anchor her through the pain."

"She anchored me," he murmured, eyes drifting back to the bed where Charlie lay unconscious. "She didn't even know it. But she was what brought me back."

Shuri gave a small, knowing smile. "Then perhaps this is how you return the favor."

There was a long beat of silence.

Then, quieter still, she added, "There is something else. Her body… it has accepted the serum. She may be stronger now. Faster. But also unstable, until her mind settles. Until she decides who she wants to be."

Bucky looked back at Charlie, then nodded once. "Then let's help her choose."

Charlie sat on the edge of the med bed now, no longer hooked up to monitors. Her posture was straight, movements precise—too precise. There was still a tension in her frame that Bucky recognized all too well. The kind that came from remembering just enough to feel the danger, but not enough to feel safe.

She hadn't said much about what she did remember. Not yet. But she trusted him—he could feel it in the way her hand lingered on his when he brought her food, in the way she leaned toward his voice when she got overwhelmed. It broke his heart, and it also rebuilt it.

Shuri entered with two Wakandan doctors, dressed in dark robes with threads of gold tracing the collar. They spoke softly to one another in Xhosa, but Shuri's eyes were on Charlie.

"Are you ready?" she asked gently.

Charlie looked up. Her face was pale but calm. "As I'll ever be."

Bucky stood beside her bed, not touching her, but close enough she could feel the heat from his presence. He hadn't left her side for more than a few hours since she woke. He wasn't about to start now.

"What do I have to do?" Charlie asked, her voice steady but low.

"You'll lie back," Shuri explained, gesturing to the modified neural chair behind her. Sleek and curved like obsidian bone, it hummed faintly. "The interface will connect with your prefrontal cortex. We'll trace the programming patterns through your memory centers. It won't hurt—not physically. But your mind will… resist. It may try to protect the triggers."

Charlie swallowed. "So I'm going to remember things?"

"Some. Enough to weaken their hold. When we isolate the code, we destroy it."

Charlie glanced at Bucky. "Did it hurt? When they did it to you?"

He nodded slowly. "Not my body. Just my soul."

She gave a small breath of a laugh that wasn't really a laugh at all. "Great."

"You're stronger than I ever was," he said.

She held his gaze for a long second, then nodded once and stood. Her legs were steadier now. There was still a bandage around her ribs, another at her shoulder where the wound had reopened. But she walked to the chair without trembling.

The doctors moved quickly, attaching soft points to her temples and the back of her neck. Thin cords of light began to pulse from the headrest into the neural points.

Bucky stood to the side, fists clenched behind his back.

"We'll be monitoring her cognition and vitals in real time," Shuri said to him. "You'll see her dreams on the screen there."

"What happens if the programming tries to fight back?" he asked.

Shuri met his eyes. "Then we pull her out. But if she's willing… we can finish it."

Charlie exhaled slowly as the interface lit up. Her eyes drifted closed. Her hands curled slightly at her sides.

"Beginning phase one," one of the doctors said.

The screen flickered to life.

Memories. Glitches. Echoes.

A hallway soaked in blue light. The sound of boots marching. Charlie holding a weapon with shaking hands. Someone screaming in Russian. A child. A fire.

Her heart rate jumped.

"Let her breathe," Shuri murmured. "It's surfacing fast."

Bucky leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen.

Then—

A flicker of something newer.

Him.

His arm around her shoulders. A kiss on the side of his head.

Her body jerked in the chair.

"She's disassociating. Pulling between the programming and her own memories," the second doctor said.

Bucky stepped forward instinctively.

"Can I talk to her?"

Shuri nodded. "Yes. She can still hear you."

He knelt beside the chair, fingers brushing her hand. "Charlie," he said softly. "You're right here. You're safe. This isn't them. It's us. You're with me."

On the screen, the blue hallway faded.

A sunset took its place. The bayou. Laughter.

Her heart rate steadied.

"She's fighting," Shuri murmured, awe in her voice. "She's doing it."

Bucky stayed there, grounding her with his voice, his presence.

They weren't done—not yet.

At first, everything is cold.

Not the room — her.

Her skin. Her thoughts. Her heart.

Then the mission loads like a dream dropped through broken glass.

A man's voice—mechanical, familiar, in Russian—echoes through her skull.

"Target. Eliminate. Witnesses. Zero."

She's moving before she even realizes it. Feet soundless on cement. Wind hissing through broken windowpanes. It's a warehouse. Northern Europe, maybe. Snow drifts inside the cracked glass, cold dust settling in corners. She doesn't remember the place—only the feeling.

There are bodies on the ground. Four. No… five. One still twitching.

She steps over them without hesitation. Her eyes scan, emotionless.

There's a child crying in the corner. A little girl with wide, wet eyes. No older than six.

Charlie raises the gun in her hand.

"No witnesses."

But something falters. Her hand shakes. The memory shudders—like the programming is trying to overwrite itself. The neural chair crackles softly in the med bay. Charlie's breathing spikes. Her hand on the armrest curls so tightly her knuckles whiten.

In the Simulation

"Please…" the little girl whispers in Russian. "Please don't hurt me."

Her voice sounds like a memory too.

Like another version of Charlie — a younger one. Trapped in another dark room.

Her hand starts to lower. Just a little.

"Agent!" the voice in her head booms, demanding control. "Execute the objective."

Tears spring into Charlie's eyes. Her vision trembles. She turns her head away from the child, from the gun.

"I don't want to," she whispers.

Bucky watches as her face contorts. A tear leaks down her temple.

"She's resisting," Shuri says, fingers racing over the interface controls.

"She's remembering too much," one doctor murmurs.

"No," Bucky breathes. "She needs to see it. She needs to choose."

Charlie backs away.

But someone's there—another operative. One of Hydra's handlers. He snarls something in Russian and grabs the gun from her. He pulls her back by the hair.

She doesn't resist. She can't.

"This is why we control you," he hisses.

And then he pulls the trigger himself.

The girl falls, and Charlie screams. Not aloud. Not at first. But inside, something rips. Glass shatters behind her eyes. A wall, cracking.

Charlie gasps — a sob twisting up from her chest, broken and hoarse.

Bucky's hand tightens on hers. "Charlie. Look at me. It's not real anymore. It's memory. That's all it is. You are not that person."

The screen begins to flicker. Fracture. Shift. The warehouse fades. Replaced with the sound of cicadas. Her bare feet on wooden floorboards. The first night she and Bucky danced.

Charlie's body still trembles in the chair, but her jaw clenches now. Like she's bracing herself — not for the pain, but for the war.

Shuri looks at the neural graph. "She's stabilizing."

Bucky brushes hair from her damp temple. "Come back to me, sweetheart."

The pulse of the neural chair slows. The lights dim, then level. They'd cracked open one of the darkest corners of her mind—and she survived it. But the real purge hadn't begun yet. That was still to come.