The Path of Resistance

by Puffins13

Summary:

Raised in silence and pain, her childhood was stripped away by Hydra’s experiments: needles, cages, hunger, and fear.

When rage finally overtook her fear, her strength revealed itself—and Hydra saw more than a victim. They saw a weapon.

Years later, the girl has become a shadow in the world, surviving in the cracks of society. A trail of bodies marks her path, brutal and unexplainable, leaving authorities baffled at the animalistic wounds. To them, she’s a mystery. To herself, she’s only ever been a survivor.

But when a leaked Hydra file exposes her past, her existence can no longer be denied. Captured under the guise of “help” by a government official, she faces a choice: submit to another cage, or fight back again.

A story of trauma, rebellion, and survival, Path of Resistance is the tale of a young woman learning to exist beyond the weapon Hydra made her to be—learning, for the first time, how to live.

Along the way, some unwanted saviours stand in the way.

Note: This story is a build up of a character who will eventually be used for One Shot stories. It will focus on a relationship, a turbulent one, with a certain MARVEL character who shares an equally turbulent past.

Notes:

Note: This story is a build up of a character who will eventually be used for One Shot stories. It will focus on a relationship, a turbulent one, with a certain MARVEL character who shares an equally turbulent past.

Apologies for the awful layout. AO3 does not make it easy for my dyslexic self to format.
Enjoy my bbgs :3

Chapter 1: Resist

There were no memories of warm hands gripping her tightly, no lullabies to hush her cries, no faces smiling warmly down at her. Just the faintest scent of something soft, like a freshly washed lavender blanket, or skin that had once held her. It disappeared quickly, like everything else that made her human. All that was left was cold and dead.
Maybe, at one time in her life, she was held with something other than anger, torment.
She had all the time in the world to guess why this was happening, where she came from, but quickly realised it was easier to stare blankly at a wall than spiral for all your childhood years. This is what life is, she thought.
She knew she was a girl. She knew it in the way her long, somewhat matted brown hair clung to her face, and how she would brush it away with tired fingers. Her scalp itched constantly dry skin, sweat, and layers of dirt caked in from weeks without a proper wash. When it got bad enough, she’d scratch until her scalp bled, then stop, only to start again the next day.
Bathing was a rare luxury in the facility. When permitted, the children were ushered into a communal washroom, stripped of their worn clothes, and lined up beneath overhead showers. There was no privacy—just rows of small, naked bodies and the sound of running water echoing off tile walls. The steam filled the room quickly, fogging the mirrors and softening the harsh lines of the facility, but it didn’t hide the presence of the guards. They stood just beyond the steam, silent, still, always watching.
Despite it all, bathing was a comfort. The warm water against her skin, even if only for five minutes, made her feel human again. Sometimes, when she returned to her cell with wet hair and slightly cleaner skin, she would curl into the corner and fall asleep faster than usual. There was something soothing in being clean, something that reminded her of a world she had never known.
But none of that mattered here anyway. In the lab, you just existed. The walls were metal and too close together, and they held no memory of the world outside. There were no windows. Only long, flickering lights that buzzed endlessly, casting everything in a sterile grey. There was no sense of time. No days, no nights. Just light and dark and light again, in rhythms that didn’t mean anything.
The smell was the worst. It never went away. A constant mix of metal and disinfectant and blood. Even when she was too tired to cry, it filled her nose, sharp and punishing, like it was trying to burn the memory of anything else out of her. Her dirty gown still stunk of old beach wity slowly fading red spots.
Anyone being experimented on work the gown — a long, white fabric that reached past the knees and hung stiffly against their thin frames. The fabric was rough and scratchy, the kind that never softened no matter how many times it was washed. The sleeves reached just past the elbows, always stopping just shy of the wrists, exposing bony forearms and bruised skin. There was no difference between what the boys wore and what the girls wore. Uniformity was the rule.
She never knew when her gown would be replaced. Sometimes it happened after a test, sometimes before, and sometimes seemingly for no reason at all. The replacements were never new. You could tell by the faint stains—old blood, or something like it—set into the fibres no matter how much bleach had been poured over them. Some still held the scent of antiseptic. Others smelled like fear.
The gown offered no comfort, no identity, no warmth. It simply marked her as one of them—one of the nameless children shuffled from corridor to corridor, experiment to experiment. Just another body to be studied. Another file in a cabinet.
The child grew up in silence. All of them did. Her cell contained a thin mattress on the floor. Across from what little comfort she was offered was tall, narrow door, standing tall over her small form. A foggy, scratched glass pane allowed her to see outside if she stood far back enough, on her thin mattress. Eventually she grew to where she was just able to see outside the door, standing upright on her tiptoes, shaking. Her voice, when she used it, came out cracked and brittle from disuse. No one spoke to her unless they were ordering her to move, or hold still, or open her mouth. Sometimes she wanted to scream, just to hear what it would sound like. But she knew better. Screaming made them come faster.
Anya’s upbringing was clinical, cold, and calculated. The lab workers and guards didn’t raise her so much as manage her—fed her slop on a dented tray pushed through a small hatch in her cell door, tasteless and grey, barely food.
As a child, she was sometimes taken out and placed with other children in sterile, grey-walled rooms. They were told it was “playtime,” but there were no toys, no games—only bare concrete and each other’s wary company. The children sat in silent groups, too afraid to speak, their small bodies hunched and stiff. No voices were allowed, only glances and the occasional hushed laugh—though even laughter seemed alien there, hollow, never touching their eyes. No one had that level of joy in them. Not anymore. Not after the injections, the tests, the punishments. Whatever childhood they were meant to have was dissected and discarded in the name of science.
She watched the others come and go. Some were older, some younger. Some only babies, wrapped in stained blankets and taken away just as fast. But all wore the same white gown. They were all injected. Some numerous times, just like her. Long syringes with thick black liquid, pushed into arms, legs, spines. Sometimes they cried. Sometimes they didn’t come back out of the lab at all.
They injected her too. Again and again. She didn’t know what they were trying to change. Nothing ever happened. The pain was unbearable, but her body never shifted the way others did. Some children grew patches of scales, or twisted fingers. A girls eyes turned black and then slowly did her entre body. She clawed at her skin, as if it was burning, or infested with insects, biting her just under her pale skin. Her screams only lasted for so long. Her bony fingers clawing and clawing. She eventually lost her sense, turning on the soldiers, and that was that. One boy lost the ability to speak, and then the ability to breathe.
Anya stayed the same. Small. Quiet. Forgettable. Useless.
She had felt sick on a few occasions. ‘Showing symptoms – a fever’. Her notes stated. A man in a long white coat, narrow features and piercing black, soulless eyes. ‘At least she’s showing something’, he mumbled. ‘Finally’.
But the fever disappeared just as quickly as it came. Another injection. And another. No symptoms.
This eventually made them angry.
She had spent years following orders, staying in line, hiding in the far corners of her cell when alarms blared or people screamed. That small, rigid life had become something like a routine. It gave her a false sense of safety. She told herself that if she didn’t stand out, as long as she obeyed, she’d be left alone.
She learnt this quickly. Once she was able to sit upright on her own, she understood what she had to do to keep ‘safe’. No crying, no babbling. Just stare at the wall. Or on some fun occasions, the lab workers would sit across from a row of small children in front of them. Some pumped with serum, some not.
Mind games. The children learnt from early on. They wanted to study their cognitive abilities. But what was she to do? What was play? The workers rarely lifted their heads, hand never lifting from paper.
Stay quiet. Listen and follow. That’s all she had to do, but she was wrong.
One day everything changed.
She didn’t know what “bait for further test subjects” meant, exactly. But the way they said it made her stomach turn cold. There was finality in the words. Like a sentence. Like an end.
Panic struck. Change. That’s bad. Danger.
A shadow passed in front of her door window. Two hard knocks.
“Come on, kid. Grab your stuff.”
The voice was low, emotionless. It barely registered as human through the grey mask that covered the man’s face.
She flinched back, recoiling instinctively. Her arms curled into herself as she stared into the glassy black eyes of the helmet peering in.
“I said MOVE 966. NOW.”
The voice snapped through the steel.
She didn’t even have time to stand before the door hissed open and the man stepped in. His gloved hand grabbed her arm without hesitation. His grip was iron.
Anya’s body moved before her thoughts caught up. She tried to pull back. Her bare heels scraped across the floor as she reached for something—anything—that wasn’t there.
He yanked her forward.
Two more lab workers followed behind as she was dragged down the corridor. The hallway twisted in ways she had never been allowed to see before. It felt like being pulled deeper into the belly of something ancient and hungry. Her breath came in short, panicked bursts. Her chest rose and fell like a drowning swimmer. But still, she made no sound.
They didn’t allow sound. Stay small.
She saw a silver door ahead. Sleek. New. It opened with a soft hiss.
Inside was a lab unlike the others. Brightly lit. White. Clean. No tray lined with rows of vials and syringes. There was a hum in the air she didn’t recognize. A deeper frequency.
For a moment, she dared to think—maybe it was just another injection. Just the pain she already knew. She could endure that. She had endured that.
But the thought barely formed before she was shoved to the floor.
Hard.
She hit the sterile tile with a sharp breath. The three lab workers loomed over her, silent, their masks unreadable as always. They were like vultures looming.
“New bait,” one of them said flatly. “As you ordered, sir.”
She didn’t dare look up to see who “sir” was. Her cheek stayed pressed to the cold floor, her mind spinning too fast to settle.
Her room. Her mattress. Her quiet. Safe. Gone.
Whatever this was… it was something new.
And in this place, new never meant better.
-
She stood at the end of a long, narrow hallway.
The walls were made of the same lifeless metal as the rest of the facility, but this corridor felt different—longer, colder. A place for things that were never meant to return. Only a few harsh white lights buzzed overhead, spaced too far apart, leaving much of the hallway swallowed in deep shadow. The floor beneath her bare feet was slick and cold, and the air carried a scent she had never learned to name—something like rust, sweat, and rot.
A high-pitched crackle broke over the intercom.
“Test 6 for Subject 1621. Go ahead for Test 6.”
Then silence.
The child flinched at the words. She stood motionless, her back to the wall at the far end of the hallway, trying to steady her breath. She didn’t know what Test 6 meant. No one had told her. No one ever told her anything. Her arms hung at her sides, her thin body half-swallowed by the dark, her skin ghost-pale under the rare flashes of white light.
She felt smaller than ever. As if the hallway had grown around her.
From the opposite end, a door hissed open.
Someone stepped inside.
A man.
Tall. Gaunt. His shoulders hunched forward like a creature unused to standing. His skin was stretched thin over bone, yellowed and bruised in places. Long, greasy strands of hair hung from his scalp, mingling with an unkempt beard that moved slightly with every step. His fingernails were thick and curled, dirt packed beneath them. His feet were bare and blackened, but his stride had direction. Purpose.
And his eyes—wild, sunken, unblinking—locked straight onto her.
Her breath caught.
Two soldiers flanked the man. They moved quickly, without a word. One removed the thick, reinforced cuffs from his wrists. The other loosened the collar fastened tight around his neck. The moment the restraints dropped, the soldiers backed away—swiftly, professionally, like men who had seen something go wrong before.
They didn’t turn their backs to him.
They exited through the door they came from, and it hissed shut behind them.
She was alone with him.
Her first time seeing another person this close in what could have been months, or even years. A face, with emotion. Eyes. Lips. It was hard to measure time in a place that refused to acknowledge its passing. But nothing about this meeting felt like a reunion. It felt like a warning.
A click echoed overhead. The voice returned, distorted through static.
“Subject 1621. You know what to do. No results, no future.”
The man grunted. Not quite a growl. Not quite a word. Just a huff of air like acknowledgment.
His stare never left her.
Anya’s heart pounded in her ears. Her body stayed still, rigid as stone, though her mind screamed to run. But she knew better. Cameras were always watching. They had told her once—if you moved out of turn, if you disobeyed protocol, there would be consequences. Painful ones. Permanent ones.
She didn’t know if the cameras were hidden, but she assumed they were. She couldn’t risk it.
So, she stayed where she was, pressed into the wall like she could melt into it.
The man began to move.
Slow, unsteady steps. His feet shuffled across the floor with a quiet drag. Every inch of him seemed to twitch—shoulders too tight, fingers curling and flexing, mouth working through half-formed expressions.
But his eyes were steady.
And they were on her.
Anya’s dull blue eyes darted around the corridor, looking for exits, for cover, for someone to intervene. Nothing. The walls offered no corners. The ceiling no lights she could shatter. No trays, no chairs, no syringes. Just the corridor. Just the two of them.
Her breathing quickened. She didn’t speak. Speaking might trigger something. Might make things worse.
The man stepped into the edge of a light beam, revealing more of his frame—bony, sickly, but coiled like a spring. Like a predator.
Her feet moved before she knew it. A single step back. Just a shuffle. Instinct.
The moment her foot slid against the floor, the man growled.
Then lunged.
-
The stench of fresh blood clung to the air like smoke. Heavy. Iron-rich. Suffocating.
It soaked into her skin. Coated her lungs. It was inside her now.
Blood dripped from Anya’s small, trembling hands. Red ran down her wrists in sluggish rivulets, warm and sticky, catching in the grooves of her palms, collecting in the creases between her fingers.
She stood in the middle of the room. Just a child’s frame. Thin. Fragile.
But around her, nothing was fragile anymore.
The man's body lay splayed out across the floor, what remained of it. His limbs bent at impossible angles, skin torn in jagged strips. Bone pierced through where it shouldn’t. Blood pooled beneath him, reaching across the tile like it was trying to flee. Bits of flesh clung to the walls, to the corners of the ceiling, to her clothes.
She couldn’t remember how it had happened.
She had no memory of the moment. Just sound. Just pressure. Just... something breaking.
Anya stared down at the scene in front of her with wide, glassy eyes, the color of washed-out winter sky. There was no recognition in her expression. No understanding. Just blankness. Stillness. Her mind had left the room long before her body caught up.
Seconds passed.
The ringing in her ears came back slowly. Like a siren in the distance. Her breath was shallow. Her limbs were beginning to shake.
She looked down at her hands.
They were red.
Soaked.
Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. Then her body caught up to the horror her mind was trying not to feel. She brought her blood-covered hands to her face, as if needing proof. As if she could scrub it away with her own gaze.
And then—
She screamed.
A raw, animal sound. Unrestrained. Full of everything she didn’t have the words for. Pain. Terror. Confusion. The sharp ache of finally breaking through something invisible and irreversible.
Her legs gave out beneath her.
She fell backwards, her spine hitting the floor with a dull thud, arms flailing. She scrambled away from the body, heels dragging across blood-slick tile. Her small frame collided with the opposite wall, and she curled into herself, breathing so fast it hurt. Her heart raced like a hunted animal’s. Her skin crawled.
She couldn’t get far enough away. Couldn’t shrink small enough.
What had she done?
What am I?
Overhead, the intercom crackled to life.
“Well, well, well...”
The voice was thin and sharp. Mocking. The tone of a man who had never felt anything real in his life. Words delivered like smirks.
“Subject 1621: deceased,” he said, as if reading a grocery list. A few quick, clicking keystrokes echoed behind his voice.
“But a new symptom has come to light.”
She froze. Her eyes locked on the speaker in the ceiling, as if it were a monster watching her breathe.
“Subject 966,” the man continued, “previously of no use and scheduled for disposal... now has shown what she is truly made of.”
His voice shifted slightly. Curious. Pleased.
She pressed herself harder into the wall, her knees to her chest, hands stained red and shaking in front of her mouth. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t process what she had done.
He was going to hurt me, a distant voice in her mind whispered. He was dangerous.
But that voice didn’t sound like her. It sounded like survival.
She didn’t feel brave. She felt broken.
The intercom clicked again.
“Further promising tests to come.”
Then silence.
No comfort. No explanation. Just cold observation and excitement, like she had just solved an equation.
She curled tighter, rocking slightly in place.
She wasn’t meant to live through this.
She had followed the rules. Obeyed. Stayed quiet. Stayed invisible.
And now, all at once, the walls of her world had cracked open.
She had no name here. No family. No face. She had never seen her own reflection. And now, covered in blood, she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
Something had awakened in her.
And something had died.
-
She fought them the whole way.
Her screams echoed down the unfamiliar corridors, barely louder than the scraping of her bare feet against the slick metal floor. She twisted, kicked, sobbed—but the soldiers dragged her like dead weight, their gloved hands locked tight around her arms.
The hallway spun as she slipped, her legs buckling beneath her, scraping painfully across the cold tile. She thrashed wildly, tears blurring her vision, but they didn’t loosen their grip. Her wrists burned inside strange new cuffs, reinforced with thick grey bands that buzzed faintly, humming against her skin. Around her neck, a metallic collar pressed tight to her throat. She didn’t know what it did, only that it scared her.
And she was still covered in blood—his blood. Her feet left red streaks behind her with every struggling step.
One of the guards stumbled as she twisted violently, just enough to knock him off balance. The other stopped short, yanking her back upright with force.
They shoved her hard between them.
“Stupid little bitch,” one of them spat, twisting her arm behind her back. The other grunted and forced her forward again, jerking her every which way so it felt like her limbs were being pulled apart.
“Pick up the fucking pace, kid,” the second one hissed into her ear, seething.
Anya didn’t respond. Her body moved on instinct now, half-limp, half-tense, her breath ragged and uneven. The cold from the floor crept into her bones. The collar itched at her throat, foreign and wrong. Her knees threatened to give out, but she stayed on her feet, barely.
Twelve years.
Twelve years of quiet suffering. Of tiny blocks and cold meals and injections in the dark. Twelve years of isolation of surviving instead of living, of holding still while her mind frayed at the edges.
And now what?
A lifetime more of this? Of experiments? Of containment? Of being their monster in a box?
She couldn’t.
She couldn’t do it anymore.
What’s worse than this? she thought. What’s worse than being alive and still not free?
They turned a corner. One of the guards walked slightly ahead, guiding the way, rifle still slung across his back. The other stayed behind, close, breathing heavily. That one was nervous. She could feel it.
Anya’s gaze locked onto the space between their movements.
And then she moved.
She slammed her feet into the floor, grounding herself, refusing to be pulled any farther. No plan. No strategy. Just a single instinct: resist.
The guards yanked in response, but her body dropped.
Her back hit the floor hard, her head cracking against the tile. Stars burst in her vision. Pain bloomed in her skull.
One of the guards shouted, furious.
“Fuck me, you are one stubborn little bitch!”
The second guard’s fists clenched in frustration.
“Get the fuck up, kid!”
She didn’t.
She crab-walked back, heels pushing against the blood-streaked floor, eyes wide with panic and rage. Her chest heaved. Her body trembled, every muscle on fire.
Retaliation.
That was the word screaming through her mind. Not revenge. Not escape. Just retaliation. The smallest piece of herself trying to fight back after years of silence.
A hand grabbed her leg. Another latched onto her wrist.
She screamed and kicked—twisting her whole body in a way that felt like it might rip her in two. Her hands, still entrapped, flayed side to side together.
Somehow—she didn’t know how—both guards lost their grip.
One fell to the floor with a grunt. The other staggered backward, arms flailing for balance.
She didn’t think.
She ran.
Anya stumbled to her feet, legs unsteady but moving. She bolted back down the hallway, slipping on her own blood as she went. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Her eyes blurred. She didn’t know where she was going. It didn’t matter.
Behind her, the alarm hadn’t sounded yet.
But it would.
“Oh, shit,” one of the guards muttered as he scrambled to his feet. They both swung their rifles around to their fronts, panic now laced in their own voices.
A quick, bitter sigh from one of them.
“We’re dead.”
And then they ran after her.
-
Cameras.
Anya’s eyes flicked up, scanning every wall. Every corner. Every junction. Tiny black lenses stared back like insects perched in waiting. There was no blind spot. No mercy. They saw everything.
She was already dead.
That thought pressed in like a weight on her chest. There were no survivors. No missing subjects. No one escaped the lab. No one made it past the corridors, the alarms, the guards with their soulless masks. Everyone who tried was erased. She’d seen it. Heard it.
And now Anya was the one out of line.
She had resisted. She had broken the rule.
And there was no going back.
She stopped at a junction, her bare feet skidding slightly on the smooth, blood-slick metal. She pressed her back to the wall and crouched low, trying to disappear into it, as if she could become part of the corridor. Make herself small. Make herself nothing.
Her chest rose and fell in staccato bursts. Her arms were trembling. Her eyes flicked from one direction to the other. Left. Right. Both hallways stretched into flickering light and shadow, each one full of unknowns. One direction meant her captors. The other might mean more guards. Or worse.
There was no plan.
Only chaos.
She listened. Her pulse drummed in her ears, but beneath it she could hear voices—faint, fast—coming from the corridor behind her. Shouts. Orders. Heavy boots pounding the floor.
They were close.
Her eyes snapped left.
That hallway looked clear. Empty, at least for now.
She pushed off the wall and darted forward, body low, arms tight at her sides. Her feet slapped against the floor as she ran past rows of sealed doors. Cold steel. Red access panels. No handles. Nothing helpful. No weapons. No hiding spots. No escape hatches.
She was a rat in a maze, and the walls were starting to close in.
She came to another junction and froze, panting. More hallways stretched out in every direction, each identical to the last. No signs. No windows. Just repetition. Confusion. Traps.
And that’s when the alarms began.
A deafening blare shattered the silence. Red lights exploded to life above her, strobing wildly, washing the metal walls in pulsing crimson. Her breath caught in her throat.
They knew.
All of them knew.
A siren call for every scientist, every guard, every security drone in the complex: Subject 966 is loose. Apprehend immediately.
Her captors were behind her.
But now there were new footsteps coming from ahead—calmer, more deliberate. Reinforcements. A pincer movement. They were going to trap her. Box her in.
She flinched and slammed her back against the nearest wall, her fingers digging into the cold metal. Her head throbbed where it had struck the floor earlier. Her knees wanted to give out again.
This was it.
The end.
She could curl up. Drop down. Let them come. Let them drag her back. Let them erase her.
Twelve years of silence. Twelve years of submission. Twelve years of being nothing.
And now, just as something had awakened, they would snuff her out.
Anya stared at the red lights overhead, flickering across the walls like heartbeat pulses.
She inhaled sharply through her nose.
Then she stood up straight.
She shook, visibly, her hands twitching with adrenaline and fear. But she forced herself to her full height. Still small. Still fragile. But standing.
Resist.
The word was in her blood now. In her bones.
No fear. Resist.
A step forward.
The corridor ahead was uncertain. There was no path. No way out. But still, her feet moved. Her body leaned forward into motion.
At least try, she told herself.
And then she ran.
-
“Sir, she’s… she’s strong—” one of the soldiers stammered, still catching his breath.
“Her eyes, sir, they were—” the second tried to add, voice shaking.
A sharp bark of a command cut them both off.
“Silence!”
Both men snapped to attention, stiffening, shoulders rigid. Eyes forward. Mouths shut. They knew the drill. Obey or disappear.
The commanding officer stepped forward, the heels of his boots clicking against the metal floor. His presence alone felt suffocating. His face was pale and tight, the skin stretched thin over sharp cheekbones. His lips curled into a snarl as he turned, raising his arms to address the others gathered nearby.
“The cameras have her. Every move is being tracked,” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. “She won’t get far. She can’t.”
He spun back toward the two trembling soldiers.
“Do you fools understand what’s at stake?”
Neither man answered. They knew better.
“After thirty years—thirty years of failure of wasted blood and bone—we finally have something. A breakthrough. A spark. And you two idiots—” his finger jabbed toward them with pure contempt “—let her go.” He was seething.
He paused, breathing hard, trying to regain composure. His spine straightened. He adjusted the stiff collar of his uniform, reasserting control.
“Either way,” he said coldly, smoothing the front of his coat with deliberate calm, “you’re both as good as dead.”
The words hit like a gunshot, echoing through the sterile hallway.
“But,” he added with a cruel smile, “that also means you’ve got nothing left to lose. So, get back out there.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Bring her in. Alive.”
The two soldiers exchanged a glance—part terror, part resignation—before nodding sharply and turning on their heels.
The hunt was back on.
-
She ran.
She ran until her legs burned, until her bare feet skidded and slipped across the cold, unforgiving metal. Every corner turned felt the same. Endless corridors. No escape.
But the footsteps followed. Heavy boots. Dozens of them. Shadows flickering behind flashing red lights. They were closing in.
No matter how fast she ran, they were always closer.
Her breath hitched as her body finally gave out. She stumbled into a wall, bracing herself with trembling hands. Her chest heaved, lungs struggling against the rising sob in her throat. Her legs folded underneath her, and she sank to the ground like a doll dropped from too high.
They’re going to catch me. They’re going to kill me.
A strange calm tried to settle in that thought. Maybe it would be quick. Maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t hurt this time. That would be better than the needles. Better than the knives. Better than the screaming.
A muffled shout jolted her back. The sound of a voice—sharp, close—somewhere just around the corner.
Her head snapped toward it. Wide eyes. Heart pounding.
She flattened her back against the wall, blinking rapidly as if the darkness might swallow her up if she kept still enough. But it didn’t. The panic crept in like smoke, slow and choking.
No. No, no, no.
The words tumbled through her mind in a desperate chant.
Please. No.
Tears welled, trembling against her lashes. Her small body trembled with every breath. She curled into herself, trying to disappear. Just disappear.
She clutched her hands over her ears, digging her fingers in hard, trying to block out the world, the voices, the boots—the death that was surely seconds away.
A pitiful whimper slipped from her lips as she rocked in place. She was no longer running. No longer resisting.
She was a child again. Helpless. Worthless. A failure.
No more. Please. No more.
-
The soldiers knew exactly where she was.
The cameras tracked her every move—cold, unblinking red eyes watching from every corner. There was nowhere to truly hide, but Anya didn’t stop. She couldn’t.
She ran like a ghost—silent, desperate, fast. Faster than any of them expected. Her small form darted through the endless maze of sterile hallways, each turn like a trap waiting to spring. She pushed her aching limbs past the point of exhaustion, forcing herself forward even when her lungs screamed for air.
She was faster than they were. But not invisible.
At every corner she tucked into, she left a piece of herself behind—faint bloody footprints, the sharp scent of fear, droplets of sweat smeared across cold metal walls. Evidence. Evidence that she had passed through, that she had existed.
And there she was.
Hunched down on the ground. Pressed into the wall like she could vanish inside it. A child, small and trembling, curled in on herself—fragile, broken, and utterly exposed.
Like the weak little creature, they always told her she was.
The soldiers spotted her and moved quickly. Their boots thundered down the corridor, the noise echoing like gunfire. Their movements were sharp, rehearsed. They swept through the space, covering every blind corner, every possible escape. They’d learned from last time.
Some raised their rifles from a distance, fingers tight on triggers—aiming not to kill, but to cripple if she ran. She was worth more alive.
“Bring her back alive.”
The order played on repeat in every earpiece. Cold. Commanding. Final.
A few soldiers broke away, closing the distance with cautious steps, guns locked on her. No words spoken. No mercy in their eyes behind the black sheen of their visors.
Others radioed in silently short bursts of static confirming the find.
She didn’t move.
She couldn’t.
The panic still clawed at her throat. Her breath came in shallow gasps. The wall behind her was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes, wide and wet, darted back and forth, staring down the barrels of their weapons.
Fear, panic, death—it all swirled in her skull like a storm with no end.
She could feel her heart screaming inside her chest.
There would be no running this time.
No fighting.
No…. Fight.
The word slammed into her mind, out of nowhere. Not her own voice—at least, not entirely—but it echoed with something real. Something alive.
Do what you did to that man. The one who tried to hurt you… but you hurt him back.
Her wide, tear-glossed eyes blinked once.
Then again.
That memory—no, that moment—ripped back into her mind in flashes.
Blood. Screams. Flesh torn. Her hands—her hands.
His eyes, wide with fear before they went glassy and cold.
He was going to hurt me. I stopped him.
The fear didn’t vanish. It stayed—coiling in her gut, crawling up her spine. But something else stirred beneath it. Not bravery. Not courage. Something older than that.
Instinct.
Her fingers twitched against the floor. Her breath, once frantic, began to slow—just slightly. A quiet stillness settled into her bones, the kind just before a quake.
The soldiers crept closer, weapons steady, eyes locked.
One of them whispered, “She’s not moving. She's breaking.”
No, she thought. I’m remembering.
She pushed one foot slowly beneath her body, weight shifting. The other foot followed.
Still crouched, still small—but no longer frozen.
Her eyes lifted, dulled blue flickering with something sharper, something deeper. One soldier noticed the change. He froze.
“Wait—”
Too late.
From the girl on the floor came a sound. Low, soft—like a hum that didn’t belong in any human throat.
And then it rose. A shiver through the air, like a vibration in their skulls. Something wrong.
One soldier’s hand slipped from his weapon, reaching to clutch at his helmet.
The hum became a pulse.
A pressure.
The lights above flickered.
Then, a scream—not hers—but one of the soldiers, staggering backward, hands at his ears.
Another rifle clattered to the ground.
Fight.
Her head tilted slightly to the side, her expression blank—haunted, hollow—but her body was poised now. Not to run.
But to resist.
To retaliate.
Her hunched little form began to tremble—not with fear, but with something else. Something rising from deep within her, clawing its way out.
Her limbs twitched. Muscles tensed and spasmed beneath her skin. Bones cracked quietly.
She wasn’t breathing anymore.
She was shifting.
The soldiers froze. Rifles lowered slightly in confusion… or hesitation.
And then they saw it.
Her head lifted.
The same girl, the same size, but her expression—her eyes—no longer human. Her pupils stretched wide, consuming every trace of blue until her gaze was nothing but bottomless black. Emotionless. Alien.
Her skin grew pale, almost translucent beneath the flickering red emergency lights, veins darkening beneath the surface.
Her fingers curled against the metal floor. Her nails stretched, splintered, then sharpened—until clawed talons sat where soft childlike hands had once been.
Her mouth hung slightly open as she stared blankly forward, the corners twitching. Blood still clung to her lips.
And her teeth—
No longer teeth.
Jagged shards. Serrated edges. Misshapen and wrong. A predator’s mouth.
A sick gurgling hum filled her throat.
The soldiers stepped back. One of them gasped.
"What the hell is that?"
Another whispered, “She’s not human.”
“Hold your fire!” barked someone from the comms—but his voice sounded uncertain now.
She didn’t hear them.
She didn’t hear anything.
She was still shaking—silent, low tremors building. Her arms slightly spread. Knees bent.
Every instinct in the room knew what was coming.
A monster had been made from a child who was never loved, never protected. Who knew nothing but cold walls, screaming voices, pain behind closed doors.
This wasn’t rage.
This was evolution—born of trauma, shaped in blood.
And they had no idea what she was about to do.
Gunfire lit the hall like a strobe light.
The first shots were wild, panicked—echoing off the steel walls. Flash after flash burst across the hallway, momentarily illuminating her twisted silhouette in flickers of terrible clarity.
She didn’t flinch.
Bullets tore into the walls around her; some even nicked her skin—but they didn’t stop her. They didn’t slow her. Blood oozed where she was struck, dark and slow, but her body didn't react like something alive. It reacted like something beyond pain.
Men shouted.
Then those shouts turned into screams.
Bloody, gurgling, gut-wrenching screams.
A blur of white skin and dark limbs launched forward with unnatural speed. One soldier barely had time to scream before his throat was ripped out, arterial blood spraying in rhythmic pulses across the metal wall.
Another was slammed so hard into the floor that the steel dented beneath the impact. His rifle clattered, useless.
A third managed a shot—one, two—before jagged claws slashed across his chest, carving through armour like paper. He fell with a horrible wet sound, twitching.
Panic took hold of the remaining men.
“Fall back! FALL BACK!”
But there was no going back. Only the red-flashing corridor, painted now in streaks of blood, ringing with metal echoes and screams. Her body moved like liquid—crawling, sprinting, leaping. She was everywhere. Unrelenting.
One soldier tried to close the containment door.
Too late.
Her claws shot through the gap before it sealed, dragging him bodily back through—howling, pleading.
The door remained open, jammed on his broken frame.
Silence began to return, bit by bit, save for the wet drip of blood and the low, inhuman breathing that now filled the corridor.
She stood in the centre of it all, bathed in red light and gore. Her chest heaved as if breathing for the first time in years. The hum in her throat faded into nothing.
Her eyes, still black voids, scanned the hallway—her blank stare returning. Her talons still dripping. Her mouth slack with exhaustion.
She didn’t know how many she had killed.
She didn’t care.
All she knew was—
They hurt her.
And this time, she hurt them back.
She stood amidst the ruin, her bare feet slick with blood, her trembling body casting a warped reflection in a pool of crimson on the floor.
Her breathing slowed.
Each inhale still shaky. But something was different now.
The fear—always there, always gnawing at her from the inside like rust—was no longer eating her. It had changed.
It had become armour.
A strange warmth spread through her chest, a pulse that wasn’t her heartbeat, not exactly. It throbbed with something ancient. Primal. Something that had been born not just from pain but from her need to survive.
To protect herself.
To resist.
All those years. All the dark injections. The cold voices. The metal floors. The burning in her veins. The blank looks. The chains. The rules.
She had swallowed every moment like a curse and buried it deep inside herself.
Now it stirred.
Her fear had grown claws. Her dread had grown teeth.
It had become a shield. A weapon.
A presence.
Not like a voice in her head. More like a sensation—a whisper under her skin, wrapped around her spine, crawling beneath her ribs. She didn’t understand it, but it watched with her. It felt what she felt.
And it would never let her be helpless again.
A low flicker of light caught her attention—security lights dancing ahead, sensors scanning for survivors. The red warning alarms had gone softer now, pulsing in waves, almost like a heartbeat. The facility was shaken, but not silent.
More would come. They always did.
But she wasn’t the same anymore.
She crouched low, fingers brushing the floor. Her claws twitched, still slick with blood. Her shoulders ached where bones had shifted and torn beneath her skin, but she ignored it.
There was only one thought in her mind now.
They will never cage me again.
She stood.
Not as the helpless little girl they had raised in the shadows.
Not as the trembling subject who once begged not to be taken to the next test.
But as something forged from fear.
And made to fight.
She crept forward, bare feet slick and silent on the blood-smeared metal floor. The air still buzzed with tension — the smell of gunpowder and death, the echoes of distant screams and barked commands bouncing off the cold walls. But the retreat had begun. Soldiers were pulling back.
Running from her.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t feel pride. Only something hollow — like a breath never exhaled.
She moved like a shadow, always low, pressing her body against the corridor walls. Every shout made her flinch. Every set of bootsteps caused her to freeze. Years of conditioning weren’t easy to cast off, even now. Her mind was still tangled in fear, even if her body had learned to fight.
Then she saw it.
That word.
Glowing above a thick metal door in sickly green-blue light: EXIT.
It pulsed like a heartbeat, hazy in the fog of adrenaline and flickering overhead bulbs.
She stopped in her tracks.
For a long, frozen second, she just stared.
It looked surreal — like something from a dream. Not real. Not allowed.
The corridor around her spun, and suddenly she felt dizzy. Her legs trembled beneath her, the cold metal of the floor biting into her toes.
Was it a trap?
They'd used bait before. They used her as bait.
But this…
Her heart slammed inside her ribs.
No one had ever gotten this far. She was sure of it.
The EXIT sign flickered again. It stood out from the plain walls around it.
Her hands were still soaked in blood. Her small, thin arms ached from fighting. Her jaw still clenched from the screams that had torn out of her throat without her knowing. But her eyes — they stared with something unfamiliar.
Hope.
Tentative. Brittle. But real.
She inched forward, hugging the wall like a ghost. A voice shouted in the distance — another command. She dropped into a crouch, waiting. A group of soldiers thundered past a hallway to her left, not seeing her.
She waited. Counted.
Three… four… five seconds.
Silence.
She straightened, slowly.
She took a step.
Then another.
Her foot bumped into something solid—soft, yet heavy. She looked down.
A soldier.
Dead.
His torso was split open, a deep, jagged wound carved across his stomach. Blood bubbled up from his mouth, dried around his lips, thick and black red. A pool of it had formed beneath him, seeping slowly into the cracks of the metal floor. His eyes were still open, frozen in a glassy, vacant stare.
Beside him lay a clipboard.
Her face was on it.
Anya snatched it up without thinking. Her hands trembled slightly as she flipped through the attached papers. Diagrams. Test logs. Blood analyses. Her name—or rather, her number—scrawled across nearly every page. Subject 966.
She yanked the papers from the board, shoving them into her bag. The clipboard clattered to the ground, forgotten. No time to waste. Her heart pounded in her chest, every second stretching longer than the last.
And then she refocused, papers scrunched in her small hand. The door. The EXIT.
The door ahead loomed larger now — sealed but blinking, waiting. She didn’t know what was beyond it. Maybe more men. Maybe another trap. Maybe an empty vacuum of space, for all she knew. She had never seen outside these walls.
She didn't even know what outside meant.
Her free hand rose — shaky, pale, bloodied — and hovered just inches from the security panel beside the door.
She swallowed.
One step. One touch.
Was she still a child? A subject? A monster?
Or was she finally free?
Her fingers brushed the panel.
A click. A hiss of released air.
The door began to part.
A cold wind rushed in through the crack — carrying scents she had never smelled before. Wet stone. Pine. Rain.
And sky. Something vast and open and terrifying.
Her eyes widened.
The world outside was real.
She stepped forward — not with confidence, but with the terror of someone who had spent her entire life in a cage, finally finding the gate unlocked.
The EXIT sign flickered once more behind her.
And then, for the first time in years…
She stepped through.
The door sealed shut behind her with a slow, echoing clunk. It was done.
She stood frozen.
The wind howled, wild and untamed, pushing against her fragile frame. Her eyes, still wide with shock, darted across a world she didn’t understand.
She was outside.
A thick forest spread before her, tall evergreens twisting into the sky. Everything felt… alive. Trees creaked in the wind. Branches rustled. Somewhere, birds shrieked in alarm, disturbed by the door's mechanical growl. The sky — not a ceiling, not a vent — stretched infinitely above her, slate grey with storm clouds. Drops of rain started to fall, gently at first, then faster, heavier. Cold droplets mixed with the blood on her skin, turning it pink as it dripped from her chin.
She didn’t move.
She didn’t know how to move here.
Her bare feet pressed into soft mud and leaf litter, and she flinched. It was too soft. Too… wrong. Everything was too bright, too loud, too open. There were no shadows to hide in. No walls. No corners.
Her hands wrapped tightly around her own arms as if trying to hold herself together. Paper still scrunched in her frail bloodied hand.
The wind carried new smells — damp wood, moss, wet stone — and they hit her hard. Her nose burned. Her stomach twisted. She coughed and gasped like she was breathing for the first time.
It was too much.
She stumbled forward a few steps, then collapsed onto her knees. Her fingers sank into the mud. She looked down at them, caked in blood and dirt, trembling uncontrollably.
What was this place?
Why did it feel wrong and right all at once?
Was she still inside a test? Another simulation? Another illusion to measure her response?
No voice came over the intercom. No grey-suited men burst through the trees.
Just the rain.
She tilted her head up, letting it wash over her.
It soaked her matted hair, ran down her sunken cheeks, soaked her bloodstained clothes. Her mouth opened slightly as the rain hit her lips — cool, tasteless, real.
A sob escaped her chest.
Her eyes, dry for hours, burned with hot tears.
She dropped her head, curled her arms around herself, and cried.
Not because she was safe.
Not because she had escaped.
But because the world was real and she had no idea what to do with that.
The lab had been horror, yes. But it had also been familiar.
This? This was chaos. Freedom. Death and life and possibility — all at once.
She was a child, no older than twelve, standing alone in a world she’d never known. Her only experience was pain. Her only instinct was to obey. Her only strength had come in a moment of survival.
Now, no voice was telling her where to go.
No one was watching.
No one was guiding her.
She was… alone.
And for the first time in her life, that thought terrified her more than anything else.

Chapter 2: Runaway

She spent the next years alone, clinging to shadows like old friends.
Her secret—her curse—remained hidden from everyone. She never spoke of what was done to her, what she had become. Trust was a foreign concept. It had no place in her world.

The streets were no safer than the labs. The outside might’ve had sky and wind and sun, but the people were just as cruel. Just as dangerous.
She learned fast.

She stole what she needed—food, clothes, anything of value she could trade. People rarely noticed her, and when they did, it was usually for the wrong reasons. Always the same look in their eyes. Hunger. Power. Control.

Men would try to lure her away with sweet words and kind smiles.
“Hey, pretty girl.”

“You look cold. I’ve got somewhere warm.”

“You don’t have to be alone.”

But she had learned long ago: kindness had claws.

Only once did she let someone in. Just once. She wanted to feel safe, just once. And he promised he could protect her.

But he didn’t.

He hurt her.

Not like the scientists did, with syringes and wires and pain dressed as purpose.

No. This was different. This was personal.

So she killed him.

Smeared his blood across the crumbling walls of that abandoned building in thick, shaking strokes.

A single word written in red: “PIG.”

She was only sixteen.

By eighteen, she had killed dozens. Dozens of pigs, men who followed women down alleys. Who whispered filth in their ears. Who reached out with greedy hands when no one else was watching.

She watched. Always watching.

They never made it too far.

And they never did it again.

But justice, even her kind, couldn’t stay hidden forever.

Her name crept into the headlines like a ghost: unidentified female suspect, string of murders, vigilante or monster?

Police departments across cities began to compare notes.

The photos piled up.

Bloodied alleys. Empty eyes. Necks torn open as if by an animal, ripped apart. But then, slices, clean ones, deep ones. Some wounds suggested knives. Others, claws.
And those bite marks…

No human mouth left patterns like that.

It was as if she became something else when she killed.

And no one could explain how.

But they were getting closer.

Staying hidden came naturally to Anya. But hiding in her chambers, the cold, confined 6x6 foot cage, was a different kind of ease. That small, suffocating space had been her world once. The open outside? It was chaos, unpredictable and dangerous.

So she slipped through shadows, living under highways and in the skeletons of abandoned buildings. Concrete and rust became her sanctuary.
She knew the cost of being seen.

Every step outside carried a risk. Each movement drew more eyes, more danger. The cops had been trailing her for months, sometimes undercover, sometimes just a casual drive by. She could feel it in the air, hear it in the distant hum of engines and voices that didn’t belong.

They were closing in.

But Anya was always one step ahead.

The winter months were always the hardest. For anyone on the streets, they were brutal. For someone like Anya, someone always hiding, always hunted, they were nearly impossible.

For the past three months, she'd remained holed up in the skeletal remains of an old, derelict car manufacturing plant. Concrete dust and rusted steel framed her world. It offered shelter from the wind, from the snow, from people. But it gave her no warmth. No food. No water.

Her stockpile had vanished faster than she anticipated, stale bread gone mouldy, bottles frozen solid and cracked, the last of her warm clothes threadbare and damp. Hunger gnawed at her constantly now, her limbs shivered more than they moved.

The roads outside glittered with a thin crust of ice. The streetlights gave everything a pale, sterile glow, like the labs used to. Too bright. Too revealing.
Anya crouched at the broken doorway of the plant, her breath a thin mist in the freezing air. Her fingers, raw and pink, gripped the edge of the rusted frame as she peered out. Quiet. Still. For now.

She ducked into the shadows again, instinctively keeping her head low. Movement had to be fast and quiet. She was a ghost in the night, slipping between alleys and abandoned streets, ducking beneath flickering streetlamps and broken signs.

She needed to find a store. A small one, nothing big enough to have security. Somewhere with food, water, maybe even some warmer clothes. Just enough to survive a little longer.

Each step out into the world was a gamble. But dying alone in that plant? That wasn't survival.

That was surrender.

And Anya wasn’t ready to surrender.

Anya pushed aside the shards of broken glass still clinging to the window frame, careful not to cut her hands as she slipped inside. She landed silently, knees bent, staying low as her eyes swept the small store. No movement. No sounds. All clear.

She got to work quickly, moving between shelves with practiced efficiency. Cans of food, bottled water, she tucked them tightly into her battered backpack, checking for anything else of use. Before she turned to leave, something caught her eye: a small stack of winter socks on a clearance shelf.

“Ideal for the winter months,” the packaging promised in cheery lettering.

She grabbed a pair of thick black ones and stuffed them into the side pocket of her bag. That’ll do.

Slipping back out through the alley, she found the world had gotten louder. More crowded. Families bustled by, arms full of gifts. Couples laughed in scarves and mittens. Lights twinkled from storefronts and lamp posts.

Of course it was busy. She mentally cursed herself. It’s nearly Christmas. A nearby billboard blared its synthetic cheer: “Christmas joy for all, warm hearts, warm homes!”

Anya scoffed and sighed aloud, ducking into the shadows behind a stack of black bin bags and soggy cardboard. “I’ll hunker down here for a bit, I guess,” she muttered, slipping her backpack off her shoulders and pulling out a dented can of spam. She popped it open with a rusted key and ate quickly, shoveling chunks into her mouth, washing it down with sips of water, then repeating.

From somewhere nearby, a tinny voice echoed through the street. A television. News. Her ears twitched.

“Just in, further details on Hydra’s past branch off groups have been released. There has been significant,”
Anya kept chewing, only half listening.

“…a detailed list of names. These people were tortured for numerous years. Some being reported to have been ‘raised’ in the labs by…”
The words hit like a bullet. She choked mid bite, coughing violently, slamming a fist against her chest as the meat caught in her throat. Her heartbeat thundered.
No thought. No hesitation.

She crammed the rest of the supplies into her bag, slinging it over her shoulder in one quick motion. Crawling forward from behind the bins, she peered out from the alley.

The voice. The report. It was coming from one of the televisions inside a nearby electronics store. Rows of screens glowed behind the glass, and on them: familiar logos. Familiar language. Hydra.

Her past was bleeding into the present.
And now the world knew.

“Hydra?” she whispered to herself. The word felt foreign in her mouth, but familiar in her bones. That’s who they were. That’s what they called themselves.
Anya drifted out of the alley without realizing. Her eyes were locked on the screens. The crowd flowed around her like she didn’t exist, busy bodies buried in phones, laughing with loved ones, hauling shopping bags and yelling for taxis. The chaos of everyday life.

But for Anya, everything had stopped.

She stepped up to the window. Cold glass pressed against her knuckles. On the televisions: news anchors, documents, grainy photographs. Her eyes scanned the names, too fast to catch them all. Names that meant nothing to others, but to her? They could be everything.

She didn’t even notice she was holding her breath.

“…some believe the serum used to create super soldiers was recycled in illegal trials. Others speculate a different, possibly artificial serum was created, one even more unstable. However, the…”

A photo flashed. A child, no older than six. Black and white. Pale eyes. Cuffed wrists. Blank expression.
Her own.

Anya’s throat tightened. Her stomach turned. She stepped back from the glass. The world around her hadn’t noticed, hadn’t changed.
But hers had cracked open.

People walked by, ignorant. Uncaring. The girl on the screen was just another headline. Just another sad, distant story to talk about over coffee or post about online.
But that little girl had teeth. That little girl had blood under her nails. And now the world was starting to remember her.

Anya clutched her bag tighter, eyes wide and wild.

They knew.

And if they knew… they’d be coming.

Again.

Anya stared, unblinking, as the television flickered through names, files, faces. Her body felt far away, her limbs numb. Her thoughts, fractured. Shards of memories cut their way to the surface. The needles. The cages. The blood. The screaming.

Her own voice.

Raised in a lab...

Test subject 966...

Disposable.

The words looped in her mind, overlapping with the broadcast. Her knees buckled slightly, breath quickening. Her heart pounded so hard it felt like the sound was outside her body. The world blurred, everything else melting away.

Then, black.

The screens snapped off.

Static silence.

Her reflection blinked back at her in the now dark glass.

A stranger.

Messy, shoulder length brown hair, hidden under a woolly hat. A large men’s black winter coat, frayed at the sleeves. Jeans too big, boots too worn. Everything borrowed, stolen, not hers. Nothing ever was. Her arms hung limply at her sides. She looked tired. Sunken. Broken.

But those eyes.

Those tired, dark blue eyes still had a spark.

Until -

“Raise your hands above your head!”

The shout shattered her trance.

Anya’s head whipped around. A red laser dot hovered on her chest.

She took a step back, heart now slamming in her ears. The reflection disappeared as flashing red and blue lights painted the glass.

How had she not noticed the cars?

The crowd now scattered.

Shouts.

Boots on pavement.

They know.

They had her.

Again.

Anya was taken into custody.

Her hands were cuffed tightly behind her back, thick cable ties digging into her wrists as if they knew she needed more than steel to stay still. Two officers held her by each arm, dragging more than guiding her into the back of the car. She didn’t resist. There was no point. Not right now.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

The vehicle rolled forward, engine humming softly beneath her, but Anya barely registered it. Her body was tense, unmoving. She sat hunched, her knees pressed close, her breathing shallow. Her face was unreadable, but not calm. Just… frozen. Like a glitching machine.

Her eyes stared at her lap, not quite focusing on anything. She barely blinked.

Spiraling.

Every turn of the tires echoed memories she had buried deep.

The metal floor beneath her feet might as well have been the lab.

The cuffs, the cold steel of the testing chairs.

The voices on the radio, no different from the intercoms that dictated her life.

Test 1621. Test 966.

Failure. Weapon. Animal.

Disposable.

A single drop of sweat slid down the side of her face, but she didn’t move to wipe it.

Outside, the city blurred by, vibrant and alive.

Inside, she was slipping under.

Her breathing hitched.

Not here.

Not again.

Not the cage.

Not the collar.

Not the needle.

They’re taking you back.

They found you. You didn’t run far enough. Didn’t kill enough.

You’ll die screaming, or you’ll be turned into something worse.

Her stomach twisted. Her fingers clenched even tighter than the restraints allowed, nails biting into her palms. Blood welled up, warm and real, but she didn’t notice.

She was already gone.

Anya took a slow, trembling breath.

In.

Hold.

Out.

Again.

She had to pull herself back. Whatever this was, wherever they were taking her, she couldn’t fall apart. Not now. Not in front of them.

The car rolled to a stop. Doors opened. She was yanked out, wrists still bound behind her, guided roughly through a nondescript hallway, stark walls, sterile lights, low voices muffled by distance. She counted steps, scanned corners, noted exits. Survival habits she couldn't shake.

They brought her to a small gray room. One metal table, two chairs. A camera in the corner, red light blinking. A large mirror on the wall.

Two way glass.

Of course.

They forced her into the chair. Her hands remained cuffed behind her back. One officer stayed by the door, the other stood beside her, arms crossed.
Minutes passed.

Then the door opened.

A man in a dark suit walked in. Older, calculated in his movements. No badge. No uniform. His eyes locked onto Anya like he already knew everything. He sat down across from her, placed a file on the table, and opened it slowly.

Silence.

He studied her like a problem to solve.

“Anya.” His voice was calm, but practiced. “You’ve caused quite the stir.”

She said nothing. Her eyes met his for half a second, then dropped to the file in front of him.

He tapped the folder. “We’ve been following your... activities. Dozens of men dead. All of them scum, sure, but you’re not exactly subtle.”
Still no response.

He leaned forward slightly. “You’ve been hiding a long time. But you’re tired. Sloppy. That little scene outside the electronics store? Rookie mistake.”

Anya’s jaw clenched. Her breathing stayed controlled, but her fingers twitched behind her back.

He flipped a photo onto the table, blurry surveillance. Her. Covered in blood. A man’s body twisted behind her. Another photo followed. Then another.

“You’re not just a killer,” he said, lowering his voice. “You’re something else. Something made.”

Her eyes flickered up again.

He noticed.

“I know what they did to you. Hydra. The injections. The isolation. The... conditioning. You didn’t choose any of that. But you survived it. That’s impressive.”

Still, she said nothing.

He slid one last photo across the table, a child’s ID. Her file. Subject 966.

Anya’s stomach turned.

“I want to help you,” he said quietly. “But you need to talk to me.”

She stared at the ID for a long moment. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.

But she did speak, her voice low and sharp, like broken glass.

“You’re just another cage.”

The man paused. A flicker of something in his eyes.

Fear? Respect?

Before he could answer, she smiled slightly, just enough to show a glint of something darker beneath.

“You should be more afraid of what happens when I stop cooperating.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________________
The interrogation dragged on for hours. The man across from her kept circling the same vague offer - help - but never said what it meant. He prodded at her silence, pushed for some crack in her composure.

“Look, if you just answer our questions, you’ll waste less time. We just want to help,” he told her eventually, as though it were a business transaction.
She didn’t react. What was he even offering? Help didn’t exist in her world. Not the kind that didn’t come with chains.

With a sigh, he left the room. She heard low voices on the other side of the door, words muffled, a quiet scrape of shoes against linoleum. Then silence.

She was alone.

Her eyes shifted to the corner of the room, then the air vent above, her mind already sketching an escape. Messy, but hey—what’s new. She flexed her fingers, working her wrists against the bindings, feeling the sharp plastic cut into her skin.

Time passed in slow, heavy layers until a soft knock tapped at the door. It opened just enough for a woman to slip in, her small smile not quite touching her eyes.
Anya’s gaze swept her in a quick, instinctive scan—no weapons, no files, no immediate threat. The door clicked shut behind her.

“Well, dear Anya,” the woman said lightly, her voice smooth, “I’m the help. I’m Valerie Bardeen. Or just Val. Call me Val.”

She peeled off sleek black gloves, folded her long black coat neatly over the chair before sitting opposite Anya. Hands clasped on the table, she leaned forward just enough to seem friendly.

“I know who you are. I know everything.”

Anya didn’t answer.

“Subject 966,” Val continued. “Brought in at five months old, straight into experimentation. Serum injection once a month—sometimes twice—after they realised you weren’t reacting.” She gestured vaguely, watching Anya’s still face.

“They kept you because you were different. Unique. Everyone else either died shortly after the serum, got disposed of, or… showed the symptoms Hydra liked to see.”
Val’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though trying to pierce the wall Anya held between them.

“You had rounds and rounds of serum. Never showed a thing. Your bloods? Clear. Passed every cognitive test.”

Anya’s glare didn’t waver. Inside, her pulse thrummed—but her face was carved from stone.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Val’s voice flowed like silk, but there was a jagged edge beneath it, Anya could hear it. Something oily. Calculated. The kind of voice that gets people to trust before it turns the knife.

She sat there. Still cuffed. Still silent.

Val kept going, as if this was a performance. Maybe it was.

“They kept you around because you were the only one they couldn’t figure out.” Her smile dropped slightly, growing colder. “Until he died. The one you ripped open.

The blood samples from that hallway told them everything they needed to know. You didn’t just take the serum eventually, sweetheart… You became it.”

Silence. Val waited for something, a flinch, a blink. Nothing.

Anya’s mind raced, but her face never betrayed her.

Val leaned forward, more serious now.

“Let me be clear. Hydra’s long gone, but their messes? Not so much. The U.S. wants to bag you. Russia wants to dissect you. S.H.I.E.L.D. wants to rehabilitate you. And me?” She gave a dry little chuckle. “I want to give you a job.”

A beat.

Anya blinked, slowly. Once.

Val tilted her head, like she was studying a broken sculpture.

“You kill predators. That’s your pattern. You go after men who prey on the weak. That’s why the media can’t figure out if you’re a monster or a martyr.” She tapped a finger against the table. “So why not make it official? I give you names. You erase them. No cages. No more hiding under highways or eating spam in back alleys.”

She leaned back, eyes narrowing.

“Or, you walk out that door, and someone else catches you. Someone who won’t talk first.”

The words settled in the air between them. Heavy. Tainted with truth and lies in equal measure.

Anya’s eyes finally shifted, just slightly, toward the mirror on the wall.

Someone was watching. Probably everyone.

She turned her gaze back to Val. Still calm. Still quiet. And then, finally, her voice came, low and quiet, like thunder from a distance.

“And what makes you think I won’t kill you?”

Val smiled wider this time. A real smile. Crooked. Impressed.

“Oh, I expect you’ll try.”

Then she stood up, pulled her coat back on, and headed for the door.

“You’ve got until morning.”

A pause at the threshold.

“And Anya?” Val said without looking back, voice sharp and sure. “You weren’t made by Hydra. You survived in spite of them. That’s what makes you valuable.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Alone again.

And now the room felt louder in its silence.

The cuffs on Anya’s wrists bit tighter. Her heartbeat finally picked up again, steady, cold, ready.

She could escape.

Or she could wait.

The real question was: Which fight was worth it?

Anya sat, unmoving, long after Val had left.

She replayed every word, dissected every pause, every look. It all felt too easy. Too clean. Nothing in her life had ever been that clean. She didn’t buy it.

She didn’t answer when they came back for her. Didn’t flinch when they unlocked her cuffs. A man in a plain black suit told her, stiffly, “You’re being released. Orders from above.”

They handed her a bag: a heavy winter coat, better than the one she wore, a pack of protein bars, water, a clean change of clothes, burner phone, some cash. All tagged with the same smell: manipulation masked as kindness.

And then Val was back, wearing sunglasses now, hair tied up, that same crooked smirk on her lips like this was all a game she’d already won.

The ride was silent. Black SUV. Tinted windows. Anya didn’t ask where they were going, and Val didn’t offer. The city peeled away into desolate road, empty woods.
Finally, the SUV pulled to a stop at the side of a lonely road. Pines swayed in the wind. No signs. No markers. Nowhere.

Val didn’t look back at her as she spoke.

“You’re free to go.”

Anya opened the door slowly, stepping out into the chill. Gravel crunched beneath her boots.

Val spoke again, softer now.

“I know you don’t trust me. That’s good. You shouldn’t. But I see something in you that even you’re still blind to.”

Anya didn’t respond. She turned to walk away.

“Burner’s preloaded with a number,” Val added quickly. “When the hunger gets worse than the cold, you’ll call.”

Anya stopped at the tree line, not turning back.

Val's voice dropped to a near whisper, more to herself than anyone.

“It’s not if. It’s when.”

The SUV door slammed shut. The engine rumbled back to life and disappeared down the road.

Anya stood there alone. Wind in her face. Bag over her shoulder.

Free.

But freedom was just another kind of prison when you didn’t know where you belonged.

She turned and vanished into the trees.

Notes:

Pretty please let me know what you guys think of the story, where you think I should go with this. I do have a plan but am open to ideas, as always. This story is cross-posted on Tumblr, WattPad and FanFiction @Puffins13.

Chapter 3: Regret

The small camp lay tucked against the jagged rock face, a fragile shield from the restless rain that fell in sudden, unforgiving bursts. Anya crouched near the dying embers of her fire, the smoky tendrils curling up into the damp air. Her clothes hung loose and heavy with mud—baggy shirts frayed at the cuffs, faded pants stained with the earth she called home. Long brown hair, tangled and speckled with leaves and twigs, fell past her shoulders, framing a face too familiar with shadows and silence.

She moved with deliberate care, each step measured and quiet as she prepared to leave. The tent, a patched-up shelter barely keeping out the chill, was the only tether she had to this patch of woods. Beyond it stretched the small town, a world she visited only when necessity demanded.

Before dawn, she slipped through the misty streets, avoiding the eyes of early risers. At the food bank, she stayed to the edges, gathering what she could—cans, stale bread, anything that wouldn't weigh her down. Townsfolk occasionally noticed her—an outcast, a ghost in their midst. They offered food, fresh clothes, sometimes even a warm smile, but Anya's response was always the same: eyes fixed to the ground, a single shake of her head, and then she was gone before anyone could press.

She carried the day's haul back through the undergrowth, hiding supplies beneath rocks and inside tree hollows. Each cache was a small victory against the uncertainty that clawed at her from the edges of her thoughts.

The seasons shifted, and with them came sudden rainstorms that drenched her, extinguishing her fires and soaking through her threadbare clothes. She wrapped tighter in what little she had, enduring the cold with stubborn resolve. Her hair grew longer, wilder, and in its tangled depths, the forest left its mark—dried leaves, broken twigs, the scent of earth and rain.

At night and in the early hours, when the world was still, Anya made her way to the local library. There, she scoured newspapers, government reports, and online forums she found on the library computers, piecing together a fragmented picture of a hidden war. She learned of others like herself—people touched by serum, enhanced beyond normal limits. Names she'd heard whispered on crackling radios and read in old files: the Winter Soldier, a ghost from a shadowed past; Captain America, the symbol of a lost era; and others whose stories were tangled in secrecy and blood.

These superhumans were more than myths—they were real, dangerous, and scattered like stars behind a veil of lies.

One afternoon, weighed down by a small pack of stolen food, Anya passed a parked truck near the edge of town. The window was rolled down, and inside, a man sat, radio crackling with static but loud enough for her to catch the words.

"...unauthorized super soldier experiments continuing in the shadows... abuse of power unchecked... serum side effects... strength beyond human limits..."

Her breath caught in her throat. Familiar words. Dangerous words. The truck rumbled away, wheels kicking up dust, but Anya stood frozen for a long moment, heart pounding, mind racing.

 

Back at her camp, the fire flickered weakly against the growing darkness. She stared into the flames, knowing deep down that hiding wouldn't keep her safe forever. The storm was coming—and it was coming for her.

 

It was clear sunny day in Brooklyn, sunlight spilling through the tall windows of a coffee shop that looked far too polished to be Bucky's usual haunt. The counters gleamed, the air smelled like roasted beans instead of burnt sludge, and a low hum of chatter filled the space.

Bucky sat stiffly at a corner table, one arm draped over the back of his chair, the other curled around a steaming mug. He wore a black jacket and plain henley, hair pulled back loosely, trying not to look as out of place as he felt.

Sam arrived with that easy stride of his, carrying two drinks and a smirk.
"Told you," Sam said, setting one in front of him. "Coffee that doesn't taste like it's been filtered through an old sock."

Bucky eyed the cup. "Doesn't mean I'm paying eight bucks for it next time."

"Who said there's a next time?" Sam shot back, settling into the chair opposite him. He leaned in, voice dropping a little. "So, John Walker."

Bucky's jaw tightened just at the name. "The 'new' Captain America." He didn't bother to hide the bite in his voice.

"People are buying it," Sam said quietly, eyes on the street outside. "They see the uniform, the shield, they think he's the same kind of man Steve was."

Bucky leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "He's not. You know it. I know it. And he's got serum in him now. That's a problem."

Sam nodded slowly. "A big one. But Walker's not the only one we gotta worry about."

Bucky's gaze flicked up, sharp. "You've heard something?"

"Not exactly." Sam scratched at his jaw. "I've been hearing little things — chatter, rumours. Unregistered operators. People with enhanced strength showing up in small-time incidents. Not Avengers-level news, but... enough to make me think."

Bucky's metal fingers tapped against his mug, slow, deliberate. "Serum doesn't just vanish. I've seen how Hydra worked. They always had more somewhere — and someone waiting to use it."

"That's what worries me," Sam admitted. "Walker's already setting a bad example. If there's more serum out there, and more people willing to take it, we could be looking at a repeat of the Flag Smashers — or worse."

Bucky's eyes hardened. "And if those people fall into the wrong hands..."

"They become weapons." Sam finished the thought for him, his tone grim.

Silence hung for a moment, filled only by the low murmur of the café. Bucky's eyes drifted to the window, watching strangers pass by. Ordinary people. People who'd never know how close the world had been to falling apart.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Sam finally asked.

Bucky didn't look away from the street. "We track them. Every last one. The serum, the soldiers — if they exist, we find them before anyone else does."

Sam leaned forward, meeting his stare. "We don't just stop them. We help them, if we can. Some of them didn't ask for this."

 

Bucky's expression softened for a fraction of a second — just enough to show he agreed. Then the steel was back in his eyes. "Then we'd better start looking."

 

She stayed crouched by the rock face for a long while, letting the stillness soak into her ears. Only the occasional drip of water from the overhang above broke the silence.

When she finally moved, it was only to add two more logs to the pile beside her tent — one habit among many that kept her ready to leave at a moment's notice. Food stockpiled. Firewood dry. Exit points memorized.

Miles away, in the back lot of a small-town diner, a black SUV with blacked-out windows sat idling beneath a flickering lamppost. Inside, a man gripped the steering wheel tightly, eyes scanning the quiet street.

He raised the phone to his ear and spoke in a low, measured tone.
"Valerie, she's back near the outskirts of the town again. I had to keep distance, didn't want to spook her. She's cautious, but we're tracking."

Valerie's voice came through the speaker, calm but firm.
"Good. Keep her in sight. Don't engage unless I say so. She's more important than you realize."

The man nodded, though she couldn't see him.
"Understood. I'll stay on it."

 

He ended the call, eyes narrowing as he watched the shadows where Anya moved unseen.

 

The rain had fallen steadily for three days straight, soaking the earth and turning the forest floor into a slick mess. Anya stepped carefully, boots sinking slightly into the damp earth as she trudged out of the woods and onto the cracked path leading toward town.

The sky was still a dull gray, but the first faint hints of dawn were beginning to break. She squinted against the pale light, her breath puffing out in soft clouds as she kept her eyes sharp, scanning the silent streets for any sign of movement.

Her clothes clung to her thin frame, heavy and sodden, and the chill gnawed at her skin beneath the layers. She shivered, teeth clenched against the cold and exhaustion — the sleep deprivation gnawing at her mind like a persistent ache.

Ahead, the library's large glass doors stood closed but inviting, promising warmth and dry refuge. The plan was simple: get inside, find a quiet corner, and lose herself in the musty pages for a few hours until the rain stopped — or at least slowed.

She pulled her hood lower over her face and quickened her pace, every nerve alert as the damp morning settled around her.

Anya slipped quietly through the heavy glass doors, the warmth inside hitting her like a wave. The air smelled of old paper and polished wood — a sharp contrast to the wet earth and moss outside. She took a deep breath, letting it fill her lungs, steadying herself.

The library was still mostly empty, the early hour keeping most patrons away. Rows of bookshelves stretched ahead, silent guardians of stories and secrets. Anya headed for a corner near a window, where soft light filtered through rain-speckled glass.

She peeled off her wet jacket, wringing it out as best she could. Her hands trembled slightly, whether from cold or nerves, she couldn't tell. Settling onto a worn wooden chair, she pulled out a thin, dog-eared notebook — her journal — and flipped it open.

For a moment, she let her eyes wander over the familiar rows of books, absorbing the quiet. Then, she pulled out a tattered paperback she'd found a few days ago — a collection of news articles and reports about super soldiers, government experiments, and unregistered operatives. The pages were yellowed, but the words hit her hard, familiar pieces falling into place.

Her fingers traced the lines as she read, piecing together the fragments of her own past with the scattered clues the world outside was now revealing.

Outside, the rain continued to drum a steady rhythm on the library roof — but here, for a little while, Anya found a fragile shelter in knowledge.

Anya's eyes flicked to the rain-speckled window, catching a dark shape just beyond the trees lining the path. The familiar black SUV sat half-hidden in the shadows, its engine idling softly, the windows blacked out except for one—slightly lowered, just enough for a figure inside to peer out.

Her breath hitched. Slowly, she rose from the chair, careful not to disturb the silence of the library. She slipped toward the exit, slipping through the door into the damp morning air.

Keeping to the shadows, she crouched behind a low stone wall, her gaze locked on the vehicle. The man inside shifted, his silhouette momentarily outlined against the dim interior light. He spoke quietly into a phone, the muffled words carrying faintly on the breeze.

Anya's pulse quickened. The SUV hadn't been just a coincidence — it was watching her. And whoever was inside was waiting.

She pressed her back against the cold stone, mind racing. She needed a plan. She wasn't going down without a fight.

Anya's breath caught as the man's voice drifted through the slightly lowered window of the black SUV. "...subject unaccounted for... increased surveillance... extraction pending..." Each word hit her like a punch. She pressed herself closer to the rough bark of the nearby tree, heart pounding.

For a moment, panic clawed at her chest. But then, something shifted. No more hiding. No more running. She wiped the rain from her face, squared her shoulders, and stepped forward from the shadows.

"Hey!" Her voice was low but firm as she approached the driver's side. The man's eyes snapped toward her, surprise flashing, then immediately darkening. Without a word, his hand darted toward the gun tucked under the seat.

Before she could even react, the man pulled the weapon out and fired a rapid burst straight at her.

Anya dove instinctively to the side, the bullets tearing through the wet earth where she had stood moments before. Heart racing, she rolled away behind a large tree, breath ragged but unharmed.

The window rolled up with a sharp hiss, the engine roaring to life as the SUV sped away into the grey morning.

Anya stayed low, adrenaline surging.

Adrenaline surged through Anya's veins like wildfire. Without hesitation, she exploded into motion—her body a blur of strength and speed far beyond normal human limits. Her boots thundered against the wet pavement as she sprinted after the black SUV, now weaving aggressively through the early morning traffic.

Cars honked and swerved as the driver cut recklessly between lanes, desperate to shake his pursuer. But Anya's eyes locked onto the vehicle like a predator. She weaved effortlessly through the stopped and moving cars, sliding under side mirrors, narrowly missing bumpers.

The world around her became a frantic blur—tires screeching, brakes slamming, engines revving. A cyclist shouted in shock as she zipped past, barely missing the handlebars. Pedestrians jumped out of the way, eyes wide as she surged forward like a force of nature.

The SUV darted toward the busy town center, where streets crowded with commuters and market stalls crowded the sidewalks. Anya's breath was steady despite the speed, her muscles coiled and precise. She sprinted harder, dodging an oncoming delivery van and sliding under a low-hanging awning.

Traffic lights blurred overhead. She saw the driver's panic, his glances in the rearview mirror growing frantic. But the SUV was cornered — the narrow streets and morning rush closing in.

Anya pushed harder, closing the gap with every powerful stride, her focus unbreakable. The chase was far from over — and this was only the beginning.

The SUV's tires screeched sharply as it slammed to a halt. Without hesitation, Anya smashed her fist through the driver's side window, shards of glass scattering in the damp morning air. She yanked the man out, his body limp and trembling.

Anya's fist smashed through the SUV window with a sharp crack. Without hesitation, she yanked the man out by his collar, dragging him to the front of the vehicle. Anger surged through her veins—raw, fierce, uncontrollable—just like the rage that had fueled her when she'd torn through those men who had tried to hurt her all those years ago.

She didn't care about witnesses. Didn't even notice the gathering crowd at first. Her fists rained down on him, each hit a release of years of pent-up fury, every strike saying what her words couldn't. The man stumbled and fell, clutching his face, terrified and gasping for breath.

Only then did Anya catch the murmurs, the widening circle of onlookers, the flashing screens of phones pointed at her. Her heart hammered, but the anger still roared louder, drowning out the warnings in her mind. She was a force unleashed—dangerous, fierce, and blind to the consequences.

His wide, terrified eyes locked onto hers. His hands shot up instinctively in a futile defence — no gun visible anywhere.

Anya's brow furrowed in confusion, but her voice cut through the tension, sharp and demanding. "What the fuck do you want? Why are you tailing me?"

The man's face contorted in panic, and without warning, he screamed, "Don't kill me, please! I don't know anything!"

Anya's grip tightened on the scruff of his jacket as she leaned in, mouthing a silent, "What?"

He flailed, twisting in her grasp, performing a desperate act of fear. "Please, someone help me!" he shouted, his voice cracking as a small crowd started to gather around them, drawn by the commotion.

Anya's fists kept pounding, each blow a release of the years of pain and rage buried deep inside her. But then, as the man crumpled beneath her, she finally became aware of the voices—murmurs turning into gasps, phones raised to capture the scene, eyes locked onto her with shock and fear.

Her breath hitched. The adrenaline that had blinded her started to fade, replaced by a cold wave of dread. She stepped back, chest heaving, and in that moment, the crushing weight of what she'd just done hit her.

Shit. I fucked up.

She had let the anger take over, just like before—just like when she'd lost herself to violence. And now, she wasn't hidden anymore. Not safe. Not invisible. The world was watching, and all she wanted was to disappear.

Anya let go of the man roughly and took a quick step back. A larger crowd began to gather, their curious eyes fixed on the scene. Panic rose in her chest. She forced herself to stand tall, trying to project calm and strength—but inside, she was unravelling.

People watching meant all eyes were on her. That meant she could be seen. And that meant even more danger.

The man scrambled backward on his behind, still yelling, "Someone, please help me!"

His voice stirred more commotion. Phones were already coming out, recording the scene.

Shit, Anya thought, heart pounding. She needed to defuse this—fast.

"What is this?" she snapped, throwing her hands out in frustration. "Answer me!"

The man's face twisted in fear, almost terror—but Anya's instincts screamed that something wasn't right. His panic felt... off. Like an act.

The scene spiralled fast. Shouts turned to curses, phones out, flashes from cameras piercing through the growing crowd. Anya's heart hammered—not from fear, but from the sharp sting of exposure. She needed out. Now.

Being tailed was suddenly the smallest problem.

She glanced around—too many eyes, too many voices, too many phones pointed her way. The man on the ground was still yelling for help, painting her as the threat.

Adrenaline surged through her veins as she backed away slowly, hands raised slightly to show she wasn't escalating—then, with a burst of speed honed by years of survival, she bolted.

Pushing through stunned onlookers, she darted down a narrow alley, ducking past trash bins and faded graffiti.

The rain had stopped, but the slick pavement threatened to betray her footing. She didn't care.

Every step was a calculated gamble—getting away meant everything.

Anya didn't wait to hear more. Her feet hit the pavement hard, sprinting away from the growing crowd and the man's twisted grin. The woods ahead called to her like the only place left untouched by the chaos she'd just unleashed.

But as she ran, her mind reeled. That smirk. Even with his face smashed, blood dripping from his cracked lips, he was smiling—mocking her. That fucking act. He'd made a scene on purpose, drawing eyes. Just like she had.

Someone set me up.

It wasn't a coincidence. They'd known exactly where to find her, exactly how to lure her out. The man's desperation wasn't real—it was a performance, a trap. And she had walked right into it.

Her breath came in ragged gasps as she crashed through the underbrush, rain slick leaves slapping her face. She didn't know who was behind it yet, but one thing was clear:

They wanted her exposed.

 

And now she was.

 

Within minutes, the chaos spilled beyond the street and into the glowing screens of the digital world. Videos and photos—snapped by shocked onlookers and relentless phone cameras—spread like wildfire.

Dashcam footage showed a blur of impossible speed—a figure sprinting with superhuman agility through early morning traffic. The window shattered beneath a powerful fist, glass flying like shards of ice. Then came the fury—relentless, raw, and terrifying—beating a man who looked helpless, his terrified cries echoing through the clip.

The online world exploded. Social media feeds flooded with the hashtag #SuperhumanAttack, debates flared, and theories circulated wildly.

News channels jumped on the story, breaking into regular programming with urgent reports. Anchors spoke in tense tones: "A violent incident caught on camera in downtown—witnesses report a superhuman figure attacking a man. Authorities are investigating if this is connected to the recent unregistered super soldier operations. Citizens are urged to remain vigilant."

 

The city buzzed with unease, and somewhere deep in the woods, Anya's carefully hidden world was ripped open exposed to everyone.

 

Bucky's phone buzzed sharply in his pocket. He pulled it out, a message from Sam lighting up the screen.

"Did you see this yet?"

He paused on the crowded Brooklyn street, the noise of cars and chatter swirling around him like a distant storm. The city's energy buzzed past, but in that moment, all Bucky's attention zeroed in on his phone. He tapped the first link.

The photo loaded—a man hanging, suspended by his jacket, feet barely touching the ground. His face was a mask of terror and pain; blood smeared across bruised skin. Bucky's stomach tightened. He knew that look—someone caught in a nightmare they didn't understand, desperate and exposed.

He swallowed hard and tapped the next link. The dashcam footage flickered on.

Suddenly, there she was—a blur of raw, unleashed power, sprinting with impossible speed through early morning traffic. The window shattered like paper beneath her fist. She dragged the man out, fury radiating from every move. The way she moved—it was inhuman, precise and violent, yet raw and desperate. Bucky's jaw clenched, a mixture of awe and fear tightening his chest. This wasn't just some random act; this was something bigger. Something dangerous.

His phone buzzed again, Sam's voice urgent through the speaker. "Did you get em?"

Bucky's fingers trembled slightly as he stared at the screen, the images burning into his mind. For the first time in a long while, hope flickered hope that they might finally be able to find others like her, others like him. But beneath that, an undercurrent of worry ran deep—what if this was just the beginning of something much worse?

He whispered into the phone, voice low but steady, "Looks like we found our first super soldier."

Bucky's grip tightened on his phone as Sam's voice crackled through the speaker. "We need to find her, Sam. Before whoever's after her does."

Sam's sigh came through, heavy with concern. "Yeah, Buck. But she's out there on her own, scared. And if the public's already seeing this... she's going to be hunted hard."

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, eyes narrowing. "We can't let that happen. We owe her that much. We've been through the worst, Sam. We know what it's like to be weaponized, hunted. We can help her."

Sam nodded, though Bucky couldn't see it. "First, we gather everything we can on unregistered super soldiers, serums, any black ops that might be connected. Maybe this isn't the first case—they just slipped through the cracks."

"Right. And while we dig into that, we figure out where she might be. That footage? It's got to have come from somewhere nearby. Maybe the town or the roads she's been using."

Sam's tone sharpened. "We have to reach her before the people who set her up do. And we need to be careful—she's scared, probably doesn't trust anyone."

Bucky's voice was quiet but determined. "Then we don't force her. We watch. We protect. When the time's right, we step in. And we make sure she knows she's not alone."

Sam smiled, a hint of the old optimism breaking through. "We do this the right way. No mistakes. We help her find her way back."

 

Bucky looked out the coffee shop window at the bustling street. "We'll start tonight. There's more to this story. And it's up to us to see it through."

 

Anya's breath came in short, ragged bursts as she hurried back to her camp. Her steps were restless, pacing with no clear direction, mind racing through the chaos she'd just unleashed. What the fuck have I done? The fragile calm she'd carved out over months shattered in seconds. Any hope of peace, any semblance of routine — all gone, vanished like smoke.

She ripped her backpack off the worn strap of her tent, sweat stinging her eyes. Panic clawed at her chest, twisting tighter with every second. Fingers trembling, she shoved in the few things that mattered: a battered notepad with scrawled thoughts, a pencil dulled from use, her winter coat, heavy but worn like a second skin, and a tattered hat she clung to like a lifeline. The rest — everything else — she didn't even hesitate to leave behind.

She needed to move. Fast. The world knew her now, and staying was no longer an option. Every shadow could be a threat. Every quiet corner, a trap.

Her heart hammered in her ears as she zipped the bag shut, cast one last glance at the small camp she had called home for so long — a fragile sanctuary now lost. With a deep breath, she slung the pack over her shoulder and disappeared into the thick woods, a ghost on the run once again.

She ran and ran, muscles burning but her body refusing to slow. Fatigue tried to settle in, whispering for her to stop, but she barely felt it—her superhuman endurance kicking in, pushing past the limits anyone else would have hit hours ago. Every stride drove her farther, faster, away from the chaos of the town, away from the prying eyes and flashing cameras.

Her breath stayed steady, controlled despite the pounding in her chest. The only thing fuelling her was the raw, desperate need to vanish—disappear into the shadows she once thought safe. Distance was everything now. The farther she got, the better her chances.

She didn't know where she was going—just forward, always forward. Running wasn't about escape anymore, it was the only way she felt she could still hold any control over the chaos spiralling around her. Each step was a small rebellion against the panic clawing at her chest, a desperate grasp for some semblance of power in a world that suddenly wanted to drag her into the light. Moving, always moving, was the one thing she could do on her own terms.

As Anya reached the edge of the wood line, she dropped low, pressing herself into the underbrush. The sharp hum of passing cars filled the air, punctuated by the distant wail of a police siren racing toward the town. Just beyond the tree line, a dirt road stretched out, leading to a small clearing crowded with parked trucks and cars. Nearby, the flickering neon sign of a gas station cast a weak glow against the morning haze.

Her eyes darted around, searching for any possible advantage, any small detail that might give her the upper hand. She needed a plan—quick, precise, and absolutely bulletproof. It was about survival. Easy, right?

Anya's eyes locked onto a rusted truck parked near the gas station, its back loaded with old scrap wood and scattered tools. It looked rough but perfect — the kind of cluttered cover she could disappear into without drawing attention. No one would notice a shadow slipping beneath the piles of lumber.

The owner was inside, paying for fuel at the counter, oblivious to everything outside. Heart pounding, Anya took a quick breath, then bolted toward the truck. She climbed silently into the back, pressing herself low against the wood and tools, blending into the mess.

She held her breath as the truck rumbled to life, hoping the driver wouldn't look back. Now, all she could do was wait — wait to see where the road would take her next.

Anya tossed her battered backpack into the bed of the truck with a thud, then quickly jumped in herself, the loose wood shifting beneath her weight and scraping against the metal. The sudden noise made her flinch, but she forced herself to stay calm. She grabbed a few scattered pieces of wood and carefully pulled them over, creating just enough of a gap to squeeze through and curl up out of sight.

The truck's owner climbed in—an older man with grease-slicked hair and a beard that looked like it hadn't seen a razor in weeks. He muttered gruffly to himself as he fought with the stubborn ignition. The truck coughed and rattled but finally roared to life.

The tires crunched against gravel as they pulled away from the gas station, and Anya's heart hammered in her chest. She was moving—away from the town, away from the chaos—but nowhere felt safe anymore.

She pressed herself deeper into the cramped space, every creak of the wood, every rumble of the engine making her heart spike. She'd have to hold her breath, stay perfectly still, and hope the truck rolled through unnoticed.

Her next thought jumped straight to checkpoint – cops and possibly even military searching for stow aways. Looking for her.

The truck rattled down the highway, every bump in the road jarring Anya's body as she stayed crouched beneath the weight of old scrap wood and rusted tools. The stale air tasted of dust and oil, mixing with the faint metallic scent of blood still dried on her skin. Her heart pounded not just from the speed, but from the knowledge that every mile brought new danger — and no guarantees of safety.

Outside, the world was waking up, but for Anya, time had slowed to a crawl. She could hear distant sirens, the low murmur of radios, and the crunch of gravel under boots at the checkpoints looming ahead. Each checkpoint was a gamble. Each stop a test of her will to remain unseen, unheard, untouchable.

She clenched her fists, feeling the ache of every bruise, the sting of every failure echoing in her mind. The viral videos, the flashing headlines—they weren't just announcements; they were a hunt. And Anya was the prey.

A sharp breath caught in her throat as the truck slowed. Engines idled, boots hit the asphalt. The first checkpoint.

Chapter 4: Resilient

As the truck rolled to a stop, Anya pressed herself deeper into the shadows of the scrap wood, every muscle tensed like a coiled spring. The pounding of boots outside the vehicle echoed the thunder of her heartbeat - loud, relentless, unforgiving.

In that suffocating silence, her mind betrayed her, slipping back through the years she fought so hard to bury. The sterile coldness of the lab walls, the endless needles digging into her skin, the serum coursing through her veins - a poison that promised power but only brought pain. The experiments, the watching eyes, the unending isolation. They had broken others, but she'd held on, numbed herself to survive.

Then there had been the one person she thought she could trust. A flicker of warmth in the darkness. But that fragile hope had shattered like glass under a boot. The betrayal wasn't just physical, it was a wound to her soul, deeper than any scar or bruise. It cut through her defences, twisting the little light she had left into darkness.

Her breath caught in her throat as she swallowed the memories. Trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not now. Not ever.

The footsteps outside drew nearer. The truck's engine hummed softly beneath her, a fragile barrier between the past and the uncertain road ahead.

Anya clenched her jaw. Whatever waited for her beyond this moment, she knew one thing: she would never be caught again.

Anya's chest heaved, but not just from the cramped space or the cold creeping into her bones. It was the weight of everything she'd carried, every wound, every scar, every betrayal, pressing down like a vice. Her mind raced, a tangled storm of fear and fury.

She had spent so long building walls around herself, carefully crafting a fortress of silence and solitude. But those walls were cracking now, fragile edges worn thin by years of running, hiding, and pretending. The world outside was closing in, a cage tightening with every passing second.

Trust had been her downfall once. Letting someone in had almost killed her; not with weapons, but with lies and shattered promises. That memory stung sharper than any pain she'd felt in the lab. It was a brutal reminder that people could be as dangerous as any experiment, as lethal as the serum in her veins.

Yet beneath the anger and bitterness, there was something else, a flicker of something she thought long dead. A stubborn ember of hope, buried beneath layers of pain and regret. Maybe it was the desperate need to survive, or a faint yearning to reclaim some piece of the life stolen from her.

But hope was dangerous. It made her vulnerable. And vulnerability was a luxury Anya couldn't afford.

She forced herself to breathe, to focus on the present, the shaky truck, the approaching checkpoints, the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Every second she stayed hidden was a victory, every heartbeat a defiance.

The truck creaked and slowed, rattling as it merged into the line of vehicles waiting at the checkpoint. Darkness had settled fully now, the only illumination coming from the harsh white beams of overhead lamps and the red glow of brake lights. Anya's breath caught in her throat as she pressed herself deeper into the shadowy pile of scrap wood.

Every thud and creak of the truck made her heart skip. She knew the moment they stopped, all eyes would scan every vehicle, every shadow. There was no perfect way out. No flawless escape. Whoever was out there would see her, eventually.

She forced her muscles to stay still, her fingers clutching a jagged plank to steady herself. Her eyes darted towards the truck's rear door - their target, the narrow exit point. Quietly, as the line inched forward, she shifted her weight, trying to inch closer without making noise.

The distant hum of radios and muffled voices seeped through the metal frame. She could feel eyes on her, even if they didn't know it yet.

No matter what, she thought, she couldn't freeze. She had to keep moving, keep it minimal - just enough to slip out unseen, just enough to disappear into the dark woods beyond the checkpoint.

A sudden bark of orders pierced the air, and the truck jolted as the driver rolled down the window, hands raised to show cooperation. Anya's pulse pounded in her ears, but she stayed frozen, muscles taut, ready to make her move the moment the window rolled back up.

This was it.

She swallowed her fear and readied herself.

The truck rolled forward another few feet, halting again in the glare of a floodlight. Boots crunched against gravel outside, drawing closer.

The truck was metres away from inspection.

Anya's chest tightened. If they looked in the back, it was over. No time left to hesitate.

Her fingers dug into the cold, splintered scrap wood and metal as she silently pulled herself up. The voices around her grew louder, one coming from the rear, dangerously close. She sucked in a breath, swung her legs over the side, and dropped into the darkness.

Her boots hit the dirt with a muted thud. She crouched low, ducking behind the truck's wheel well, her shadow swallowed in the mix of black asphalt and long stretches of night.

The moment the voices moved toward the other side of the truck, she bolted. No pause, no backward glance—just a flash of motion disappearing into the scrub beyond the checkpoint.

Behind her, the truck's engine rumbled back to life, none the wiser.

Anya didn't stop running until the floodlights were nothing but faint glows behind the treeline.

Anya vanished into the thick brush, her breath shallow and sharp. Twigs snapped underfoot as she sprinted, weaving through trees and shadows, heart hammering in her ears.

Behind her, distant shouts pierced the night - "Hey! Stop! Someone's there!" The floodlights swung wildly, searching. A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, slicing across her path.

She pressed herself against a tree, barely daring to breathe. The beam passed inches away, missing her by mere inches.

The officers shouted commands, their voices growing more frustrated. "Split up! Check the perimeter!"

Anya waited, muscles coiled, listening to their footsteps fade into the night. But she knew it was only a matter of time before they regrouped.

She forced herself onward, deeper into the woods, knowing the forest was the only shield she had left.

The flashlights flickered through the dense trees, their beams stabbing at the darkness like desperate fingers searching for a ghost. Anya's heart hammered so loud she was sure they could hear it.

Suddenly, a sharp crack - gunfire echoed through the woods, splinters flying as bullets tore into nearby tree trunks. She dropped low, adrenaline flooding her veins, pushing her legs to carry her faster, deeper into the forest.

The sharp reports kept coming, shots fired in rapid succession, the sound chaotic and terrifying. She dodged behind a fallen log, breath ragged, ears ringing with every bang.

Somewhere ahead, a voice yelled, "She's here! Don't let her escape!"

Anya's mind raced, weighing every possibility. Staying meant capture - or worse. Running meant risking a bullet in the dark.

Her instincts took over. She sprinted, low and fast, the taste of dirt and rain on her tongue as she vanished into the shadows once more.

Anya was ahead of them - faster, more agile, a shadow slipping through the trees. But they were clever, coming in from different angles, narrowing her escape routes. The flashing beams of flashlights cut through the darkness, catching her in patches of harsh light.

Gunfire erupted again, sharp and angry, the barked orders echoing through the woods like thunder. A hail of bullets kicked up dirt and leaves around her feet. She dove low behind a thick tree trunk, heart pounding.

Suddenly, a searing pain exploded in her side - a bullet had found its mark. She staggered, clutching her ribs, breath hitching sharply. The world tilted, but she forced herself forward, teeth gritted against the sting.

The shouts grew louder, closer. But Anya wasn't done yet. With every ounce of strength left, she pushed herself into the shadows, vanishing into the night - wounded, but not broken.

Anya broke away from the chaos, slipping through the trees until she reached a shallow, slow-moving river. The water's gentle murmur was a stark contrast to the distant shouts and barking dogs echoing behind her. She crouched low, pressing herself against a cluster of large, cold rocks.

With trembling hands, she lifted her shirt, eyes locking on the wound blossoming on her side. The pain was sharp, raw. It was enough to force her to quickly pull the fabric back down. A heavy sigh escaped her lips, her body shaking with exhaustion and adrenaline. Her mind was a tangled mess of fear, frustration, and weariness.

Ignoring the ache, she pushed herself forward again, wading into the cool water. Her feet dragged through the muddy riverbed, kicking up silt and dirt as she moved toward the opposite bank. Every step was a battle; the pain in her side flared with each movement. But even more draining was the weight crushing her mind—mental exhaustion heavier than any physical injury.

She climbed the riverbank, shaking off the cold and pushing onward, knowing that stopping now meant surrender. The woods swallowed her once more, her breath ragged but her will unbroken.

Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel; eyes fixed on the road ahead as the highway blurred past. The tension in the car was thick - both men weighed down by the gravity of what they'd just seen.

Bucky flicked through his phone again, thumb hovering over news articles and videos. His metal arm gleamed faintly in the dim interior light, resting heavy on his lap.

"So... no new sightings? Nothing from any of their teams?" Sam asked, glancing sideways at Bucky, a flicker of hope in his voice.

Bucky shook his head slowly, letting out a low sigh. "So far, nothing. Which is good. Means she's still out there, moving."

Sam nodded grimly, then muttered, "But they tracked her blood trail as far as they could... She's hurt."

The car picked up speed as Sam pressed harder on the gas pedal, urgency seeping into every movement. "If they catch her... man, who knows what they'll do."

Bucky dropped his phone onto his lap, a heavier sigh escaping him this time. His eyes darkened with memories. "I do. Exactly what they did to me."

For a moment, the only sound was the rush of wind outside and the steady hum of the engine, both men silently steeling themselves for the fight ahead.

Bucky's gaze drifted out the window as the city lights blurred into streaks of orange and white. His mind slipped back, unwilling but relentless, to darker days buried deep beneath the surface.

He remembered the cold - the biting steel walls of Hydra's cells, the endless isolation that gnawed at his sanity. The harsh electric shocks, the experimental serums coursing through his veins, twisting him into something not quite human. The muffled screams in the distance, the feeling of helplessness when control was ripped away time and time again.

Most of all, he remembered the betrayal - the trust misplaced in those who called themselves friends, only to become enemies. The nights spent shackled, broken both in body and spirit, fighting to hold onto whatever remained of James Barnes beneath the Winter Soldier.

A bitter knot tightened in his chest as the memories came rushing back. This wasn't just a mission - it was personal. He couldn't stand by while someone else suffered that same hell.

Anya forced herself onward, pushing through the dense woods despite the sharp sting in her side. Each step was a battle - her breath ragged, muscles screaming, but the need to keep moving outweighed the pain. She couldn't stop. Not now.

After what felt like hours, the trees began to thin, and she stumbled out onto the edge of a small town on the outskirts of a sprawling city. The narrow alleys and dim streetlights offered little comfort, but it was shelter, nonetheless. She moved quickly and quietly between buildings, her body unsteady from exhaustion.

Days of running had taken their toll; her skin was pale, damp with sweat and grime, and her backpack hung loosely from her battered shoulders. The dried blood on her clothes was a constant reminder of the bullet still lodged deep in her side.

Normally, her body healed fast, scars closing in hours, wounds sealing overnight but this was different. The bullet wasn't just a wound; it was a threat, a slow, silent bleed that no amount of willpower could instantly fix.

She clutched her side, pressing her palm against the wound, wincing as fresh pain flared. Time was running out. If she didn't find a way to remove the bullet soon, she knew she wouldn't make it much longer.

Anya's steps faltered as she scanned the shadowed streets, her fingers trailing along cracked brick walls and peeling paint to steady herself. Each movement sent sharp jolts through her side, but she forced herself onward. Her eyelids felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and the relentless ache.

She blinked slowly, trying to sharpen her blurred vision, forcing her gaze to adjust to the dim, flickering streetlights. Ahead, she spotted the hollow outline of a building; windows boarded up, door hanging loosely on its hinges. It looked abandoned, forgotten by time and the world.

Her heart quickened with a fragile hope. Maybe here, away from prying eyes, she could find a moment to rest. Or better yet, find something, anything, to help with the bullet in her side before it was too late.

Bucky and Sam cruised slowly through the outskirts of the town where Anya had last been spotted. The streets were tense, parts of the town taped off with police barriers and military personnel stationed at every corner. High security was clearly in place, the kind of operation that made it impossible for anyone to slip through unnoticed.

"She ran," Sam said, eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene. "I mean, we'd all do the same."

Bucky nodded grimly, his gaze flickering to the barricades. "Yeah. And the reports give a location name, somewhere about an hour's drive from here, near some highway. I think it's where they spotted her".

As they neared the highway checkpoint, the flashing blue and red lights painted the cab of their SUV in strobe-like bursts. Officers manned the roadblocks with nervous energy, their eyes lighting up when they recognized the two men.

"Look at that," Sam grinned, waving as the cops eagerly called out, "Avengers!"

Bucky gave a small, awkward smile and nodded. "Thanks. Appreciate it."

Sam laughed, clearly enjoying the moment, but Bucky's mind was already elsewhere, focused, cautious, knowing that every second counted. The vehicle rolled forward, crossing the checkpoint, pushing on toward the next lead.

Bucky's metal arm rested lightly on his thigh as he balanced the high-tech laptop on his lap, fingers moving swiftly over the keys. The sleek device glowed softly in the dim light of the SUV's interior as he sifted through an endless stream of data - CCTV footage from traffic cams, snippets pulled from social media, private mission reports, anything that might offer a clue to Anya's whereabouts.

"Traffic cams near the highway are a mess," Bucky muttered, eyes narrowing. "She moved fast - too fast for the cameras to get a clear fix."

Sam leaned over, pointing to a grainy clip on the screen. "Hold up - look at this."

Bucky zoomed in, enhancing the footage. The image was blurry but clear enough to see a figure limping heavily, pale and dishevelled, moving cautiously down a deserted street.

"That matches her description," Bucky said quietly. "The limp, the way she's moving... and the blood stains."

Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "We're getting closer."

Bucky's fingers flew again, cross-referencing GPS coordinates with eyewitness reports and emergency calls.

"Wait," Bucky whispered, eyes lighting up. "There's an abandoned warehouse a few miles from here. Reports of all sorts of activity, lots of people avoiding the area."

Sam nodded, a flicker of hope in his eyes. "Could be where she's hiding. Let's check it out."

The SUV shifted gears and roared forward, their mission clear: find Anya before anyone else did.

The SUV rumbled down the cracked highway, dusk settling thickly over the landscape. The abandoned warehouse came into view - a hulking, rusted relic of faded industry, its broken windows and graffiti-covered walls whispering forgotten stories. Streetlights flickered weakly, casting long shadows across the empty lot.

Bucky's eyes never left the laptop as he scanned the latest footage streaming in from a nearby security camera mounted on a lamppost outside the warehouse. "Movement on the perimeter," he said quietly, voice tense. "Someone matching the description - limping, covered in dirt and blood. Probably her."

Sam eased the vehicle to a stop a few blocks away, the air thick with anticipation. "We need to be cautious. If she's injured and scared, she might bolt at any second."

Bucky nodded, sliding the laptop aside. "She's been on the run too long. But we're getting close."

They stepped out, gravel crunching beneath their boots, moving quietly toward the warehouse entrance. The air inside was still and heavy, but no cameras monitored the interior — only the outside.

Bucky and Sam moved cautiously through the yawning entrance of the warehouse, their footsteps echoing in the hollow space. The stale smell of neglect hit them immediately - wet concrete, old wood rotting, and something darker beneath it all: the unmistakable scent of desperation. This place was notorious—an unofficial refuge for drug users, the homeless, and those hiding from the world.

"Keep your guard up," Bucky muttered, his eyes scanning every shadow, every pile of discarded belongings. Broken glass crunched beneath their boots, and graffiti shouted from the walls in faded, angry bursts.

Sam nodded, his hand resting near his side. "We don't know what or who we might run into down here."

They slipped between rusted machinery and stacked crates, careful not to disturb the scattered debris. Faint noises - a cough, whispered voices, floated from deeper inside. The line between threat and despair blurred in this place.

Suddenly, a shuffling sound echoed close by. Both men froze, tense. Then, a figure appeared around a corner - a gaunt man with hollow eyes, clutching a torn jacket.

Sam gave a subtle nod, signalling to keep moving. They weren't here for troublemakers or lost souls; they were here for someone else.

Bucky moved cautiously through the dim, abandoned building, shadows pressing in from all sides. Then, in a dark corner tucked away from prying eyes, he spotted her – it was her. Unconscious slumped against the cracked concrete wall, a rusted piece of metal clenched weakly in her hand.

She had been trying to dig the bullet out herself, but the wound was too deep, and the blood loss had clearly overwhelmed her body's ability to heal.

Bucky knelt gently, calling out softly, "Sam."

Sam appeared moments later, his face tightening as he took in the scene.

Bucky carefully moved her into a more comfortable position, brushing damp hair from her pale face. He checked her pulse - rapid, erratic.

"She's unconscious, her heart's racing," Bucky murmured, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"The wound...," Sam said quietly. "The body's trying to heal itself, but it's weak, it's down. She's out cold".

Bucky's gaze lingered on her bruised face, a flicker of recognition in his eyes. This wasn't just another victim. This was someone like him - fighting against the darkness inside while struggling to survive.

Bucky lifted her carefully, her body limp but fragile in his arms as he navigated through the broken hallways of the building. The silence was heavy, broken only by their hurried footsteps and the distant sounds of the city beyond.

Outside, the car waited, engines humming softly in the night. He eased her onto the back seat with as much gentleness as he could muster, adjusting her so she was as comfortable as possible.

Sam slid into the driver's seat and glanced back. "Woah, woah, Buck. You saw what she can do. I need you back there with her. What if she wakes up? Go."

Bucky met his friend's steady gaze, then gave a slow nod. Without hesitation, he moved to the back seat beside her, settling in close, alert and ready.

Sam started the engine, and they pulled away - two men chasing a shadow, with a wounded superhuman between them, and a long, uncertain road ahead.

Sam pulled the car smoothly onto the highway, headlights cutting through the dark night as they headed for home - a long, tense drive ahead. Bucky adjusted Anya carefully, shifting so he could fit beside her. Her head rested heavily on his lap, and despite the awkwardness of the position, he barely registered it. His full focus was on her.

"Sam," Bucky's voice broke the silence, laced with a hint of panic, "she's lost too much blood."

"I know, I know," Sam replied, gripping the steering wheel tighter, frustration bleeding into his tone. "I'm thinking, man."

Bucky's eyes flicked to Anya's pale face, then down to the raw, angry wound hidden beneath her torn shirt. He lifted her top gently, wincing as the harsh light revealed the depth of the injury.

"It's bad," Bucky murmured. Then his voice sharpened. "I need to get the bullet out. Now."

He caught Sam's eye in the rearview mirror, his expression urgent. "Now, Sam."

Sam pulled the car over to the side of the dark road, the dim glow of distant streetlights casting long shadows. A few cars drifted past, their headlights briefly illuminating the interior. Sam's hands trembled slightly as he unlatched the glove compartment and pulled out a battered first aid kit, its contents rattling inside.

Bucky shifted beside Anya, her pale face slack and breathing shallow. He looked over at Sam with a steady, calm urgency. "You should do it," Bucky said, his voice low but firm.

Sam hesitated, holding the surgical tweezers and a small scalpel awkwardly between gloved fingers. "Are you kidding? What if I mess this up? What if she dies?" His eyes flicked anxiously between Anya's still form and the tools in his hand.

Bucky's jaw tightened, frustration flashing in his eyes. "Sam, come on. We don't have time for second guesses. You gotta do this now."

Sam let out an exasperated groan, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Bucky gave him a slight shove toward the open door. "Go. I'll keep an eye on her."

Sam swallowed hard, running a hand through his hair. "Man, this feels like trying to defuse a bomb with a butterknife." His voice cracked with nervous tension as he leaned in closer.

He carefully pulled back Anyas soaked shirt, revealing the jagged wound on her side - dark, swollen, and raw. The sight made his stomach twist. His fingers fumbled with the tweezers as he tried to steady his breath.

"Okay, okay, just breathe," Sam muttered, talking to himself as much as to Bucky.

Bucky sat forward slightly, brushing a strand of damp hair from Anya's face, watching intently. "Slow and steady," he said quietly. "She's tough. We'll get through this."

Sam nodded, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold night air. His hands trembled visibly but he pressed the tweezers gently into the wound's edge. There was a tense silence, broken only by Anya's shallow breaths and the distant hum of passing traffic.

With a quick, careful motion, Sam gripped something lodged beneath the skin and pulled it free—the bullet. It glinted dully in the dim light.

"Got it," Sam whispered, exhaling sharply. "Now to stop the bleeding."

Bucky immediately tore a strip from his own shirt to press firmly against the wound, while Sam rifled through the kit for gauze and antiseptic.

The tension slowly eased, but the weight of what they'd just done lingered in the air. Neither of them said much — their focus entirely on Anya and what would come next.

They got back on the road once Bucky was confident Anya was stable enough for the journey ahead. The car settled into a quiet rhythm, the low hum of the engine blending with the faint, nostalgic strains of early 2000s top chart hits playing softly on the radio. Sam kept his eyes glued to the road, occasionally humming along, trying to keep calm despite the tension thick in the air.

Bucky sat in the back, Anya's head resting gently in his lap. Her breathing was shallow, her clothes grimy and soaked in sweat and dirt, her body clearly in pain—but the bleeding had stopped. Bucky's left hand rested lightly by her head, fingers moving every so often to brush hair away or check the wound and pulse. Her pulse was still rapid but no longer racing wildly.

For the first time since finding her, Bucky felt a cautious sense of relief. Her body was fighting back. She was beginning to heal itself. He wasn't sure if Anya's healing was as fast as his own—maybe even faster—but only time would tell. In the silence of the car, that fragile hope was the only thing holding him steady.

Anya let out a small, ragged huff through her nose, pulling Bucky's attention immediately. His hand froze mid-air, hovering just above her head as if she were made of glass. Her eyelids fluttered rapidly, and suddenly her eyes snapped beneath them in quick, restless movements. Bucky's heart skipped a beat — "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

He slid his hands carefully to her shoulders, trying not to startle her. Sam, who'd been watching quietly, looked up from the front seat, about to ask Bucky something, but the words caught in his throat. Bucky was too focused, trying to decipher the signs before him.

Anya's heartbeat was racing and sweat beaded on her forehead despite the cool air. Her eyes darted beneath tightly shut lids, her hands twitching uncontrollably at her sides. Suddenly, her head jerked sharply to the side. Bucky's breath caught as he realized what was happening — she was caught in the grip of a fever dream.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and offered the softest voice he could muster, "Hey, kid... it's alright. You're safe. All patched up now." His words were quiet, tentative - a gentle anchor thrown into the storm of her mind, even though talking like this felt painfully out of his comfort zone.

Slowly, his hands remained steady on her shoulders, grounding her as best he could, hoping she'd find her way back from the nightmare.

Bucky kept his voice low and steady, talking Anya through the nightmare as best as he could. He knew this wasn't any ordinary dream, no rainbows or fluffy clouds here. What she had lived through was brutal, and he could relate, even if their scars looked different. His own memories of restless nights haunted by shadows of his past, PTSD, the endless fighting inside his mind, made him understand the weight she carried.

He muttered softly, "It's okay, kid. You're safe now. Nothing can hurt you here." His words were more for grounding her than for convincing himself. Minutes ticked by as her body slowly stopped trembling, her fever finally breaking, skin cooling under his careful watch.

Once she was calm, Bucky reached over the back of the seat, stretching into the boot area. His fingers closed around a rough but warm blanket. Gently, he draped it over her, careful not to disturb her fragile state. He adjusted it around her, making sure she was as comfortable as possible in the cramped car.

Bucky sat back, his gaze softening as he kept a protective watch over her, silently hoping the worst was behind them.

The car was quiet for a moment, the hum of the engine and the low murmur of the radio filling the space between them. Sam stole a glance at Bucky in the back seat, where Anya lay wrapped in the blanket, finally still and resting.

"So," Sam began casually, trying to break the tension, "what do you think? She's... different. Like, superhuman different."

Bucky didn't look away from Anya. "Yeah. Stronger, faster, tougher. But also... scared. Hurt. More than I've seen in a long time."

Sam nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense, right? If she's been on the run this long, hurt, alone... no wonder she's snapping. She needs help."

"Help," Bucky echoed, voice low. "But she won't just trust anyone. Not after what she's been through. We gotta be careful how we approach this."

Sam sighed, tapping the steering wheel. "So, what's the plan? We can't just bring her in like she's some fugitive. She's not a criminal, not yet. We need somewhere safe, somewhere she can start to heal—physically and... mentally."

Bucky's eyes finally met Sam's in the rearview mirror. "We find her a place. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere off the radar. Somewhere she can learn to trust again. And we keep her close. Watch her. Make sure no one else comes looking."

"Yeah," Sam agreed, a rare softness in his voice. "No one's taking her down - not on our watch."

The weight of what lay ahead settled between them, but for the first time in a while, there was a flicker of hope. They were in this now, for her, and whatever came next.

Bucky carefully lifts Anya from the car, her body light but fragile in his arms. He carries her up the narrow staircase to Sam's apartment, every step measured and slow, not wanting to jostle her injured form. Inside, the room is quiet, sparsely furnished but warm.

Gently, Bucky lays Anya down on the bed, easing her onto the mattress as if she might shatter. He adjusts her head on the pillow, smoothing the damp strands of hair away from her face with a tenderness that feels almost foreign to him.

Sam steps forward, pulling a soft sheet over Anya's body, tucking it in carefully around her. The motion is quiet, almost reverent, as if they're both silently acknowledging how much this girl has been through.

Bucky lingers a moment longer, his gaze lingering on her closed eyes and pale skin. Then, wordlessly, they exchange a look, a mix of concern and determination, before turning toward the door.

The door shuts softly behind them, left just ajar, a small crack of light spilling into the dim room. Outside, the city hums on but inside, a fragile stillness settles around Anya as she rests, her fate hanging in the balance.

Throughout the night, the apartment was quiet except for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant hum of the city outside. Bucky and Sam fell into an unspoken routine — one would drift off on the couch for a stretch, head tilted back, arms folded, while the other would quietly pad to the bedroom door, pushing it open just enough to peer inside.

Every check was the same careful process: a glance at her breathing, a gentle lift of the sheet to inspect her side. By the early hours, they both noticed it, the angry redness around the wound had faded to a muted flesh tone, the swelling easing, the edges knitting together faster than they'd expected. It wasn't perfect, but the rate of recovery was unmistakable.

"She's healing," Bucky murmured on one of his checks, his voice almost carrying a note of relief.

Sam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching quietly. "Yeah. It's fast... but not magic. She still needs rest."

They didn't say much else at those times. When they were both awake, they'd exchange short sentences in low voices - small observations about her condition, quiet speculation about what exactly she was, the occasional half-joke to keep themselves from thinking too hard about what might come next.

And then, often, the conversation would fade, leaving them sitting in the dim light, staring at the ceiling. Neither man was able to sleep properly. They just waited for morning to come, for answers, for her to open her eyes.

As the first pale light crept through the blinds, the apartment began to feel less like a stakeout and more like a slow, quiet morning. Sam shuffled into the kitchen, hair slightly mussed, now dressed in an old pair of grey sweatpants and a faded T-shirt. At some point during the night, he'd decided jeans were too much effort. Bucky, still in his dark jeans but having swapped his jacket for a plain black T-shirt, leaned against the counter, watching the coffee machine sputter to life.

The TV was on low in the background, some early-morning news anchor droning about traffic delays and weather updates. Neither of them was really watching, but it filled the silence.

Sam handed Bucky a mug, steam curling into the cool air. "You look like hell," he said casually, sipping his own coffee.

Bucky gave a half-shrug, his eyes flicking toward the closed bedroom door. "Didn't sleep."

"Me neither," Sam replied, settling into the couch. "Couldn't even if I tried. Kept thinking."

Bucky followed him into the living room, lowering himself into the chair opposite. "You think she'll talk to us when she wakes up?"

Sam smirked faintly. "Oh, she's gonna talk. She has too. We just... gotta do it carefully. Don't want her bolting again."

Bucky nodded slowly, staring into his coffee. "She's like me, Sam. Maybe not exactly... but close. Whatever's in her, it's keeping her alive."

Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And that's exactly why we can't just let her go. People out there will want to use that. Twist it. We've seen it before."

The words hung in the air, the quiet hum of the TV filling the gap. Bucky didn't argue - because Sam was right.

After a long sip of coffee, Sam's voice softened. "So... what's the plan when she wakes up?"

Bucky's answer came without hesitation. "Keep her safe. No matter what."

Bucky leaned back in the chair, coffee cradled loosely in one hand, eyes still flicking toward the bedroom door every so often. Sam, perched on the couch with one arm draped over the back, was already running scenarios in his head.

"Alright," Sam started, voice low but steady, "we agree on the basics - keep her safe, keep her off the radar. That means away from the obvious threats: leftover Hydra crazies, any rogue super soldiers, and every lunatic who'd see her as a weapon instead of a person."

Bucky gave a small nod, jaw tightening. "And if she's like me, Sam... they will come for her. No question about it."

Sam sipped his coffee, thinking. "Right. So, the next question, where do we stash her? Somewhere low-profile. Somewhere she can heal without looking over her shoulder every five seconds."

Bucky let out a slow breath. "That's the problem. My place is out. It's cramped, it's hours away, and..." He gestured vaguely, as if the rest of the sentence was obvious. "It's not exactly secure enough for someone like her."

Sam's eyes narrowed slightly, like he already knew where this was going. Bucky glanced up, catching Sam's look, and smirked - just enough to give himself away.

Sam pointed a finger at him, grinning. "I knew you were gonna say that. I knew it."

Bucky chuckled under his breath. "What can I say? You've got the better setup."

Sam rolled his eyes but didn't deny it. "Yeah, well... guess I just inherited a houseguest. And considering what we're dealing with, she's not exactly the kind you can leave with a spare key and a Netflix subscription."

Bucky leaned forward slightly, voice more serious now. "We'll keep shifts. I'll stay with her as much as I can. You've got the contacts, I've got... well..." He gestured toward his metal arm. "The extra muscle."

Sam nodded slowly, a faint smirk returning. "Alright, then. She stays here - at least until we figure out what she's running from... and what she's capable of."