knightofmidnightsun

[knightofmidnightsun]

me when I started to plan "The White Witch"

[knightofmidnightsun]

for two months i had forgot to add the epilogue's link lolllll so sorry

Let's not lose ourselves [3] | HELMUT ZEMO

Summary: Everything bad can get worse. You and your friends were captured, with your fate uncertain.

Warnings: Description of injuries. angst. a lot of angst again, be ready. description of and violence, referenced sexual harassment, trust issues, dad issues (well, im uncapable of remembering more things that you should be warned about 😅)

Word count: 25K

Skeletons, skeletons series: [1], [2], [3], [epilogue]

Notes: And…… That's the end I guess :))) There'll be an epilogue to close the story but this is quite the end of reader and helmut's journey…. for now, I guess, I'm still thinking about making a sequel!! let's see where it goes thank you so much for who supported the fic!! maybe, who knows, we'll meet again?

The mission was supposed to be simple. Retrieve the stolen super-soldier serum before it could fall into the wrong hands.

But nothing about Riga had gone according to plan.

In fact, the more you thought about it, the more you realized that it all started to go down once Sam and James knocked on your door and remembered that you existed after six months since… Well, since the Snap.

You had started to regret giving them a chance, despite they not knowing you were giving them a chance.

You had arrived at the warehouse, Sam and James right behind you, ready for a fight. But Walker had almost beaten you to it. You still remembered the look in his eyes—twisted, dark, hungry for something more than just justice. There was no justice there, only something far more sinister.

It was the first time you sensed the change in him, the creeping darkness that seemed to consume him, bit by bit. Yes, you had seen what he did to the Flag-Smasher, but you had silently hoped it was driven by anger and grief over his friend’s death.

You wanted to believe he would regret it.

He didn’t.

At one point during the fight, John had already beaten Sam, James was recovering from a heavy kick too close to his lungs and Zemo had been thrown against some containers—which led to you being the only one left standing. And, that’s why you were immediately the first choice to corner before any of your friends could recover.

It had only lasted a few minutes, maybe five or seven, but from time to time it continued to haunt his nights.

In an instant you were with your feet in the ground and in the next, you had been shoved against that same ground, a figure looming over you with his weight. His voice low, too close, his breath clinging to your neck. His grip on your arms was just a little too tight.

There had been something predatory in his gaze, something that made your skin crawl. You had tried to fight him off, of course you had—you weren’t someone who gave up easily.

But, either way, the memory stuck in your mind, lingering in the back of it, making your skin prickle whenever you thought of that single moment.

You had never told Sam or James, never. They were too focused on the mission, on the serum, on their own battles. But Zemo... He had seen it, you knew he had.

While you were pinned beneath John, struggling to break free, you caught a glimpse of Zemo rising to his feet. His eyes locked onto you, taking in the scene.

At the end, you kicked John away before Zemo could reach you in time to assist. His presence was a silent reassurance after what just had happened.

When everything was done, you hoped he wouldn’t say anything, that the moment would pass without comment. But after the fight, Zemo approached you, his voice soft, gentle—so much that it nearly deceived you.

“I never liked him,” Zemo murmured, his tone deceptively calm, “From the first moment I met him, I knew there was something twisted in him. The serum only made it worse.”

You glanced up at him, still trying to steady your breath after the fight.

"You always think the serum is the problem," you replied, trying to brush off the weight of what had just happened, "But it’s more than that. People are complicated."

Zemo raised an eyebrow, stepping closer as if considering your words carefully.

"You believe it’s more nuanced? That there’s something redeemable in a man who seeks power for himself?"

His tone was calm, but you sensed the challenge beneath it.

The memory of John’s grip on your arm lingered, the weight of it more unsettling than the bruises he left behind. You didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to give the moment any more power than it already held over you.

However, you weren’t the kind of person to decline a challenge.

"It’s not always about power," you said, straightening up, "People are driven by more than that. Fear, anger, grief—sometimes they make choices, bad ones, but that doesn’t mean they’re irredeemable."

Zemo chuckled softly, but there was no real humor in it.

"You sound like him—Steve. Always looking for a glimmer of hope, even in the darkest corners." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "But you know better, don’t you? You’ve seen what people are capable of when pushed to the edge."

You paused, considering his words. It was true—you had seen the worst in people, watched them fall apart or do unspeakable things when they felt there was no other option. But there was something different about how Zemo framed it, as if he believed the darkness was inevitable.

And you didn’t, you were incapable to believe it to be true.

"People are capable of more than just destruction, Zemo. I don’t see the world in the same way you do."

"No, you don’t,” He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “You still believe in justice. In redemption. But what is justice, really?" He stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Is it bringing the guilty to trial? Or is it doing what needs to be done, even when the world refuses to?"

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words, what he meant by each of them. Of course you knew what he was referring to, you knew his story. You were there when it all unfolded.

"You think what you did in the past was justice?" you asked quietly, a challenge laced in your tone aimed back at him. "Killing all those people, tearing families apart—do you really believe that was justice? You can tell yourself it was to avenge what you lost in Sokovia, but that wasn’t justice. That was revenge. You hurt them the way you felt we hurt you, even though they had done nothing to you."

Zemo’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. Anger, maybe? He always seemed to be so full of it, all the time.

"Perhaps,” His voice strained, “But what is the difference between justice and revenge, truly? Is it the law? The rules set by people who fail to understand the cost of power? My family is gone because of those rules." His voice softened, bitter, you almost pitied him, "You of all people should understand that."

You didn’t respond immediately, a chill creeping through you. He wasn’t lying when he said those things—the lines in your world had blurred over the past few years. But that didn’t make him right.

"I understand loss," you admitted, your voice steady. "But I don’t believe it justifies becoming the monster you’re trying to defeat."

Zemo let out a slow breath, his gaze unwavering, watching you with that unnerving stillness he always carried. It was as if he could see through every wall you put up, down to the choices you’d made that still weighed on your conscience.

"And yet, when the time comes, do you not find yourself stepping into that darkness to protect the ones you care for? Do you not make decisions that weigh on your conscience because you know it’s the only way out?"

You looked away for a moment, the truth of his words hitting closer than you would have liked. You had made a lot of choices in the past few days—decisions that left you questioning where you stood in all of this, and whether you’d made any mistakes along the way.

But you couldn’t let it consume you; you had to believe that somewhere along the way, you’d done at least one good thing.

If not, what was your purpose in this world?

“No,” you confessed quietly. “Every day, I just try not to let the darkness win.”

Zemo watched you intently, his gaze narrowing as he took in your words. He seemed almost contemplative, as if weighing the significance of what you had just said.

"And yet, it’s always there," he said, closing his way to you, "Waiting. Watching. It never leaves, even for people like you who strive to do what’s right." He paused, then added, "You may not see it yet, but you and I… We are not so different."

You shot him a look, the tension tightening in your chest, "We’re nothing alike."

“Maybe not in the choices we’ve made,” Zemo replied, his voice measured, his eyes distant as if weighed by unseen burdens. “But in how we’ve learned to bear them. The weight of our pasts never truly leaves us, does it?” His gaze softened, meeting yours with quiet understanding. “You carry your guilt silently, but I see it. You question your path, just as I once questioned mine.”

You clenched your fists, the tension in your shoulders tightening, “Justice might be slow, but it’s done, sooner or later."

“Justice is blind,” Zemo murmured, his voice low, "And often, it allows those who deserve punishment to escape it."

His words pressed down on you, slipping through the cracks of your resolve. They carried a weight that was hard to shake—the weight of someone who had lost faith in the system long ago, as you had.

And in that moment, you could feel the doubt creeping in, the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface.

But you couldn’t let his cynicism pull you into that darkness. You wouldn’t.

“No,” you said, more firmly than before. “That’s the difference between us, Zemo. You think the world’s broken beyond repair, that it needs to be torn down. But it’s not. People aren’t beyond saving.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was laced with something deeper—resignation, perhaps even sorrow. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened for a brief second, as if your words stirred something long buried.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “But sometimes, it’s those who believe they can save the world who end up falling the hardest.”

His words lingered in the air between you, thick with meaning, weighed down by everything unsaid. It was a silence that felt more loaded than any argument you could have had. Despite all the differences you held onto, there was an undeniable connection—a recognition of the burdens you both carried, though on opposite sides of the same line.

You held his gaze a moment longer, then quietly added, “Maybe… But after enough falls, we learn we don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.”

A slight flicker of surprise crossed Zemo’s features—subtle, but telling. He hadn’t expected your quiet defiance, the strength in your words that resisted the pull of darkness he had come to know so well.

For a brief moment, something shifted in his eyes—something like respect, or perhaps even understanding.

It was fleeting, but unmistakable.

A week later, you were surprised at what you were about to do. Not you alone: you, James and Sam.

The air in Wakanda carried a different weight—a thick tension, as if the entire country was holding its breath. You, Sam, and Bucky followed the silent, unyielding presence of the Dora Milaje through the gleaming corridors of the Wakandan prison. Each step echoed with anticipation, the quiet forewarning of what was to come. You glanced at James, his face set in an unreadable mask, and then at Sam, his jaw clenched.

It had only been a week since the world you knew had shifted once again—since Sam had taken up the mantle of Captain America, and James had begun to reconcile with the ghosts of his past.

And you... Well, you were still navigating your own demons, particularly those tied to John Walker. The scars of the past weeks were fresh, raw, but beneath them, there was something new. A tentative sense of belonging, of purpose, after months of uncertainty.

The three of you had shared a long, difficult conversation about the months of silence after Steve’s departure—months that had felt like an eternity. You spoke of the loneliness, the sense of drifting without him. Steve had been the glue that bound you together, and in his absence, it felt like you were each left to figure out how to move forward on your own. But now, maybe, just maybe, you were finding your way back to each other. Sam had his new role. James had begun to reclaim his life. And you…

You were trying to figure out what would be of you.

And then, there was Helmut Zemo.

The man who had, paradoxically, both shattered the Avengers and helped you in your mission. The same man who had quietly disappeared during the fight with the Dora Milaje, only to return later and fight by your side when he could have stayed hidden.

Zemo had made a choice that day—a choice to see the mission through, when he could have taken the easier road and vanished.

And now, once again, you were here. Asking for his help.

The heavy footfalls of the Dora Milaje echoed through the halls, their silence a stark contrast to the gravity of what lay ahead. You felt their eyes on you, the weight of their unspoken judgment. There was no room for error, and they made that clear.

"You understand the risks, right?" Ayo’s voice sliced through the tension, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Do not make us regret this."

Sam nodded firmly, his voice calm but resolute. "We understand the stakes."

Beside you, James shifted, his hands flexing, betraying the tension he kept bottled inside. You knew the history between him and Zemo was fraught with unhealed wounds, but James was the one who suggested bringing him back.

There was something about the time they’d spent together that had shifted things between them.

On the mission, Zemo had been careful. He hadn’t pushed James, hadn’t manipulated him into crossing any lines—even when it might make things easier. There were no cutting remarks, no barbed jokes about the past. He didn’t even try to test James the way he once had.

You’d caught them talking quietly one night, a brief conversation that ended with a handshake—something that spoke volumes for the two men the next morning.

Sam had also softened toward Zemo, though he hadn’t voiced it outright. He was still wary, still guarded, but something had changed. You recalled a moment during the mission when Zemo had asked him about his sister.

At first, Sam had bristled, thinking it was a ploy to get under his skin. But there had been no malice in Zemo’s tone—only genuine curiosity, concern. Perhaps it was that subtle gesture that had planted the seed of reluctant trust between them.

As for you… It was harder to define.

You had always seen something in Zemo, a quiet understanding that grew between you as you observed him more closely. There was something about the way he carried his grief, his loss, that resonated with your own pain.

Even back then, when he had torn the Avengers apart, part of you had understood him. Maybe that’s why you hadn’t completely closed yourself off to him—why you found yourself drawn to the complexities that made him, him.

The cell block came into view, the same cold, sterile environment you had seen before. The Dora Milaje stopped in front of the door, their leader, Ayo, turning to face you one last time.

“If he doesn’t come back, you will be held accountable. Remember that.”

You gave a short nod. There was no room for mistakes.

Sam, standing just a step ahead, took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Helmut Zemo sat inside, as calm and composed as ever, his gaze lifting as the three of you entered. His expression didn’t change—no surprise, no smugness, just a quiet understanding.

As if he had expected this.

"Captain America," Zemo greeted Sam with a slight incline of his head. His gaze shifted to James. "James. And..." His eyes lingered on you for a moment, that familiar flicker of something unspoken passing between you. "It seems we’re becoming quite the team, aren’t we?"

Sam didn’t bother with pleasantries. "We need your help, Zemo."

Zemo leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "Of course you do," he replied, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "What is it this time? More rogue super soldiers? Or something else?"

James’ expression hardened. "John Walker."

The air seemed to shift at the mention of Walker’s name. Zemo’s gaze darkened, a sneer tugging at his lips.

"Ah, Walker. The man who took up the shield and proved unworthy of it," Zemo mused, leaning forward. "Chasing a ghost, are we?"

"He hasn’t just disappeared," Sam interjected, his tone sharp with frustration. "He’s aligned himself with someone—goes by Madame Hydra. Together, they’ve started a group. They’re calling it the Masters’ Circle."

Zemo’s eyebrows lifted in mild interest.

"Masters’ Circle?” His lips curled into a smile. “How very... Theatrical. And you think this is my problem because...?"

"Because you know how dangerous he is, just as well as we do," Sam said evenly. "You’ve seen firsthand what he’s capable of. And time’s running out. He and the others in his group are gathering people like him—people with power, people driven by a thirst for control and dominance."

Zemo’s gaze lingered on the three of you once again, his calculating mind working behind those sharp eyes. You could almost feel him dissecting the situation, weighing his options. He wasn’t one to act out of loyalty or morality—that much you knew. But he did love a challenge.

"And what do I gain from this?" Zemo asked smoothly.

James took a step forward, his voice calm but edged with warning. "This isn’t a game, Zemo. You helped us before, remember?"

A quiet chuckle escaped Zemo’s lips. "Yes, I did, didn’t I? And here I thought you would forget."

He leaned back, his gaze thoughtful as he considered the proposition. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"Very well," He said, standing slowly. "But when this is over, I go back to my cell."

There was something genuine in his voice, something that hadn’t been there before. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“There’s nothing out there for me,” Zemo added, his voice quieter now. "Not anymore."

Sam nodded, his expression tightening ever so slightly at Zemo’s words. He understood the weight of them—the loss behind them.

“Yeah,” Sam said, his voice quieter as well, more measured. “I get it.”

There was a flicker of recognition between the two of them.

Sam didn’t push further, didn’t try to fill the space with empty reassurances. He knew better. He understood what Zemo meant—the weight of losing everything, being left with nothing but the ghosts of a life that could never be reclaimed. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but heavy with the unspoken truth that lingered between them.

You felt it too, the quiet grief woven into the very air.

Zemo had lost more than just his country. He had lost his family, his identity, every tether to the life he once knew. For him, there was nothing left beyond this mission. No loved ones to return to, no home waiting for him. He existed now only in the shadow of what he once had.

And maybe that’s why Sam didn’t pry or offer hollow comfort. He saw something in Zemo’s eyes that mirrored the ache he had once felt on his own—a need for purpose, for control in a world that had stripped everything else away. Zemo wasn’t just driven by vengeance; this was his last grasp at meaning, a final attempt to leave behind something other than pain.

It was a mindset you knew all too well, to some extent.

You watched as the Dora Milaje moved with precision, their sharp gazes never leaving Zemo as they unlocked his metal handcuffs. Each click of the cuffs seemed to echo in the silence, a reminder of the power they held, even over him.

Their eyes were sharp, their warning unspoken but clear: any misstep, and there would be consequences.

Zemo stepped out of his cell, his movements slow, deliberate, as if calculating every inch of space between himself and his freedom. His wrists, now free from the cuffs, flexed slightly, but there was no sign of defiance—just quiet acceptance. His eyes met yours across the room, and in that moment, something unspoken passed between you.

It wasn’t just about the mission for him. It never was.

For a moment, you wished you had said something to him—given voice to your words. But, you didn’t.

"Regrets," a voice whispered, a cruel snicker following the word, "What a strange thing for you humans to cling to."

The voice was always there, lurking at the edges of your thoughts, waiting for a quiet moment to make itself known. It slid into your mind like oil, and suddenly, Wakanda vanished.

The sterile, dim prison dissolved into a familiar mount, one you could almost recognize. The air was different there—thinner, more suffocating, as if every breath was borrowed. The sky stretched in hues of dark red and burnt orange, the sun’s golden halo long gone, swallowed by the impending night.

Your hair was loose, something you never did on missions. You always kept it tied back, a way of separating yourself—the ‘hero’—from the person you were off-duty, who spent nights watching campy horror movies. But now? Your hair whipped around you in the wind, untamed and wild, a clear reflection of the chaos inside you.

You were barefoot, standing in the damp grass that clung to your toes. The dress you wore was white, though the red-tinted light made it seem as if it were soaked in blood.

The sight of it sent a jolt through your chest, but you couldn’t place why.

"You humans hold onto such needless things," the voice returned, slithering through the wind. You tried to turn, to find the source, but there was no one—just the feeling of being watched. "Until you force your grip so tight, you don’t even notice the bleeding."

Instinctively, your eyes dropped to your hands. Blood, thick, dripped down your arms, staining your skin. The sight made your head spin, and for a brief moment, you hoped—prayed—that it wasn’t yours. But then came the darker thought.

Maybe it should be yours.

Better your blood than the blood of someone you loved.

A metallic taste filled your mouth, sharp and bitter. You touched your lips, realizing that blood was there too, thick and suffocating as well, caught in your throat. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t dare to, for fear of drowning in it.

"You, my child," the voice hissed closer, as if it were brushing against the back of your neck. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, "You hold the most among them. You cling to it with such desperation… There is no need."

Tears blurred your vision, hot and stinging. Why were you crying? The question lingered, but there was no clear answer. Was it fear? Was it sadness? Was it anger?

The emotions swirled together, tangled and incomprehensible, refusing to give you clarity.

“Shh,” the voice soothed, the mockery gone, replaced with something unsettlingly gentle. You felt the brush of a finger against your cheek, wiping away a tear, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, it was never your fault. I should never have left you to your own devices.”

You knew it was the same voice that had been haunting your mind since that hallway. When you got closer to the artifact, alone. But yet, it sounded way more familiar than that.

However, it slipped away from you the more you tried to grab at it—as when you tried to recall when you had been on that mount before.

The image of your mother crossed your mind, as of your father, how long has it been since you thought of them? Not that you didn't think about them one or twice in a day, but put yourself into reliving the memories you shared?

Way before the Snap.

They had died long before that, of course. Long before the universe decided to rip half of existence away. You were too young when it happened, too young to fully comprehend the weight of their absence. All you had were fragments of memory, fading as the years went on.

In your childish mind, you had always believed they were magicians.

And why wouldn’t you? They never denied it. Whenever they dressed in those strange, flowing clothes, they told you they were preparing for a performance. You believed it wholeheartedly.

Why wouldn’t you? They were your parents, and in your wide-eyed innocence, you wanted to believe in magic. You wanted to believe that they could make the impossible real.

Sometimes, when they thought you weren’t looking, they’d make plates and utensils float across the table or snap their fingers and—puft—the trash would disappear as if by magic. You’d giggle and clap, and they’d smile, telling you they were just practicing for a big show.

And you, a child so eager to see the world through the lens of wonder, believed them. You never questioned it, never doubted. Magic was something you could shape into reality, because they made it real.

The memories of your parents swirled in your mind, surfacing in fragmented images—hazy but vivid enough to stir something deep within you.

They had always been your anchor, the ones who painted the world with magic, filling your childhood with wonder. You remembered their laughter, the warmth of their presence, and the gentle way they made everything seem so simple.

They were magicians, you thought—real magicians, who would always try to bring you a little fantasy in the real world. And you never had a reason to question that.

But the truth came crashing down when they died. It wasn’t an accident, as you were told.

It was something darker, far more sinister. You didn’t know it at the time, not yet.

To you, their sudden absence was just a terrible twist of fate. A freak accident, or so everyone around you would say.

The years after their deaths were a blur of confusion and grief. You were taken in by your grandma. She was kind enough, but she could never fill the void.

You felt like a stranger in her home, haunted by the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. But it wasn’t until your powers manifested for the first time that everything started to make sense, unraveling.

It was a day like any other. You were walking home from school, the sky dark and heavy with the threat of rain. You didn’t notice the men following you until it was too late. Cornered in an alleyway, you felt the familiar surge of panic rise in your chest.

But then something happened—something you couldn’t explain.

The fear ignited a fire inside you, and suddenly, the world around you erupted with light and energy. Black and white swirls whispered to you, guiding your every move. In an instant, the men were knocked to the ground, and you were the last one left standing.

The energy had come from you, but at the time. For a moment, you thought an invisible force had answered your silent scream for help.

Yet, you didn’t understand what had happened. All you knew was that you were safe. And for a long time, you believed it was your parents’ doing. They had found a way to protect you even after death.

But that comforting belief didn’t last.

Nick Fury found you not long after. He approached you cautiously, as if he knew exactly what had happened and why. He didn’t ask questions at first, just watched you, observing the powers that had saved you but were now spiraling out of control.

You didn’t trust him. How would you? To you, he was nothing more than a complete stranger.

At the time, no one knew about S.H.I.E.L.D., H.Y.D.R.A., and the Avengers were just an idea stuck in an old man's mind. There wasn't even an Iron Man yet.

But Fury was patient, relentless in his quiet way. Eventually, you let him in, let him take you and help you learn to control your powers. After years of training and practicing, you met Tony, Steve, Natasha, Barton…

It wasn’t until much later that the truth about your parents came to light.

You always thought that your mother and father were nothing more than ordinary people trying to show you an extraordinary world. But they were more than that.

Your mother had been a witch and your father a mutant who later became a sorcerer, both deeply involved in worlds far more dangerous than you could have ever imagined.

They had hidden that part of their lives from you, shielded you from the threats that came with it. But in doing so, they had left you unprepared for what was to come once they were gone.

The powers you’d once thought of as a gift weren’t just some last act of love from them—they were your inheritance, passed down through generations of magic and danger. It wasn’t something as special as what both of them had.

Your magic simply showed you how to protect yourself and gave you the tools to do so. But in a way, your magic was the gift they had given you.

It wasn’t just power—it was a responsibility, a force meant to uplift those who had lost their way. All that remained was for you to learn how to wield it, to shape it into something that could truly make a difference.

This magic wasn’t meant for grand displays or for your own sake—it was meant for those who needed it most. For the ones who had lost hope, who needed something to believe in, a reason to trust that tomorrow could be better than today.

And maybe, just maybe, you could bring it to them.

The memories of your parents swirled in your mind, surfacing like whispers from a long-forgotten dream. You held on to those fragments, each one stirring something deep within you. Their laughter, the warmth of their presence, the magical way they turned mundane moments into wonder—it was as if the world was a canva.

Your parents were the performers painting everything with the beauty of their magic, you wanted to be a painter as well.

You only needed to find your brush and paint.

However now, for some reason, these memories, these buried truths, were clawing their way back into your mind.

Why now? Why, after so many years, were you thinking about them so vividly?

The voice inside your mind laughed softly, breaking the spell of your memories.

“I already told you, you cling to these things like a child, holding on to a fairy tale.”

The mount reappeared slowly, like a haze lifting from your vision. The blood on your hands, the sensation of it thick and warm, the taste of it on your lips—it was there again. You blinked rapidly, your head spinning.

Was this real? Or was it another dream? Another nightmare?

The wind howled, and the voice was closer now, more familiar than before. It wrapped around you like the mount itself.

You couldn't dwell on the memories for long; the voice in your mind made sure of that.

"Such a waste," the voice cooed, "But don’t worry, you won’t need to carry their weight much longer."

You felt a cold chill crawl down your spine.

The mount... It was familiar, painfully so. The blood on your hands, the dark horizon, the sensation of grass under your feet—it all felt too real to be just a dream. And yet, it felt wrong.

The world around you was heavy, like it was collapsing inward, the air thick and pressing in on you. You felt suffocated, the weight of unseen eyes watching every breath you took. It was as though the very air was soaked in malice, dragging your thoughts into a spiraling abyss.

Something was encroaching, taking hold, sinking its claws into your very soul.

"Do you still not see it?" the voice whispered, "It’s time to stop resisting."

You tried to focus on the memories slipping from your grasp, desperately chasing after them, but it was like trying to hold water in your hands. The more you clung to them, the quicker they vanished.

Faces—your mother, your father—blurred, their features disintegrating like smoke. The warmth, the safety you once felt, faded as if it had never existed at all. Even the moments that you held closest, the ones you swore you'd never forget, began to dissolve.

It was maddening, like losing parts of yourself one by one.

But the voice... The voice was there, constant, stronger with every word, weaving through your thoughts like a shadow tightening its grip.

"You could let go," he hissed, soothing and menacing at once, "I can help you. Rid yourself of these ties—these illusions you humans learn to believe to be true. It’s all weighing you down."

Your heart pounded, your throat tight with an unshed scream. You didn’t know why, but a part of you resisted. A deep, instinctive refusal to let go, to lose control.

Even though everything felt muddled, something kept you grounded, pulling you back.

Your mind was always up to a challenge.

A memory flashed—clear, vivid, the only one that accepted your hold into it: You, Sam, James, and Helmut, sitting around a fire after one of your missions.

The exhaustion was palpable, but for once, there was a sense of peace. Sam teased James about his arm, grinning, while Helmut smirked quietly, almost as though he didn’t belong in the moment but was choosing to stay. You brushed your shoulder at his, a rare exchange between the two of you—but on that night, it felt right.

You smiled at him and asked how he was feeling, you didn’t care if he would omit, lie or tell the truth of what crossed his mind. Either way, you chose to listen.

It was rare, but for a brief moment, the world wasn’t full of danger or secrets.

It was... Peaceful. A fleeting glimpse of normalcy.

"Just wait," the voice came back, drowned by the voices of the memory you embraced in your chest, "You’ll understand soon, my sweet child.”

The pressure in your chest grew unbearable, your vision darkening. And just as the world around you seemed to disappear, as the ground beneath you shifted, the whispering wind in your ears carried a final message:

"You won’t have to hold on much longer."

With a sudden jolt, you opened your eyes.

The moment your eyes fluttered open, it felt like a punch to the gut.

You gasped for air, every breath catching in your throat as your heart pounded furiously in your chest. Panic seized you for a moment as the remnants of the dream still clung to your mind like a thick fog, twisting the edges of reality and leaving you unsure of what was real.

The suffocating air of that place—of that voice—was gone, but it left behind an aftertaste of dread that lingered at the back of your throat.

You blinked hard, forcing your vision to focus as the cold, damp chill replaced the oppressive heat of the mount. Your head felt heavy, a strange, sluggish sensation clouding your thoughts. It was disorienting, like you were walking through molasses.

Drugged. You had to have been drugged, the thick haze clouding your mind was distracting, too heavy. But when?

Your thoughts raced back, searching for the last clear moment before everything had spiraled out of control.

When would they have dru—

John.

You remembered the way his arm had tightened around your neck, cutting off your air as everything had gone black. After that, everything was a blur.

However, one thing you were sure of was that time had passed. Another thing you could tell: you weren't in the airship anymore.

Gone was the cold steel of it. Instead, the flickering glow of torches cast long, eerie shadows on stone walls.

If they had time to bring you to another place, for sure they would have time to drug you.

You blinked, adjusting to the dim light, and the unmistakable scent of damp stone and ancient decay filled your senses. Pillars loomed overhead, their sharp edges and intricate carvings bathed in the soft orange glow. It was a temple—old and foreboding, with a feeling that made your skin crawl.

A dull ache pulsed in your wrists. You tried to move them, but your arms were bound tightly to the stone pillar behind you. Panic surged as you tugged against the restraints, realizing your feet were also bound. You were trapped.

Desperation gnawed at the edge of your mind, and you immediately reached inward, searching for that familiar flicker of your power—anything to give you a direction.

But there was nothing. 

Cold sweat broke out across your skin as you fought to grasp it, to pull even the faintest spark of power forward. But it was gone. Completely.

Your heart sank, a sickening realization blooming in your chest. It felt deliberate, as though something was actively taking it from you, siphoning away the very thing that made you who you were.

A soft groan pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned your head to see James stirring beside you. His movements were slow, conscious—like someone trying to shake off a heavyweight. Sam and Helmut were nearby too, still unconscious but bound in the same way as you.

The sight of them restrained, powerless, sent a wave of fear crashing over you. At least, they were alive but for how long?

They were as vulnerable as you, and there was nothing you could do about it. Without your power and trapped, there was nothing you could do to help them.

The air buzzed with a strange energy, thick and oppressive, as though the walls themselves were alive with a power far older than anything you had ever encountered. It pulsed through the temple, a constant hum that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

This was no mere old temple. This place—wherever it was—was something way more villainous.

Your head throbbed, the lingering effects of the drug mixing with the unnatural atmosphere of the temple. The strange voice from your nightmare echoed faintly in your mind, creeping back in like a poisonous whisper.

It had promised you release, a ‘freedom from the burden you carried’. Now, bound in this place with no power to save yourself or your friends, that promise felt all the more sinister.

At first, you thought it was just the artifact’s effect, a devilish object that enjoyed messing with everyone that got closer.

However, Helmut had been close to it and didn't say anything about hearing a creepy voice inside his mind. If it had happened, he would have told you for sure.

Which would mean that from all the figures that damned artifact had met since the murder of his past possessor, it chose you to torment and, when you thought about that—it sounded  hard to believe.

What was special about you? Compared to all the powerful people you knew, you were the more ordinary among them, your ‘half mutation half magic’ only gave you the means to assure your safety. That was the reason why one or two crazy things happened to you every single day.

It was nothing compared to what Jean Grey, Doctor Strange, Wanda Maximoff and many others had.

You shook your head, none of these thoughts would help you to get out of that temple.

Get it together, you told yourself. Think. Focus.

But it was impossible to do any of that.

The fog in your mind wouldn’t clear, and the longer you stayed in this temple, the more the oppressive force of the place pressed down on you. You could almost feel its energy pulsing beneath your feet.

A chill ran down your spine as you glanced around again, this time more carefully. The walls, covered in faint symbols and markings, hummed with a power older than anything you had ever encountered.

They felt… Alive.

And yet, something about the place felt eerily familiar. Way more familiar than anything before.

“Damn it,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and barely audible in the stillness. You needed to focus, but every attempt to gather your thoughts was met with that frustrating fog, like a wall you couldn’t break through.

But you couldn’t stop yourself from trying.

You strained once more against the chains, the rough metal thing biting into your skin. There had to be a way out.

You needed to trace a way out of there.

Another groan broke through the oppressive quiet, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. James was stirring again. Slowly, his eyes opened, and the tension that had built up inside you loosened.

Just a little.

You turned your head to watch him, every movement sending sharp stings through his wrists and ankles. His face contorted as he blinked against the dim light, clearly disoriented, but the moment his eyes landed on you, something shifted in his expression.

"James," you breathed, your voice rough with exhaustion, relief flooding through you.

He blinked slowly again, his body shifting slightly as if testing his restraints. His metal arm, still twisted unnaturally, was hung in a weirder angle by the chains. Bruises dotted his face, a harsh reminder of just how brutal things had been before he and Sam were taken.

His breaths came slow, labored.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice hoarse, still disoriented.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, glancing around the dim, ancient room. “Some kind of temple, maybe. We were on the airship, and then… They brought us here.”

James gritted his teeth, and you saw the tension build in his jaw as he flexed his metal arm against the chains. The metal of them creaked, as the metal in his arm, but the chains held firm. If only, his metal arm got worse than before.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and uneasy. His gaze lingered on you longer than usual, like there was something on his mind, something he wasn’t sure he should say.

You knew exactly what he was thinking. His mind was back to the conversation the three of you had right after Riga about everything, the misunderstandings and distances. You all had said your piece, but the scars remained, unspoken.

Even after five years, time and time again, the conversation came back to your mind as well.

Who could blame you? And, in a moment like that, who could blame him?

"James," you said softly, keeping your voice steady. "You don’t have to—"

"I know," he cut you off, his voice rougher than intended. His eyes softened, though, the frustration there more inward than directed at you. He shifted again, wincing at the pain in his arm. “It’s just… This place, all of it. It takes us somewhere else in our minds, don’t you?”

You didn’t need to answer him aloud, neither did he expect you to. The sensation of being trapped, powerless—it clung to him, even in his moments of peace, as much as it clung to you. Obviously, your reasons were far too different from his, but a thread linked you two nonetheless.

In particular, since the day James almost… It was a time when control had slipped away from him, and you understood that, always had.

You had forgiven him long ago, but you knew that didn’t mean he’d forgiven himself. Not yet.

His gaze met yours again, and for a brief moment, you saw past the hard exterior he kept up, to the man who still carried the burden of everything he'd done.

Everything he once was.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you murmured, almost as much a reminder to yourself as to him.

You wanted to reach out, to close the distance between you, to let him know that despite everything—despite the history, the guilt, the pain—you were there. You always would be.

But the chains around your wrists held you back.

James shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as if struggling with the words he didn’t quite know how to say. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the silence thickening.

Finally, he managed, "It's not that easy."

“I know,” you whispered, “But you’re not that person anymore.”

He glanced away, the familiar haunted look returning to his eyes.

“Maybe not. But sometimes, it feels like I’m always fighting him. Even when my thoughts are quiet, I wake up and remember everything.”

You shook your head gently, wishing you could ease that burden, even just a little.

“You’ve come so far, James. Don’t let those moments define who you are. You’re more than that.”

A beat of silence passed between you before he looked back at you, his expression mirroring the ongoing conflict in his mind, yet there was a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe? It was hard to tell.

“Don’t call me James,” he sighed, his chains rattling softly as he made a weak attempt to rid himself of them. “For a long time, you could have called me Bucky. Just Bucky.”

Something in your heart soared. You’d always been cautious with what to call him—‘James’ felt distant, but you were trying to respect a line he usually asked to not cross. But now, hearing him allow you to use ‘Bucky’, felt like a breakthrough.

For him, it was a small offering of trust. For you, it was a connection you’d longed for, even when you didn’t realize it.

“I didn’t think you'd ever let me call you that,” you said softly, trying to hide the emotion rising in your throat. "It always felt like something that belonged to Steve, to Sam. Not me."

Bucky’s eyes met yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“It belongs to anyone who still sees something worth saving.”

The impact of those words hit you like a punch, making your chest tighten. You wanted to say more, to thank him for opening up even a little, but the emotions were so tangled inside you that you couldn’t find the right words.

“I hope we don’t die here,” you said after a moment, trying to ease the heaviness with a wry smile, though your voice trembled slightly. “Because if we do, I’ll regret not tearing down the wall between us sooner.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, but his expression softened as he gazed at you. He didn’t need to say it—he felt the same way. You both had been too stubborn, too scarred by your pasts to fully let each other in.

But here, bound and helpless in this strange temple, there was no more room for those barriers. Only time—and the ever-looming threat of death.

Each second passed as it was your last one.

“I won’t let us die here,” he finally whispered, a faint promise beneath the heavy air. His resolve was always there, even when he was at his lowest.

It was something you had always admired about him.

Before he could respond further, another soft groan broke through the silence.

You and Bucky turned your heads to see Helmut stirring. He shifted slightly, still bound and visibly disoriented, the shadows from the dim torchlight casting eerie patterns across his face. His eyes fluttered open, his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to take in his surroundings.

“You’ve finally decided to join us,” you muttered, your tone laced with a hint of relief despite the dire situation.

"Where..." Helmut’s voice was rough, barely a whisper, but the sharpness in his gaze returned quickly as he assessed the situation "What is this place?"

“Some kind of temple,” Bucky answered, his voice low. “No idea how we got here, though.”

Helmut’s eyes narrowed as he glanced around, his mind clearly racing to piece everything together.

“It doesn’t matter how, we need to figure out how to get out.”

“Well, it does matter,” you retorted, gazing at him, “We are in chains, wrists and feet, and obviously drugged. How do we get out of here?”

“There’s always a way out,” Helmut said, the quiet certainty in his voice almost calming, but not much. His eyes flickered toward what looked like the entrance as he surveyed their surroundings again, analyzing every shadow and flicker of light, “We just need to find it before they come back.”

However, where in these odds, you would find a way out that wouldn’t end up with one of you killed?

The bindings around your wrists felt like iron, digging into your skin as you strained against them. The fog in your mind had barely begun to lift, the effects of whatever drug had been used on you still clouding your thoughts, making it hard to do anything.

The strange force that loomed in the room was plaguing your minds, the oppressive energy pulsing around the ancient stone walls. The air was thick, suffocating.

You shifted against your restraints again, testing their hold, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. The chains were too tight, too secure.

Your mind, still sluggish, reached for your power, grasping at the black and white energy that had once come so naturally.

But you only met emptiness. The same void you had felt when you first approached the artifact.

A sinking feeling settled in your gut. Whatever had been done to you, it wasn’t just the drug—something far more insidious.

Before you could voice your worry, a groan from the far corner signaled Sam’s awakening. His head lolled to the side, and he blinked against the dim light, confusion etched across his face.

“Great,” he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion. “Just what I needed... Another dungeon.”

His words were sarcastic, but you could see the frustration and pain behind them as he tested his own chains. He winced, his muscles clearly stiff from the restraints.

“We’ve been in worse,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his tone dry but lacking its usual sharp edge. There was an underlying unease in his voice, one that mirrored the way you felt.

Sam flexed his wrists against the restraints, his expression hardening as he took in the temple around you all.

"You two alright?" Sam turned his head for both you and Helmut, his voice quiet but edged with concern.

"Define 'alright'," you replied, the sarcasm slipping through despite the gravity of the moment, "We’re alive. That counts for something, I guess."

Sam gave a short, humorless chuckle, "Well, that’s an improvement."

Helmut, who had remained silent for a moment longer, finally spoke again.

"What happened after we fell off the ship? You two were still up there."

Cap sighed, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the events.

"It all happened fast. After you two went down, Bucky and I managed to hold our ground for a bit, but..." He winced as he shifted, the tension in his muscles clear, "They overpowered us. I don’t even remember how we ended up down there in the airship, or over here."

Bucky nodded slowly, his gaze still distant, "They had the upper hand from the start. Too many of them, too few of us. We didn’t stand a chance."

Now, the oppressive silence of the temple only deepened the sense of dread that hung over the group at Bucky’s words.

Your thoughts kept circling back to the artifact, the strange energy that had followed you ever since you first encountered it. There was something about it  that gnawed at the edges of your mind, refusing to be ignored.

"It's all because of the artifact, isn’t it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "That’s why we’re here."

Helmut’s gaze flickered to you, his expression unreadable.

"I am afraid to agree. It has to be,” Helmut’s voice was unusually quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground. “They wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if it wasn’t important.”

"But what do they want with it?" Sam asked, his frustration clear. "Strange told us everything about it falling into the wrong hands, big evil and whatever, but what’s their plan?"

Helmut’s brow furrowed, his mind racing to piece it together, "World domination, most likely, but there’s something else. The artifact itself feels like a key, as if they need it to unlock some power."

“I don’t know,” you muttered, trying to make sense of the overwhelming presence you had felt since encountering the artifact the first and second time, “Despite that artifact draining my powers, I can sense it’s about control. Something beyond the physical realm… As if it’s meant to bend reality itself to their will.”

If your wrist weren’t bound, you would try to slap away the breath you could swear it was against your neck. The strong smell of cologne was stuck within you, into your nostrils and lungs.

“Wait,” Bucky cut in, his eyes narrowing, “What do you mean by your powers being drained?”

Before you could explain, a dark, chilling presence filled the room, its oppressive energy sending another shiver down your spine. The heavy sound of footsteps echoed through the temple’s stone corridors, and your heart raced as you looked toward the entrance.

In a blink, they were there, entering your space through more than one of the shadowy entrances of the temple. The Masters of Evil, one by one, emerged from the shadows, their presence nothing but ominous.

Tiger-Man was the first, his lithe and muscular frame cutting through the darkness like a predator on the hunt, his feral eyes glowing with dangerous intent. Then, Crimson Cowl—or Justine—her blood-red cloak flowing behind her, followed closely, her eerie silhouette rippling in the flickering torchlight. The air around her seemed to hum with energy, a clear sign of the power she held.

After her, came Beetle, his mechanical wings catching the light as he hovered near the entrance, his chrome-plated armor reflecting shards of light across the stone walls. Behind him, Doctor Octopus slithered forward, his metallic arms hissing and scraping against the floor, each tentacle ready to strike. Max Fury followed, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping over the group, his posture rigid with the precision of a HYDRA commander.

Lightmaster stood next to him, radiating a dangerous glow that danced ominously along the edges of the room, while Titania loomed large beside him, her imposing figure casting long shadows on the walls. Fixer, his technological devices humming with barely contained power, flanked the group with Moonstone, whose eyes gleamed with deadly force. Absorbing Man stood in the background, his skin shifting as he absorbed the surrounding stone, preparing himself for whatever fight lay ahead.

And then, there was Ultron. The metallic menace entered, his cold red eyes glowing in the darkness and locking at your figure, his presence was a cold reminder of the pain he had caused you until your regeneration kicked in. His mechanical form moved with a silent and uncannily graceful form.

But it was the final figure that sent a shiver of dread down your spine and a final nail into the coffin.

Madame Hydra, the leader of this sinister group, stepped forward with regal, deadly grace. Far more captivating and terrifying than Ultron or any machine, her long coat billowed behind her like a shadow come to life. Every movement was deliberate, calculated—exuding a menace that even the cold, mechanical presence of Ultron couldn’t match.

Her piercing, unfeeling eyes locked onto yours, and a chill crawled down your spine. It was a fear far more paralyzing than the hollow red gaze of the Tin-Man standing beside her. A twisted smile curled on her lips as she surveyed the group, her gaze holding you captive in its cold grip.

"So nice of you to join us," she purred, her voice smooth and venomous, echoing through the ancient stone hall, "Everything is falling into place, just as we planned."

But just as you were about to react, another figure emerged from the shadows, his presence sending a different kind of chill down your spine.

He walked in with a deliberate, heavy stride, his shield held firmly at his side, the metal reflecting the dim light of the room. There was something unsettling in his posture, a calculated menace that made your skin crawl. His eyes, dark and cold, locked onto you with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

It could be what John held in his hands.

Walker cradled the box—the one that had held the artifact since the moment you first found it. Its dark energy pulsed rhythmically, in perfect sync with his controlled, measured steps.

The aura around him seemed to hum with power, wrapping the room in an oppressive silence.

You remembered the last time you had faced him—how he had overpowered you, the painful grip of his hand around your neck, the mockery in his voice that still echoed in your mind. His presence here, among the others, was a twisted confirmation of everything you feared.

The box in his hands glowed, its power palpable in the charged air. And as he stepped closer, his lips curled into a sneer, the malice in his expression all too clear.

“Missed me?” he taunted, sending a fresh wave of unease through you. The smirk on his face told you more than you wished to know.

The room seemed to close in around you, the combined presence of the Masters of Evil, Ultron, Madame Hydra, and now John Walker, oppressing in its intensity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Helmut’s eyes narrowing ever so slightly, the faintest twitch of his jaw betraying his otherwise calm demeanor.

You and  Helmut had talked about Riga, even if you didn’t put into words everything, he had understood how it impacted you—and though he hadn’t said much about it, you knew he understood the depth of your unease. It was subtle, but the way his gaze flicked between you and Walker told you that he was already strategizing, trying to figure out how to kill the man once he had his hands free.

Walker’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and taunting.

“So nice of you to join us, Baron,” he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain as he turned to face Helmut, “Still hanging around these heroes, pretending you’re one of them?”

Helmut didn’t rise to the bait. His expression remained unreadable, his focus shifting back to the Masters of Evil as if Walker’s words were of no consequence. But you knew better.

You could see the way his fingers twitched, the way his gaze hardened. Walker’s presence here was more than just an annoyance—it was a threat, one that Helmut was already preparing to neutralize.

Madame Hydra stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with cold calculation. “Enough games,” she said, her voice commanding as she addressed the room.

“For too long, we have lived in the shadows,” she glanced at her foes, her tone measured, almost conversational, as if she were discussing with scholar rather than you, Helmut, Bucky and Cap, “For too long, we have been content to let others shape our destiny, to let the weak impose their will upon the strong.”

Her gaze drifted across the room, lingering on each of you in turn, as if she were appraising your worth in the most condescending way.

“But no more,” she continued, her voice growing colder, sharper. “We stand on the precipice of a new era, one where power will be the only currency that matters. And we hold the key to unlocking that power.”

She turned slightly, her hand gesturing towards the box cradled in John’s arms, the dark artifact within pulsing with a rhythm that seemed to resonate with the very walls of the chamber, the box merely containing it.

“This artifact,” she said, her tone almost reverent, “is more than just a relic of a forgotten age. It is a gateway, a conduit to a power that has been dormant for eons, waiting for the right moment, the right catalyst, to awaken.”

The flickering light caught the edge of her smile, a smile devoid of warmth or humanity. “That moment has come. The Chthon, a being older than time itself, has spoken to us. It has shown us the path forward, the path to a new world, where we will no longer be the ones who look up in fear and submission. We will be the ones who you’ll have to look up to and you—the ones who must cast your eyes down.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the ominous weight of her words sinking in. The Chthon—you all had heard about him.

Wanda had told you once, two or three years ago about the devilish god: an ancient, malevolent force that whispered in your mind, trying to pull you into its dark embrace. His main goal was to find a conduit, a vessel to keep his soul and mind rooted on Earth. He had tried with her—the Scarlet Witch, but she had been well-prepared, expelling him from her mind and back to his abyss.

And now, he was back. It was clear that the Masters of Evil intended to use his power to reshape the world, to bend it to their will.

Madame Hydra’s gaze flicked to Helmut, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if she were gauging his reaction, testing his resolve.

“The Chthon requires a vessel,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it still carried through the chamber with unnerving clarity. “A host who will carry its power into this world, who will be the tool through which it molds a new reality. He has promised us the means to control, to command…”

You glanced at Helmut, his expression remaining unreadable, but you saw the way his fingers tightened slightly, a barely perceptible movement that spoke volumes. He was already processing, already trying to find a way to counter this revelation. His eyes flicked briefly to you, and in that glance, you could see the concern warring within him.

Bucky and Sam looked confused, though not scared—at least not outwardly. You were all in the worst possible condition to face this kind of threat, and Madame Hydra didn't even need to finish her resolve for you to understand where this was heading.

Madame Hydra took a step closer, her attention shifting to the box as it pulsed again, a dark, rhythmic thrum that seemed to echo within the ancient walls of the temple. Each pulse felt like a countdown, foreboding and suffocating.

“The Chthon has chosen its vessel already,” she murmured, her voice carrying a sinister undertone. “He told us it would be someone who would come for us while we were far from the ground, high above, to take his gift away from us. And… You came.”

The implications crashed over you like a tidal wave. One of you—Helmut, Sam, Bucky, or you—was meant to be the host for this ancient power, this malevolent force that would reshape the world in the image of the Masters of Evil.

Since the beginning…?

It sounded ridiculous—utterly insane—that they believed this. Yet, as her words sank deeper, that initial disbelief was overtaken by a sense of growing dread.

They had been preparing for this, waiting for your arrival, just as the voice had foretold.

But the voice… Since that hallway, had it been him all along?

Chthon?

Your thoughts spiraled, denial clawing at your mind as you tried to push away the growing dread. It couldn’t be any of you.

It had to be someone else, anyone one else. It had to be a mistake. Yet, the gnawing fear refused to be ignored, whispering insidiously at the back of your mind.

You tried to pull at the chains again, panic rising, but it was no use.

You looked back at Helmut, finding his gaze once again. In that moment, you saw the same fear reflected in his eyes, tempered only by the fierce resoluteness that both reassured and terrified you. He was trying to figure out a way out, already analyzing—but you both knew there was more to this.

He didn’t just fear for what would happen, but how it would unravel. He had already begun putting together every single piece, and as he progressed, he dreaded the resolution.

You quickly turned away, the weight of it all too much to bear.

Madame Hydra’s voice sliced through the silence again, pulling your attention back to her.

“The Chthon will soon take its host, and when it does, there will be nothing stopping us,” she declared, her tone final, as if the outcome was already written.

John Walker’s sneer deepened, his gaze locking onto each one of you with twisted satisfaction.

“Any guesses on who the lucky one might be?” he asked, his voice mocking, dripping with the same poison that had haunted you since your last encounter.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His words settled in your chest like a lead weight, heavy and suffocating.

You glanced at Helmut one more time, each of you asking for a mighty force to stop this.

“No guesses?” Crimson Cowl chimed in. She stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. "You don’t know, or you just don’t want to tell us?"

You tried to keep your composure, but the uneasiness rising inside you was hard to contain.

Just as Madame Hydra raised her hand to silence the room, her eyes gleaming with triumph, she looked directly at you.

“Neither Chthon nor us need any of you to say it,” she said, her voice dripping with menace. “We can figure it out ourselves.”

Madame Hydra’s smile twisted with satisfaction as she took the box from John Walker, her movements slow and deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for whatever revelation she was about to unveil. Your heartbeat quickened, you didn’t know what you had to expect anymore.

With a flick of her wrist, she revealed the object inside the box: a single, fragile page, so ancient it looked like it might crumble under her touch. Its edges were worn and frayed, and yet, the dark energy radiating from it was undeniable. You felt it in the pit of your stomach, that same sensation you’d felt before—the suffocating darkness creeping closer, whispering promises you didn’t want to hear.

The nightmare, the vision of the mount...The old, cursed page you had been forced to shove into a baby’s mouth—it was almost the same page. And, now it was here, in the hands of Madame Hydra.

The room seemed to pulse with the energy that surrounded the page, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background.

That was the artifact.

Beside you, Sam’s sharp intake of breath broke the silence, “No way...” His voice was laced with disbelief.

He turned to you, but it wasn’t just confusion in his gaze—it was recognition. He knew what this was.

“The Darkhold…” Sam’s voice was tight, as though the name itself was poison on his tongue. “I thought every trace of that book was destroyed, burned to ashes.”

It couldn’t be, how you didn’t recognize it as well?

Wanda and Strange had told you that the Darkhold had been annihilated, that its pages had been lost forever after Wanda’s confrontation with its corruption. And yet, here it was—one piece of it, still intact.

Still seething with dark power.

“How…?” Sam started, but his voice faltered. You could feel the tension rise between all of you. Bucky’s expression hardened, his eyes darting between Madame Hydra and the cursed page, a thousand questions swirling behind his eyes, but no answers.

Madame Hydra smiled, savoring the look of realization dawning over your faces.

“Wanda burned the physical Darkhold,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. “But they were not thorough enough. The power of the Darkhold runs deeper than the book itself. It can never truly be destroyed. This page was hidden—safe from her reach.”

Helmut shifted next to you, his body tense as he stared at the page. He didn’t have the same history with the Darkhold, but he knew enough about dark magic to understand the danger you all were in.

You could see it in his eyes—the helplessness. It was rare to see him without a plan. Yet, there was he, along with all of you.

Madame Hydra raised the page, and with a subtle flick of her wrist, a small blade appeared in her hand, gleaming dangerously under the torchlight, shaped with shadows. No doubt, another gift from Chthon.

Without hesitation, she stepped toward Helmut first.

“Each of you will play your part in this,” she purred, “After all, Chthon requires strength.”

Before Helmut could react, she slashed the blade across his forearm, drawing blood that dripped onto the page. His body tensed in response, a sharp intake of breath following the cut. His eyes remained locked on hers, filled with disgust, but he said nothing.

What would he have to say? In any case, he would only make the situation worse for the rest of you.

Next was Sam. You could see the way his muscles stiffened, but his gaze never wavered. Madame Hydra smiled darkly as she made the same cut on his arm, drawing more blood onto the cursed page. Sam winced, but he stood his ground, glaring at her with every bit of defiance he had left.

Bucky followed. His expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough to know the anger simmering beneath the surface. The cut was swift, blood pooling as Madame Hydra moved quickly.

Finally, she turned to you.

Your heart pounded, your throat dry as she approached, the blade glinting in the low light. The moment it sliced across your skin, a sharp pain shot up your arm, and a small stream of blood welled at the cut, trickling down onto the cursed page in Madame Hydra’s hand

“I don’t know if you would be able to give him any strength, but it’s worth a try.” Her expression was one of triumph, but you didn’t let her savor it.

Without hesitation, and before you could second-guess yourself, you spat directly into her face.

Her eyes widened in shock, the satisfaction on her face faltering for the briefest moment. You saw the anger flare beneath her composed as she wiped your spit off her cheek with a slow, deliberate motion.

In the background, you could hear a faint laugh coming from Sam and Helmut muttering your name—you could tell he would have censored you if you weren’t in the positions you were in.

But Madame didn’t retaliate—not immediately. Instead, she smiled, her lips curling into a cruel, knowing smirk.

"You’ll regret that," she whispered, her voice dripping with menace.

As soon as your last drop of blood hit the page, everything shifted.

A searing pain exploded in your head, white-hot and unbearable. The voice that had been haunting you since the hallway returned, but now it wasn’t just a whisper. It was a deafening roar, echoing in your mind, demanding your attention. You squeezed your eyes shut, the pressure behind your temples building with every beat of your heart.

The chant pounded in your skull, like an ancient, malevolent force wrapping itself tighter around your mind, constricting you, suffocating you. Your breathing quickened, and the world around you seemed to blur.

“It’s time,” the voice hissed, each word reverberating through your bones, “You’re ready, my sweet child, you always have been.”

You tried to push the voice out, tried to cling to the here and now, to your friends, to the memory of their voices. But it was no use. The pull of the voice was overwhelming, drawing you deeper and deeper into its darkness.

Around you, your friends struggled in their chains, feeling a similar pain striking their minds. Helmut’s face twisted with discomfort, his usually sharp eyes dulled with pain. Sam grit his teeth, muscles straining as he tried to fight the burning agony coursing through him. Even Bucky, with all his hardened boldness, looked strained, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

But it wasn’t the same for them.

They didn’t hear the voice. They didn’t feel this dark, consuming force tearing you from the inside.

The weight pressing down on you was different. More sinister. More intimate. It wasn’t just pain—it was an invitation, a call to surrender, to give in to something far worse than death.

The voice whispered again, growing louder, more insistent.

Let me in. You don’t need to fight anymore. Let me take care of everything…

Like a chant.

You shook your head, trying desperately to clear the fog in your mind more than ever, but the pressure only built, the darkness creeping in deeper and deeper in you.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” it whispered sweetly.

Panic surged through you as you fought against the chains, your heart racing. You weren’t just fighting for yourself now—you were fighting for them. For Sam, for Bucky, for Helmut.

"You will," you whispered, struggling to spit the words out, "hurt them."

If you gave in... It wouldn’t only be your downfall. It would be theirs too.

Madame Hydra’s eyes flickered with interest, her focus shifting to you entirely now. The smirk never left her face, but there was a gleam in her eyes, as if she were waiting for you to break. Behind her, John Walker took a step closer, his posture stiff, clearly curious about your struggle.

Bucky strained against his chains, his eyes locked on you, concern clouding his expression. He couldn’t hear the voice—none of them could—but they could see you were fighting something far different from the pain that erupted their nerves.

“Listen to me,” Bucky growled through gritted teeth, desperation lacing his voice as he saw the fear etched on your face, "Fight it."

Helmut’s eyes, always so sharp, darted between you and Madame Hydra. He was finishing the puzzle, trying to make sense of the ritual, of the power now coursing through you.

Praying that his first conclusions were wrong, it was only a mistake in his equation. However, more he thought about it, more despair consumed every fiber of his being.

"What are you doing to her?" he shouted, his voice no longer contained. He wasn’t one to show fear, not so often.

Yet you could hear it now, hinted at in the words coming out of his mouth, beneath the surface.

Madame Hydra’s smile became wider, ignoring the baron’s question. She was too entertain watching the internal war you waged.

She seemed to relish the sight of you teetering on the edge of surrender.

"It’s her," Sam said through a pained breath, his voice rough. He was straining against his restraints, his muscles taut, "the vessel. That thing wants her."

Helmut cursed in his native language, you didn’t know what it meant. But, it was clear that it was an insult to the odds.

The one thing he didn’t want to happen was concretizing in front of his own eyes. He had predicted, he had concluded it long before their blood was drawn—but, he didn’t believe it.

He didn’t want to believe it.

Your head throbbed, and the symbols on the walls pulsed faster. The voice, now louder than ever, returned with a sickeningly soothing tone, wrapping itself around you like a serpent.

“They don’t understand, do they?” He hissed, “The voices, the overwhelming energy that asks you to let it all out… But I do, I’ve always understood you.”

"You’ll hurt them," you repeated, but this time your voice wavered, louder than before.

“Hurt them?” The demon purred, twisting its tone into something almost affectionate, “No, no, my sweet child. I’ll protect them. I’ll protect you, how I have always been. If you let me in, I can make sure no one ever hurts them—or you—again, no more.”

Your breath hitched, the words wrapping tighter around your resolve. You could feel yourself slipping, the darkness tugging at you with promises that were too tempting, too reassuring.

“All your regrets, pain, sadness… Let me carry it for you,” he asked of you, you could almost feel your hand being held, “You’ve carried it long enough. You don’t need to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of everything.”

The symbols on the walls flared, casting the room in a sickly glow. Your vision blurred, the edges of reality softening as the voice grew louder.

You glanced at your friends—Sam, Bucky, Helmut—all of them trapped, helpless, and in pain. He was right, wasn’t he?

If you gave in, if you let go... Maybe you could save them. Perhaps, it could let you have some control, you could simply not let the Master’s wish be granted.

Yet…

"I can’t...," you murmured, tears welling in your eyes. The struggle was tearing you apart, and the voice only grew louder, more insistent, it was like two sides of you played tug.

“You can, you must,” He whispered next to your ear, you could feel his fingers caressing your cheeks, “I’ll take care of them, just let me in.”

You felt your resolve weakening, your grip on reality slipping. The world around you spun, the voices of your friends muffled beneath the pounding in your skull. You had to hold on... But, for how long? Your mind was already starting to creak after every word the demon directed to you.

You felt your resolve weakening, your grip on reality slipping further as the voice pressed harder, whispering promises of salvation. But behind those promises, there was something sinister, dark.

Every beat of your heart seemed to align with the ancient pulse of the symbols on the walls, their glow sickening and oppressive, as if the temple itself were alive and feeding off your fear.

Helmut’s voice cut through the haze, sharper than before.

“Whatever you’re doing to her, stop it.” He was trying to stay calm, but you could hear the fear take care of him, even as he tried to mask it with his usual cold rationality.

Madame Hydra’s smirk deepened as she glanced at Helmut.

“Stop it? Why would we stop it when we’re so close?”

Helmut’s jaw clenched.

He tugged at his restraints, trying to pull free, but the chains held firm. Bucky, though weakened, struggled beside him, his eyes flicking between you and the energy that dripped from your skin and surrounded you—your typical black and white energy, but followed with a red crimson color that devoured every shadow and light present in your power.

You could feel his desperation, the tension in the air thickening with every passing second. Suddenly, your mind stopped for a second as you realized: you weren’t only feeling but sensing.

Sensing every particle of oxygen, muscle that strained and breath taken…

Your powers, you could feel it slowly coming back to you, heavier than before.

"Don’t let it take you," Bucky rasped, his voice strained as if he were fighting not just the physical pain but the fear of losing you. "You’ve fought harder than this before, you can fight it now."

Could you?

The voice—Chthon—was relentless, filling every corner of your mind, pushing out the thoughts and memories of your friends, replacing them with its insidious whispers.

It promised safety, relief from the burden you carried. And you were so tired of fighting, so exhausted from the constant strain.

“I’ll take care of everything,” You felt his eyes boring at your skull, “There will be nothing in the world for you to worry about. It’s time.”

Your vision blurred, the flickering light of the temple growing dimmer as the darkness crept closer. The weight of your friends' eyes on you felt like a distant memory.

Helmut's analytical stare, Sam's quiet resilience, Bucky's fiery resolve—all of it faded beneath the overwhelming presence of the ancient being pressing more and more over you.

Madame Hydra stepped forward again, holding the cursed page aloft, the symbols on the walls glowing brighter in response, a blood red color lighting every corner.

“This is it,” she declared, her voice filled with triumph, “The vessel is ready.”

With that, the chanting in the room grew louder, echoing in your mind until it was all you could hear. It blended with Chthon's whispers, a cacophony of darkness that consumed every thought. Your knees buckled, the pain in your head spiking as the ritual reached its climax.

Helmut strained against his bonds once more, desperation bleeding into his features.

“Don’t give in to him!” he shouted, his voice raw with emotion. You could feel the weight of his fear—the same fear that had flickered in his eyes hours ago—or yesterday?

He had pieced it together longer ago, you knew that.

Deep down, he always knew. The fear in his voice was similar to the concern that laced his words when you talked about the hallway, what happened there.

He only wanted to believe it was wrong, as you. Because, deep down, you also knew.

Your body felt heavy, your thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. The voice continued, insistent, persuasive—repeating the same words like a mantra.

The weight of the world pressed down on you one more time, suffocating you until there was no more air to fill your lungs. You blinked, and your vision swam as you felt water replace every single fiber present in your body.

The pain was unbearable, your mind truly being torn apart. Before you could open your mouth to scream, everything went black.

When you opened your eyes again, the temple was gone. The pain in your wrists and feet was gone, there were no more chains. However, as you looked around, you also noticed you weren’t surrounded by your friends.

You were... Somewhere else.

The ground beneath you was black and cracked, as if it had been scorched by fire. The sky above was an unnatural red, swirling with dark clouds that churned with a malevolent energy.

It brought you back to your nightmares, the mount… Now, as you gaze at the scenario where you were in, you remembered why that place felt so familiar.

You remembered everything that had happened in your sleep, detail by detail.

And there, standing before you, was him.

He wasn’t just a voice anymore. He had a form—a tall, imposing figure, draped in tattered, blackened robes that seemed to billow in a wind you couldn’t feel. His skin was ashen, and his eyes... They glowed a deep, burning red, like embers of a dying fire. His face was sharp, almost skeletal, and his mouth twisted into a warm smile.

His presence was overwhelmingly calm. He exuded power—ancient, terrifying power—and, yet, it sent you some comfort.

As he took a step toward you, the ground beneath his feet cracked and split.

“You’ve done well,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper but a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through your very soul, “I’m happy to finally see you fully, you don’t imagine my relief now that you finally understand.”

You stepped back instinctively, but there was nowhere to run. The ground stretched endlessly in every direction, a wasteland of darkness and ruin.

Anyway, Chthon's smile didn’t falter, watching your struggle with an almost fatherly affection.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he said softly, “Our encounter was a future that neither of us could ever avoid, even if we tried. From the moment you were born, when you first touched your power, it was only a matter of time.”

All along, you had been resisting, fighting against something that had always been a part of you. And now, standing face to face with this ancient being, you could feel a connection that had always been there, always out of reach.

But now you were able to grasp it.

His gaze softened, his voice dropping to a near-whisper again when you stepped closer instead of afar.

"You must have so many questions,” he retorted his head, measuring you from your head to your toes, “Come on, sit with me, let’s talk, huh?”

With a move of his hand, the breeze guided the dust through the air and solidified into a bench, as the ones you would see in a park while you were running.

Silently, with the same smile upon his lips, he sat in a spot.

You sat by his side, feeling an unexpected warmth flood over you. Chthon’s words lingered in the air like a soft, comforting breeze. After so many years of feeling like an outsider, drifting from place to place, you were finally hearing something that made you feel…

Grounded. Truly grounded.

“Why me?” your voice was nothing but a whisper.

Chthon watched you with those unnervingly soft eyes, his voice gentle as he spoke.

"You were the result of something beautiful," he said, his eyes glinting as if remembering something precious, "Your mother, she was magic itself—more than you know. I had to pretend at first, to hide my true nature. But once she found out, she understood. She accepted my love."

Your heart tightened. Magic. A word that always has a place in the core of your heart and, at the same time, was so far away from you.

What your parents had was true and pure magic, not you, what you had was some type of protection protocol.

Yet here he was, speaking as if that same magic was part of your very existence. Even if he was talking about your mother, not about you.

"And," His voice dropped, barely a whisper. "You are the living proof of that love."

Nevermind.

Your breath hitched as you tried to process what he had just said.

You had always felt different, always wondered if there was more to your story than what you’d been told—when your powers first appeared, you questioned everything about your life. And now, here was Chthon, telling you that the people who raised you weren’t your real parents.

He didn't tell you that with these words, but it was what they meant.

Your real parents—your true parents—were part of something more ancient, powerful, magical.

And he, this creature before you, was your biological father.

The realization made your head spin. For a fleeting moment, as crazy as it could sound, you felt a strange sense of relief.

You weren’t just some abandoned soul, wandering through life aimlessly. There was a reason you felt so out of place growing up, why your connection to the world felt tenuous.

Perhaps, those who raised you knew something. Maybe they weren’t just your caretakers but had been watching you, guiding you because of what you could become.

Chthon noticed the shift in your expression and sat closer to you, his presence surprisingly comforting.

"I’ve always been there," he said softly. "Watching, protecting you. Your powers, your connection to the world—it’s part of who you are. Part of who we are. And now, finally, we can be together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel so alone. You weren’t the outlier, the strange one always standing at the edge.

You belonged somewhere, had a place in something larger than yourself. Your heart softened.

Maybe this was what you had been missing all along—a connection to something deeper, to a history you never knew existed.

But as those thoughts settled, there was a subtle change in the air. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but you felt it—a shift in Chthon’s energy, like a shadow creeping in at the edges. His tone remained soft, his gaze still tender, but something lingered beneath it all.

“You see, my sweet child," Chthon continued, his voice still filled with warmth. "When you were born, you inherited an equal amount of my magic—chaos itself. But your mother’s sister was terrified. She knew what you were capable of, even as a newborn. She feared that such immense power in the hands of a fragile human child could unravel the world."

He paused, watching your reaction closely. "So, she locked a portion of your magic away, hiding it deep within you. She thought she was protecting the world, but in truth… She only limited what you could become. The power left in you was just enough for me to ensure your safety, to watch over you. But the rest, it’s been waiting—buried, dormant—until now."

You stared at him, feeling a knot form in your chest.

"What... What are you saying?" you finally broke your silence, your voice shaking slightly. "She knew? They knew? My powers—they kept them hidden from me?"

Who you thought were your parents, in truth, were only two people afraid of you? Who only was there in case you suddenly lose control?

Chthon nodded slowly, as if every word he spoke was peeling back layers of a truth you were only beginning to grasp.

"Yes," he said, "They kept you in the dark. Those who raised you weren’t just your caretakers—they were put in place to guard you, to keep you from unlocking your full potential. They feared you."

A lump rose in your throat as you processed his words. You had always sensed something was off, but you had never imagined it was this. All the years of feeling like you didn’t quite belong, the way your family always seemed to watch you with cautious eyes... It all made sense now.

They weren’t protecting you—they were containing you. Holding you back from something becoming something far bigger.

Chthon leaned closer, his hand hovering near yours, as if offering comfort, "But now, my child, you don’t need to be afraid of that power. I’m here to help you unlock it, with my guidance, you can be whole again. You can become what you were always meant to be."

His words should have been reassuring, but the darkness lurking beneath his gentle tone unsettled you. You wanted to believe him—wanted to accept the idea that your true father had come to you out of love and care. But the shift in his presence kept you on edge.

"But why?" you asked, your voice trembling, "Why did they hide it? Why did they keep me from knowing the truth?"

Chthon smiled, though there was a hardness behind it now, "Because they were afraid. Afraid of what you could become with that power. Afraid of what we could become together."

A chill settled over you as his words sank in.

There it was again—that subtle shift. The way he spoke about power, about becoming whole…

Here was someone claiming to be your true father, someone who saw you not as an intruder but as something special—magical.

But still, a part of you resisted. The part that had spent years yearning for a quiet, normal life, away from the storms of power and chaos.

You swallowed, your voice barely steady.

“Why now? Why reveal this to me after all this time?”

Chthon’s eyes softened one more time, his hand resting just a breath away from yours.

“Because it is time, my child. Time for you to know where you truly come from. I’ve watched over you, even as you were raised by those who weren’t meant to keep an eye on you.” He paused, a faint glint of something unreadable in his gaze, “I never meant for you to feel abandoned,” Chthon continued, his voice rich with emotion.

“I’ve waited for this moment, for you to come for me on your own,” he said, his voice still warm, but there was an edge now, a subtle shift. “With my guidance, you will unlock the power inside you, the power that was hidden from you for so long. You will be whole again, and we will be unstoppable.”

You frowned slightly, a flicker of unease stirring in your chest.

“Unstoppable?” you repeated, the word hanging between you.

Chthon leaned back, his gaze becoming more intense, more focused.

“Yes. The power we share is unmatched. With you by my side, we will reclaim what was taken from me.”

Your breath hitched, “Taken?”

His smile remained, but there was a coldness behind it now, a glint of danger.

“Yes, my child. Long before you were born, I ruled over magic, over life and death itself. The forces that govern this world… They belong to me,” Chthon’s eyes glinted as he spoke, his tone no longer veiled in warmth but radiating an undercurrent of hunger. “The very breath of existence, every heartbeat, every flicker of life—it was mine to command.”

His voice grew heavier, darker, “But I was cast out, my throne stolen by those who feared my power, those who thought they could contain the chaos I created.”

It felt like someone was carving its way out of your flesh as his words sank in.

The warmth that had once surrounded his voice was slowly freezing cold. You wanted to pull away, to ask no more questions, but you were frozen in place, caught between the comfort of the family you had always longed for and the creeping dread that was beginning to take hold.

“I’ve used Ophelia—Madame Hydra,” Chthon continued, as if he didn’t notice the tension brewing in your stomach. “She and her crew have been useful, but they are nothing more than tools to help me crawl my way back to Earth. They think they are working for their own gain, but they are part of a far greater plan. With the artifact, and with you by my side, I will reclaim my dominion. All life, all death, all magic—it will be under my control again.”

Your heart raced, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he was saying. This wasn’t about reuniting, about finding family or love. This was about power…

About control.

You could feel the tendrils of his influence tightening around you, his words drawing you deeper into his web.

“You lied,” you stammered, the words barely forming in your throat. “You said you wouldn’t hurt anyone, neither my friends, that there would be nothing in the world you would possibly do to worry me about.”

Chthon’s smile widened, but it no longer held any warmth. His eyes gleamed with a darkness that made your skin crawl.

“I didn’t lie, child,” his voice carried an eerie sense of certainty, “There will be nothing for you to worry about because there will be no world left for you to concern yourself with. When I reclaim my throne, this world will be reshaped, and you will be somewhere safe where I can watch over you, where no harm will ever touch you and there will be nothing for you to see. Nothing but yourself and I.”

His words chilled you to the bone. He wasn’t offering protection.

He was offering imprisonment—a gilded cage where you could only watch as he wielded his power over the world, as he took back what he believed was his. Through you.

Every promise he made was a twisted version of the truth, distorted to fit his plans.

“I won’t help you,” you said, your voice trembling, but defiant. “I won’t let you bend the world to your knees. Those who hold power should reach a hand down to those in need, not destroy them.”

Chthon’s gaze darkened, the gentleness evaporating completely, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity. His lips curled into a sneer, his earlier warmth now a distant memory.

The air around you felt heavy as his true nature revealed itself fully.

“To reach a hand down to somebody,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt, “they must first be beneath you.”

Each syllable hit like ice piercing through your defenses. He leaned closer, his presence oppressive, his gaze fixed on yours with an unsettling intensity.

“And that, my child, is where they belong. Beneath us. Beneath me.”

You could feel the full weight of his ambition now, the depths of his hunger for control. It wasn’t just about reclaiming power—it was about subjugation, dominance over every living being. There was no compassion in him, no desire to help or heal.

Only the need to rule.

“Those who are weak,” he continued, his voice low and filled with venom, “were never meant to wield power. They exist to be controlled, to be shaped by those who understand the true nature of this world. And you… You will help me make sure they remember their place.”

Your heart raced, your mind screaming at you to run, to escape, but you were stuck in that bench, trapped by the horrifying realization unfolded in front of your eyes.

That wasn't a loving father. He was a monster, one who would do anything to claim the world as his own, and he wanted to use you as a means to an end.

“I will never help you,” you whispered, the fear in your voice barely masking the insistent defiance building inside you.

Chthon’s smile didn’t waver, but something about it shifted—just slightly. He leaned back, his eyes studying you with unsettling patience, as if every move had already been predicted in the game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Oh, my dear,” he murmured, his tone in faux affection, “you think you have a choice…” His voice wrapped around you like a whisper carried on the wind, low and unhurried.

“... But you don’t.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was standing directly over you, his presence towering. For a moment, his gaze softened again, and he looked down at you with something almost resembling pity.

You tried to get up, but your muscles betrayed you. Your limbs were totally flimsy and flaccid, showing no sign of understanding the commands your brain shouted to them.

His hand hovered near your face, just out of reach, as if waiting for you to accept what was coming.

If you could, you would have screamed. Damn not showing desperation, you were in despair.

Then, without warning, his fingers gently brushed against your chin, tilting your face up toward him. The touch wasn’t harsh—it was almost careful, like one might handle something fragile.

But the power behind it, the control, was unmistakable. He was the one pulling your muscles down.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, but the words felt hollow now, “I need you intact.”

His hand tightened, ever so slightly, and you felt your mouth part involuntarily under the pressure. Something dark stirred in the pit of your stomach, the creeping sense that whatever was coming next would definitely hurt.

And, when you least expected it, you felt it.

A heat, low and simmering, began to build inside you. It started as a flicker, a sensation deep in your chest, but it quickly grew, spreading up your throat. You gasped, the sensation burning, as if something inside you was clawing its way out.

Chthon’s eyes gleamed, his grip on your chin tightening as he held you in place, forcing you to stay still. His thumb pressed into your skin, and you felt the pull, the draining of your power, slow and deliberate, slipping away from your core and toward him.

Your vision blurred for a moment as the pressure built, and then it started—something thick and hot, almost like blood, began to rise in your throat, burning as it made its way up. You coughed, choking as the rough energy forced itself off your mouth, spilling out like molten fire.

Blood began to trickle from the corners of your lips.

Everything hurt—your chest, your throat, even your eyes. You felt as though you were unraveling from the inside, every ounce of strength being pulled from you. 

Chthon’s gaze never fluttered, his red eyes glowing with satisfaction as he absorbed your powers, your energy… Your magic. It was no longer yours—it was his, and he was consuming it, draining you of everything. You watched your now crimson red energy carve its way out of your mouth, drawing you blood and flowing its way to be swallowed up by Chthon. Drop by drop.

Your power, your spirit—every piece of you stolen, slipping into him.

Your heart pondered, fast. It felt as though your heart was about to give out at any moment, pounding so violently in your chest that you were sure it would burst. Your mind ran as a lunatic, trying to pull something together amidst the agony, but all it could bring for your comfort was memories.

Fragments of your life, your past. A last thing that was yet yours, so you could hold on to it firmly before it was also taken from you.

You saw the faces of those who raised you, their distant, watchful gazes.

Your parents, or who you thought was your parents, side by side with you as they held your hands. You were leaving a circus show, your face painted like a strange, cute clown as you laughed as you tried to tell them what you saw. Even though they had been there with you the whole time.

And, yet, they patiently listened to you. They indulged you to tell them more, asked questions, what had happened next…

Did they really not care about you? Minutes ago, you believed so, but as you remembered all the moments you spent together, how they always made sure you would feel special.

Not special to the world and those who didn’t know you yet, but for them. In that time, being special to them was enough for you.

And even now, it hadn’t changed.

Then there was Nick Fury, the man who took you under his wing, who saw something in you worth fighting for.

“You don’t see it yet,” he told you once, as you were in the car on the way to the S.H.I.E.L.D’s airship, where the people who could help you were, “But one day, you’ll blow us all away.”

The memory of meeting Tony and Steve clashed into your mind, in the same way Tony’s quick wit would clash with Steve’s unwavering resolve. Somehow, they made it work.

After a mission, when you and Tony sat down during a moment of shared exhaustion, he turned to your direction and looked at you in silence for a couple of minutes before saying:

“You’re tougher than you look, kid. Keep that up, and you’ll outlast us all.”

A shadow covered the sun that was helping you deal with your exhaustion. When you looked up, you found Steve looking down at you with a crooked smile, his quiet strength a stark contrast to Tony’s flamboyance.

“Don’t let the weight of the world crush you,” he had said, reaching a hand to help you get back up, “You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

And so, you did as he said. Or tried to, for a long time. At least, you weren’t alone.

Steve helped you every time you doubted yourself or felt like your world was falling apart.

Your mind jumped again to another unravel of memories. All the missions you worked together alongside the others, while your bunch became few and fewer, until there were only some of you. But, you continued to stand tall.

However the memory of Steve was fleeting, as much as his departure. Next thing your mind brought up were Sam and Bucky, their banter a familiar background noise during long nights of planning and strategy when they asked for your help against the Flag Smashers.

The way Sam would always try to lighten the mood, cracking jokes even when things were at their worst. Bucky, with his haunted eyes, had always been the one to remind you that surviving wasn’t the same as living—following his own advice for once. Now, all of this brought you some comfort, maybe you should have appreciated it better at the time.

One of the nights while you and Bucky were staying at Sam’s place, the three of you found yourselves on the rooftop of the Wilson family home.

The air was warm, with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of saltwater from the nearby bayou. You sat side by side, looking up at the night sky, the stars faintly visible against the deep blue, while the moon cast a soft glow over Delacroix below. It was one of those rare moments of peace, where the weight of everything you had been through seemed to lift, if only for a little while.

But despite the calm exterior, you could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. You had been too quiet, your thoughts swirling with everything that had happened, everything that would come next.

Perhaps your silence spoke louder than you intended, because after a while, Sam glanced at you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, pushing his lips into a thin line, his voice heavy once he said those words. “You were right, I had avoided you since what happened.”

Your eyes widened at his confession, your head snapping in his direction immediately.

Not quicker than Bucky’s, though, who had been staring at the ground, seemingly lost in his own thoughts until that moment. His gaze shifted to Sam, a mixture of confusion and understanding crossing his features.

Sam looked down, guilt etched into the lines of his face.

"Every time I looked at you," he swallowed dry, gathering some courage to look you in the eyes, "I saw the person who was still standing, who hadn’t given up, who hadn’t… Turned to dust."

It was you now who avoided his gaze, it still hurt to remember that you were one of the people who hadn’t turned to dust. You were five years older, while fifty percent of those who had turned to dust remained the same age as when they left. It was hard to explain the agony that infringed you when you thought about it.

Bucky remained silent, his jaw clenched tightly as he listened. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, as though he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze just yet. The struggle was evident in the tension of his body, the way his fists clenched and unclenched as he grappled with his own thoughts.

"You reminded me of him," Sam admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Steve, a lot actually. I… I think it was easier to avoid you than to face the guilt, to face what I lost. When I came back and was given another chance to fight against that bastard, I wished I could have done more. Yes, Steve gave me his shield but, at the time, it didn’t feel right."

You looked back at him, processing his words, you didn’t know what to say to him. You couldn’t say you didn’t understand him, because you did, a lot.

“And everytime I looked at you,” he continued, shaking his head, “It was like he was looking back at me, disappointed.”

Immediately, you found the words, “I could never be disappointed with you.”

“I know,” he sighed, a weak smile tugging his lips, “Now, I know.”

Your heart ached at his words. Sam had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, always tried to do what was right. But hearing him admit the truth, it made your anger and hurt soften, if only a little.

Bucky finally found his voice as well, though it was low and rough, strained with the words that were about to leave his mouth.

"I think that it was the same for me," he began. "I didn’t know how to face you after the Snap. In fact, I didn’t know how to face anyone."

Both you and Sam already knew that; you had subtly pointed it out while traveling through Europe. At the time, Bucky hadn’t responded—he’d either retorted or deflected with another question. It was clear the subject was a delicate one.

He finally looked up at you, his eyes filled with a sorrow that had been festering for too long.

"You were right to be mad. I pushed you away because you were... One of the names on my list, and I didn't know what would happen next if we talked about what happened."

You were about to ask what he was talking about when it hit you: he was referring to the time you had spent running, fighting, and barely surviving the chaos that H.Y.D.R.A. had unleashed.

It was during the events of Washington, D.C., when Bucky—no, the Winter Soldier—had almost killed you. The cold, relentless assassin with no memory of who he was, with nothing in his eyes but the mission, had nearly taken your life. Now, the man beside you didn’t know what to do about the trail of guilt that has been falling since the moment he had almost killed you.

Bucky’s voice trembled slightly as he continued, "I didn’t know how to talk to you about it, because I didn’t want to face the reality of what I almost did. You were innocent in all of it, you only were there because you wanted to help Steve. And I nearly killed you, as I had killed every innocent that crossed their way with me."

He paused, swallowing hard as if the admission had taken all the strength he had left.

“Before the Snap, Steve was there with us, which made it easy not to talk to you, but after everything…” Bucky didn’t need to explain, you already knew what he meant, "I’ve spent so long trying to make amends, to cross the names off that list, but with you… I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say, how to ask for forgiveness when even I can’t forgive myself."

Sam was silent beside you, Bucky’s words bleeding your hearts. It wasn’t just about the Snap, or the lives lost. It was about the scars that ran deep, the ones that Bucky had been trying to heal, even if it meant pushing away the people who mattered most to him.

You searched for the right words, something that could cut through the layers of guilt and pain that Bucky had carried for so long.

"James," you began, your voice soft but firm, "you weren’t yourself then, you aren’t the Winter Soldier now and never was, not the real you, James. What happened at that time, it wasn’t your fault. You were forced into that life, forced to become someone you never wanted to be."

Bucky shook his head, the anguish clear in his eyes.

"But it doesn’t change what I did. It doesn’t change the fact that I almost… That I almost killed you. And I couldn’t bear to face that. To face you, I still can’t."

You reached out, placing your hand gently over his, "You’re not that person anymore, as I said, you never were. You’ve fought so hard to meet again the man you were, or become a new version of you, to make things right. There is nothing else you need to carry with you, not the guilt, not the past."

“But if you do,” you brushed your hand next to his, “You must know you don’t have to carry any of this alone.”

His eyes met yours, filled with so much emotion—regret, guilt, but also a glimmer of hope.

"I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for what I did," he admitted, letting himself hold your hand. "But hearing you say that… It helps. It helps more than you know."

You squeezed his hand, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

"We all have things we need to forgive ourselves for. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. We’re here, together, and we’ll get through this,” you reached your hand for Sam as well, “One step at a time."

Sam finally spoke again, his voice gentle but resolute—holding your hand back, "Every step of the way."

Bucky looked at both of you, his expression softening as he let out a breath he’d been holding for far too long. The guilt, while still present, seemed to lift slightly, as if the burden he’d been carrying had become just a bit lighter.

The three of you sat there for a while longer, letting the night wrap around you. The silence was no longer heavy with unresolved tension, but with a sense of shared understanding, a step toward healing the wounds that had been left open for too long.

As the stars twinkled above and the cool breeze whispered through the trees, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. The road ahead would still be difficult, but for the first time in a long time, you knew you wouldn’t be walking alone.

Sam and Bucky were by your side, and together you were able to face anything the world threw at you.

Or you believed so. God, how you wished to go back to those days; thinking about it almost distracted you from the pain.

The reality of your situation was far from the peace of that night on the rooftop. The memory was like a distant echo, fading in and out as the present forced its way back into focus. The searing pain in your chest, the tightness in your throat, and the weight of Chthon’s power draining you from the inside out made it impossible to escape.

Blood continued to trickle from the corners of your lips as the crimson energy was being pulled from your body, each drop stolen by Chthon, consumed by his insatiable hunger for power. The warmth you’d felt with Sam and Bucky on that rooftop was nothing but a memory now, replaced by the cold, relentless grip of this ancient entity that sought to erase you entirely.

Your heart raced, pounding so violently that you feared it might give out at any second. The more you tried to cling to the memories of that night, to the comfort they once provided, the more they seemed to slip away, like sand through your fingers. You had been so sure that with Sam and Bucky by your side, you could face anything. But here, in this moment, with Chthon draining the very life out of you, that certainty was being ripped away just as surely as your strength.

As you slip further into the haze of Chthon’s power, your mind clawed for an anchor, a single thread to pull you back from the abyss. And in that swirling vortex of memories, a moment of clarity emerged—simple, something that had kept you tethered once before.

You remembered a night in Spain, years ago. You, Sam, Bucky, and Helmut were deep in the pursuit of the Masters of Evil.

The four of you had been worn out after a particularly long day, with little to show for your efforts but exhaustion and frustration. You had found a small village tucked away from the bustling cities, where the air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and the quiet was disorienting after so much chaos.

That night, there had been no great battles, no strategies or planning. Just the four of you sitting in silence under the stars.

Sam had been making light jokes, Bucky occasionally cracking a small smile at his words, while Helmut had sat a little apart, watching the night sky. And for the first time in what felt like forever, the world had felt still.

Peaceful.

In the meantime, you had found a bottle of wine in a dusted corner and turned to Helmut, asking if the bottle would be too miserable to his sophisticated taste. He chuckled at your words before accepting it, then all of you started to share the bottle of wine, passing it between you as the night wore on.

The exhaustion had become less of a burden in the next quiet hours. It had been a rare moment when neither of you had to be warriors or tacticians. You were just people, sitting together, sharing the same air, the same silence, and—dare you say—a sense of camaraderie that, for a fleeting moment, didn’t feel so fragile.

The memory of that night—of Helmut’s quiet smile, Sam’s laugh, and Bucky’s rare, fleeting grin—wrapped around you like a blanket, a thin layer of protection against the darkness closing in. The warmth of the fire, the soft crackle of the flames, and the way you all managed to carve out a moment of peace amidst the chaos… It all felt so distant now, yet it was keeping you tethered to reality.

"If you didn't want us to drink it, you should not have brought it out," Helmut’s teasing voice echoed in your mind, his smile wide and disarming in a way that usually caught you off guard.

You remembered rolling your eyes at him, trying to hide the small, unwilling smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Sincerely?” you had shot back, raising an eyebrow at him, “I thought your fear of looking as miserable as us unfortunate souls, drinking the poorest wine, would’ve stopped you.”

It wasn’t sincere. Of course, it wasn’t.

But it was easier to keep the conversation light, to pretend for a while that the looming threats of the world weren’t pressing in on all sides. That night, though brief, had felt almost normal—if normal was something any of you could still claim.

Now, as the cold weight of Chthon’s power dragged at you, draining your strength, the memory felt like a lifeline. But even as you clung to it, you could feel the edges of that warmth slipping away, replaced by the relentless pull of darkness.

The voice was back, whispering seductively in your mind, “It doesn’t have to hurt anymore. You don’t have to fight it. Let me take it all away…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting back the tears of frustration, pain, and fear. You weren’t ready to give in. Not yet.

Your mind, despite the overwhelming pain, drifted back to the hut and the warmth of the memory you shared with Helmut. The image of him in front of the fireplace, his face softened by the firelight, how his words brought a sense of heat to your heart. You could still feel the feeling of his arm wrapped around you, trying to keep you warm.

His quiet assurance that you weren’t alone, not then and not now. When you thought about it now, it brought some of that warmth back.

It had been such a fleeting moment of peace, one that seemed impossible to recapture here, in the middle of the nightmare. Either way, you clung to the memory as Chthon’s presence loomed over you, his voice pressing harder, trying to force you to surrender.

However, now, it wasn't freezing you into place, the ice covering your limbs melting away. No, there was no coldness, instead, you felt that same warmth as if the fireplace was just in front of you again.

The memory took your mind as its home, burying itself in the walls of your conscience. The reminder of your conversation with Helmut, the first one you had where the two of us opened up, no cards in your sleeves. The man who had once been your enemy, who had now risked so much to keep you safe. In the back of your mind, you regretted not saying the things you had wanted to tell him since that day in Wakanda. The words you had swallowed down for years.

All of that, someway—somehow—gave you strength.

With all your will, you tried to force your mind back to the moment in the hut, to the words that left your and Helmut's lips as you spoke to one another.

“You trust me,” you had said. It wasn’t a question. More of a disbelief.

It had almost felt like a challenge at the time. How could Helmut Zemo, of all people, trust you?

But Helmut’s expression softened, just enough for you to notice. His guarded nature dropped for a moment, revealing a side of him you hadn’t expected.

“I do,” he had said, his voice quieter than usual. “You made decisions even when your friends pointed out the risk, how untrusting it would be. Despite that, you did, time and time again.”

You had looked away then, unsure how to respond.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” you had murmured, shame settling in, “I was the first to get exposed by John and the others. He instantly noticed me, and that’s why the whole fight started.”

“But he hadn't attacked you yet until I fired at him,” Helmut had pointed out, “Is that why you’ve been self-reproaching since I found you? If that’s so, I’m more guilty than you are, as Sam, as James…”

The guilt you had carried for so long. It had weighed you down, gnawed at your confidence. You always told your friends to not carry bad feelings alone, to share it. If it was to carry something alone, it should be good memories—and yet, those also have been shared with those who were there.

In that moment, hearing Helmut take part of the burden, it was when you finally realized: why were you carrying burdens that deep down, you knew weren't yours?

Sometimes, everything that went wrong felt like it was your fault, your burden to carry alone. But, was it? Everything that didn't go as planned, was because of a mistake you had made?

“I still don’t understand why you saved me,” you had whispered, the confession slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Or before you could say everything that crossed your mind.

Helmut’s eyes had flickered—vulnerability, maybe?

“Because leaving you behind wasn’t an option,” he had said, his voice steady, resolute.

As if that was the only possible answer. It sounded so simple, so easy, when the words slipped from his tongue.

The warmth of that day, the quiet understanding between the two of you, felt so far away now, as Chthon’s darkness clawed at your mind.

The moment in the hut had happened today? Yesterday? How long has it been since you were under that same blanket, gazing at each other’s eyes?

You didn’t know, the only thing certain was that memory. The more you re-lived it in, the more it kept you holding on, preventing you from falling into the abyss.

Back in that hut, you had seen something in Helmut’s eyes, something that was mirrored in your own. A shared pain, a shared understanding that you both carried the side effects of your choices, the consequences of your actions.

But, in that moment, neither of you was truly alone.

“You’re not so bad, Helmut,” you had said, the words soft once they leave you, giving you no time to mask them.

And he had heard you, his lips curved into a faint smile.

“And you, mein schatz, are far more trouble than you’re worth,” he had teased, though his words lacked the usual bite.

The memory of his smile, of his words, echoed in your mind like a siren chant, a distant beacon guiding you through the storm of Chthon’s power. Instead of leading you to drown in the bottom of the ocean, it guided you out of it.

However, your mind wasn't done apparently. Suddenly, it went back to Wakanda.

The day you had freed him, the silence between you, the unspoken words that lingered in the air. You had wanted to say something—anything really, but fear had kept you quiet. Now, with your life slipping away, you regretted not telling him right away what you wished to.

But that doesn't mean you didn't say what you wish you had said in the end.

You had waited for a moment, when neither Sam or Bucky were present. When you two were alone and your courage wasn’t lacking.

“Helmut,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he could hear you. “I should have said this sooner, back in Wakanda, but…”

Chthon’s power sank into your veins, corrupting them with his voidness, but you forced the words out, your voice trembling with the effort.

“I’m happy that you’re back in the team.”

Helmut’s eyes met yours, his expression softening ever so slightly. He didn't need to say anything in response—his presence, his quiet contentment, they were enough.

There had always been a strange bond between the two of you, for the best or worst. Every time you recalled another single detail of your story from the day you met until now, it lit a small fire in the bottom of your heart.

As that fire grew, your strength was enough to hold on and take a breath.

Chthon’s presence loomed heavy in the back of your mind, his power suffocating, pressing down on every thought, every breath. You could feel him reaching deeper, twisting through the tendrils of your consciousness, seeking to consume you entirely. However, the way you clung your memories to your chest was stronger—you wouldn't let him take them from you.

As it seems, you had something he hadn’t counted on.

A reminder that every bad thing you carried with you was a lie. Big lies that your lack of courage often told yourself.

The memories of those who had stood by your side—Sam, Bucky, Helmut—were like a thread, tethering you to reality, to who you were. And the more you clung to those moments, the more you pushed back against Chthon’s control.

“You were wrong,” you whispered, the words barely audible but filled with defiance, “I do have a choice.”

Chthon’s eyes narrowed down your figure, the fire in them never going out.

“You already belong to me,” he murmured, his tone dripping with cold certainty. “Your power is mine, your body is mine, even your soul. There is nothing you could do to prevent any of that.”

But he was wrong: something had changed.

The bond between you and Helmut, the warmth of those memories—it had sparked something deep inside you, something Chthon couldn’t touch. You felt it stir, a flame reigniting after being nearly snuffed out.

And with it, your strength was renewed, enough to do more than waiting.

The energy that had been slipping away from you—your magic, your essence—it wasn’t gone. It was still there, waiting, ready to be reclaimed.

You just needed to reach out, hold into it and grasp really tight.

Chthon’s grip tightened as he leaned in, sensing your resistance. His red eyes flared with annoyance, the satisfaction from moments ago now replaced by a seething determination to finish what he had started. The draining pull of your power was relentless, your crimson energy still being siphoned away, but now something in you had awakened.

Something he hadn’t anticipated.

Your memories, those fragments of warmth began to take root, spreading through your mind like a lifeline. They were more than just fleeting moments.

Sam’s laughter, Bucky’s steady resolve, Helmut’s quiet eyes… 

They were the bonds that anchored you, pulling you back from the brink of oblivion.

Chthon sneered, sensing the shift.

“Memories won’t save you,” he hissed, his voice slithering through your thoughts. “You’re mine now, in every way that matters.”

But you weren’t just clinging to the memories—you were drawing strength from them. Helmut’s unwavering trust, the battles you had faced together, the moments of connection you had never fully appreciated until now.

They weren’t just memories; they were reminders of who you were. Of what you had fought for.

The red energy escaping from you began to slowly retreat, as though something inside you was pushing back, refusing to yield. You felt the familiar stir of your magic deep within, not yet gone, not yet lost.

It was yours, and you could feel it responding to your will.

“You are wrong,” you whispered, your voice stronger this time, the defiance growing.

Chthon’s grip on your chin tightened further, his thumb digging into your skin as if he could physically force the rest of your power out of you. The heat in your throat flared again, and more crimson energy surged upward, but this time, you reached out—deep within yourself—grasping for the core of the source.

And you found it.

The flame inside you became a conflagration. It wasn’t just your magic.

But your essence, your spirit, the part of you that had always fought back, even when the odds were impossible. The one who was constantly up to a challenge.

And now, that fire flared to life with a fierce determination, fueled by the memories of those who had stood by your side.

Tony’s remarks about everything, Fury’s belief of great potential in every person who crossed paths with him, Steve’s heart…

Helmut’s voice echoed in your mind, a memory from the fire lighting both your faces. His trust in you, the way he had opened up in ways he rarely did with anyone—that wasn’t just a memory.

But that thread that led you to him and him to you—which tethered you to the present and kept you from giving up to the darkness.

“You made decisions even when your friends pointed out the risk…” His voice was clear, unwavering. “You did, time and time again.”

The crimson energy that had been slipping away from you now pulsed with a new rhythm, one that wasn’t dictated by Chthon. It was yours, and as you grasped hold of it, you felt the power surge back into your body.

Inch by inch, drop by drop—you pulled your magic away from Chthon’s consuming presence. The black and white energy that had always been yours now shimmered with a new hue—red, not like the blood on your lips or the ominous sky above you, but more alive.

The color of life itself, raw and unbridled. Chaotic.

Chthon’s sneer turned to a scowl, his eyes narrowing as he realized what was happening.

“You can’t stop this,” he growled, his voice growing more desperate. “I control you. I am everything you are.”

“No, you are not,” you hissed, your voice stronger than ever, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your eyes burned, not with pain, but with the untamed energy surging inside you. The fire in your chest wasn’t a burden—it was liberation. It didn’t consume you; it empowered you, filling every bone, every nerve, with magic that felt like it had always belonged there.

You waited for the hundreds of voices trying to warn you, as they usually would do. But you were met with silence.

Despite that, there was no lack of will to fight. You didn't need instructions, you knew exactly what you should do.

Chthon’s sneer faltered, but you pressed on, your voice growing louder, fiercer.

“You think chaos is destruction—or to be feared. Chaos isn’t a weapon. It’s life itself. It’s the force that brings us into this world, the energy that flows through every living thing.”

The red energy pulsed brighter around you, illuminating the mount, and you could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes as he realized he was unable to pull the magic from you.

You weren’t just speaking to him—you were claiming the very power he had tried to take from you.

“And now,” you said, your voice steady, calm, “That chaos belongs to me.”

Chthon’s eyes flared in anger, but there was a flicker of fear as well. He hadn’t expected this turn of events.

He hadn’t expected you to fight back, to reclaim what he thought was already his.

With a final surge of strength, you pulled the last of your magic back to you. The red energy that had once been drawn from you now burned brightly in your hands, no longer a symbol of your defeat, but your victory.

Chthon recoiled, his grip on your chin loosening as he stepped back, his eyes wide with fury and disbelief.

“You can’t escape me,” he spat, his voice filled with venom. “I’m already within you, in your mind and soul. I will always be here.”

However, you wouldn't need to escape him to defeat him.

You knew that he was already inside you, intertwined with your essence. There was no way to banish him.

Yet, that didn’t mean he had control. You were the one who had it.

“I can’t send you away,” you said quietly, your voice calm, steady, as the power inside you stabilized. “But I can make sure you never become a threat, once and for all.”

With a deep breath, you closed your eyes and focused. You could feel Chthon’s presence in your mind, his tendrils of power still clinging to you, trying to regain control fervently. But now, with your magic fully restored, you were stronger.

And you knew what you had to do.

Slowly, carefully, you began to push him back—not out of your body, but to the darkest corner of your mind and toward the precipice of the mount. His voice grew smaller, faintly, as you locked him away, sealing him in a place where he could no longer reach you.

Nor would anyone else who dared deal with forces beyond their control.

“No–” he shouted, his voice so far away, desperate, “My child— My sweet child, please!”

Chthon’s voice, once so powerful, now became nothing more than a distant whisper. His presence still lingered, but it was no longer a threat.

He was trapped, caged within your mind, unable to contact your world.

“I’m not your child,” you replied quietly, finally locking the padlock on his cell, “My parents were magicians.”

You opened your eyes, and reality came back into focus.

The red energy around you still pulsed, but it was no longer erratic. It was controlled.

It was yours. Chthon was defeated.

Your wrists and feet, once bound by chains, were now free. The magic that had erupted from you had shattered the metal, leaving nothing but dust in its wake. You stood tall, your body thrumming with power, your eyes glowing with the vibrant red energy that now coursed through you.

The silence in the room felt heavy, but it wasn’t empty.

The Masters of Evil stood frozen, their eyes wide with glorious satisfaction. Their gazes locked onto you now, filled with reverence and fear, as though they were staring at something divine and terrifying.

Like believers gazing upon a holy symbol, they saw not you, but Chthon. They believed he had taken control, that the force of his will had consumed you entirely.

They had felt the force of Chthon’s presence, and tasted the air thick with his darkness. But you had won, not him.

Even Sam, Bucky, and Helmut stood at a distance, their expressions cautious, uncertain. They were holding on to the chains for what might come next.

You turned around, your gaze meeting Helmut’s.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, as usual, searched yours—for whatever it was left of you there. His lips parted ready to protest, but then he paused. His brows furrowed, his gaze narrowing as he studied you.

And then, in that brief moment, you saw the understanding dawn in his eyes—the gears finally stopping.

“It’s her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not him—it’s her.”

Sam and Bucky turned toward Helmut, then back to you, their expressions shifting from confusion to recognition. The tension in the room eased, but only slightly.

They could see it now too—it wasn’t Chthon, but you.

With that single declaration, everything shifted. His words echoed to the Masters of Evil’s ears, realizing what had truly happened.

But by then, it was too late.

You lifted your hand, and with a wave, you sent them hurtling into the air, their bodies suspended by the force of your power. There was no struggle, no resistance—they were utterly at your mercy.

The red energy pulsed, and with a sharp flick of your wrist, you sent them away—each of them vanishing into their cells in the Raft. Every one of them was placed in a prison specifically designed for them, where they could no longer wield their power.

One by one.

Titania, her strength nullified. 

Doctor Octopus, his mechanical arms now useless.

Moonstone, her energy dampened, trapped in a chamber that drained her abilities…

And so on, each of them were locked in their cage, separated and neutralized.

When it was John’s turn, your eyes pierced at his figure. For a second, you hesitated.

He had been pushing you to the brink for years now, he was the one who haunted your restful nights. All because, one day you used to believe he was just a human, as all of you were.

As his body was suspended, you looked into his eye. There was no remorse there, only the bitter pride of a man who thought himself invincible.

With a gesture, you threw him into a cell, one that would strip him of the very strength he had once used to overpower you.

However, you hadn’t forgotten the last remaining figure: Madame Hydra—Ophelia.

She had orchestrated so much of this, had sought to use you to bring life to her plan of subjecting the world to lick her feet, just like Chthon. But now, she was at your mercy.

Her empty, unfeeling eyes locked with yours as her lips curled into a smirk. She thought she held some power over you.

She didn’t.

With a surge of energy, you sent her hurtling into the depths of the Raft, her cell sealed with every precaution needed to contain her. And as you did, you felt a sense of finality—it was done.

All that remained of their twisted plot was the artifact. Once a key to untold power, that now laid dormant, its purpose lost with his defeat. Without hesitation, you waved your hand and set it alight, watching as the cursed page burned to ashes.

But as you turned your attention to your friends, still bound by chains, you felt a renewed sense of urgency. They had been through so much—too much—and now you could help at least with those chains.

Drawing on your power one more time, you raised your hands. Your magic surged through you, raw and powerful, a force that responded to your will as you focused on the shackles that held them captive. The chains glowed with a brilliant light, the metal deteriorated under the pressure.

Then, what was left of the chains fell to the ground.

Sam was the first to stagger forward, rubbing his wrists where the chains had dug into his skin. His eyes were wide with disbelief, but as they met yours, relief flooded his expression.

"You fought back," he said, his voice filled with awe as he stumbled toward you. The moment he regained his balance, he enveloped you in a hug, pulling you close. “God, you’re here!”

It took you a moment to notice the tears streaming down your face, soaking into Sam’s shoulder. But even as you became aware, the tears didn’t stop. Instead, you let them flow, each one carrying away the weight of the battle, the stress, the fear.

You were safe. Your friends were safe. Somehow, you had done it.

You had found your paint and brush.

“I am,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you tighten your arms around him, fearing he might slip away.

Suddenly, another pair of arms wrapped around you, and you felt the cold metal of Bucky’s arm press against your back. The contrast between the warmth of Sam and the chill of Bucky’s vibranium arm was startling, but in that moment, it grounded you. You leaned into the embrace, feeling the protective circle they formed around you, their presence a shield against everything you had endured.

Bucky’s sigh was deep, filled with a relief that mirrored your own, and his breath was warm against your neck, a comforting reminder that he was here, that you were both still alive.

All of you.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, each word caught by the fear that had gripped him since the moment he thought he’d lost you. “I’m just glad I’ll never have to find out.”

You could hear Bucky starting to sob, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. Or perhaps it was you—at this point, you couldn’t tell where your grief ended and theirs began. The three of you stood there, bound together by the pain and relief that came with surviving, the weight of all you had been through pressing down on you, but in a way that made you stronger, not weaker.

It was as if the world around you had faded away, leaving only the three of you in that moment, sharing a pain that was too deep for words but not beyond understanding. You had all lost so much, but here, in each other’s arms, you had found something worth holding onto. And that, more than anything, was what mattered.

Once the boys stepped away, giving you space to breathe, you took a moment to steady yourself, wiping away the last of your tears. Your breath hitched in your chest, but you felt lighter, the despair easing with each passing second. You had fought, you had survived, and now, you were surrounded by the people you cared about most, you could finally begin to heal.

Your eyes found his.

Helmut.

Your heart fluttered as you locked gazes with him. Before you could move, he was already sprinting toward you, emotion clear in his expression. His expression, usually so controlled and composed, now utterly unguarded and heart-opened, sent a shock through your system.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his body warm and solid against yours, anchoring you to the present. You both were still here, still alive.

The tears you thought had run dry came rushing back, an unstoppable flood that spilled down from your eyes. Sobs wracked your body, echoing through the vast emptiness of the temple as you clung to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if letting go would send you tumbling back into the darkness.

Helmut’s own tears soaked into your shoulder, a rare and precious display of vulnerability from the man who had always seemed so unbreakable.

“I—” you choked out, your voice cracking under the emotion crashing over you, “I— I thought—” But the words wouldn’t come. They were too big, too tangled with fear and relief, with everything you had been holding inside, afraid to even acknowledge.

Helmut held you tighter, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you as though you were something fragile, something he feared might shatter if he let go.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice gentle, full of an understanding that reached deep into your soul. “But you’re here now. You got through it. I told you—you’re good at making the right calls.”

A shaky laugh escaped you, though it was more a sob, your breath catching in your throat.

“I thought I would never see you again,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush, unfiltered. “Any of you.”

Helmut pulled back just enough to see your face, his fingers resting under your chin, softly, tilting your head up so that your eyes met his. His gaze was intense, searching, as though he was trying to imprint this moment, this sight of you into his memory forever.

There was relief in his eyes, yes, but also fear—fear of what could have been, of what he had almost lost. And beneath it all, something deeper, something that made your heart skip a beat.

“So, you’ve proven yourself wrong,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek, wiping away a tear that had lingered there. His voice was soft, tender in a way that you had rarely heard from him, “I knew I’d see you again.”

“How?” The question slipped out before you could think, your voice soft and laced with the vulnerability you so rarely allowed yourself to feel, you were more alike than you realized before.

How could he have been so certain when you had been so afraid and certain that it would be the end?

He smiled then, a small, almost wistful curve of his lips that made something warm and aching unfurl in your chest.

“Because,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I trust you.”

The words settled over you like a blanket, wrapping around your heart, soothing the parts of you that were still hurting. Helmut trusted you—had always trusted you, even when you doubted yourself.

Every time you remembered that was like a balm, healing wounds you hadn’t even known were there.

And as you looked up at him, seeing the truth in his eyes, you reminded yourself that trust wasn’t just something he gave lightly. It was something precious, something earned, and knowing that you had earned his made the fear and doubt that had plagued you seem so small, so insignificant.

You rested your cheek in his palm, letting the warmth of his touch seep into your skin, grounding you in the moment.

“How did you?” you repeated, softer this time.

You needed to understand, to hear it from him.

“Because I’ve seen you fight,” he replied, his voice steady, “I’ve seen you make impossible choices, face impossible odds, and come out on the other side stronger for it. I’ve seen your heart, your courage, and I knew… I knew that if there was someone who could make through the worst, it would be you.”

The words filled you with a warmth that spread through your chest, easing the tightness that had been there for so long. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt at peace, knowing that you weren’t alone, that you were trusted and valued by people who had seen you at your weakest and still believed in your strength.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch, allowing yourself a moment to simply feel, to let the emotions wash over you without resistance.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words carrying what you couldn’t express.

Helmut didn’t reply with words, but the way he held you spoke volumes. His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head again, his touch gentle yet firm. He pressed his forehead against yours, and for a moment, you were both still, breathing in sync.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his lips brush against your temple, soft and lingering, a kiss that conveyed everything he couldn’t say out loud. The tenderness of the gesture made your heart flutter, and instinctively, you tilted your head slightly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t quite a kiss, but it was close—so close that the warmth of his breath danced across your skin, sending a thrill through your entire body. The world seemed to hold its breath as the two of you lingered there, your faces just inches apart.

You couldn’t put your thoughts into words; they were too tangled with emotion, with the sheer intensity of what you felt for him. So instead, you buried your face under Helmut’s chin, seeking the comfort of his embrace, of the safety you felt in his arms.

Helmut’s grip tightened slightly, his own breath hitching as he held you close, the moment stretching out as the weight of what had passed unspoken hung in the air. And yet, despite the overwhelming emotions swirling between you, there was no need to rush.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Sam and Bucky standing a few paces away, watching the scene unfold. There was a moment of silence between them.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, that’s something I didn’t see coming,” he muttered, his voice low but just loud enough for Sam to catch.

Sam folded his arms across his chest, his expression a mix of amusement and something softer—approval.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, keeping his voice equally quiet, “guess something changed after the fight at the airship.”

Bucky glanced at Sam, then back at you and Helmut, his smirk widening slightly.

“Think we should give them a minute?” he asked, frowning at the view.

Sam nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, let’s give ‘em some space. They’ve earned it.”

With that, the two of them turned, moving a little further away to give you and Helmut the privacy you needed. As they walked, Bucky cast one last glance over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

“Never would’ve thought,” he murmured, more to himself than to Sam. But there was no malice in his tone, only acceptance—and maybe even a little bit of respect.

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder, his voice warm with camaraderie.

“Hey, sometimes the best things are the ones you don’t see coming.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know if it’s a ‘best thing’ just yet,” he muttered. “We are still talking about Helmut.”

It had been five years since the four of you had become a team, even adopting a superhero group name. Yet, Sam and Bucky still liked to pretend they were back in the old days, where their banter was constant and their trust hard-earned.

“Oh,” Sam stopped in his tracks, turning to Bucky with exaggerated wide eyes. “You’re right, maybe we should interrogate him once they’re done.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky retorted, though there was a playful edge to his voice.

“Shut up, Bucky,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes as he draped an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “We both know they’ll be alright.”

[knightofmidnightsun]

Mean Girls (2004) || The Rings of Power (2024)

[knightofmidnightsun]

The both of us are no good [epilogue] | HELMUT ZEMO

Summary: As you and Helmut confront the events that had shaped your journey together, it's time to face what awaits for you.

Warnings: Angst. a lot of angst again, as always so be ready. and, well, no more I think? Maybe reference to mental illness if you squint your eyes? Consider it the chapter more chill when talking about warnings.

Word count: 18K

Skeletons, skeletons series: [1], [2], [3], [epilogue]

Notes: Well, that's it!!!! So sorry for getting so long to write it, I just got into a internship!!! (SCREAMS) and have been really busy with my scientific research, so yes, my life has been a hurricane. BUTTT, im finally had time to finish reader and Helmut's journey, or the first part of it. I hope you enjoy it!! We will met again!!

The steady hum of the aircraft blades droned on in the night, blending with the quiet breathing of Sam and Bucky as they slept nearby. The dark sky outside was only occasionally broken by distant, flickering lights below.

You sat in your corner, a book in your hands, but the words blurred as your mind wandered elsewhere. Sleep had been impossible ever since the morning’s events.

Every time you closed your eyes and dared to go to sleep, you could hear his voice. Faintly, but you did.

You moved away from your seat with Helmut soon after risking sleeping off your plans, claiming one of the empty seats near the window—hoping the view of the night sky might distract you, keeping your thoughts at bay.

But even as you tried to focus on the passing darkness outside, the steady churn of your thoughts returned. The weight of it all—the missions, the memories—struggled around you like a vice.

Not only because of what had happened today, but for what would happen in the next morning, in less than eight hours.

Five years by Helmut’s side, through every mission, every battle, and now, tomorrow, you were supposed to hand him over to Wakanda. A final goodbye after all that time.

The thought had been tormenting you ever since Joaquín arrived to rescue you all and announced that the Dora Milajes had demanded your presence in Wakanda. All of you were aware of what it meant, you didn’t need to say a word or ask for clarification.

Since then, you tried not to look at Helmut as he sat in the shadows, sleeping so peacefully. He hadn’t said much since Joaquín announced the news, and part of you wished he had.

Helmut could have changed along the last five years—but he still was Baron Helmut Zemo.

God forbid he tells you what he's thinking, how he’s feeling, knowing now that after five years, he'll be back in his cell.

You tsked, also angered at yourself for not gathering the courage to question him.

You had courage enough to trap your demon-father in your mind but not to face Helmut’s departure.

Sometimes, you wished you could slap yourself.

You turned your gaze back to the book in your lap, forcing your eyes to scan the page, but the words might as well have been in another language. None of it made sense, none of it stuck.

Your mind kept returning to the past, thinking about the first time you had seen him, when you watched T’Challa imprison him—the baron’s words forever stuck into your consciousness. There was also the moment Bucky decided to break him out of prison, all the time you spent together in the serum’s mission and, then the aftermath: Helmut being escorted to Wakanda’s prison.

Then, there was the night after the cookout in Sam’s community—the same night that Bucky had suggested breaking Helmut out again. It had been so surreal, for sure, the idea sounded too delusional at first.

If someone had told you a few years ago that Bucky Barnes would be the one to advocate for working with Zemo, you’d have laughed. And there you were, in a world where the impossible seemed to happen every day.

Back then, you and Sam had exchanged disbelieving looks, waiting for Bucky to backtrack or admit it was some kind of joke. You didn’t believe that Bucky was the one to come up with the idea, specifically him of all people, and Sam didn’t believe in what their friends were suggesting.

But he wasn't joking. He’d been dead serious, and after the initial shock wore off, neither of you had argued against it.

Because deep down, you knew he was right. Helmut Zemo had become more than just a means to an end to the three of you. He had proven himself to be… More than you had thought about him at first, time and time again, even when none of you had expected him to.

After the fight with the Dora Milajes, as soon as Helmut disappeared, he came back. At the time, you didn’t understand why. At the time, he reasoned by saying it was to finish what you all had started. But, after some years, all of you knew that wasn’t true.

He had grown as attached to you as you had grown attached to him. And neither of you could admit it five years ago.

Still, you couldn’t help but wonder what would happen tomorrow when you reached Wakanda. Would this be the end? Would Helmut go back to his cell and fade into the background of your lives, just another chapter closed?

You refused to believe that this would be it and that was it.

The sound of footsteps caught your attention, and you looked up to see Joaquín approaching. He wasn’t as good at sleeping on missions as Sam and Bucky were. A habit he hadn’t quite grown into yet.

“You’re still awake?” he asked, his voice hushed, though there was no need to whisper in the quiet of the cabin.

By the sound of their snores, you doubted that Sam and Bucky would even awake if the aircraft fell.

You gave Joaquín a small smile, even though your chest felt heavy.

“Sleep isn’t coming easy today, but why are you awake?” you asked him back, “Shouldn’t you be asleep like the others?”

It was way easier to deflect from further questions than elaborate your answers.

Joaquín shrugged, “I’ll sleep when we land,” his eyes drifting to the sleeping figures of Sam and Bucky. “I noticed you were awake, though. Seems like you’ve got a lot on your mind.”

That, for sure, was an understatement.

You felt his gaze upon you, but you looked down at the book in your hands, fingers tracing its worn edges. It was better to ignore what he meant by his words than to consider them.

“I guess I do,” you admitted, your voice quieter than usual, “A lot happened today.”

You weren’t about to tell him everything—the things that had been plaguing you since you left the temple, the many scenarios that ran through your mind. How your own thoughts corrupted your conscious and subconscious after every second, the more you dandred about tomorrow.

When you closed your eyes, trying to find some peace, you could swear to hear Chthon’s voice, a faint whisper. But never far enough away.

I’m still here, you can’t ignore me forever. However, you could try and you would.

Joaquín raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering,” he crossed his arms, moving closer to you, “They didn’t tell me much when I came to get you. Just that... It was big. And that...” He hesitated, then lowered his voice even further. “Is it true? The whole thing about you being a... Witch?”

You bit your lip, even now, you were incapable of processing it yourself. Wonder about tomorrow? Yes, that was painful but easier than thinking further about the fact of who you truly were, with the words altogether.

After everything that had happened, it felt strange to hear it out loud from someone else’s mouth.

It didn’t sound real.

“Yeah,” you sighed, closing the book and placing it on your lap. “It’s true. I guess I’ve always been more witch than mutant. I just didn’t know about it until recently.”

Recently slash hours ago.

Your whole life, you had grown believing you were a mutant, and now… You had discovered you were a witch. Maybe, you could have some mutant genes from your ancestors, but it had no effect compared to the bloodline of your biological parents.

Joaquín’s eyes widened, his curiosity barely contained as he sat by your side.

“So... You have magic?” You could truly see how the young man was doing his best to hold back his enthusiasm. “Real magic?” 

A soft chuckle escaped you at his amazement.

You couldn't blame him, your references to magic were full of big names: Magik, Nico Minoru, Dr. Strange, Wanda… In short, it was a long list. It would take you a while to get used to the idea of ​​you being one of them, not on the same level, but part of the same world.

The daughter of a witch and some demoniac god known for his use of chaos magic. What a reputation to have.

“Yeah, magic. Chaos magic.” You agreed, merely nodding as you shrugged. “Whatever you want to call it.”

Joaquín leaned back slightly, taking in the revelation. You almost laughed at the light that lit up in his eyes, like a child who had gotten the train set he had been looking for for years.

“And all this time, we thought you were the other big one from the Big Four,” he muttered, his mind somewhere else.

And you had no idea where it was or what he was talking about.

“Big Four?” You asked, “Isn’t it the Big Three? Androids, aliens, and wizards.”

Unfortunately, spending day after day with the boys meant you knew weird and useless things like that. No one referred to the threats you usually faced by that term, but Bucky, Sam, and Joaquin had a strange list of inside jokes and that term was included in it.

Bunch of weirdos.

“No, Big Four,” Joaquín corrected you, as if it was the most obvious fact in the whole world, “Androids, aliens, wizards and superhumans.”

You raised a brow, the term catching you off guard. Superhumans. It made sense since there weren’t only supersoldiers now, but mutants.

You didn’t know what was weirder about it: knowing that behind your back, the boys referred to you as a superhuman or that you would have to grow used to being referred to as a wizard now. As if you were one of the majestic magic users that you all knew.

You didn't even believe you could be labeled as such, you didn't have the same level of knowledge, control over your magic and, well, nothing at all.

The best term for you was: a time bomb that needed experience to not explode. Not 'wizard' nor ‘magic user'.

Joaquín seemed to sense your hesitation, glancing away as if giving you a moment to digest it, “I mean, it’s not every day you meet someone who can do what you do. Chaos magic and…”

You offered a small smile but said nothing. Joaquín’s reaction was almost refreshing—his curiosity a welcome distraction from the heavier thoughts weighing you down, whether you liked it or not. Relieving the stress that plagued your mind, the thousands of thoughts that kept you from closing your eyes… Your heart felt a little lighter.

Joaquín had that effect sometimes. You liked to believe that it was because he was still a kid in this world of heroes in villains in comparison with the rest of you.

He had some of that big shining light you all arrived with when you stepped into that world.

“And Helmut?” Joaquín’s question caught you off guard, the shift in topic unexpected. But unavoidable.

And quickly, that peace was gone.

“What about him?” you asked, though you knew what Joaquín was getting at.

At least, now calmer, you didn't feel the ties in your heart every time you tried to put into words what you were thinking. What you were thinking about that subject.

You had more courage to talk about it with Joaquín than with the subject himself.

You looked over at Helmut again, still seated in the shadows, his figure barely moving, as if he were part of the night itself. In deep sleep, you almost smiled at him, he looked so serene.

Joaquín tilted his head, his gaze following yours as you glanced back toward Helmut, "You don’t just spend five years with someone and walk away like it never happened, right?"

The air seemed to thicken at his words, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at Helmut’s still form. Soon, he would be behind bars one more time, and you doubted you would see him again after that.

Today and the next morning would be the last time you would have to see him, talk to him.

“No,” finally, you said, your voice barely a whisper. “You don’t.”

Five years was a long time, you’d seen sides of Helmut no one else had—vulnerabilities he would never admit to others, not even to himself. But you had seen them since day one, or suspected what they were.

The Baron was a man who hid who he was, layers beneath the cold, calculating mask. Never showing the cards he had under his sleeves, never opening his chest and showing if he had a heart. Always too far away, in his own thoughts, back to his past.

You had never thought that man would disappear. That mission after mission, conversation after conversation and glance after glance, he would start to tear away the pieces that made him the Baron. And after all this time, his mask was nothing more than cracked wood and that there would be Helmut behind it, showing who he was to you and only you.

By you, you meant you and the boys, of course.

Joaquín nodded slightly. He shifted on his feet, "Doesn’t seem like you’re ready to say goodbye."

You let out a bitter laugh, though it lacked humor, "I guess no one ever is."

Joaquín gave you a look, sympathy and understanding behind his gaze, and you could almost hear the words stuck in his mind but unable to be said: But it’s harder for you, isn’t it?

You didn’t need to answer it. The silence that followed was enough.

The aircraft's hum filled the space again, giving you both a moment to let the conversation breathe. Joaquín shifted again, his hand absently tracing the edge of his seat, clearly unsure of what to say next.

He tilted his head, glancing at you with a softness that almost made you feel exposed.

"You don’t have to explain it to me, you know. Whatever’s going on with you and Helmut—it’s yours. I just... I just wanted to know if you’re okay with all this.”

Were you okay with it? Could you ever really be okay with letting Helmut go? Be okay about closing this chapter of your life? The thought made your chest tighten.

You didn’t need to ask any of these questions to yourself. Since the moment Joaquín had told you what was coming, you already had their answers.

After a long pause, you exhaled.

"I’m not sure,” the words slipped out before you could fully process them. “I don’t think I ever will be.”

As soon as the words left your lips, you felt a strange sense of relief. You didn’t need to pretend with Joaquín—not here, not now. He wouldn’t push for answers you didn’t have or felt uncomfortable sharing.

Joaquín offered you a gentle nudge with his shoulder, "Well, you’ve got some time to figure it out. Just... Don’t beat yourself up too much, okay?"

That was a hard thing to ask.

“I know,” you just didn’t know if you would be able to.

Still, you smiled at him, trying to reassure him. He didn’t need to say anything else, his presence alone was enough to help you, to remind you that it was okay to not be okay about it.Joaquín stood up slowly, stretching before giving you one last, knowing glance.

“I’ll leave you to your book,” he said lightly, before making his way back to the cockpit, the conversation fading into the soft murmur of the aircraft blades once more.

You watched him go, your thoughts still following you wherever you went, but they were less noisy now. You were left alone with the book in your hands, the words blurring on the page as your mind stubbornly wandered to the man sleeping in the shadows.

There was no peaceful way to resolve what lay ahead.

Would this be the last time you saw him like this? The thought haunted you, gnawing at the edges of your resolve, you already knew it would be, but it didn’t hurt less.

How could you just let him go back to a prison cell? How could you pretend it wouldn’t change everything?

Your fingers traced the edge of the book in your lap, the worn leather cover a poor distraction from the churning thoughts that refused to settle. You tried to focus on anything else, the dark expanse of sky outside the window, the steady rhythm of your breathing—but it was futile. Your mind always circled back to the same question.

Did Helmut still want to go back there? Five years ago, it was his only wish.

He hadn’t said much since Joaquín had mentioned the Wakandan's request. He had stayed silent, as he always did, keeping his cards close to his chest. Part of you wanted to ask him, trying to figure out what he was thinking. But the other part—the part that had always been cautious—feared what his answer might be.

“You’ll wear yourself out thinking like that.”

You blinked, startled, your gaze snapping to Helmut, who was now very much awake and sitting beside you, his expression unreadable in the dim light. His voice was quiet, soft.

But there was an edge to it. The kind of edge that came with knowing.

He knew exactly what you were thinking.

"Helmut..." Suddenly, all the questions you had been avoiding felt impossible to ignore, “You… Are awake.”

It was the least stupid thing you could have said among the others begging to be gotten out of your mind.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes sharp, even in the darkness.

"So are you,” he said, his gaze fixed on you in that way he had—like he could see through every wall you put up, “and quiet, that’s not like you."

"I could say the same about you," you replied instantly.

He let out a small, humorless chuckle, leaning back in his seat.

"I’ve learned to be quiet when it matters."

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence between you thick with unspoken things.

"I just..." you began, hesitating, unsure how to put the thoughts swirling in your head into words. "I keep thinking about tomorrow. About what will happen next."

His gaze didn’t waver, but you saw something flicker in his eyes—something he tried to hide.

"You mean my return to Wakanda?" he asked bluntly, his voice steady, though there was a hint of something beneath it, “I always knew this day would come. That I would have to go back.”

"But do you want to?" 

You felt raw, exposed, but you needed to know.

After everything you had been through together, did he still want to return to that cell?

His silence stretched between you, the only sound the steady hum of the aircraft. When he finally spoke, his eyes set upon you.

"What I want..." he began, his voice low, "isn’t what matters. There are things we cannot change and there are debts we must pay."

You glanced at him back, not taking his answer as true. Why did he have to be like this? So enigmatic.

It was a yes or no question, why did he always have to make it difficult?

"You’ve always believed that," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "How people should pay for their sins."

"And they should," he replied, his gaze locking with yours. "Do you disagree?"

You hesitated, remembering everything that had happened over the last five years—every battle, every sacrifice.

Sam and Bucky flashed in your mind, the moments where each of you had faced impossible choices, where the lines between right and wrong blurred. You had seen foes who were more than villains, people trapped in cycles of pain, anger, and grief—reminders of the complexity of it all.

"I don’t disagree," you said slowly, "but I don’t think it’s that simple either. People aren’t always driven by bad intentions, Helmut. There is anger, injustice, loneliness, guilt…" 

His expression didn’t change, but you could sense the shift in him, "You still see hope where others see ruin."

His fingers briefly brushed against his temple, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, and for a moment, you saw something flicker in his expression—a hint of a smile that never fully formed. The tension between you felt heavy, like a palpable force, but there was also something softer there now.

You held his gaze, refusing to let him retreat into himself like he so often did.

“And what makes you think you’re beyond saving?” you asked quietly, the challenge in your words unmistakable.

He blinked, his brow furrowing slightly, and for the first time, you saw the uncertainty in his eyes. It was subtle, just a brief hesitation, but it was there.

Helmut, always so sure of himself, was suddenly unsure.

“But for the last five years, you’ve been helping us—choosing to stay when you didn’t have to. And why? Why did you stay?” You continued, nonetheless, your voice steady. “None of that makes you seem like a man who’s given up.”

He sighed, his fingers brushing lightly over his knuckles, a gesture you’d come to recognize as a sign of his restlessness.

"Perhaps I stayed for selfish reasons," he said, his tone more contemplative. "Perhaps I needed to believe that I could still have a purpose. That all of this—everything I’ve done—wasn’t for nothing."

You leaned forward slightly, refusing to let him retreat into the walls he always built around himself.

"You stayed because you cared,” You brought your hand closer to his, letting it rest on his knuckles. He frowned at you and would say something before you interrupted him, “Don’t tell me I’m lying, you know I’m not. You care, don’t pretend it doesn’t matter, it does."

Helmut’s gaze dropped to where your hand rested on his, the touch gentle but grounding. His fingers twitched beneath yours, but he didn’t pull away. His expression softened, a vulnerability he rarely allowed to surface.

But with you, lately, it was becoming a habit.

"I don’t know if it matters," he said quietly, almost as if he were testing the words.

You squeezed his hand lightly, urging him to continue. "It does, Helmut. You didn’t stay because you had no choice. You stayed because you wanted to. I know you, you don’t do anything you don’t want to."

His eyes met yours again, and for a brief moment, you saw a crack in the armor he wore so carefully. He took a deep breath, as though he was trying to find the right words, trying to find a way to explain what he himself hadn’t fully processed.

"I don’t know what I want anymore," he admitted, "For so long, I’ve been driven by a single purpose. Revenge, justice and now…"

He trailed off, his voice dipping, and you could see the conflict in his expression, as if standing at a crossroads and not knowing which path to follow into.

"You’re not the same man you were," you said, tightening your hand in his. "And you don’t have to be. You’ve proven that you’re capable of more than just revenge."

Helmut let out another brief, humorless chuckle, "You make it sound so simple."

"It’s not simple," you corrected yourself, gently. "But it’s a choice. And I need to know if you want to stay, or if you want to go back." You paused. "I need to hear it from you."

His breath hitched slightly, and he shifted, clearly grappling with the question.

For a long moment, he said nothing, his eyes scanning your face back. You were looking for an answer while he… You weren’t sure, relief? Courage? Whatever he was searching as he gazed at you, it looked like he had found it.

"You ask me what I want," he began slowly. "But wanting something doesn’t mean it’s possible. I want to believe I can move past what I’ve done, I want to believe I can help you, Sam and Bucky without my past dragging me down."

You pressed your lips into a tight line, you could see the internal battle raging behind his eyes—everything he had done and his desire to find peace. True peace, not the temporary one.

It wasn’t easy for him to say these things, to let his walls down. But you knew that admitting it was his first step. He took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded rougher than before.

"I lost everything when I lost my family," he said quietly, as if the words were for him more than for you, "My wife, my son, my father, my home... It wasn’t just Sokovia that was destroyed—it was my whole life. I didn’t see a reason to keep going, I didn’t think I could live in this world anymore."

His voice cracked slightly, and you could feel the depth of the wounds that loss and grief had carved in him, "They were my purpose, and when they were gone, I thought there was nothing left for me."

"You’ve spent so long believing that there’s nothing else left," you whispered, the sincerity of your words cutting through the lingering silence. "But there is, Helmut. It may be hard to see it, it takes us time, but I hope you find it someday."

You waited, watching him closely as your words got into the machines working inside his head. His brows furrowed and you almost could see smoke escaping from his ears, as if he was resisting the idea.

But you could see the cracks forming in his resolve. For so long, he had those weights binding his feet and holding him back, it was difficult to imagine anything different. Or to confess any of the ideas that he entertained in his imagination.

“And who said I hadn’t?” he asked, holding your hand back, “I just don’t know if I deserve it.”

He had built walls, brick by brick. And now, here you were, trying to crumble it down and suggesting there could be more for him.

“I’m not asking if you think yourself worth it, Helmut. I’m asking if you want to stay."

There was a long pause, his gaze locking with yours as he processed your real question. You could see the gears turning and squeaking in his head, the past pulling him in one direction, while another thing pulled him in another. Hope? Yearning?

For a long time, he had clung to the idea that there was nothing left for him, that his path had been set in stone the moment he lost his family. The notion of moving forward was foreign to him. But you could sense his hesitation, the slight crack in the armor he had kept around himself all these years.

And then, you saw it. There was the man behind the armor with all his bruises and scars.

It wasn’t a brief vision, he was in flesh and bones behind those brown eyes.

"I don’t want to go back," he admitted, his voice resolute. You saw the walls around him falling, piece by piece. "But we both know that I can’t stay."

It panged your heart, that was true. The world had been too cruel to him, had taken too much, and even though he had found a place with you, with Sam and Bucky, the burden of his past was a heavy one.

There was nothing that he or you could do about it, no matter how much you could try. His actions had brought him consequences that would follow him even if he no longer was the same man who had orchestrated them.

"You can’t, but I don’t want you to go either," you whispered, your heart racing as the distance between you seemed to close. "I wished that you had changed your mind and wanted to stay, even if it meant you would wish for something you can’t."

That was the least you could do: to not leave his side until it was time.

Helmut’s gaze softened, his hand moving to gently cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing along your skin. There was a tenderness there, something you had come to recognize in him, but only when the world around you had quieted. It was in these rare, quiet moments that he allowed himself to show the sad happiness that harbored in his heart.

Once, you had thought his tender side was something that he only revealed to you after the airship, inside the hut. However, the more you pushed your mind back through the past five years, the more you realized he always had shown you.

Since the beginning. You were just too blind to see it, or believe it.

"I stayed because I wanted to believe I could be more than what I was," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Even if it meant that once I had achieved it, I would be sent back to my cell. I just do not know if I achieved that."

"You had, Helmut," you replied, your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. "You always had the potential to be more than a man with thick skin."

The silence between you thickened with what you had stuck in your throats, the tension palpable in the air. His eyes flickered down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze, as if caught between saying it or not, all the words tangling in his chest.

For the briefest moment, a flicker of something crossed his face—you were still unsure if it was hope or yearning. A quiet feeling he had long thought lost.

But it was fleeting behind his eyes, as a flame resists the wind. And then, you saw it, he traveled back to his past and a sob escaped from his throat.

"I… I do not know if I will ever stop missing them," he confessed, his voice fragile, like the words themselves might break him. "But I am starting to understand… You were right. They wouldn’t want my life to be consumed by their loss. They would want me to be more than that—way more."

You smiled softly, your thumb gently stroking the back of his hand, “They must be proud then, because you already are, Helmut. Believe me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, his thumb continuing to brush your skin, a gesture that felt as though he was grounding himself in your presence, making sure you were real and still there. When his eyes opened again, the guardedness that usually defined him had completely faded, leaving something softer, something freer in his gaze.

You leaned into his touch, the warmth of his hand against your cheek comforting, and you felt the tight knot of tension in your chest slowly begin to loosen as well. Helmut had become a presence you never anticipated—steady, constant, and grounding.

From the beginning, there had been something between you. A strange sense of familiarity, like you’d known him far longer than the years you had spent together. Usually, you were someone who kept your walls high, when someone asked what had happened, you were incapable of putting into words—so you lied. But with Helmut… It was different.

With him, everything was always different.

Since the mission in Madripoor, then Riga, those walls had started to crumble, day by day, piece by piece. For some reason, with him, you had no fear of admitting fractions of what was rushing inside your mind. You had let him in more than you realized at the time.

And now, after all you had been through, here he was, letting you see the vulnerabilities he had kept so tightly guarded, exposing parts of himself that even he might not have understood.

In the quiet between you, a thought settled into your mind, clear and undeniable: you had trusted him long before you ever admitted it to yourself. Long before that night in the hut, long before Wakanda, before Riga. It had always been there.

Helmut broke the silence first, his voice so quiet you almost had to strain to hear it.

"I need to say it," he began, the vulnerability in his tone startling, "I didn’t think I could ever care about anything again." He paused, his hand trembling slightly against your cheek. "But being here, with you, with them... For the first time, I believe there’s more out there for me to explore."

"There’s always more, Helmut. And you deserve to discover it all." You whispered, the intensity of your emotions swelling inside you, “I just wish I could discover it all with you, if you had me.”

The man who had once believed in nothing but vengeance felt so distant now. The man in front of you was miles away from the bitter, angry figure you had first met. But even as he opened up to you, that core part of him remained—the part that believed people were corruptible, that power could expose the darkest parts of someone's soul.

Helmut still clung to that philosophy: justice was blind, and sometimes, someone had to guide it.

Yet, it wasn’t as absolute as it had once been. His encounters with you, Sam, and Bucky had cracked that certainty. You could see it in his eyes, a subtle wariness.

He had once believed that his way was the only way—that destroying those who wielded power would bring balance. But now? Now, there was something softer, something that questioned the starkness of his past views. He didn’t regret all of that, just small acts that he could have prevented.

The thing was, for the first time, he was starting to believe that there were people who could change for the better. Including himself.

"I do, I would," he whispered back to you, his voice barely holding together.

A weak smile tugged at your lips as you whispered, "Maybe one day."

His eyes locked onto yours, searching, as if testing the truth of your words. Slowly, you saw the tension in his frame begin to melt away, like a weight he’d carried for too long finally easing. The guarded man you had come to know was letting himself be vulnerable in a way he hadn’t before, finding a kind of peace that hadn’t existed in him for years.

You could almost hear the sound of an armor falling against the ground, the metal banging against the floor in a prolonged ring.

"For as long as you have me, mein schatz," Helmut breathed, his voice barely reaching your ears.

The question lingered in the air, even if it was not made as a question, for sure sounded like one.

"And for as long as you have me," you whispered back.

His gaze was unwavering, holding yours in that silent exchange you both had come to understand. For so long, words had gone unsaid, and yet, in this moment, everything felt crystal clear.

Helmut’s hand moved to rest over yours again, his touch hesitant, as if testing the boundaries of what this moment could mean. You felt a surge of warmth bloom in your chest, your heartbeat syncing with the tension that crackled between you both.

You could also hear your own armor falling against the ground beneath your feet, echoing between your ears.

Helmut’s breath caught, his thumb brushing across your knuckles, the tiniest gesture, but it sent a ripple through you. You had never been good at letting yourself feel this way—vulnerable, exposed. But with him, everything was different.

You leaned in slightly, your forehead pressing gently against his, your lips hovering just a breath away. Neither of you had to say it out loud, but the silence spoke volumes itself.

This was the culmination of five years, of quiet, unspoken truths lingering between every step you took, every decision you made.

"Six hours..." he murmured, the corners of his mouth lifting into a small, bittersweet smile.

"Then let’s not waste another second," you smiled, the tension between you two finally snapping.

And then, as naturally as breathing, you closed the distance, your lips meeting his in a soft, tentative kiss. It wasn’t hurried, nor was it desperate, just an honest expression of everything you’d held back for so long.

For once, on that night, you didn’t worry about what you would see or hear once you closed your eyes, you just did—you closed your eyes and let yourself finally feel.

Helmut’s hand cradled your cheek tightly as the kiss deepened, the years of restraint melting away in the warmth of the moment. There was a softness to the way he held you, as though afraid you might disappear when he opened his eyes again.

You could taste the ghost of his past in that kiss, feel the heaviness of everything he had carried for so long, but there was something else too—yearning, a desire to seize the life he had once believed he would never be able to appreciate. 

When you finally pulled back, just a fraction, your forehead rested against his once more, your breaths mingling in the space between you.

"Whatever time we have," you whispered, your voice shaky, "it’s enough."

Helmut exhaled softly, his thumb still gently caressing your cheek as if reassuring himself that you were still there. His brown eyes, once so wary, now softened with an emotion he had spent years hiding away. You could see it all now—the regret, the hope, the silent promise that he would stay, even if the world was pulling him in another direction.

It wasn’t one emotion, but a collection of them ready to be shown, all of them in their due time.

In the quiet, as the aircraft hummed around you, the future felt uncertain, but for now, in this moment, you had each other. And that was enough.

Until six hours passed by the clock and the air inside the interrogation room felt stifling, even though you sat calmly at the long table, flanked by Sam and Bucky. Across from you, Ayo and the others Dora Milajes stood firm, their expressions unreadable, but the tension was there. An inch away from all of you.

Helmut sat at the far end of the table, his posture composed as always, though you could see the subtle stress in his frame. His eyes flickered toward you for a moment, but the pressure of the situation pinned down any silent communication you might’ve shared. This was it—the moment when he’d be back to his cell while you, Sam and Bucky would continue with your lives.

You clenched your fists under the table, biting back the sense of helplessness. It didn’t matter what any of you felt; this had been inevitable from the start. You had known this when you’d second broken him out. Still, that didn’t make it easier.

Joaquín was right, you didn’t just spend five years with someone and walk away like it never happened. You would continue with your lives but you would forever be followed by the millions of memories that you had created together. Something that the elders never tell you was how a friendship forged from hate to companionship was the one who hurt the more once parted away.

You were hurt, but Sam and Bucky? They could have told you little about the subject, but you knew all too well how they were wounded. More than you, neither of them thought they would grow attached to the ex-criminal, and there you were, incapable of dropping his hand.

And there you were.

Ayo’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and direct. “Baron Zemo will be returned to Wakanda to serve the remainder of his sentence, as per our agreement. Are there any objections?”

The words were final, like a judge laying down a sentence. You glanced at Helmut, waiting for his response. But he stayed quiet, staring down at his hands, his composure unbroken.

But then, he spoke.

“If there were a way…” Helmut began, his voice measured, calm, yet filled with reasoned fear. “If there were a way to continue with them—Sam, Bucky, and... Her—would you consider an alternative?”

Ayo’s expression hardened at his words, her lips pressing into a thin line as she weighed the situation. Her eyes flicked to Sam and Bucky, then back to Helmut. The straining in the room rose another notch, a silent warning.

She was seconds away from shutting him down, reminding him of the agreement, the promise they had made to return him to Wakanda. But Helmut didn’t back down.

His voice remained calm, respectful but firm.

“I understand the weight of the agreement, Ayo. I know what I owe.” He paused, his gaze unwavering as he met hers. “But if I may, I ask for just a moment to speak.”

You frowned, this wasn’t just another calculated move. There was something rough beneath it. Ayo, despite her stoic demeanor, seemed to catch on to that as well. She didn’t respond immediately, her eyes narrowing further as she considered his request.

“Speak,” she finally said, her voice cold, but she gave him permission. “But make it quick.”

Helmut exhaled softly, and you could see a hint of relief cross his features before he masked it behind that familiar calm exterior. He straightened in his seat, his posture shifting ever so slightly as he began.

“I know what I did. The sins of my past cannot be undone. I once believed that what I was doing was the right thing, avenging my family, tearing apart the Avengers, seeking balance where there was none.” His voice was low, measured, but you could feel the weight of every word. “But time... Time has a way of showing you things you didn’t expect to see.”

He glanced at you for just a heartbeat, the moment fleeting, before his gaze returned to Ayo.

“When I first worked with them, it was out of necessity. I had nothing left. I was a man driven only by the need to end what I believed was a threat. But over the past five years, I have learned there is more to this world than pain.”

Ayo’s expression remained steely, but she didn’t interrupt. She was listening.

“I regret many things,” Helmut continued, his voice softening. “None of them related to the avenge of my family, but little actions that I could have prevented or went in another direction. Including the death of your king.”

The name of the Wakandan king—T’Chaka—hung like a blade among everyone in the room, heavy with the reminder of his loss upon the reign. You could feel the palpable shift in the atmosphere, the ripple of emotions passing through Ayo and the Dora Milaje at the mention of their king.

T’Chaka’s death was a delicate wound, one that had never fully healed for Wakanda. There was a reason for Helmut's obligation to return to his prison.

“I was blinded by my grief,” Helmut continued, his voice steady but lined with regret. “I wanted to destroy those responsible for my family and home’s death, and in doing so, I became the very thing I hate most. The pain I caused… It’s something I carry with me every day. And I am truly sorry for the part I played in your king’s death.”

Ayo’s eyes flickered, a small crack in her stoic exterior. Her grip on the table tightened, “You were the whole part, Baron.”

“I know,” Helmut sighed, his torment never leaving his voice nor eyes, “I am not asking for forgiveness. I know what I’ve done, and I have paid, and will continue to pay for it.”

The silence that followed his admission was thick, fuming over the table like a storm about to break. Ayo’s gaze remained fixed on Helmut, her expression a stone mask of discipline.

She was listening, but there was no forgiveness in her eyes—only duty. If Helmut gave her an excuse, she would kill him in his very seat.

“In the past, I believed that I was serving justice,” Helmut continued, each word deliberate, as if measured against the inevitable consequences. “I see now that I was blinded by my own pain. The death of your king, of T’Chaka, is something I will carry with me until my last breath. And I know that I can never undo that, it was a means to an end that I can only wish I had never opted.”

He paused, glancing at Sam and Bucky, who had remained silent throughout the exchange. You noticed how Sam’s expression was unreadable, while Bucky’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. The room was brimming with tension, with all eyes locked on Helmut.

Every one of you was waiting for what he would say next.

“I believed I was correcting a wrong,” Helmut continued, furrowing his brows. “But all I did was create another. And for that, I am deeply regretful. But... If there is one thing I’ve learned in these past years, it’s that sometimes redemption isn’t found in isolation. It’s found in what we do next, in how we face the challenges ahead.”

He shifted his gaze to Ayo, his expression unyielding but sincere.

“That is why I ask—if you will allow me—to remain with them,” Helmut’s voice was low, silently pleading. “There are still threats in this world, dangers that we have only begun to confront. I can still be of use to them, and in doing so, perhaps find some semblance of redemption.”

Ayo’s eyes narrowed, her hands gripping the edge of the table. She stood silent for a long moment, her fingers curling tighter around the table’s edge, her posture rigid.

Her gaze flickered briefly toward you, Sam, and Bucky, then back to Helmut. The decision she faced wasn’t just about law or justice—it was about the future, the bigger picture, and whether or not to gamble on the possibility of redemption for a man who had taken so much from her people.

You had shared your time with Helmut, you had seen his true self. Wakanda hadn’t. And, honestly, even if they had, would it still be right for them to erase the loss of their king only to free a man who wounded their reign?

“No matter how sorrowful you are now, Zemo,” Ayo said, her voice cold but steady. Her jaw clenched, her eyes locking onto Helmut with a fierce intensity, “You have committed a crime against Wakanda, and you must pay for it. I allowed you to assist them, not because of mercy, but because I understand the depth of your expertise against forces that threaten us all. But know this—your debt is far from paid. The selfish forces you’ve helped defeat don’t absolve you of what you did to us.”

Her words echoed through the room, cold and final, and you felt the sharpness of them settle in your chest. Helmut remained silent, though you could see the hope leaving his eyes, replaced by something quieter—acceptance. His expression didn’t falter, but there was a resignation in the way his shoulders subtly dropped. He knew this wouldn’t be easy. He had known all along that he couldn’t escape his past.

He had always known this moment would come, that the weight of his past sins wouldn’t be easily cast aside. The loss of King T’Chaka, the devastation he’d wrought—not even him would be able to let him go, the pain all too familiar.

In the silence, you caught the faintest tremor of doubt in Helmut’s eyes, the kind that comes when a man realizes he might never outrun the ghosts of his past.

It was inevitable, but you had wished that it wasn’t. The pain in your chest carving you apart despite your will to hold yourself upright.

“Wait,” Sam’s voice cut through as a dagger would cut flesh. The suddenness of it jolted everyone, pulling the air from the room. His tone was calm, but there was an undeniable intensity behind it. “Ayo, with all due respect, the deal was that Zemo would stay with us until we dealt with the threats. But the threats aren’t over. We’ve still got a lot of work to do, and we need all the help we can get.”

Sam’s words weren’t just a defense of Helmut—they were a reminder of the larger picture, you still had to go back to Strange and tell him more about what had happened in the last days. You had already sent him a message summarizing everything but you were sure that soon he would require your presence for a better conversation about everything that had happened.

Far from what you all knew about the world of wizards and magic and everything related to it, there was always more.

So, there was no denying the truth in Sam’s statement—the world wasn’t safe yet, not by a long shot.

Ayo’s jaw clenched as she narrowed her gaze at Sam’s interruption. The room was buzzing with tension, everyone waiting to see which way she would lean. Finally, she spoke, her voice steady but laced with ice.

“The deal was made to serve justice, not prolong his freedom,” she said. “The threats you speak of have been defeated. Zemo served his purpose. His place is in a cell.”

For a moment, it felt like the verdict had been decided, that nothing Sam, Bucky, or even you could say would change her mind. But something clicked in your head—a realization.

You took a breath, stepping forward and gathering your courage, “We never specified what those threats were.”

Ayo’s eyes snapped to you, her brow furrowing as if you’d just insulted her, “Come again?”

And you went. How, until today, you don’t know.

“When we made the deal, we didn’t list the exact threats we wanted to eliminate. We left it open. Chtolon was only a part of a much bigger problem. We still don’t know if there are more threats out there, and if we send Helmut back now, we will lose a valuable asset in that fight.” you clarified, already fearing that your words had been the sentence for the Dora Milajes to behead you and your friends.

Her face tightened, the hard lines of her expression deepening as she processed your words. For sure, she was pondering to behead you indeed.

“The threats we face aren’t just the ones we’ve already fought,” you pressed. “There are more out there. And Helmut has the knowledge we need to stay ahead. If we send him back now, we’re weakening our chances.”

Ayo remained silent, but her eyes were burning with an intensity that made it clear she was not easily swayed. She glanced at Sam and Bucky, then back at you, and finally, her gaze rested on Helmut.

“You speak of unspecified threats,” Ayo said, harshly. “But that does not absolve him of his crimes.”

“I’m not asking for absolution,” Helmut added, his voice quieter now, but no less sincere. “I know what I’ve done. But if I can use my knowledge to stop what’s coming, then perhaps... I can start to make up for it.”

Ayo’s gaze remained sharp, but there was hesitation in her eyes. She took a breath, and when she spoke again, you felt like a blade was near your neck.

“The deal may have been unclear,” she said slowly. “But understand this—Zemo’s freedom will not be indefinite. The moment these threats are dealt with, he returns to Wakanda. No exceptions. And if he steps out of line even once, we will take him ourselves.”

Ayo’s final words settled heavily over the room, but there was a shared sense of relief, a small victory—Zemo’s fate wasn’t sealed, not completely. The tension that had been straining the room seemed to ease slightly, but the pressure of the responsibility loomed larger than ever. You couldn’t ignore the tight knot of uncertainty in your chest, knowing this was only a temporary solution.

Helmut, for the first time, allowed a breath of relief to escape his lips. His eyes flicked toward you, then to Sam and Bucky. Though he didn’t speak, there was a silent acknowledgment, a gratitude that passed between you all. And yet, you felt the stiffness beneath his calm exterior.

“I think we’re done here,” Ayo said firmly, stepping back from the table. The Dora Milajes remained poised, ever watchful, but it was clear that—for now—there would be no further argument. “But remember, this is not a pardon. This is a postponement.”

Sam nodded in agreement, though his expression was hard to read.

“We appreciate the consideration,” he replied, but you knew Sam too well. He was just as aware as you were that this wasn’t truly the end of the conflict.

The larger battle was still up, not just with external enemies but within yourselves—especially for Baron Zemo.

As Ayo’s gaze lingered on Helmut, you couldn’t help the sharp pang in your chest. You had spent so much time alongside him, seeing past the man who had once only been driven by vengeance. But now, in this moment, you realized how fragile his freedom truly was.

You didn’t know how long you had before Wakanda’s patience would run out. That knowledge settled over you like a heavy weight that you didn’t know you would ever be able to lift.

The Wakandans left the room in silence, the door shutting with a soft thud. Only the four of you remained. The tension, while less intense, didn’t fully dissipate.

Helmut exhaled slowly, his hand resting on the edge of the table, his fingers tracing the grain of the wood absently.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d ever breathe free air again,” he said in a whisper, almost to himself.

You glanced at him, a mix of relief and concern swirling inside you despite the pain in your chest. You had fought for this moment, but even now, you weren’t sure what came next. You wanted to believe that Helmut could find his way, that he could become more than what he once was.

But part of you feared that the world wouldn’t let him.

Sam’s lips quirked into a small smile, “Well, you’re not out of the woods yet.”

All of you were well aware of that, you weren’t the only one with those thoughts eating you alive.

“No,” Helmut agreed, his voice low. “But I suppose I have you all to thank for delaying the inevitable.”

Bucky, who had been silent for most of the conversation, piped up.

“Don’t thank us yet.” His voice was gruff, but you could hear the softness beneath the rough exterior, “We’ve still got work to do.”

A lot of work you had indeed.

The towering bookshelves of Strange Academy stretched up to the ceiling, each one filled with ancient tomes of magic, knowledge, and power. You’d been here before, but this time, the air felt different. There was an unmistakable thickness, a reminder of the power that lay within the walls.

Raw magic all over the place. And, for the first time, you could feel all of it in its true form.

Joaquín’s face had been lit up in excitement when you first returned after the conversation with the Dora Milaje. He suggested celebrating, but that idea quickly faded as Strange called you to meet him here, in this very room.

It was difficult for any of you to have a single moment of peace for too long.

Beside you, Wong was explaining something about the Darkhold. Strange, always poised, was going through a series of magical texts, muttering under his breath as he examined their contents. Wanda stood nearby, quietly observing, her presence a reminder of just how far you had come from the battle in Sokovia, a young adult still trying to understand what was your place in this world to the woman who had fight and trapped the eldritch demon-god slash father and discovered the truth about your powers.

Yet, what lingered from the young girl was the uncertainty of what you should do next in your life.

“Wait, let’s see if I’m understanding this correctly,” Bucky interrupted Wong, his brows furrowed in confusion. His expression mirrored your own—Wong might as well have been speaking an entirely foreign language. “There are other pages from the Darkhold scattered around the world? I thought you destroyed the whole book.”

He turned to Wanda, who was stoically reading from what looked like a very old journal. Bucky’s tone wasn’t accusatory, and Wanda, knowing him well by now, didn’t take it as such. She glanced up briefly, her expression unchanged.

“I did,” she confirmed, her Sokovian accent adding a distinct weight to her words. “But after everything you told Stephen, we started looking into records—anything with even the smallest connection to the Darkhold’s history, trying to understand what could have happened.”

“It seems,” Dr. Strange chimed in, his voice thoughtful as his eyes briefly met Wanda’s before turning to the group, “Some of the pages acted as a sort of... Exhaust valve. Only the ones used in imprisoning the Elder Gods were affected.” He paused, his gaze sharpening as he continued. “Though ‘imprison’ isn’t the right word—those pages were more like gateways. They allowed humans to contact these beings and try to forge pacts with them, no matter where these gods resided.”

Helmut crossed his arms, his brow furrowing as he shot Strange a skeptical glance. “What do you mean by trying? Sounds like a dangerous game to me.”

Wong took a step forward, elaborating,

“Take Chthon as an example. He isn’t someone you can control. These gods... They're dangerous, unpredictable. Anyone trying to make deals with them is playing with their life. They won't just get hurt; they'll lose everything."

As Wong spoke, you remembered the feeling of Chthon almost consuming you. Facing that, you’d seen how close you were to losing control, to losing yourself. Knowing others like him could still be out there—that someone could try to summon them—it sent a shiver down your spine.

Wanda moved closer, flipping through the pages of the old journal before holding it up for you to see. Her fingers traced the images of twisted figures, their monstrous forms etched into the parchment.

“There are others like him,” she began. “Others who see humanity as tools, as playthings. And through the enchantments in these pages, they can be bound. Their power is available to anyone reckless enough to seek them out.”

Sam stepped forward, brows furrowed, “So what? These pages are like some messed-up genie lamp?”

“In a way,” she said, handing you the journal. “But this is worse. These beings can’t be controlled—only bound temporarily.”

“This I think all of us were capable of catching,” Helmut muttered, walking up close to Sam, taking a glance at the pages the man was reading as well.

A chill ran down your spine as you processed what was being said. The gods you had encountered, the darkness that had nearly consumed you—this was no mere game of wishes. It was something much more sinister, more insidious.

Helmut’s eyes narrowed, clearly deep in thought.

“And these pages are still out there?” he asked quietly, his gaze drifting from the pages to Strange, Wong and Wanda.

Strange nodded, “Unfortunately, yes. We believe the pages are scattered, lost across dimensions and realms. They’ve been hidden for a reason, but with the right tools—or enough desperation—someone could still find them.”

You exchanged a glance with Helmut, then Sam and Bucky. The room was silent, save for the faint rustle of pages as Sam flipped through the book in his hands. The reality of what lay ahead was starting to sink in.

“Well, who wrote these enchantments?” you asked, turning to Wong, “I assume it was not Chthon, he would never write something that put himself at risk of being caught in a pact that would not be beneficial for him. If we find the person, perhaps we could discover how these valves work and how to locate them.”

Wong’s silence was loud. His eyes flickered briefly to Strange and Wanda, as if he was weighing if it was a good idea or not to say what he was about to say.

“Chthon didn’t write these specific enchantments,” he agreed, clearly reluctant, “They were added later, by someone else.”

Your heart stilled. The ominous in his words encouraged you into trying to decipher the insinuation that lingered there.

Wanda stepped closer, her gaze softening as if she was preparing you for the blow, “These pages... They were written by your mother.”

That was a punch to the gut, leaving you momentarily breathless. The room seemed to blur around you, your world narrowing down to those words.

Your mother.

When Wanda said your mother’s name next, it was like listening to the beginning of a ghost story. Because, that was always how you had pictured your real mother in your life: as a ghost. An unknown face and person.

And, now? Now, her name carried an even heavier haunted aura than before.

“My mother?” The words slipped out, half-question, half-disbelief. How could the woman you barely remembered—the mother you'd never really known—be even more tied to all of this? “She wrote the enchantments?”

Wanda nodded slowly, "She didn’t mean for this to happen. Chthon tore at her mind, twisted her intentions, but her goal was to protect us. To protect you."

The silence that followed felt too loud in your head. When you were young, sometimes you would play pretend and imagine how your mother was.

She was a figure in your life you’d held at a distance, a ghost from a past you’d long decided to forget. But now? Now you had her magic inside you. Her choices had shaped the very chaos you fought against, even if it wasn’t intentional.

There was nothing that you or her could have done, it just happened.

Wong interjected, sensing the initial distress in your face,“She didn’t write the entire book, but the parts about the escape valves that govern the Elder Gods. She was one of the most powerful witches of her time—one of the last white witches beside your late aunt—but toward the end of her life, her mind... Broke.”

White… What? It was a really good question but, now, you were too sunk in your own thoughts to consider it.

The more you thought about it all, the more you felt the air leave your lungs completely. You were incapable of facing any of your friends, you only maintained your eyes to the Scarlet Witch and Supreme Sorcerer.

It made you feel less judged. Even if a great part of the judgment you felt over your shoulder came from yourself and no one else.

All that mess, all the problems you had been facing and would face in the future, it was your family’s fault. You couldn't stop yourself to wonder what your friends were thinking about you. Your mother hadn’t just disappeared from your life—she had left behind a legacy of destruction, one you and your friends were now tasked with unraveling.

Helmut, who had been standing quietly next to you, reached out. His hand settled gently on your shoulder.

“She was caught in something beyond her control,” he said, his voice quiet but steady. "Don’t let this consume you."

Yet, it was easier than done. Helmut’s hand remained steady on your shoulder, but your thoughts felt anything but.

The revelations about your mother—that woman you had never met until today—was unraveling everything you thought you understood about your past. It was almost impossible to wrap your mind around the idea that her actions, intentional or not, had led all of you to this tangled web of chaos.

Every time you figured that a fraction of your past was a lie, the world around you became smaller and smaller.

"I don’t know if I can..." you finally answered Helmut, gathering the courage to say something to him, anything really.

"You can." His hand tightened just slightly, offering a reassurance that was hard to ignore, "This is not a legacy, nor a burden. But, it's your choice what you do with it now."

But how could it not be any of that? Not a legacy? Not a burden either?

Your mother had written those pages, had created the very spells you now had to hunt down. Everything page you thought you had turned was suddenly crashing back into your life, and the ink of each one was tainting your hands.

The journal you held was heavier than before, not just because of its age, but because of what it symbolized—a link to the past you never fully understood, and now had to confront. Your thumb traced the worn edges as you tried to absorb everything Wong, Strange and Wanda had said.

The truth was undeniable.

"Your mother didn’t want this," Wong reminded you, sensing your turmoil. "She did everything she could to stop Chthon. But now, her attempts to protect the world are also what could also doom us if they fall into the wrong hands."

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with dread. Every second felt like a countdown, the ticking of an unseen clock reminding you that every moment spent debating was a moment wasted. But the fear of rushing into something so dangerous, so unknown, kept you tethered to the spot.

It was very clear that they would ask you to hunt those pages. All of them had their own troubles, in the same level of danger as this one. The obvious thing was to task you with this mission.

Yet, there was something unsaid hanging among you. Wanda, Strange and Wong were acting as if they were circling around a specific topic. But, you could already assume what it would be.

The original caster of these enchantments was gone, you were the only one left of her family. The conclusion after that was kind of obvious.

But it didn't ease your thoughts.

What were they actually expecting you to do exactly?

You were her daughter from what they had said, okay. And, that also made you a ‘white witch’, even if you had no idea of the meaning of it. Okay… What did all of that mean exactly?

Strange’s sharp voice cut through your thoughts before you could go further, "The longer we wait, the more vulnerable we become. These pages won’t stay hidden for long."

"So we’re running out of time," Sam spoke up, his tone laced with concern, more aware now of the gravity of the matter you were discussing. Honestly, in the beginning, you also had assumed that Wong’s monologue about the Darkhold was a bunch of weird and complex concepts for your mind to grapple in. "When should we go?"

Wanda, who had remained quiet up until now, stepped forward. Her gaze stayed fixed on yours, steady and strangely gentle at the same time, as though she understood what you were grappling with.

"Well, that's what makes the task complicated," she said quietly, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow. "It's not only about finding the pages... It’s about making sure you’re ready to face what comes with them, ."

Her words echoed in your mind, pulling you back to the core of your fear. You knew exactly what she was leading too, but you thought that ignoring it would make it untrue.

"So, you're saying..." Helmut began, his voice quiet as he glanced at you. Just like you, he was well aware of what Wanda would say next.

The Scarlet Witch slowly nodded, turning in your direction, “You are a white witch as her mother and her aunt were, and all the witches before them, these enchantments were written with white magic, order magic. Only a white witch can find the pages and undo their enchantments.”

Which meant: you.

You blinked, trying to absorb the enormity of what she was saying by this little implication. The heritage you had never fully known was now over your head, pouding as a drum, urging you to take responsibility for something that had been decided long before you were even aware of it.

How could you, a day or two after you discovered exactly who you were, take the reins and steer that runaway carriage back onto the road? Easy, you couldn’t.

"I don’t know if I can," you admitted out loud, "I’m not ready."

It was a subject that Wanda, Strange and Wong were avoiding, and you weren't stupid, it was pretty obvious why. They had barely mentioned what it was, only mentioning how it was complicated to discuss when you should go.

"None of us ever are," Wanda replied instantly, stepping closer. "But you have more strength in you than you realize."

That didn’t answer the question, how were you supposed to go there immediately ready for what would come next? There wasn’t, not if you wanted to prevent the problem before it could bite you in the ass.

"I don’t want to waste time," you said, your voice quiet but more certain.

"Then we won’t," Sam reassured you, his voice calm. "We’re ready when you are."

But you didn’t mean that you were ready. Quite the contrary. You just didn’t want to lose any time, who would guarantee that while you were training in a safe space, the world would stop and wait for you?

“I still can find them, I will figure out a way,” you reassured them, closing the book and clutching it close to your chest. Honestly, you were more reassuring yourself than them. “You said I’m a white witch, whatever this is, so that means I can figure out a way, nonetheless.”

Wanda nodded, but her face didn't seem to agree so much, “And a red witch, yes.”

There was no hesitation in her words, but a layer of caution. The same caution was present in Strange and Wong’s eyes as the three of them exchanged glances.

“Your mother’s magic was a force of protection, very powerful, but yours has become…” Wanda hesitated, trying to look for the words again, “Different. You carry both the light and the darkness within you now, order and chaos. It’s a rare, dangerous combination in a witch.”

The Scarlet Witch sighed, taking a final look at Strange’s direction. Wong shook his head up and down, as to motivate her to say what she should say.

“It’s difficult to say how your magic will manifest. Before, you only showed glimpses of your mother’s powers. Now, you have access to all of it—and the chaos magic.” Her eyes locked onto yours one more time, “It will be hard to tell them apart, especially when you need it most.”

“But it is possible,” you interjected, your voice firm, holding onto a sliver of desperation.

You needed assurance that despite everything—this was a battle you could fight and win without waiting for the inevitable. Without being stuck in a school for a couple of months, as if the danger would wait for you to learn what was the power inside you.

Wanda paused, before nodding quietly, leaving you to face Strange’s strong will.

“Yes, it’s possible.” He agreed, shaking his head. You already could hear the disapproval. “But only if you learn how to control both forces without letting either consume you. That’s why If you choose to stay here, in the Academy, we can help you. Wanda can teach you what she learned about chaos magic to get to where she is today, while Wong and I help you understand more about the history of your ancestors, everything that may be necessary for the mission.”

His words echoed in your mind, but it was hard to focus on them. Your thoughts kept drifting back to the journal in your hands. It felt heavy in a way that had nothing to do with the physical weight of its pages.

“And when will I finish my lessons?” you asked, looking at the three of them.

No one of them seemed excited to get the short end of the stick about giving you the answer.

“Hm,” Wong gulped, driving his eyes away from you, “If we are lucky, two months.”

Two? And that if you were optimistic?

The urgency inside you churned, making you feel restless. Every second seemed to be slipping away from you, and the idea of staying behind to practice, to learn, understand… All of that felt absurd.

“I don’t have time for this,” you said, “I can’t stay here while something can go wrong as we speak right now.”

Unlike you, Wanda, Strange and Wong remained calm, as if they’d expected that reaction. It made you hate the situation even more.

“We understand,” Wanda said, sympathetically, or trying. Did they, though? “But you also need to be prepared. You’re not just dealing with the chaos around you; you’re dealing with what’s inside you.”

The reminder made you chill, as if something was crawling off your pores. There was the faint voice again, far away from you since the last time you saw him.

But, there wasn’t a moment that you didn’t feel him or hear him. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t forget him.

Wong stepped forward, looking at your friends.

“This isn’t just a mission to retrieve some lost artifact. You’re going to be facing forces more ancient and powerful than anything you’ve encountered.” He glanced at the journal in your hands. “If you go out there without knowing how to control what’s inside you... It could destroy you.”

Strange joined in, his voice pragmatic and weighted with experience. They were truly teaming up against you.

“And let’s not forget the threat already within you—Chthon,” When did they? That was… What? The third time? You’ve lost count,” He’s not just waiting for you to find those pages. He’s waiting for you to slip up. Every moment of hesitation, every decision you make, he’ll be there, trying to influence your magic, your choices.”

Your jaw clenched, trying with all your might to understand their point of view, to believe that what they were saying was true. And it was, it was true, but the problem was that at no point did they deny the likelihood that danger would arrive and it would be too late for you to fight it.

And then what? What would have been your training for? Nothing.

It would never have mattered.

“I’ve faced chaos before,” you stated, taking a step closer to the three members of the Academy, “I’ll be able to handle this.”

But the doubt had already dipped in, curling around your words before they left your lips.

Could you handle this? The uncertainty that clawed at your chest made you wonder if you were trying to convince yourself more than anyone else. You had fought against your father, but you didn’t win. If you had, he would be out of your mind and never to be heard again.

That was not the case. And after that, your mind was in tunnel vision as you used your magic to do exactly what you wanted. You were still running on adrenaline, too distracted to think about what had happened. Summing up, you have gotten lucky.

If you tried to do the same thing now, would you be able to do it again on the first try? You doubted it, really.

You weren’t quite sure, but what better choices did you have left? Either way, danger would be following you in every corner.

Wanda’s expression softened again, her gaze never leaving yours, “Surviving isn’t the same as controlling.”

You knew where she was coming from.

After Sokovia… Things had been hard for Wanda, you felt bad even thinking about talking about it whether she was in the room or not. For so long, she had a sad history, and now that she was finally enjoying a peaceful life, you felt like talking about the past would ruin it.

“Your magic is different now.” Wanda muttered, leaning her head as she spoke, “Stronger, yes, but also more dangerous. Chthon’s influence is like a shadow—always there, always lurking. You’re not just fighting what’s out there, you’re fighting yourself, Strange is not wrong.”

The truth of her words struck hard. But before you could respond, Sam stepped forward.

He seemed more frustrated than you, his brows drawn as he frowned.

“She’s right,” He met your gaze, and for the first time, you allowed yourself to look back at him, truly see him.

You closed your eyes, your face turning to a random corner rather than his figure. You were brave, but not enough to face a friend about to shove in your face that the grown-ups were right and you shouldn't disagree.

“You’re not invincible,” Sam continued, “And you don’t have to be. Whatever you choose, we will go with you either way.”

Quickly, your eyes opened as they snapped back at him, you glanced at Bucky and Helmut’s direction as well, as if to believe he and the others were serious. They all shared the same passion in their eyes, a sense of trust that had always been there, but only now were you aware of it.

The mere thought of it made your heart melt.

The words were at the tip of your tongue, but something held you back. A nagging thought that had been building in the back of your mind.

“I thought... I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to go,” you admitted in the silence, hoping no one would listen.

But of course they did. You wished they wouldn’t, saying it out loud made you sound so stupid.

Bucky’s blunt tone cut through the room like a knife, “After everything?” He raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady.

His voice made you feel stupid for thinking such a silly thing.

“You really think we’d follow you this far just to walk away when things get tough?” His arms crossed, and there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Whatever you decide, we’re here. We’ll go when you’re ready. Not a second before or after.”

Helmut, who had been silent until now, stepped closer. His hand never left your shoulder, not once, a silent anchor in the storm brewing inside you.

“This isn’t about rushing into danger,” he said quietly, caughting your attention. “Whether you stay or leave... We’ll follow you, wherever you go.”

You swallowed hard, the weight of the decision pressing down on you. It has always been your instinct to bear the responsibility alone, to carry the burden of your duties on your own. But here they were, offering something you hadn’t realized you already had, for a long time.

Their belief in you.

It just took you a long time to realize it fully.

“I don’t want to waste time,” you said again, your voice quieter than ever but still filled with the urgency you couldn’t quite shake.

Sam smiled softly, his hand joining Helmut’s on your other shoulder, “Then we won’t waste time,” he reassured you. “Wherever you go, we’re right behind you.”

Wherever we go, you whispered back in your mind. For a moment, you would allow yourself to do what was right for you, choosing to forget the fear of making a mistake pounding in your head.

Darkhold was written by your father, your mother had written the enchantments that chained him and the other Elder Gods into some of the pages. Now, it was up to you now to stop it once and for all. Well, you and Sam, Bucky and Helmut. And, a little of Joaquín as well.

You could know almost nothing about being a witch or controlling magic, but you were smart, you could still figure out a way before losing yourself.

At least, you should try. You would never say it out loud, because you knew how immediately the boys would change their mind, but you rathered danger, cornering you and you only than the whole world.

If the scattered pages were the future ruin that would befall you, they would have to first face you and your lack of control before they could find anyone else. You would ensure that they reached no one else, even if it doomed you.

Strange, sensing that the decision was made, rubbed his temples, already preparing for the inevitable consequences. You were well aware of them too.

“Fine,” he muttered, resigned, “If this is what you’ve decided, we won’t stop you.”

Wong, still unsettled, stepped forward. Sighing, he shook his head, he had also given up from changing your mind.

Even if any of them tried to convince you otherwise, they knew how stubborn you were. The most impossible thing in the world was to stop you from doing something once it stuck in your head.

“At least,” the Sorcerer Supreme said, his shoulders slacking, “Let us offer you a place to rest. You’ve been in the air for days—you must be exhausted.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift. Then Wong added, “You can stay in the Academy until you’re ready to leave. So rest, regroup… And about your Falcon friend,” he glanced at Sam, “he can land here, rather than continuing in the aircraft. It’s safer.”

You hadn’t realized how much the fatigue had settled into your bones until he mentioned rest. You had been running on sheer determination, your parents’ legacy pressing down on you like a vice. Now, in the quiet aftermath of the conversation, that weight felt even more suffocating.

Helmut’s hand remained on your shoulder, grounding, though the silence that followed Wong’s words made it harder to keep your own thoughts at bay. Rest, you repeated in your mind, the concept almost foreign. You’d been on edge for so long, fighting battles—both internal and external—that stopping, even for a moment, felt unnatural.

But perhaps it wasn’t just rest you needed. Perhaps, what you needed was time to process everything, to sift through the chaos that had become your life.

The room began to clear, Sam gave you a reassuring nod before he quietly followed Bucky out the door, along with Strange and Wong. Leaving you and Wanda in a silence that felt both heavy and comforting.

You held the grimoire in your hands, its weight somehow tormenting what was left of your thought, but even as the room emptied, you were still aware of Helmut standing by your side. He hadn’t said anything since Wong’s offer to stay and rest for the night, but you could feel him—his presence, solid and unyielding. His hand, which had remained on your shoulder for what felt like forever, suddenly tightened, just slightly.

There was a warmth in his touch, a quiet reassurance that you weren’t in this alone, no matter how much the world demanded of you.

You turned to meet his gaze, his eyes softer than you’d ever seen them, a mixture of concern and something else you couldn’t quite place. There was always a guardedness about Helmut, but now? It felt like the walls between you were thinner, as if something had shifted in the space between you both.

And had, hadn’t it?

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching out. Then, with a tenderness that caught you off guard, Helmut leaned down, pressing a kiss to your cheek. It wasn’t hurried or rushed, but soft, lingering, as though he was savoring the moment.

When he pulled back, his voice was low, almost a whisper, “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

The words, simple as they were, carried a weight that settled in your chest, mingling with the exhaustion and the uncertainty of everything still ahead. But somehow making the storm inside you a little less overwhelming.

Helmut’s fingers slid away from your shoulder, and as he stepped toward the door, he cast one last glance over his shoulder, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer before he turned and left the room. The quiet sound of the door closing behind him was soft, but it echoed in the space he left behind.

You stood there for a moment, your cheek still warm from the brief touch of his lips, the weight of the grimoire in your hands grounding you once again. But now, you felt a little steadier, knowing that when you left this room, when you stepped out into whatever came next, you wouldn’t be facing it alone.

Your fingers tightened even more around the edges of the journal Wanda had handed you. The cool, worn leather felt solid in your hands, but the reality of what it represented was anything but… Only to remind you that you weren’t alone.

"I understand you, more than you know,” Wanda said softly, breaking the silence as she approached, her gaze soft but focused. “When I first came to understand my place in this world—my powers—it felt like everything that happened, everything I had to face, was my responsibility to fix."

You turned to face her, your grip tightening on the book. There was an odd comfort in hearing her say those words. She had lived through chaos, walked through fire, and here she stood, offering understanding that no one else could.

“At least you’ve realized something I hadn’t,” Wanda continued, a small, almost wistful smile tugging at her lips. “You know you’re not alone in this. It took me much longer to figure that out.”

Her words settled over you, heavy with truth. She was right. You did have support, even if the weight of the responsibility still felt unbearable. The boys were with you—Helmut, Sam, Bucky. They had followed you this far, and they weren’t turning back now. But still, the burden of your lineage felt like something only you could truly carry.

“You’ve come far, too,” you said quietly, looking back at her. “You’ve learned how to balance the power inside you.”

Wanda’s expression shifted slightly, the smile fading as she nodded.

“It took time... More time than I wanted to admit. But I got there eventually. And you will too.” She stepped closer, her eyes filled with that same sadness she often wore—a sadness of someone who had lost much and gained little in return. “But you have to be careful. Chaos magic... It doesn’t play by the rules. And mix with order magic? It’s difficult to predict what will happen.”

You swallowed hard, feeling the truth of her words settle in your bones. Chaos magic wasn’t something you could tame easily. It was wild, unpredictable, and you weren’t entirely sure how to navigate it yet. The thought of staying behind to learn more gnawed at you, but the idea of what could happen with those pages in someone else’s hands… It haunted you even more.

“Do you think I made the wrong choice?” you asked, your voice low as the question finally slipped out. You needed to hear her say it, even if part of you already feared the answer.

Wanda sighed, stopping by your side, taking a look at the journal that you held before responding, “I guess there isn’t a wrong decision, if that’s what you are truly asking me.”

Relief flowed through your body momentarily, your limbs relaxed at the same second the answer arrived to your ears.

“It’s just that…” You hesitated, cracking your fingers one by one, “I don’t see the point in training when, meanwhile, someone can already take their hands in one of the pages. There is no guarantee of safety while I’m training, are you sure there aren't any more white witches out there?”

The witch offered you a sad smile, “No, there aren’t, I fear. They were already few back then, your family is the only one that remains. By what we had consulted with America before you arrived here, you might as well be our only option in the whole multiverse.”

How ironic that was? Were you truly the only variant alive that was a white witch?

You scoffed at the idea of it, how unlucky you were? The last days had proved to you that you were a lot, in fact.

“In the end, what does it mean exactly?” you lifted a brow in curiosity, “Being a white witch?’

Wanda walked away toward the towering shelves, her fingers lightly brushing against the spines of the ancient books.

"Being a white witch isn’t about just using your power for good or for protection,” Wanda explained, pausing to pull a dusty volume from the shelf. She turned back to you, "It’s about maintaining balance—within yourself and the world around you. Your family was one of the last to truly understand what balance is.”

“You said something about order as well,” you mentioned, seeing the witch taking some of the books from the shelves and piling them over one of her arms.

“I did,” Wanda agreed, glancing at the books she had gathered. She placed them on the table by your side, the weight of each one making the surface creak slightly. “Being a white witch means understanding the balance between order and chaos. There must not be too much or less, just enough. Your family knew that without balance, magic can consume you.”

She paused, her eyes scanning the ancient texts in front of her.

“Your mother, your aunt—they were both remarkable in their own ways. They strived to protect the world from forces they knew they couldn’t fully control. But that’s what being a white witch is—recognizing the danger and facing it anyway, trying to keep the scales even.”

You furrowed your brow, still trying to wrap your mind around everything Wanda was saying. It felt like every answer brought more questions, every revelation only deepened your uncertainty.

“And what happened with my mother?” you asked, “Why did she try to cage the gods? Was she under Chthon’s influence before?”

Wanda’s expression darkened for a moment as she considered your question, “Your mother’s intentions were pure, but... Chthon had sickened her mind, he corrupted every thought of hers. She didn’t realize that by trying to stop him and the other Elder Gods, she was upsetting the balance herself. She thought she was preventing chaos, but in doing so, she brought it closer.”

You felt a chill run through you, the realization settling in.

“So, all of this… The chaos, the Elder Gods, everything—are because of her.” It wasn’t a question anymore, you were only looking for confirmation, no more excuses. No more ‘no intentions’. That was it, she had done it.

Wanda nodded slowly.

“She didn’t mean for it to happen.” she told you, her lips pulling in a half sad smile, “She was trying to protect you, to protect the world. But the problem with magic is that even the best intentions can have unintended consequences.”

You stared down at the journal in your hands, its pages filled with knowledge you hadn’t even begun to grasp. There were other Gods in your world worse than Chthon in many ways.

You had faced your father less than three days ago and you were already facing the fact that he wouldn’t be the first, there were more, just waiting for a selfish or disparate soul to get their hands in one of the pages and have their mind corrupted.

Did you have to be the last white witch? You asked yourself, staring at one of your hands as you slowly summoned a little of your magic only to see the white, black and now red energy flowing through your fingers.

"Why white, though?" you asked, eager to change the subject before your thoughts spiraled too far. "There’s black in the way I manifest magic. So, why call it 'white'?"

Wanda chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to echo through the quiet library. She opened one of the books she'd laid on the table, her fingers tracing the old, weathered pages.

"Originally, their name in Latin was 'veneficae concordiae in tenebris'—witches of harmony in the dark," she explained, her voice gentle but precise. "It referred to their understanding of both the light and dark forces within magic. But over time, people started calling them 'White Witches' to avoid the fear or suspicion that often comes with darkness. It wasn’t about purity—it was about balance. Your family, the witches of harmony, knew that true magic requires both light and shadow. They held the order in our world long before books were written."

You blinked, processing what she was telling you. "So, it’s about bringing harmony in darkness, in the literal sense?"

Wanda nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Exactly. Your family’s magic was never purely light or dark. It was about ensuring one didn’t overwhelm the other. That’s why their magic is both black and white. It’s a reflection of the order they maintained—within themselves and in the world around them."

A silence settled between the two of you as you absorbed this new information. It was strange, hearing that your family, that you, were part of something much larger than you had ever realized. All this talk about balance, light and dark, made your role feel bigger than just fighting Elder Gods or stopping dark magic.

And yet, that same sense of responsibility weighed heavily on your chest.

"Your mother was part of this balance too, I know I had said that many times now, but I must be sure that you understand that" Wanda continued, her tone softening. "But when your mother tried to stop Chthon… She didn’t realize how deeply his influence had rooted in her mind."

The mention of your mother again brought you back to the reality of the situation. You bit your lip, eyes flickering down to the journal in your hands.

"Do you think I’ll make the same mistakes?" you asked, not looking up. The question lingered in the air, and you hated how vulnerable you sounded.

Wanda paused, considering your words carefully.

"I don’t know," she admitted, a sad and strange smile adorning her face again. "But what I do know is that you’re different. You’ve seen what unchecked power can do. You understand the stakes now. And you have us."

Us. What a strange word to use, you thought.

In part, you knew she was telling you the truth, because it would be the same thing that Helmut would tell if you had asked him the same question. Everytime you would ask why his morals didn’t apply to you, he would say that you were different.

That despite the power you held, then and now, you would never be the type of person to let it consume you. Even if you wished in a twisted future, you were incapable to, in your soul. And, deep down, you suspected that he was right.

There was a reason why you had resisted Chthon.

“You’re not alone in this.” Wanda’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, grounding you once more. “You have us. You have Helmut, Sam, Bucky, and me. And... You have this.” She made a gesture and, by a twist of her hand, a red energy entangled her fingers and a book was summoned in her hands.

“Go on,” she handed it to you, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she tried to hide it, “Take it.”

You left the journal about the Elder Gods over the table so you could pick up the new book Wanda had given you. The weight of it was different—not heavy, but dense, like it carried centuries of knowledge within its pages. Its cover was a deep, muted red, worn and cracked along the edges, as if it had been passed through many hands before reaching you.

The intricate, faded designs on the cover seemed to shimmer faintly under the dim light, the patterns twisting in on themselves like spells hidden in plain sight. A subtle pulse of energy emanated from the book, almost like a heartbeat.

As you held it, you felt a warmth spread through your fingers, not unlike the sensation you experienced when your magic first awakened. It was... Welcoming. A strange comfort in a world that had been anything but.

“This is no ordinary book,” Wanda said, watching your reaction carefully. “It contains notes from your aunt, but also from me when I first started to understand my own powers. It’s not just a record of spells—it’s a guide, a roadmap to understanding yourself. There’s even space for your own thoughts and creations, for you to make it yours.”

You turned the book over in your hands, feeling the texture of the leather, the way the edges of the pages seemed to hum with untapped potential. You traced your finger along the spine, feeling the faint pulse of magic running through it, as if the book was alive in some way.

“So,” you hesitated, looking up to the woman, “Is it a grimoire?”

My grimoire? It was what you wished you had asked, but you were too shy to dare to do so. The question sounded too silly to get out of your thoughts.

“Don’t know, maybe,” Wanda gestured toward the last section of the grimoire. "Go ahead. Open it."

You hesitated, the grimoire heavy in your hands.

It wasn’t just a book. It was a symbol—a connection to your family’s legacy, to Wanda’s journey, and now, to your own. If someone had told you years ago that this would happen, you for sure would have admitted the person to the mental hospital. The whole idea was crazy even now, as you opened the book.

The pages crackled softly as they turned.

The first few pages were filled with your aunt’s careful, precise handwriting—notations, diagrams, sketches of magical symbols you didn’t yet recognize. Some pages were devoted to protection spells, others to the delicate balance between chaos and order, her ideas and theories. But as you flipped further, you found notes written in a more familiar hand—Wanda’s.

The ink was darker, bolder, but the messages were clear. There were all her enchantments, spells she had created herself or learned on her own.

You could see her struggles, her fears, her questions, written in the margins. It was as if she had left pieces of herself in the book, to guide you, to warn you, to reassure you that even she had once felt the weight of this responsibility. She and your aunt as well, all of them there to help you in your own journey.

And then, as Wanda had said, the pages became blank.

Your pages.

You paused, staring down at the empty space, the crisp paper waiting for your words, your thoughts, your own runes, spells and enchantments.

“This grimoire,” Wanda said, her smile widening, “is yours now. It carries the past, but it’s yours to shape. Whatever path you choose, it will guide you to your own person.”

A map to your place, to where you will fit in this new world that has opened its doors for you. Your heart jumped with the thought, comforted by the gift as if Wanda had just hugged you. Without you noticing, a smile creeped out of your own lips.

You looked up at her again, "Thank you," your voice barely audible.

She shrugged, the smile never leaving her face.

"It’s not about what’s written," she said, placing her hands over your shoulders, "It’s about what you’ll write next."

You glanced down at the blank pages again, your heart beating steadily, though your thoughts were a storm of uncertainty. In a way, the empty pages felt like a mirror of your life—unwritten, waiting for you to fill them with your next choices.

There weren’t wrong decisions, only attempts to do the right thing. And, while it was an attempt, it was enough. In a way or another, you would find the right path.

“Take it one step at a time.” she reminded you, “You’re not alone in this.”

Her words echoed in your mind as she slowly turned away, leaving you alone with the grimoire in your hands. The grimoire and your thoughts. And that voice.

Whether you liked it or not, it would always be there from now on.

You made your way to the upper floors of the Strange Academy, feeling the ancient energy pulse in the very walls around you. After winding through several quiet corridors, you finally found Helmut standing by a large, arched window that overlooked the academy’s training grounds.

The scene outside was almost serene—students practicing their spells under the watchful eye of a professor, their magical auras creating bright flashes of light against the twilight sky. The view was mesmerizing, but Helmut seemed lost in thought, his focus elsewhere.

He himself looking like this, his thoughts straying away and eyes working their way around his mind, was quite the view as well.

You approached quietly, noting how his posture was tensely calm. His hand rested lightly on the window’s frame, his eyes followed the students below.

"Do you regret it?" you asked in a whisper, breaking the silence.

Helmut glanced at you but remained silent for a moment longer, his gaze drifting back to the grounds.

"Regret?" he echoed, his voice thoughtful as he gazed at you, “Regret what?”

“Never going back?” you looked away, focusing on the little kids trying to levitate light and heavy objects, “Not in Madripoor, not in Riga, or in the last five years?”

Helmut turned his gaze back to the students, watching their movements with an intensity that contrasted with the serene scene. For a while, he didn’t answer, letting the weight of your question settle between you both.

The light from the window cast a soft glow on his face, highlighting the lines of experience and reflection etched in his features. Not that you were looking at him, of course, you were not.

“I thought about it,” he finally admitted, “In Riga, Madripoor, there were moments where it would’ve been easier to go back and just… End everything. To let things play out the way they should have. But…”

He trailed off, his fingers drumming lightly against the window’s ledge. You could sense the conflict within him—how deeply he wrestled with the choices he had made. You waited, not pushing, knowing he would continue when he was ready.

“But I didn’t want to return,” Helmut continued, turning his gaze toward the horizon. “Not after everything I had seen. Not after you.” His voice softened, losing the edge of calculated detachment you had grown used to, “Somehow, leaving felt like a betrayal of everything I had begun to understand. Of who I was becoming.”

You felt your breath catch slightly, his words weaving between the delicate threads of your emotions. He had always been a man of precise decisions, but hearing him speak so openly now about a choice that felt deeply personal—about staying with you—shifted something inside you.

“And after Wakanda?” you pressed on, stepping closer. “After all that happened?”

Helmut’s gaze flickered for a moment as though recalling the events—the battles, the loss, the redemption that never seemed fully within reach.

“That was different,” he said, quieter now, “There, I thought for a moment that perhaps I had finally paid the price. That I could put everything to rest.”

“But you didn’t,” you concluded. “... You can’t.”

He nodded slowly, his expression solemn, “No. Because even after everything, I realized that there’s still more left to do. More for me to understand.” He paused, then looked at you, his eyes searching. “And more to protect. That’s why I stayed.”

A comfortable silence lingered between you, the need for words fading. Helmut stood beside you, his presence steady, and for once, the air wasn’t filled with tension or questions. It was just the two of you.

You glanced out the window at the students, their laughter and lightheartedness contrasting with the heaviness of your conversation.

“We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?” you mused.

Helmut smiled faintly, “We have,” he agreed. “But we are still here.”

Turning to him, you asked the question you’d been avoiding for a while, “So, what now? What's next?”

Helmut didn’t hesitate this time.

“I thought our promise was still valid,” he lifted his brows at you, a small smile taking hold of his face, “I will be by your side as long as you will have me.”

As the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the window, you couldn't help but notice how it bathed Helmut’s face in a soft glow, highlighting the sharp planes of his features. The warmth of the light softened the intensity of his gaze, casting an almost ethereal glow around him.

Somehow, it made his brown eyes shimmer, reflecting the warmth and depth that had always drawn you in. The sunlight danced in them, as if the very essence of the sun resided there.

Without thinking, your hand reached up, gently cradling his face. Your thumb brushed lightly over his cheek, the warmth of his skin bringing you some life.

The small smile he wore widened just a little, seeing him like that was no longer a rare sight.

“As long as you’ll have me, my dear,” you whispered as you gazed deeply into his eyes, drawn into the light that seemed to radiate from them.

In that instant, everything fell away—the worries, the chaos, the uncertainty. It was just the two of you, standing together, connected by something unspoken yet profoundly real.

With a slow, deliberate motion, you closed the distance between you. Your lips met his in a kiss that was tender, soft, and full of quiet promise. It wasn’t rushed or desperate, it never was, but rather a gentle affirmation of everything unspoken between you. His hand moved to the small of your back, pulling you just a bit closer, as if anchoring you to him.

For a moment, the world outside the window seemed to blur, the sounds of the academy and the distant echoes of training disappearing. It was just the two of you in that warm, golden light, sharing a moment that felt like the beginning of something more.

As you pulled away, your foreheads rested together, and for the first time in days, you felt a moment of stillness wash over you. It was a fragile peace, one that you knew could shatter at any second, but you clung to it, savored it, for just a little while longer.

“I guess we have a lot ahead of us,” you whispered, still close enough to feel the soft warmth of his breath against your skin. “More than we know.”

Helmut’s grip on you tightened ever so slightly, his voice low and full of quiet understanding, “We’ll face it together then.”

You wanted to believe him. At that moment, you really did. But as the golden light began to fade and the shadows stretched across the room, you felt it—just the faintest hint of something cold creeping at the edges of your mind.

Him.

The voice was barely a whisper, but it slithered through your consciousness like a serpent, wrapping itself around your thoughts, tight and unyielding.

You haven’t forgotten me, have you?

Chthon’s voice.

The dark presence that had been lying dormant, waiting in the corners of your mind, was stirring again. You felt it, like a distant echo, just enough to remind you that no matter how much peace you found in this moment, the chaos was never far behind.

Helmut pulled back slightly, his brow furrowing as if sensing the sudden change in you.

“Are you alright?”

You forced a smile, nodding quickly, though the lingering whisper of Chthon’s voice made your heart race.

“I’m fine,” you lied, pushing the dark presence deeper into the recesses of your mind, locking it away. At least for now.

But as you leaned into Helmut’s embrace again, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against yours, you couldn’t help but wonder how long you could keep it there.

How much time would you have until the bomb detonated?

You can’t hide forever, the voice whispered, almost too quiet to hear.

He will be waiting.

[knightofmidnightsun]

I swear i almost finished reviewing the epilogue 😭😭 theres a lot happening in my life, i got accepted in a internship, i went to my mother in law birthday and there is a lot of college's essay lolololol

[knightofmidnightsun]

someone I follow on the bird app just announced they’re starting a very exclusive private fic server because they and a bunch of other people want to talk about how much they love the fics they’re reading, and as an author can I just say that a really great place to talk about a fic you love is in the comments for that fic

I understand that people are trying to create safe spaces, but as the number of comments that I get on my fics dwindles with each passing year, knowing these spaces exist where my fics are being discussed, places that I am excluded from, makes me want to write fic LESS

I mean I guess who cares, right, because if I stop writing, there’s 10,000 other people that will continue…but if you participate in a fic “book club” server and you say nice things there about a fic you loved, maybe copy and paste that into a comment on AO3?

the only thing fanfic writers are asking for in return for hours of hard work is attention. please don’t rob us of the one thing that we hope for when we hit “post”

[knightofmidnightsun]

Not telling your kid they have a learning disability, chronic illness, mental illness etc. so they can “feel normal” actually does the opposite. They will not feel normal if they do not have the context to understand that their normal will be different from that of their peers.

[knightofmidnightsun]

the more i write it, the more i realize im making it more sadder than i first intended

skeletons, skeletons | snippet

since im writing the epilogue, i will grant you a snippet of it

Not only because of what happened today, but for what would happen in the next morning, in less than twelve hours. Five years by Helmut’s side, through every mission, every battle, and now, tomorrow, you were supposed to hand him over to Wakanda.�� A final goodbye after all that time. The thought had been tormenting him ever since Joaquín arrived to rescue you all and said that Dora Milaje had demanded your presence. You tried not to look at Helmut as he sat in the shadows, sleeping so peacefully. He hadn’t said much since Joaquín announced the news, and part of you wished he had. Helmut could have changed along those five years—but he still was Baron Helmut Zemo. God forbid he tells you what he's thinking, how he’s feeling, knowing now that after five years, he'll be back in his cell. You tsked, also angered with yourself for not gathering the courage to question him. You had courage enough to trap your demon-father in your mind but not to face Helmut’s departure. Sometimes, you wished you could slap yourself.

im already telling you, it wont be a happy one...........

[knightofmidnightsun]

"How do you write such realistic dialogue-" I TALK TO MYSELF. I TALK TO MYSELF AND I PRETEND I AM THE ONE SAYING THE LINE. LIKE SANITY IS SLOWLY SLIPPING FROM BETWEEN MY FINGERS WITH EVERY MEASLY WORD THEY TYPE OUT. THAT IS HOW.

[knightofmidnightsun]

skeletons, skeletons | snippet

since im writing the epilogue, i will grant you a snippet of it

Not only because of what happened today, but for what would happen in the next morning, in less than twelve hours. Five years by Helmut’s side, through every mission, every battle, and now, tomorrow, you were supposed to hand him over to Wakanda.  A final goodbye after all that time. The thought had been tormenting him ever since Joaquín arrived to rescue you all and said that Dora Milaje had demanded your presence. You tried not to look at Helmut as he sat in the shadows, sleeping so peacefully. He hadn’t said much since Joaquín announced the news, and part of you wished he had. Helmut could have changed along those five years—but he still was Baron Helmut Zemo. God forbid he tells you what he's thinking, how he’s feeling, knowing now that after five years, he'll be back in his cell. You tsked, also angered with yourself for not gathering the courage to question him. You had courage enough to trap your demon-father in your mind but not to face Helmut’s departure. Sometimes, you wished you could slap yourself.

im already telling you, it wont be a happy one...........

[knightofmidnightsun]

**me writing skeletons, skeletons bc i wished there was a world where helmut, bucky and sam continued as an iconic trio---- but with a reason***

power of fanfiction: include things that didn't happen on your playthrough but you wanted to see happen

[knightofmidnightsun]

hey folkk

Soon is the end of reader and helmut's journey in skeletons, skeletons!! but im already planning the sequel!

while im planning and writing the epilogue, my asks are open for you to ask me anything about the fic, the future of it, reader and etc

[knightofmidnightsun]

Let's not lose ourselves [3] | HELMUT ZEMO

Summary: Everything bad can get worse. You and your friends were captured, with your fate uncertain.

Warnings: Description of injuries. angst. a lot of angst again, be ready. description of and violence, referenced sexual harassment, trust issues, dad issues (well, im uncapable of remembering more things that you should be warned about 😅)

Word count: 25K

Skeletons, skeletons series: [1], [2], [3], [epilogue]

Notes: And…… That's the end I guess :))) There'll be an epilogue to close the story but this is quite the end of reader and helmut's journey…. for now, I guess, I'm still thinking about making a sequel!! let's see where it goes thank you so much for who supported the fic!! maybe, who knows, we'll meet again?

The mission was supposed to be simple. Retrieve the stolen super-soldier serum before it could fall into the wrong hands.

But nothing about Riga had gone according to plan.

In fact, the more you thought about it, the more you realized that it all started to go down once Sam and James knocked on your door and remembered that you existed after six months since… Well, since the Snap.

You had started to regret giving them a chance, despite they not knowing you were giving them a chance.

You had arrived at the warehouse, Sam and James right behind you, ready for a fight. But Walker had almost beaten you to it. You still remembered the look in his eyes—twisted, dark, hungry for something more than just justice. There was no justice there, only something far more sinister.

It was the first time you sensed the change in him, the creeping darkness that seemed to consume him, bit by bit. Yes, you had seen what he did to the Flag-Smasher, but you had silently hoped it was driven by anger and grief over his friend’s death.

You wanted to believe he would regret it.

He didn’t.

At one point during the fight, John had already beaten Sam, James was recovering from a heavy kick too close to his lungs and Zemo had been thrown against some containers—which led to you being the only one left standing. And, that’s why you were immediately the first choice to corner before any of your friends could recover.

It had only lasted a few minutes, maybe five or seven, but from time to time it continued to haunt his nights.

In an instant you were with your feet in the ground and in the next, you had been shoved against that same ground, a figure looming over you with his weight. His voice low, too close, his breath clinging to your neck. His grip on your arms was just a little too tight.

There had been something predatory in his gaze, something that made your skin crawl. You had tried to fight him off, of course you had—you weren’t someone who gave up easily.

But, either way, the memory stuck in your mind, lingering in the back of it, making your skin prickle whenever you thought of that single moment.

You had never told Sam or James, never. They were too focused on the mission, on the serum, on their own battles. But Zemo... He had seen it, you knew he had.

While you were pinned beneath John, struggling to break free, you caught a glimpse of Zemo rising to his feet. His eyes locked onto you, taking in the scene.

At the end, you kicked John away before Zemo could reach you in time to assist. His presence was a silent reassurance after what just had happened.

When everything was done, you hoped he wouldn’t say anything, that the moment would pass without comment. But after the fight, Zemo approached you, his voice soft, gentle—so much that it nearly deceived you.

“I never liked him,” Zemo murmured, his tone deceptively calm, “From the first moment I met him, I knew there was something twisted in him. The serum only made it worse.”

You glanced up at him, still trying to steady your breath after the fight.

"You always think the serum is the problem," you replied, trying to brush off the weight of what had just happened, "But it’s more than that. People are complicated."

Zemo raised an eyebrow, stepping closer as if considering your words carefully.

"You believe it’s more nuanced? That there’s something redeemable in a man who seeks power for himself?"

His tone was calm, but you sensed the challenge beneath it.

The memory of John’s grip on your arm lingered, the weight of it more unsettling than the bruises he left behind. You didn’t want to talk about it, didn’t want to give the moment any more power than it already held over you.

However, you weren’t the kind of person to decline a challenge.

"It’s not always about power," you said, straightening up, "People are driven by more than that. Fear, anger, grief—sometimes they make choices, bad ones, but that doesn’t mean they’re irredeemable."

Zemo chuckled softly, but there was no real humor in it.

"You sound like him—Steve. Always looking for a glimmer of hope, even in the darkest corners." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. "But you know better, don’t you? You’ve seen what people are capable of when pushed to the edge."

You paused, considering his words. It was true—you had seen the worst in people, watched them fall apart or do unspeakable things when they felt there was no other option. But there was something different about how Zemo framed it, as if he believed the darkness was inevitable.

And you didn’t, you were incapable to believe it to be true.

"People are capable of more than just destruction, Zemo. I don’t see the world in the same way you do."

"No, you don’t,” He smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes, “You still believe in justice. In redemption. But what is justice, really?" He stepped closer, his voice lowering. "Is it bringing the guilty to trial? Or is it doing what needs to be done, even when the world refuses to?"

You met his gaze, feeling the weight of his words, what he meant by each of them. Of course you knew what he was referring to, you knew his story. You were there when it all unfolded.

"You think what you did in the past was justice?" you asked quietly, a challenge laced in your tone aimed back at him. "Killing all those people, tearing families apart—do you really believe that was justice? You can tell yourself it was to avenge what you lost in Sokovia, but that wasn’t justice. That was revenge. You hurt them the way you felt we hurt you, even though they had done nothing to you."

Zemo’s expression remained impassive, but something flickered in his eyes. Anger, maybe? He always seemed to be so full of it, all the time.

"Perhaps,” His voice strained, “But what is the difference between justice and revenge, truly? Is it the law? The rules set by people who fail to understand the cost of power? My family is gone because of those rules." His voice softened, bitter, you almost pitied him, "You of all people should understand that."

You didn’t respond immediately, a chill creeping through you. He wasn’t lying when he said those things—the lines in your world had blurred over the past few years. But that didn’t make him right.

"I understand loss," you admitted, your voice steady. "But I don’t believe it justifies becoming the monster you’re trying to defeat."

Zemo let out a slow breath, his gaze unwavering, watching you with that unnerving stillness he always carried. It was as if he could see through every wall you put up, down to the choices you’d made that still weighed on your conscience.

"And yet, when the time comes, do you not find yourself stepping into that darkness to protect the ones you care for? Do you not make decisions that weigh on your conscience because you know it’s the only way out?"

You looked away for a moment, the truth of his words hitting closer than you would have liked. You had made a lot of choices in the past few days—decisions that left you questioning where you stood in all of this, and whether you’d made any mistakes along the way.

But you couldn’t let it consume you; you had to believe that somewhere along the way, you’d done at least one good thing.

If not, what was your purpose in this world?

“No,” you confessed quietly. “Every day, I just try not to let the darkness win.”

Zemo watched you intently, his gaze narrowing as he took in your words. He seemed almost contemplative, as if weighing the significance of what you had just said.

"And yet, it’s always there," he said, closing his way to you, "Waiting. Watching. It never leaves, even for people like you who strive to do what’s right." He paused, then added, "You may not see it yet, but you and I… We are not so different."

You shot him a look, the tension tightening in your chest, "We’re nothing alike."

“Maybe not in the choices we’ve made,” Zemo replied, his voice measured, his eyes distant as if weighed by unseen burdens. “But in how we’ve learned to bear them. The weight of our pasts never truly leaves us, does it?” His gaze softened, meeting yours with quiet understanding. “You carry your guilt silently, but I see it. You question your path, just as I once questioned mine.”

You clenched your fists, the tension in your shoulders tightening, “Justice might be slow, but it’s done, sooner or later."

“Justice is blind,” Zemo murmured, his voice low, "And often, it allows those who deserve punishment to escape it."

His words pressed down on you, slipping through the cracks of your resolve. They carried a weight that was hard to shake—the weight of someone who had lost faith in the system long ago, as you had.

And in that moment, you could feel the doubt creeping in, the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface.

But you couldn’t let his cynicism pull you into that darkness. You wouldn’t.

“No,” you said, more firmly than before. “That’s the difference between us, Zemo. You think the world’s broken beyond repair, that it needs to be torn down. But it’s not. People aren’t beyond saving.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was laced with something deeper—resignation, perhaps even sorrow. His eyes, usually so guarded, softened for a brief second, as if your words stirred something long buried.

“Perhaps,” he said quietly, his voice almost wistful. “But sometimes, it’s those who believe they can save the world who end up falling the hardest.”

His words lingered in the air between you, thick with meaning, weighed down by everything unsaid. It was a silence that felt more loaded than any argument you could have had. Despite all the differences you held onto, there was an undeniable connection—a recognition of the burdens you both carried, though on opposite sides of the same line.

You held his gaze a moment longer, then quietly added, “Maybe… But after enough falls, we learn we don’t have to carry the weight of the world alone.”

A slight flicker of surprise crossed Zemo’s features—subtle, but telling. He hadn’t expected your quiet defiance, the strength in your words that resisted the pull of darkness he had come to know so well.

For a brief moment, something shifted in his eyes—something like respect, or perhaps even understanding.

It was fleeting, but unmistakable.

A week later, you were surprised at what you were about to do. Not you alone: you, James and Sam.

The air in Wakanda carried a different weight—a thick tension, as if the entire country was holding its breath. You, Sam, and Bucky followed the silent, unyielding presence of the Dora Milaje through the gleaming corridors of the Wakandan prison. Each step echoed with anticipation, the quiet forewarning of what was to come. You glanced at James, his face set in an unreadable mask, and then at Sam, his jaw clenched.

It had only been a week since the world you knew had shifted once again—since Sam had taken up the mantle of Captain America, and James had begun to reconcile with the ghosts of his past.

And you... Well, you were still navigating your own demons, particularly those tied to John Walker. The scars of the past weeks were fresh, raw, but beneath them, there was something new. A tentative sense of belonging, of purpose, after months of uncertainty.

The three of you had shared a long, difficult conversation about the months of silence after Steve’s departure—months that had felt like an eternity. You spoke of the loneliness, the sense of drifting without him. Steve had been the glue that bound you together, and in his absence, it felt like you were each left to figure out how to move forward on your own. But now, maybe, just maybe, you were finding your way back to each other. Sam had his new role. James had begun to reclaim his life. And you…

You were trying to figure out what would be of you.

And then, there was Helmut Zemo.

The man who had, paradoxically, both shattered the Avengers and helped you in your mission. The same man who had quietly disappeared during the fight with the Dora Milaje, only to return later and fight by your side when he could have stayed hidden.

Zemo had made a choice that day—a choice to see the mission through, when he could have taken the easier road and vanished.

And now, once again, you were here. Asking for his help.

The heavy footfalls of the Dora Milaje echoed through the halls, their silence a stark contrast to the gravity of what lay ahead. You felt their eyes on you, the weight of their unspoken judgment. There was no room for error, and they made that clear.

"You understand the risks, right?" Ayo’s voice sliced through the tension, her gaze sharp as a blade. "Do not make us regret this."

Sam nodded firmly, his voice calm but resolute. "We understand the stakes."

Beside you, James shifted, his hands flexing, betraying the tension he kept bottled inside. You knew the history between him and Zemo was fraught with unhealed wounds, but James was the one who suggested bringing him back.

There was something about the time they’d spent together that had shifted things between them.

On the mission, Zemo had been careful. He hadn’t pushed James, hadn’t manipulated him into crossing any lines—even when it might make things easier. There were no cutting remarks, no barbed jokes about the past. He didn’t even try to test James the way he once had.

You’d caught them talking quietly one night, a brief conversation that ended with a handshake—something that spoke volumes for the two men the next morning.

Sam had also softened toward Zemo, though he hadn’t voiced it outright. He was still wary, still guarded, but something had changed. You recalled a moment during the mission when Zemo had asked him about his sister.

At first, Sam had bristled, thinking it was a ploy to get under his skin. But there had been no malice in Zemo’s tone—only genuine curiosity, concern. Perhaps it was that subtle gesture that had planted the seed of reluctant trust between them.

As for you… It was harder to define.

You had always seen something in Zemo, a quiet understanding that grew between you as you observed him more closely. There was something about the way he carried his grief, his loss, that resonated with your own pain.

Even back then, when he had torn the Avengers apart, part of you had understood him. Maybe that’s why you hadn’t completely closed yourself off to him—why you found yourself drawn to the complexities that made him, him.

The cell block came into view, the same cold, sterile environment you had seen before. The Dora Milaje stopped in front of the door, their leader, Ayo, turning to face you one last time.

“If he doesn’t come back, you will be held accountable. Remember that.”

You gave a short nod. There was no room for mistakes.

Sam, standing just a step ahead, took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Helmut Zemo sat inside, as calm and composed as ever, his gaze lifting as the three of you entered. His expression didn’t change—no surprise, no smugness, just a quiet understanding.

As if he had expected this.

"Captain America," Zemo greeted Sam with a slight incline of his head. His gaze shifted to James. "James. And..." His eyes lingered on you for a moment, that familiar flicker of something unspoken passing between you. "It seems we’re becoming quite the team, aren’t we?"

Sam didn’t bother with pleasantries. "We need your help, Zemo."

Zemo leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "Of course you do," he replied, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "What is it this time? More rogue super soldiers? Or something else?"

James’ expression hardened. "John Walker."

The air seemed to shift at the mention of Walker’s name. Zemo’s gaze darkened, a sneer tugging at his lips.

"Ah, Walker. The man who took up the shield and proved unworthy of it," Zemo mused, leaning forward. "Chasing a ghost, are we?"

"He hasn’t just disappeared," Sam interjected, his tone sharp with frustration. "He’s aligned himself with someone—goes by Madame Hydra. Together, they’ve started a group. They’re calling it the Masters’ Circle."

Zemo’s eyebrows lifted in mild interest.

"Masters’ Circle?” His lips curled into a smile. “How very... Theatrical. And you think this is my problem because...?"

"Because you know how dangerous he is, just as well as we do," Sam said evenly. "You’ve seen firsthand what he’s capable of. And time’s running out. He and the others in his group are gathering people like him—people with power, people driven by a thirst for control and dominance."

Zemo’s gaze lingered on the three of you once again, his calculating mind working behind those sharp eyes. You could almost feel him dissecting the situation, weighing his options. He wasn’t one to act out of loyalty or morality—that much you knew. But he did love a challenge.

"And what do I gain from this?" Zemo asked smoothly.

James took a step forward, his voice calm but edged with warning. "This isn’t a game, Zemo. You helped us before, remember?"

A quiet chuckle escaped Zemo’s lips. "Yes, I did, didn’t I? And here I thought you would forget."

He leaned back, his gaze thoughtful as he considered the proposition. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"Very well," He said, standing slowly. "But when this is over, I go back to my cell."

There was something genuine in his voice, something that hadn’t been there before. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“There’s nothing out there for me,” Zemo added, his voice quieter now. "Not anymore."

Sam nodded, his expression tightening ever so slightly at Zemo’s words. He understood the weight of them—the loss behind them.

“Yeah,” Sam said, his voice quieter as well, more measured. “I get it.”

There was a flicker of recognition between the two of them.

Sam didn’t push further, didn’t try to fill the space with empty reassurances. He knew better. He understood what Zemo meant—the weight of losing everything, being left with nothing but the ghosts of a life that could never be reclaimed. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but heavy with the unspoken truth that lingered between them.

You felt it too, the quiet grief woven into the very air.

Zemo had lost more than just his country. He had lost his family, his identity, every tether to the life he once knew. For him, there was nothing left beyond this mission. No loved ones to return to, no home waiting for him. He existed now only in the shadow of what he once had.

And maybe that’s why Sam didn’t pry or offer hollow comfort. He saw something in Zemo’s eyes that mirrored the ache he had once felt on his own—a need for purpose, for control in a world that had stripped everything else away. Zemo wasn’t just driven by vengeance; this was his last grasp at meaning, a final attempt to leave behind something other than pain.

It was a mindset you knew all too well, to some extent.

You watched as the Dora Milaje moved with precision, their sharp gazes never leaving Zemo as they unlocked his metal handcuffs. Each click of the cuffs seemed to echo in the silence, a reminder of the power they held, even over him.

Their eyes were sharp, their warning unspoken but clear: any misstep, and there would be consequences.

Zemo stepped out of his cell, his movements slow, deliberate, as if calculating every inch of space between himself and his freedom. His wrists, now free from the cuffs, flexed slightly, but there was no sign of defiance—just quiet acceptance. His eyes met yours across the room, and in that moment, something unspoken passed between you.

It wasn’t just about the mission for him. It never was.

For a moment, you wished you had said something to him—given voice to your words. But, you didn’t.

"Regrets," a voice whispered, a cruel snicker following the word, "What a strange thing for you humans to cling to."

The voice was always there, lurking at the edges of your thoughts, waiting for a quiet moment to make itself known. It slid into your mind like oil, and suddenly, Wakanda vanished.

The sterile, dim prison dissolved into a familiar mount, one you could almost recognize. The air was different there—thinner, more suffocating, as if every breath was borrowed. The sky stretched in hues of dark red and burnt orange, the sun’s golden halo long gone, swallowed by the impending night.

Your hair was loose, something you never did on missions. You always kept it tied back, a way of separating yourself—the ‘hero’—from the person you were off-duty, who spent nights watching campy horror movies. But now? Your hair whipped around you in the wind, untamed and wild, a clear reflection of the chaos inside you.

You were barefoot, standing in the damp grass that clung to your toes. The dress you wore was white, though the red-tinted light made it seem as if it were soaked in blood.

The sight of it sent a jolt through your chest, but you couldn’t place why.

"You humans hold onto such needless things," the voice returned, slithering through the wind. You tried to turn, to find the source, but there was no one—just the feeling of being watched. "Until you force your grip so tight, you don’t even notice the bleeding."

Instinctively, your eyes dropped to your hands. Blood, thick, dripped down your arms, staining your skin. The sight made your head spin, and for a brief moment, you hoped—prayed—that it wasn’t yours. But then came the darker thought.

Maybe it should be yours.

Better your blood than the blood of someone you loved.

A metallic taste filled your mouth, sharp and bitter. You touched your lips, realizing that blood was there too, thick and suffocating as well, caught in your throat. You couldn’t speak, couldn’t dare to, for fear of drowning in it.

"You, my child," the voice hissed closer, as if it were brushing against the back of your neck. The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, "You hold the most among them. You cling to it with such desperation… There is no need."

Tears blurred your vision, hot and stinging. Why were you crying? The question lingered, but there was no clear answer. Was it fear? Was it sadness? Was it anger?

The emotions swirled together, tangled and incomprehensible, refusing to give you clarity.

“Shh,” the voice soothed, the mockery gone, replaced with something unsettlingly gentle. You felt the brush of a finger against your cheek, wiping away a tear, “It’s okay. It’s not your fault, it was never your fault. I should never have left you to your own devices.”

You knew it was the same voice that had been haunting your mind since that hallway. When you got closer to the artifact, alone. But yet, it sounded way more familiar than that.

However, it slipped away from you the more you tried to grab at it—as when you tried to recall when you had been on that mount before.

The image of your mother crossed your mind, as of your father, how long has it been since you thought of them? Not that you didn't think about them one or twice in a day, but put yourself into reliving the memories you shared?

Way before the Snap.

They had died long before that, of course. Long before the universe decided to rip half of existence away. You were too young when it happened, too young to fully comprehend the weight of their absence. All you had were fragments of memory, fading as the years went on.

In your childish mind, you had always believed they were magicians.

And why wouldn’t you? They never denied it. Whenever they dressed in those strange, flowing clothes, they told you they were preparing for a performance. You believed it wholeheartedly.

Why wouldn’t you? They were your parents, and in your wide-eyed innocence, you wanted to believe in magic. You wanted to believe that they could make the impossible real.

Sometimes, when they thought you weren’t looking, they’d make plates and utensils float across the table or snap their fingers and—puft—the trash would disappear as if by magic. You’d giggle and clap, and they’d smile, telling you they were just practicing for a big show.

And you, a child so eager to see the world through the lens of wonder, believed them. You never questioned it, never doubted. Magic was something you could shape into reality, because they made it real.

The memories of your parents swirled in your mind, surfacing in fragmented images—hazy but vivid enough to stir something deep within you.

They had always been your anchor, the ones who painted the world with magic, filling your childhood with wonder. You remembered their laughter, the warmth of their presence, and the gentle way they made everything seem so simple.

They were magicians, you thought—real magicians, who would always try to bring you a little fantasy in the real world. And you never had a reason to question that.

But the truth came crashing down when they died. It wasn’t an accident, as you were told.

It was something darker, far more sinister. You didn’t know it at the time, not yet.

To you, their sudden absence was just a terrible twist of fate. A freak accident, or so everyone around you would say.

The years after their deaths were a blur of confusion and grief. You were taken in by your grandma. She was kind enough, but she could never fill the void.

You felt like a stranger in her home, haunted by the nagging feeling that something wasn’t right. But it wasn’t until your powers manifested for the first time that everything started to make sense, unraveling.

It was a day like any other. You were walking home from school, the sky dark and heavy with the threat of rain. You didn’t notice the men following you until it was too late. Cornered in an alleyway, you felt the familiar surge of panic rise in your chest.

But then something happened—something you couldn’t explain.

The fear ignited a fire inside you, and suddenly, the world around you erupted with light and energy. Black and white swirls whispered to you, guiding your every move. In an instant, the men were knocked to the ground, and you were the last one left standing.

The energy had come from you, but at the time. For a moment, you thought an invisible force had answered your silent scream for help.

Yet, you didn’t understand what had happened. All you knew was that you were safe. And for a long time, you believed it was your parents’ doing. They had found a way to protect you even after death.

But that comforting belief didn’t last.

Nick Fury found you not long after. He approached you cautiously, as if he knew exactly what had happened and why. He didn’t ask questions at first, just watched you, observing the powers that had saved you but were now spiraling out of control.

You didn’t trust him. How would you? To you, he was nothing more than a complete stranger.

At the time, no one knew about S.H.I.E.L.D., H.Y.D.R.A., and the Avengers were just an idea stuck in an old man's mind. There wasn't even an Iron Man yet.

But Fury was patient, relentless in his quiet way. Eventually, you let him in, let him take you and help you learn to control your powers. After years of training and practicing, you met Tony, Steve, Natasha, Barton…

It wasn’t until much later that the truth about your parents came to light.

You always thought that your mother and father were nothing more than ordinary people trying to show you an extraordinary world. But they were more than that.

Your mother had been a witch and your father a mutant who later became a sorcerer, both deeply involved in worlds far more dangerous than you could have ever imagined.

They had hidden that part of their lives from you, shielded you from the threats that came with it. But in doing so, they had left you unprepared for what was to come once they were gone.

The powers you’d once thought of as a gift weren’t just some last act of love from them—they were your inheritance, passed down through generations of magic and danger. It wasn’t something as special as what both of them had.

Your magic simply showed you how to protect yourself and gave you the tools to do so. But in a way, your magic was the gift they had given you.

It wasn’t just power—it was a responsibility, a force meant to uplift those who had lost their way. All that remained was for you to learn how to wield it, to shape it into something that could truly make a difference.

This magic wasn’t meant for grand displays or for your own sake—it was meant for those who needed it most. For the ones who had lost hope, who needed something to believe in, a reason to trust that tomorrow could be better than today.

And maybe, just maybe, you could bring it to them.

The memories of your parents swirled in your mind, surfacing like whispers from a long-forgotten dream. You held on to those fragments, each one stirring something deep within you. Their laughter, the warmth of their presence, the magical way they turned mundane moments into wonder—it was as if the world was a canva.

Your parents were the performers painting everything with the beauty of their magic, you wanted to be a painter as well.

You only needed to find your brush and paint.

However now, for some reason, these memories, these buried truths, were clawing their way back into your mind.

Why now? Why, after so many years, were you thinking about them so vividly?

The voice inside your mind laughed softly, breaking the spell of your memories.

“I already told you, you cling to these things like a child, holding on to a fairy tale.”

The mount reappeared slowly, like a haze lifting from your vision. The blood on your hands, the sensation of it thick and warm, the taste of it on your lips—it was there again. You blinked rapidly, your head spinning.

Was this real? Or was it another dream? Another nightmare?

The wind howled, and the voice was closer now, more familiar than before. It wrapped around you like the mount itself.

You couldn't dwell on the memories for long; the voice in your mind made sure of that.

"Such a waste," the voice cooed, "But don’t worry, you won’t need to carry their weight much longer."

You felt a cold chill crawl down your spine.

The mount... It was familiar, painfully so. The blood on your hands, the dark horizon, the sensation of grass under your feet—it all felt too real to be just a dream. And yet, it felt wrong.

The world around you was heavy, like it was collapsing inward, the air thick and pressing in on you. You felt suffocated, the weight of unseen eyes watching every breath you took. It was as though the very air was soaked in malice, dragging your thoughts into a spiraling abyss.

Something was encroaching, taking hold, sinking its claws into your very soul.

"Do you still not see it?" the voice whispered, "It’s time to stop resisting."

You tried to focus on the memories slipping from your grasp, desperately chasing after them, but it was like trying to hold water in your hands. The more you clung to them, the quicker they vanished.

Faces—your mother, your father—blurred, their features disintegrating like smoke. The warmth, the safety you once felt, faded as if it had never existed at all. Even the moments that you held closest, the ones you swore you'd never forget, began to dissolve.

It was maddening, like losing parts of yourself one by one.

But the voice... The voice was there, constant, stronger with every word, weaving through your thoughts like a shadow tightening its grip.

"You could let go," he hissed, soothing and menacing at once, "I can help you. Rid yourself of these ties—these illusions you humans learn to believe to be true. It’s all weighing you down."

Your heart pounded, your throat tight with an unshed scream. You didn’t know why, but a part of you resisted. A deep, instinctive refusal to let go, to lose control.

Even though everything felt muddled, something kept you grounded, pulling you back.

Your mind was always up to a challenge.

A memory flashed—clear, vivid, the only one that accepted your hold into it: You, Sam, James, and Helmut, sitting around a fire after one of your missions.

The exhaustion was palpable, but for once, there was a sense of peace. Sam teased James about his arm, grinning, while Helmut smirked quietly, almost as though he didn’t belong in the moment but was choosing to stay. You brushed your shoulder at his, a rare exchange between the two of you—but on that night, it felt right.

You smiled at him and asked how he was feeling, you didn’t care if he would omit, lie or tell the truth of what crossed his mind. Either way, you chose to listen.

It was rare, but for a brief moment, the world wasn’t full of danger or secrets.

It was... Peaceful. A fleeting glimpse of normalcy.

"Just wait," the voice came back, drowned by the voices of the memory you embraced in your chest, "You’ll understand soon, my sweet child.”

The pressure in your chest grew unbearable, your vision darkening. And just as the world around you seemed to disappear, as the ground beneath you shifted, the whispering wind in your ears carried a final message:

"You won’t have to hold on much longer."

With a sudden jolt, you opened your eyes.

The moment your eyes fluttered open, it felt like a punch to the gut.

You gasped for air, every breath catching in your throat as your heart pounded furiously in your chest. Panic seized you for a moment as the remnants of the dream still clung to your mind like a thick fog, twisting the edges of reality and leaving you unsure of what was real.

The suffocating air of that place—of that voice—was gone, but it left behind an aftertaste of dread that lingered at the back of your throat.

You blinked hard, forcing your vision to focus as the cold, damp chill replaced the oppressive heat of the mount. Your head felt heavy, a strange, sluggish sensation clouding your thoughts. It was disorienting, like you were walking through molasses.

Drugged. You had to have been drugged, the thick haze clouding your mind was distracting, too heavy. But when?

Your thoughts raced back, searching for the last clear moment before everything had spiraled out of control.

When would they have dru—

John.

You remembered the way his arm had tightened around your neck, cutting off your air as everything had gone black. After that, everything was a blur.

However, one thing you were sure of was that time had passed. Another thing you could tell: you weren't in the airship anymore.

Gone was the cold steel of it. Instead, the flickering glow of torches cast long, eerie shadows on stone walls.

If they had time to bring you to another place, for sure they would have time to drug you.

You blinked, adjusting to the dim light, and the unmistakable scent of damp stone and ancient decay filled your senses. Pillars loomed overhead, their sharp edges and intricate carvings bathed in the soft orange glow. It was a temple—old and foreboding, with a feeling that made your skin crawl.

A dull ache pulsed in your wrists. You tried to move them, but your arms were bound tightly to the stone pillar behind you. Panic surged as you tugged against the restraints, realizing your feet were also bound. You were trapped.

Desperation gnawed at the edge of your mind, and you immediately reached inward, searching for that familiar flicker of your power—anything to give you a direction.

But there was nothing. 

Cold sweat broke out across your skin as you fought to grasp it, to pull even the faintest spark of power forward. But it was gone. Completely.

Your heart sank, a sickening realization blooming in your chest. It felt deliberate, as though something was actively taking it from you, siphoning away the very thing that made you who you were.

A soft groan pulled you from your thoughts, and you turned your head to see James stirring beside you. His movements were slow, conscious—like someone trying to shake off a heavyweight. Sam and Helmut were nearby too, still unconscious but bound in the same way as you.

The sight of them restrained, powerless, sent a wave of fear crashing over you. At least, they were alive but for how long?

They were as vulnerable as you, and there was nothing you could do about it. Without your power and trapped, there was nothing you could do to help them.

The air buzzed with a strange energy, thick and oppressive, as though the walls themselves were alive with a power far older than anything you had ever encountered. It pulsed through the temple, a constant hum that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.

This was no mere old temple. This place—wherever it was—was something way more villainous.

Your head throbbed, the lingering effects of the drug mixing with the unnatural atmosphere of the temple. The strange voice from your nightmare echoed faintly in your mind, creeping back in like a poisonous whisper.

It had promised you release, a ‘freedom from the burden you carried’. Now, bound in this place with no power to save yourself or your friends, that promise felt all the more sinister.

At first, you thought it was just the artifact’s effect, a devilish object that enjoyed messing with everyone that got closer.

However, Helmut had been close to it and didn't say anything about hearing a creepy voice inside his mind. If it had happened, he would have told you for sure.

Which would mean that from all the figures that damned artifact had met since the murder of his past possessor, it chose you to torment and, when you thought about that—it sounded  hard to believe.

What was special about you? Compared to all the powerful people you knew, you were the more ordinary among them, your ‘half mutation half magic’ only gave you the means to assure your safety. That was the reason why one or two crazy things happened to you every single day.

It was nothing compared to what Jean Grey, Doctor Strange, Wanda Maximoff and many others had.

You shook your head, none of these thoughts would help you to get out of that temple.

Get it together, you told yourself. Think. Focus.

But it was impossible to do any of that.

The fog in your mind wouldn’t clear, and the longer you stayed in this temple, the more the oppressive force of the place pressed down on you. You could almost feel its energy pulsing beneath your feet.

A chill ran down your spine as you glanced around again, this time more carefully. The walls, covered in faint symbols and markings, hummed with a power older than anything you had ever encountered.

They felt… Alive.

And yet, something about the place felt eerily familiar. Way more familiar than anything before.

“Damn it,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and barely audible in the stillness. You needed to focus, but every attempt to gather your thoughts was met with that frustrating fog, like a wall you couldn’t break through.

But you couldn’t stop yourself from trying.

You strained once more against the chains, the rough metal thing biting into your skin. There had to be a way out.

You needed to trace a way out of there.

Another groan broke through the oppressive quiet, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts. James was stirring again. Slowly, his eyes opened, and the tension that had built up inside you loosened.

Just a little.

You turned your head to watch him, every movement sending sharp stings through his wrists and ankles. His face contorted as he blinked against the dim light, clearly disoriented, but the moment his eyes landed on you, something shifted in his expression.

"James," you breathed, your voice rough with exhaustion, relief flooding through you.

He blinked slowly again, his body shifting slightly as if testing his restraints. His metal arm, still twisted unnaturally, was hung in a weirder angle by the chains. Bruises dotted his face, a harsh reminder of just how brutal things had been before he and Sam were taken.

His breaths came slow, labored.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice hoarse, still disoriented.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, glancing around the dim, ancient room. “Some kind of temple, maybe. We were on the airship, and then… They brought us here.”

James gritted his teeth, and you saw the tension build in his jaw as he flexed his metal arm against the chains. The metal of them creaked, as the metal in his arm, but the chains held firm. If only, his metal arm got worse than before.

The silence between you stretched, heavy and uneasy. His gaze lingered on you longer than usual, like there was something on his mind, something he wasn’t sure he should say.

You knew exactly what he was thinking. His mind was back to the conversation the three of you had right after Riga about everything, the misunderstandings and distances. You all had said your piece, but the scars remained, unspoken.

Even after five years, time and time again, the conversation came back to your mind as well.

Who could blame you? And, in a moment like that, who could blame him?

"James," you said softly, keeping your voice steady. "You don’t have to—"

"I know," he cut you off, his voice rougher than intended. His eyes softened, though, the frustration there more inward than directed at you. He shifted again, wincing at the pain in his arm. “It’s just… This place, all of it. It takes us somewhere else in our minds, don’t you?”

You didn’t need to answer him aloud, neither did he expect you to. The sensation of being trapped, powerless—it clung to him, even in his moments of peace, as much as it clung to you. Obviously, your reasons were far too different from his, but a thread linked you two nonetheless.

In particular, since the day James almost… It was a time when control had slipped away from him, and you understood that, always had.

You had forgiven him long ago, but you knew that didn’t mean he’d forgiven himself. Not yet.

His gaze met yours again, and for a brief moment, you saw past the hard exterior he kept up, to the man who still carried the burden of everything he'd done.

Everything he once was.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” you murmured, almost as much a reminder to yourself as to him.

You wanted to reach out, to close the distance between you, to let him know that despite everything—despite the history, the guilt, the pain—you were there. You always would be.

But the chains around your wrists held you back.

James shifted uncomfortably, his brow furrowing as if struggling with the words he didn’t quite know how to say. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the silence thickening.

Finally, he managed, "It's not that easy."

“I know,” you whispered, “But you’re not that person anymore.”

He glanced away, the familiar haunted look returning to his eyes.

“Maybe not. But sometimes, it feels like I’m always fighting him. Even when my thoughts are quiet, I wake up and remember everything.”

You shook your head gently, wishing you could ease that burden, even just a little.

“You’ve come so far, James. Don’t let those moments define who you are. You’re more than that.”

A beat of silence passed between you before he looked back at you, his expression mirroring the ongoing conflict in his mind, yet there was a flicker of something—gratitude, maybe? It was hard to tell.

“Don’t call me James,” he sighed, his chains rattling softly as he made a weak attempt to rid himself of them. “For a long time, you could have called me Bucky. Just Bucky.”

Something in your heart soared. You’d always been cautious with what to call him—‘James’ felt distant, but you were trying to respect a line he usually asked to not cross. But now, hearing him allow you to use ‘Bucky’, felt like a breakthrough.

For him, it was a small offering of trust. For you, it was a connection you’d longed for, even when you didn’t realize it.

“I didn’t think you'd ever let me call you that,” you said softly, trying to hide the emotion rising in your throat. "It always felt like something that belonged to Steve, to Sam. Not me."

Bucky’s eyes met yours, something unspoken passing between you.

“It belongs to anyone who still sees something worth saving.”

The impact of those words hit you like a punch, making your chest tighten. You wanted to say more, to thank him for opening up even a little, but the emotions were so tangled inside you that you couldn’t find the right words.

“I hope we don’t die here,” you said after a moment, trying to ease the heaviness with a wry smile, though your voice trembled slightly. “Because if we do, I’ll regret not tearing down the wall between us sooner.”

Bucky didn’t say anything at first, but his expression softened as he gazed at you. He didn’t need to say it—he felt the same way. You both had been too stubborn, too scarred by your pasts to fully let each other in.

But here, bound and helpless in this strange temple, there was no more room for those barriers. Only time—and the ever-looming threat of death.

Each second passed as it was your last one.

“I won’t let us die here,” he finally whispered, a faint promise beneath the heavy air. His resolve was always there, even when he was at his lowest.

It was something you had always admired about him.

Before he could respond further, another soft groan broke through the silence.

You and Bucky turned your heads to see Helmut stirring. He shifted slightly, still bound and visibly disoriented, the shadows from the dim torchlight casting eerie patterns across his face. His eyes fluttered open, his brow furrowed in confusion as he tried to take in his surroundings.

“You’ve finally decided to join us,” you muttered, your tone laced with a hint of relief despite the dire situation.

"Where..." Helmut’s voice was rough, barely a whisper, but the sharpness in his gaze returned quickly as he assessed the situation "What is this place?"

“Some kind of temple,” Bucky answered, his voice low. “No idea how we got here, though.”

Helmut’s eyes narrowed as he glanced around, his mind clearly racing to piece everything together.

“It doesn’t matter how, we need to figure out how to get out.”

“Well, it does matter,” you retorted, gazing at him, “We are in chains, wrists and feet, and obviously drugged. How do we get out of here?”

“There’s always a way out,” Helmut said, the quiet certainty in his voice almost calming, but not much. His eyes flickered toward what looked like the entrance as he surveyed their surroundings again, analyzing every shadow and flicker of light, “We just need to find it before they come back.”

However, where in these odds, you would find a way out that wouldn’t end up with one of you killed?

The bindings around your wrists felt like iron, digging into your skin as you strained against them. The fog in your mind had barely begun to lift, the effects of whatever drug had been used on you still clouding your thoughts, making it hard to do anything.

The strange force that loomed in the room was plaguing your minds, the oppressive energy pulsing around the ancient stone walls. The air was thick, suffocating.

You shifted against your restraints again, testing their hold, frustration bubbling beneath your skin. The chains were too tight, too secure.

Your mind, still sluggish, reached for your power, grasping at the black and white energy that had once come so naturally.

But you only met emptiness. The same void you had felt when you first approached the artifact.

A sinking feeling settled in your gut. Whatever had been done to you, it wasn’t just the drug—something far more insidious.

Before you could voice your worry, a groan from the far corner signaled Sam’s awakening. His head lolled to the side, and he blinked against the dim light, confusion etched across his face.

“Great,” he mumbled, voice thick with exhaustion. “Just what I needed... Another dungeon.”

His words were sarcastic, but you could see the frustration and pain behind them as he tested his own chains. He winced, his muscles clearly stiff from the restraints.

“We’ve been in worse,” Bucky muttered under his breath, his tone dry but lacking its usual sharp edge. There was an underlying unease in his voice, one that mirrored the way you felt.

Sam flexed his wrists against the restraints, his expression hardening as he took in the temple around you all.

"You two alright?" Sam turned his head for both you and Helmut, his voice quiet but edged with concern.

"Define 'alright'," you replied, the sarcasm slipping through despite the gravity of the moment, "We’re alive. That counts for something, I guess."

Sam gave a short, humorless chuckle, "Well, that’s an improvement."

Helmut, who had remained silent for a moment longer, finally spoke again.

"What happened after we fell off the ship? You two were still up there."

Cap sighed, his brow furrowing as he tried to recall the events.

"It all happened fast. After you two went down, Bucky and I managed to hold our ground for a bit, but..." He winced as he shifted, the tension in his muscles clear, "They overpowered us. I don’t even remember how we ended up down there in the airship, or over here."

Bucky nodded slowly, his gaze still distant, "They had the upper hand from the start. Too many of them, too few of us. We didn’t stand a chance."

Now, the oppressive silence of the temple only deepened the sense of dread that hung over the group at Bucky’s words.

Your thoughts kept circling back to the artifact, the strange energy that had followed you ever since you first encountered it. There was something about it  that gnawed at the edges of your mind, refusing to be ignored.

"It's all because of the artifact, isn’t it?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "That’s why we’re here."

Helmut’s gaze flickered to you, his expression unreadable.

"I am afraid to agree. It has to be,” Helmut’s voice was unusually quiet, his gaze fixed on the ground. “They wouldn’t have gone through all this trouble if it wasn’t important.”

"But what do they want with it?" Sam asked, his frustration clear. "Strange told us everything about it falling into the wrong hands, big evil and whatever, but what’s their plan?"

Helmut’s brow furrowed, his mind racing to piece it together, "World domination, most likely, but there’s something else. The artifact itself feels like a key, as if they need it to unlock some power."

“I don’t know,” you muttered, trying to make sense of the overwhelming presence you had felt since encountering the artifact the first and second time, “Despite that artifact draining my powers, I can sense it’s about control. Something beyond the physical realm… As if it’s meant to bend reality itself to their will.”

If your wrist weren’t bound, you would try to slap away the breath you could swear it was against your neck. The strong smell of cologne was stuck within you, into your nostrils and lungs.

“Wait,” Bucky cut in, his eyes narrowing, “What do you mean by your powers being drained?”

Before you could explain, a dark, chilling presence filled the room, its oppressive energy sending another shiver down your spine. The heavy sound of footsteps echoed through the temple’s stone corridors, and your heart raced as you looked toward the entrance.

In a blink, they were there, entering your space through more than one of the shadowy entrances of the temple. The Masters of Evil, one by one, emerged from the shadows, their presence nothing but ominous.

Tiger-Man was the first, his lithe and muscular frame cutting through the darkness like a predator on the hunt, his feral eyes glowing with dangerous intent. Then, Crimson Cowl—or Justine—her blood-red cloak flowing behind her, followed closely, her eerie silhouette rippling in the flickering torchlight. The air around her seemed to hum with energy, a clear sign of the power she held.

After her, came Beetle, his mechanical wings catching the light as he hovered near the entrance, his chrome-plated armor reflecting shards of light across the stone walls. Behind him, Doctor Octopus slithered forward, his metallic arms hissing and scraping against the floor, each tentacle ready to strike. Max Fury followed, his cold, calculating gaze sweeping over the group, his posture rigid with the precision of a HYDRA commander.

Lightmaster stood next to him, radiating a dangerous glow that danced ominously along the edges of the room, while Titania loomed large beside him, her imposing figure casting long shadows on the walls. Fixer, his technological devices humming with barely contained power, flanked the group with Moonstone, whose eyes gleamed with deadly force. Absorbing Man stood in the background, his skin shifting as he absorbed the surrounding stone, preparing himself for whatever fight lay ahead.

And then, there was Ultron. The metallic menace entered, his cold red eyes glowing in the darkness and locking at your figure, his presence was a cold reminder of the pain he had caused you until your regeneration kicked in. His mechanical form moved with a silent and uncannily graceful form.

But it was the final figure that sent a shiver of dread down your spine and a final nail into the coffin.

Madame Hydra, the leader of this sinister group, stepped forward with regal, deadly grace. Far more captivating and terrifying than Ultron or any machine, her long coat billowed behind her like a shadow come to life. Every movement was deliberate, calculated—exuding a menace that even the cold, mechanical presence of Ultron couldn’t match.

Her piercing, unfeeling eyes locked onto yours, and a chill crawled down your spine. It was a fear far more paralyzing than the hollow red gaze of the Tin-Man standing beside her. A twisted smile curled on her lips as she surveyed the group, her gaze holding you captive in its cold grip.

"So nice of you to join us," she purred, her voice smooth and venomous, echoing through the ancient stone hall, "Everything is falling into place, just as we planned."

But just as you were about to react, another figure emerged from the shadows, his presence sending a different kind of chill down your spine.

He walked in with a deliberate, heavy stride, his shield held firmly at his side, the metal reflecting the dim light of the room. There was something unsettling in his posture, a calculated menace that made your skin crawl. His eyes, dark and cold, locked onto you with an intensity that was impossible to ignore.

It could be what John held in his hands.

Walker cradled the box—the one that had held the artifact since the moment you first found it. Its dark energy pulsed rhythmically, in perfect sync with his controlled, measured steps.

The aura around him seemed to hum with power, wrapping the room in an oppressive silence.

You remembered the last time you had faced him—how he had overpowered you, the painful grip of his hand around your neck, the mockery in his voice that still echoed in your mind. His presence here, among the others, was a twisted confirmation of everything you feared.

The box in his hands glowed, its power palpable in the charged air. And as he stepped closer, his lips curled into a sneer, the malice in his expression all too clear.

“Missed me?” he taunted, sending a fresh wave of unease through you. The smirk on his face told you more than you wished to know.

The room seemed to close in around you, the combined presence of the Masters of Evil, Ultron, Madame Hydra, and now John Walker, oppressing in its intensity.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Helmut’s eyes narrowing ever so slightly, the faintest twitch of his jaw betraying his otherwise calm demeanor.

You and  Helmut had talked about Riga, even if you didn’t put into words everything, he had understood how it impacted you—and though he hadn’t said much about it, you knew he understood the depth of your unease. It was subtle, but the way his gaze flicked between you and Walker told you that he was already strategizing, trying to figure out how to kill the man once he had his hands free.

Walker’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and taunting.

“So nice of you to join us, Baron,” he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain as he turned to face Helmut, “Still hanging around these heroes, pretending you’re one of them?”

Helmut didn’t rise to the bait. His expression remained unreadable, his focus shifting back to the Masters of Evil as if Walker’s words were of no consequence. But you knew better.

You could see the way his fingers twitched, the way his gaze hardened. Walker’s presence here was more than just an annoyance—it was a threat, one that Helmut was already preparing to neutralize.

Madame Hydra stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with cold calculation. “Enough games,” she said, her voice commanding as she addressed the room.

“For too long, we have lived in the shadows,” she glanced at her foes, her tone measured, almost conversational, as if she were discussing with scholar rather than you, Helmut, Bucky and Cap, “For too long, we have been content to let others shape our destiny, to let the weak impose their will upon the strong.”

Her gaze drifted across the room, lingering on each of you in turn, as if she were appraising your worth in the most condescending way.

“But no more,” she continued, her voice growing colder, sharper. “We stand on the precipice of a new era, one where power will be the only currency that matters. And we hold the key to unlocking that power.”

She turned slightly, her hand gesturing towards the box cradled in John’s arms, the dark artifact within pulsing with a rhythm that seemed to resonate with the very walls of the chamber, the box merely containing it.

“This artifact,” she said, her tone almost reverent, “is more than just a relic of a forgotten age. It is a gateway, a conduit to a power that has been dormant for eons, waiting for the right moment, the right catalyst, to awaken.”

The flickering light caught the edge of her smile, a smile devoid of warmth or humanity. “That moment has come. The Chthon, a being older than time itself, has spoken to us. It has shown us the path forward, the path to a new world, where we will no longer be the ones who look up in fear and submission. We will be the ones who you’ll have to look up to and you—the ones who must cast your eyes down.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the ominous weight of her words sinking in. The Chthon—you all had heard about him.

Wanda had told you once, two or three years ago about the devilish god: an ancient, malevolent force that whispered in your mind, trying to pull you into its dark embrace. His main goal was to find a conduit, a vessel to keep his soul and mind rooted on Earth. He had tried with her—the Scarlet Witch, but she had been well-prepared, expelling him from her mind and back to his abyss.

And now, he was back. It was clear that the Masters of Evil intended to use his power to reshape the world, to bend it to their will.

Madame Hydra’s gaze flicked to Helmut, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, as if she were gauging his reaction, testing his resolve.

“The Chthon requires a vessel,” she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though it still carried through the chamber with unnerving clarity. “A host who will carry its power into this world, who will be the tool through which it molds a new reality. He has promised us the means to control, to command…”

You glanced at Helmut, his expression remaining unreadable, but you saw the way his fingers tightened slightly, a barely perceptible movement that spoke volumes. He was already processing, already trying to find a way to counter this revelation. His eyes flicked briefly to you, and in that glance, you could see the concern warring within him.

Bucky and Sam looked confused, though not scared—at least not outwardly. You were all in the worst possible condition to face this kind of threat, and Madame Hydra didn't even need to finish her resolve for you to understand where this was heading.

Madame Hydra took a step closer, her attention shifting to the box as it pulsed again, a dark, rhythmic thrum that seemed to echo within the ancient walls of the temple. Each pulse felt like a countdown, foreboding and suffocating.

“The Chthon has chosen its vessel already,” she murmured, her voice carrying a sinister undertone. “He told us it would be someone who would come for us while we were far from the ground, high above, to take his gift away from us. And… You came.”

The implications crashed over you like a tidal wave. One of you—Helmut, Sam, Bucky, or you—was meant to be the host for this ancient power, this malevolent force that would reshape the world in the image of the Masters of Evil.

Since the beginning…?

It sounded ridiculous—utterly insane—that they believed this. Yet, as her words sank deeper, that initial disbelief was overtaken by a sense of growing dread.

They had been preparing for this, waiting for your arrival, just as the voice had foretold.

But the voice… Since that hallway, had it been him all along?

Chthon?

Your thoughts spiraled, denial clawing at your mind as you tried to push away the growing dread. It couldn’t be any of you.

It had to be someone else, anyone one else. It had to be a mistake. Yet, the gnawing fear refused to be ignored, whispering insidiously at the back of your mind.

You tried to pull at the chains again, panic rising, but it was no use.

You looked back at Helmut, finding his gaze once again. In that moment, you saw the same fear reflected in his eyes, tempered only by the fierce resoluteness that both reassured and terrified you. He was trying to figure out a way out, already analyzing—but you both knew there was more to this.

He didn’t just fear for what would happen, but how it would unravel. He had already begun putting together every single piece, and as he progressed, he dreaded the resolution.

You quickly turned away, the weight of it all too much to bear.

Madame Hydra’s voice sliced through the silence again, pulling your attention back to her.

“The Chthon will soon take its host, and when it does, there will be nothing stopping us,” she declared, her tone final, as if the outcome was already written.

John Walker’s sneer deepened, his gaze locking onto each one of you with twisted satisfaction.

“Any guesses on who the lucky one might be?” he asked, his voice mocking, dripping with the same poison that had haunted you since your last encounter.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. His words settled in your chest like a lead weight, heavy and suffocating.

You glanced at Helmut one more time, each of you asking for a mighty force to stop this.

“No guesses?” Crimson Cowl chimed in. She stepped forward, her dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. "You don’t know, or you just don’t want to tell us?"

You tried to keep your composure, but the uneasiness rising inside you was hard to contain.

Just as Madame Hydra raised her hand to silence the room, her eyes gleaming with triumph, she looked directly at you.

“Neither Chthon nor us need any of you to say it,” she said, her voice dripping with menace. “We can figure it out ourselves.”

Madame Hydra’s smile twisted with satisfaction as she took the box from John Walker, her movements slow and deliberate. The room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for whatever revelation she was about to unveil. Your heartbeat quickened, you didn’t know what you had to expect anymore.

With a flick of her wrist, she revealed the object inside the box: a single, fragile page, so ancient it looked like it might crumble under her touch. Its edges were worn and frayed, and yet, the dark energy radiating from it was undeniable. You felt it in the pit of your stomach, that same sensation you’d felt before—the suffocating darkness creeping closer, whispering promises you didn’t want to hear.

The nightmare, the vision of the mount...The old, cursed page you had been forced to shove into a baby’s mouth—it was almost the same page. And, now it was here, in the hands of Madame Hydra.

The room seemed to pulse with the energy that surrounded the page, and for a moment, everything else faded into the background.

That was the artifact.

Beside you, Sam’s sharp intake of breath broke the silence, “No way...” His voice was laced with disbelief.

He turned to you, but it wasn’t just confusion in his gaze—it was recognition. He knew what this was.

“The Darkhold…” Sam’s voice was tight, as though the name itself was poison on his tongue. “I thought every trace of that book was destroyed, burned to ashes.”

It couldn’t be, how you didn’t recognize it as well?

Wanda and Strange had told you that the Darkhold had been annihilated, that its pages had been lost forever after Wanda’s confrontation with its corruption. And yet, here it was—one piece of it, still intact.

Still seething with dark power.

“How…?” Sam started, but his voice faltered. You could feel the tension rise between all of you. Bucky’s expression hardened, his eyes darting between Madame Hydra and the cursed page, a thousand questions swirling behind his eyes, but no answers.

Madame Hydra smiled, savoring the look of realization dawning over your faces.

“Wanda burned the physical Darkhold,” she said, her tone dripping with amusement. “But they were not thorough enough. The power of the Darkhold runs deeper than the book itself. It can never truly be destroyed. This page was hidden—safe from her reach.”

Helmut shifted next to you, his body tense as he stared at the page. He didn’t have the same history with the Darkhold, but he knew enough about dark magic to understand the danger you all were in.

You could see it in his eyes—the helplessness. It was rare to see him without a plan. Yet, there was he, along with all of you.

Madame Hydra raised the page, and with a subtle flick of her wrist, a small blade appeared in her hand, gleaming dangerously under the torchlight, shaped with shadows. No doubt, another gift from Chthon.

Without hesitation, she stepped toward Helmut first.

“Each of you will play your part in this,” she purred, “After all, Chthon requires strength.”

Before Helmut could react, she slashed the blade across his forearm, drawing blood that dripped onto the page. His body tensed in response, a sharp intake of breath following the cut. His eyes remained locked on hers, filled with disgust, but he said nothing.

What would he have to say? In any case, he would only make the situation worse for the rest of you.

Next was Sam. You could see the way his muscles stiffened, but his gaze never wavered. Madame Hydra smiled darkly as she made the same cut on his arm, drawing more blood onto the cursed page. Sam winced, but he stood his ground, glaring at her with every bit of defiance he had left.

Bucky followed. His expression was unreadable, but you knew him well enough to know the anger simmering beneath the surface. The cut was swift, blood pooling as Madame Hydra moved quickly.

Finally, she turned to you.

Your heart pounded, your throat dry as she approached, the blade glinting in the low light. The moment it sliced across your skin, a sharp pain shot up your arm, and a small stream of blood welled at the cut, trickling down onto the cursed page in Madame Hydra’s hand

“I don’t know if you would be able to give him any strength, but it’s worth a try.” Her expression was one of triumph, but you didn’t let her savor it.

Without hesitation, and before you could second-guess yourself, you spat directly into her face.

Her eyes widened in shock, the satisfaction on her face faltering for the briefest moment. You saw the anger flare beneath her composed as she wiped your spit off her cheek with a slow, deliberate motion.

In the background, you could hear a faint laugh coming from Sam and Helmut muttering your name—you could tell he would have censored you if you weren’t in the positions you were in.

But Madame didn’t retaliate—not immediately. Instead, she smiled, her lips curling into a cruel, knowing smirk.

"You’ll regret that," she whispered, her voice dripping with menace.

As soon as your last drop of blood hit the page, everything shifted.

A searing pain exploded in your head, white-hot and unbearable. The voice that had been haunting you since the hallway returned, but now it wasn’t just a whisper. It was a deafening roar, echoing in your mind, demanding your attention. You squeezed your eyes shut, the pressure behind your temples building with every beat of your heart.

The chant pounded in your skull, like an ancient, malevolent force wrapping itself tighter around your mind, constricting you, suffocating you. Your breathing quickened, and the world around you seemed to blur.

“It’s time,” the voice hissed, each word reverberating through your bones, “You’re ready, my sweet child, you always have been.”

You tried to push the voice out, tried to cling to the here and now, to your friends, to the memory of their voices. But it was no use. The pull of the voice was overwhelming, drawing you deeper and deeper into its darkness.

Around you, your friends struggled in their chains, feeling a similar pain striking their minds. Helmut’s face twisted with discomfort, his usually sharp eyes dulled with pain. Sam grit his teeth, muscles straining as he tried to fight the burning agony coursing through him. Even Bucky, with all his hardened boldness, looked strained, his breaths coming in ragged gasps.

But it wasn’t the same for them.

They didn’t hear the voice. They didn’t feel this dark, consuming force tearing you from the inside.

The weight pressing down on you was different. More sinister. More intimate. It wasn’t just pain—it was an invitation, a call to surrender, to give in to something far worse than death.

The voice whispered again, growing louder, more insistent.

Let me in. You don’t need to fight anymore. Let me take care of everything…

Like a chant.

You shook your head, trying desperately to clear the fog in your mind more than ever, but the pressure only built, the darkness creeping in deeper and deeper in you.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” it whispered sweetly.

Panic surged through you as you fought against the chains, your heart racing. You weren’t just fighting for yourself now—you were fighting for them. For Sam, for Bucky, for Helmut.

"You will," you whispered, struggling to spit the words out, "hurt them."

If you gave in... It wouldn’t only be your downfall. It would be theirs too.

Madame Hydra’s eyes flickered with interest, her focus shifting to you entirely now. The smirk never left her face, but there was a gleam in her eyes, as if she were waiting for you to break. Behind her, John Walker took a step closer, his posture stiff, clearly curious about your struggle.

Bucky strained against his chains, his eyes locked on you, concern clouding his expression. He couldn’t hear the voice—none of them could—but they could see you were fighting something far different from the pain that erupted their nerves.

“Listen to me,” Bucky growled through gritted teeth, desperation lacing his voice as he saw the fear etched on your face, "Fight it."

Helmut’s eyes, always so sharp, darted between you and Madame Hydra. He was finishing the puzzle, trying to make sense of the ritual, of the power now coursing through you.

Praying that his first conclusions were wrong, it was only a mistake in his equation. However, more he thought about it, more despair consumed every fiber of his being.

"What are you doing to her?" he shouted, his voice no longer contained. He wasn’t one to show fear, not so often.

Yet you could hear it now, hinted at in the words coming out of his mouth, beneath the surface.

Madame Hydra’s smile became wider, ignoring the baron’s question. She was too entertain watching the internal war you waged.

She seemed to relish the sight of you teetering on the edge of surrender.

"It’s her," Sam said through a pained breath, his voice rough. He was straining against his restraints, his muscles taut, "the vessel. That thing wants her."

Helmut cursed in his native language, you didn’t know what it meant. But, it was clear that it was an insult to the odds.

The one thing he didn’t want to happen was concretizing in front of his own eyes. He had predicted, he had concluded it long before their blood was drawn—but, he didn’t believe it.

He didn’t want to believe it.

Your head throbbed, and the symbols on the walls pulsed faster. The voice, now louder than ever, returned with a sickeningly soothing tone, wrapping itself around you like a serpent.

“They don’t understand, do they?” He hissed, “The voices, the overwhelming energy that asks you to let it all out… But I do, I’ve always understood you.”

"You’ll hurt them," you repeated, but this time your voice wavered, louder than before.

“Hurt them?” The demon purred, twisting its tone into something almost affectionate, “No, no, my sweet child. I’ll protect them. I’ll protect you, how I have always been. If you let me in, I can make sure no one ever hurts them—or you—again, no more.”

Your breath hitched, the words wrapping tighter around your resolve. You could feel yourself slipping, the darkness tugging at you with promises that were too tempting, too reassuring.

“All your regrets, pain, sadness… Let me carry it for you,” he asked of you, you could almost feel your hand being held, “You’ve carried it long enough. You don’t need to be afraid anymore. I’ll take care of everything.”

The symbols on the walls flared, casting the room in a sickly glow. Your vision blurred, the edges of reality softening as the voice grew louder.

You glanced at your friends—Sam, Bucky, Helmut—all of them trapped, helpless, and in pain. He was right, wasn’t he?

If you gave in, if you let go... Maybe you could save them. Perhaps, it could let you have some control, you could simply not let the Master’s wish be granted.

Yet…

"I can’t...," you murmured, tears welling in your eyes. The struggle was tearing you apart, and the voice only grew louder, more insistent, it was like two sides of you played tug.

“You can, you must,” He whispered next to your ear, you could feel his fingers caressing your cheeks, “I’ll take care of them, just let me in.”

You felt your resolve weakening, your grip on reality slipping. The world around you spun, the voices of your friends muffled beneath the pounding in your skull. You had to hold on... But, for how long? Your mind was already starting to creak after every word the demon directed to you.

You felt your resolve weakening, your grip on reality slipping further as the voice pressed harder, whispering promises of salvation. But behind those promises, there was something sinister, dark.

Every beat of your heart seemed to align with the ancient pulse of the symbols on the walls, their glow sickening and oppressive, as if the temple itself were alive and feeding off your fear.

Helmut’s voice cut through the haze, sharper than before.

“Whatever you’re doing to her, stop it.” He was trying to stay calm, but you could hear the fear take care of him, even as he tried to mask it with his usual cold rationality.

Madame Hydra’s smirk deepened as she glanced at Helmut.

“Stop it? Why would we stop it when we’re so close?”

Helmut’s jaw clenched.

He tugged at his restraints, trying to pull free, but the chains held firm. Bucky, though weakened, struggled beside him, his eyes flicking between you and the energy that dripped from your skin and surrounded you—your typical black and white energy, but followed with a red crimson color that devoured every shadow and light present in your power.

You could feel his desperation, the tension in the air thickening with every passing second. Suddenly, your mind stopped for a second as you realized: you weren’t only feeling but sensing.

Sensing every particle of oxygen, muscle that strained and breath taken…

Your powers, you could feel it slowly coming back to you, heavier than before.

"Don’t let it take you," Bucky rasped, his voice strained as if he were fighting not just the physical pain but the fear of losing you. "You’ve fought harder than this before, you can fight it now."

Could you?

The voice—Chthon—was relentless, filling every corner of your mind, pushing out the thoughts and memories of your friends, replacing them with its insidious whispers.

It promised safety, relief from the burden you carried. And you were so tired of fighting, so exhausted from the constant strain.

“I’ll take care of everything,” You felt his eyes boring at your skull, “There will be nothing in the world for you to worry about. It’s time.”

Your vision blurred, the flickering light of the temple growing dimmer as the darkness crept closer. The weight of your friends' eyes on you felt like a distant memory.

Helmut's analytical stare, Sam's quiet resilience, Bucky's fiery resolve—all of it faded beneath the overwhelming presence of the ancient being pressing more and more over you.

Madame Hydra stepped forward again, holding the cursed page aloft, the symbols on the walls glowing brighter in response, a blood red color lighting every corner.

“This is it,” she declared, her voice filled with triumph, “The vessel is ready.”

With that, the chanting in the room grew louder, echoing in your mind until it was all you could hear. It blended with Chthon's whispers, a cacophony of darkness that consumed every thought. Your knees buckled, the pain in your head spiking as the ritual reached its climax.

Helmut strained against his bonds once more, desperation bleeding into his features.

“Don’t give in to him!” he shouted, his voice raw with emotion. You could feel the weight of his fear—the same fear that had flickered in his eyes hours ago—or yesterday?

He had pieced it together longer ago, you knew that.

Deep down, he always knew. The fear in his voice was similar to the concern that laced his words when you talked about the hallway, what happened there.

He only wanted to believe it was wrong, as you. Because, deep down, you also knew.

Your body felt heavy, your thoughts slipping through your fingers like sand. The voice continued, insistent, persuasive—repeating the same words like a mantra.

The weight of the world pressed down on you one more time, suffocating you until there was no more air to fill your lungs. You blinked, and your vision swam as you felt water replace every single fiber present in your body.

The pain was unbearable, your mind truly being torn apart. Before you could open your mouth to scream, everything went black.

When you opened your eyes again, the temple was gone. The pain in your wrists and feet was gone, there were no more chains. However, as you looked around, you also noticed you weren’t surrounded by your friends.

You were... Somewhere else.

The ground beneath you was black and cracked, as if it had been scorched by fire. The sky above was an unnatural red, swirling with dark clouds that churned with a malevolent energy.

It brought you back to your nightmares, the mount… Now, as you gaze at the scenario where you were in, you remembered why that place felt so familiar.

You remembered everything that had happened in your sleep, detail by detail.

And there, standing before you, was him.

He wasn’t just a voice anymore. He had a form—a tall, imposing figure, draped in tattered, blackened robes that seemed to billow in a wind you couldn’t feel. His skin was ashen, and his eyes... They glowed a deep, burning red, like embers of a dying fire. His face was sharp, almost skeletal, and his mouth twisted into a warm smile.

His presence was overwhelmingly calm. He exuded power—ancient, terrifying power—and, yet, it sent you some comfort.

As he took a step toward you, the ground beneath his feet cracked and split.

“You’ve done well,” he said, his voice no longer a whisper but a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through your very soul, “I’m happy to finally see you fully, you don’t imagine my relief now that you finally understand.”

You stepped back instinctively, but there was nowhere to run. The ground stretched endlessly in every direction, a wasteland of darkness and ruin.

Anyway, Chthon's smile didn’t falter, watching your struggle with an almost fatherly affection.

“There’s no need to be afraid,” he said softly, “Our encounter was a future that neither of us could ever avoid, even if we tried. From the moment you were born, when you first touched your power, it was only a matter of time.”

All along, you had been resisting, fighting against something that had always been a part of you. And now, standing face to face with this ancient being, you could feel a connection that had always been there, always out of reach.

But now you were able to grasp it.

His gaze softened, his voice dropping to a near-whisper again when you stepped closer instead of afar.

"You must have so many questions,” he retorted his head, measuring you from your head to your toes, “Come on, sit with me, let’s talk, huh?”

With a move of his hand, the breeze guided the dust through the air and solidified into a bench, as the ones you would see in a park while you were running.

Silently, with the same smile upon his lips, he sat in a spot.

You sat by his side, feeling an unexpected warmth flood over you. Chthon’s words lingered in the air like a soft, comforting breeze. After so many years of feeling like an outsider, drifting from place to place, you were finally hearing something that made you feel…

Grounded. Truly grounded.

“Why me?” your voice was nothing but a whisper.

Chthon watched you with those unnervingly soft eyes, his voice gentle as he spoke.

"You were the result of something beautiful," he said, his eyes glinting as if remembering something precious, "Your mother, she was magic itself—more than you know. I had to pretend at first, to hide my true nature. But once she found out, she understood. She accepted my love."

Your heart tightened. Magic. A word that always has a place in the core of your heart and, at the same time, was so far away from you.

What your parents had was true and pure magic, not you, what you had was some type of protection protocol.

Yet here he was, speaking as if that same magic was part of your very existence. Even if he was talking about your mother, not about you.

"And," His voice dropped, barely a whisper. "You are the living proof of that love."

Nevermind.

Your breath hitched as you tried to process what he had just said.

You had always felt different, always wondered if there was more to your story than what you’d been told—when your powers first appeared, you questioned everything about your life. And now, here was Chthon, telling you that the people who raised you weren’t your real parents.

He didn't tell you that with these words, but it was what they meant.

Your real parents—your true parents—were part of something more ancient, powerful, magical.

And he, this creature before you, was your biological father.

The realization made your head spin. For a fleeting moment, as crazy as it could sound, you felt a strange sense of relief.

You weren’t just some abandoned soul, wandering through life aimlessly. There was a reason you felt so out of place growing up, why your connection to the world felt tenuous.

Perhaps, those who raised you knew something. Maybe they weren’t just your caretakers but had been watching you, guiding you because of what you could become.

Chthon noticed the shift in your expression and sat closer to you, his presence surprisingly comforting.

"I’ve always been there," he said softly. "Watching, protecting you. Your powers, your connection to the world—it’s part of who you are. Part of who we are. And now, finally, we can be together.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel so alone. You weren’t the outlier, the strange one always standing at the edge.

You belonged somewhere, had a place in something larger than yourself. Your heart softened.

Maybe this was what you had been missing all along—a connection to something deeper, to a history you never knew existed.

But as those thoughts settled, there was a subtle change in the air. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but you felt it—a shift in Chthon’s energy, like a shadow creeping in at the edges. His tone remained soft, his gaze still tender, but something lingered beneath it all.

“You see, my sweet child," Chthon continued, his voice still filled with warmth. "When you were born, you inherited an equal amount of my magic—chaos itself. But your mother’s sister was terrified. She knew what you were capable of, even as a newborn. She feared that such immense power in the hands of a fragile human child could unravel the world."

He paused, watching your reaction closely. "So, she locked a portion of your magic away, hiding it deep within you. She thought she was protecting the world, but in truth… She only limited what you could become. The power left in you was just enough for me to ensure your safety, to watch over you. But the rest, it’s been waiting—buried, dormant—until now."

You stared at him, feeling a knot form in your chest.

"What... What are you saying?" you finally broke your silence, your voice shaking slightly. "She knew? They knew? My powers—they kept them hidden from me?"

Who you thought were your parents, in truth, were only two people afraid of you? Who only was there in case you suddenly lose control?

Chthon nodded slowly, as if every word he spoke was peeling back layers of a truth you were only beginning to grasp.

"Yes," he said, "They kept you in the dark. Those who raised you weren’t just your caretakers—they were put in place to guard you, to keep you from unlocking your full potential. They feared you."

A lump rose in your throat as you processed his words. You had always sensed something was off, but you had never imagined it was this. All the years of feeling like you didn’t quite belong, the way your family always seemed to watch you with cautious eyes... It all made sense now.

They weren’t protecting you—they were containing you. Holding you back from something becoming something far bigger.

Chthon leaned closer, his hand hovering near yours, as if offering comfort, "But now, my child, you don’t need to be afraid of that power. I’m here to help you unlock it, with my guidance, you can be whole again. You can become what you were always meant to be."

His words should have been reassuring, but the darkness lurking beneath his gentle tone unsettled you. You wanted to believe him—wanted to accept the idea that your true father had come to you out of love and care. But the shift in his presence kept you on edge.

"But why?" you asked, your voice trembling, "Why did they hide it? Why did they keep me from knowing the truth?"

Chthon smiled, though there was a hardness behind it now, "Because they were afraid. Afraid of what you could become with that power. Afraid of what we could become together."

A chill settled over you as his words sank in.

There it was again—that subtle shift. The way he spoke about power, about becoming whole…

Here was someone claiming to be your true father, someone who saw you not as an intruder but as something special—magical.

But still, a part of you resisted. The part that had spent years yearning for a quiet, normal life, away from the storms of power and chaos.

You swallowed, your voice barely steady.

“Why now? Why reveal this to me after all this time?”

Chthon’s eyes softened one more time, his hand resting just a breath away from yours.

“Because it is time, my child. Time for you to know where you truly come from. I’ve watched over you, even as you were raised by those who weren’t meant to keep an eye on you.” He paused, a faint glint of something unreadable in his gaze, “I never meant for you to feel abandoned,” Chthon continued, his voice rich with emotion.

“I’ve waited for this moment, for you to come for me on your own,” he said, his voice still warm, but there was an edge now, a subtle shift. “With my guidance, you will unlock the power inside you, the power that was hidden from you for so long. You will be whole again, and we will be unstoppable.”

You frowned slightly, a flicker of unease stirring in your chest.

“Unstoppable?” you repeated, the word hanging between you.

Chthon leaned back, his gaze becoming more intense, more focused.

“Yes. The power we share is unmatched. With you by my side, we will reclaim what was taken from me.”

Your breath hitched, “Taken?”

His smile remained, but there was a coldness behind it now, a glint of danger.

“Yes, my child. Long before you were born, I ruled over magic, over life and death itself. The forces that govern this world… They belong to me,” Chthon’s eyes glinted as he spoke, his tone no longer veiled in warmth but radiating an undercurrent of hunger. “The very breath of existence, every heartbeat, every flicker of life—it was mine to command.”

His voice grew heavier, darker, “But I was cast out, my throne stolen by those who feared my power, those who thought they could contain the chaos I created.”

It felt like someone was carving its way out of your flesh as his words sank in.

The warmth that had once surrounded his voice was slowly freezing cold. You wanted to pull away, to ask no more questions, but you were frozen in place, caught between the comfort of the family you had always longed for and the creeping dread that was beginning to take hold.

“I’ve used Ophelia—Madame Hydra,” Chthon continued, as if he didn’t notice the tension brewing in your stomach. “She and her crew have been useful, but they are nothing more than tools to help me crawl my way back to Earth. They think they are working for their own gain, but they are part of a far greater plan. With the artifact, and with you by my side, I will reclaim my dominion. All life, all death, all magic—it will be under my control again.”

Your heart raced, your mind scrambling to make sense of what he was saying. This wasn’t about reuniting, about finding family or love. This was about power…

About control.

You could feel the tendrils of his influence tightening around you, his words drawing you deeper into his web.

“You lied,” you stammered, the words barely forming in your throat. “You said you wouldn’t hurt anyone, neither my friends, that there would be nothing in the world you would possibly do to worry me about.”

Chthon’s smile widened, but it no longer held any warmth. His eyes gleamed with a darkness that made your skin crawl.

“I didn’t lie, child,” his voice carried an eerie sense of certainty, “There will be nothing for you to worry about because there will be no world left for you to concern yourself with. When I reclaim my throne, this world will be reshaped, and you will be somewhere safe where I can watch over you, where no harm will ever touch you and there will be nothing for you to see. Nothing but yourself and I.”

His words chilled you to the bone. He wasn’t offering protection.

He was offering imprisonment—a gilded cage where you could only watch as he wielded his power over the world, as he took back what he believed was his. Through you.

Every promise he made was a twisted version of the truth, distorted to fit his plans.

“I won’t help you,” you said, your voice trembling, but defiant. “I won’t let you bend the world to your knees. Those who hold power should reach a hand down to those in need, not destroy them.”

Chthon’s gaze darkened, the gentleness evaporating completely, replaced by a cold, sharp intensity. His lips curled into a sneer, his earlier warmth now a distant memory.

The air around you felt heavy as his true nature revealed itself fully.

“To reach a hand down to somebody,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt, “they must first be beneath you.”

Each syllable hit like ice piercing through your defenses. He leaned closer, his presence oppressive, his gaze fixed on yours with an unsettling intensity.

“And that, my child, is where they belong. Beneath us. Beneath me.”

You could feel the full weight of his ambition now, the depths of his hunger for control. It wasn’t just about reclaiming power—it was about subjugation, dominance over every living being. There was no compassion in him, no desire to help or heal.

Only the need to rule.

“Those who are weak,” he continued, his voice low and filled with venom, “were never meant to wield power. They exist to be controlled, to be shaped by those who understand the true nature of this world. And you… You will help me make sure they remember their place.”

Your heart raced, your mind screaming at you to run, to escape, but you were stuck in that bench, trapped by the horrifying realization unfolded in front of your eyes.

That wasn't a loving father. He was a monster, one who would do anything to claim the world as his own, and he wanted to use you as a means to an end.

“I will never help you,” you whispered, the fear in your voice barely masking the insistent defiance building inside you.

Chthon’s smile didn’t waver, but something about it shifted—just slightly. He leaned back, his eyes studying you with unsettling patience, as if every move had already been predicted in the game you didn’t know you were playing.

“Oh, my dear,” he murmured, his tone in faux affection, “you think you have a choice…” His voice wrapped around you like a whisper carried on the wind, low and unhurried.

“... But you don’t.”

He moved slowly, deliberately, until he was standing directly over you, his presence towering. For a moment, his gaze softened again, and he looked down at you with something almost resembling pity.

You tried to get up, but your muscles betrayed you. Your limbs were totally flimsy and flaccid, showing no sign of understanding the commands your brain shouted to them.

His hand hovered near your face, just out of reach, as if waiting for you to accept what was coming.

If you could, you would have screamed. Damn not showing desperation, you were in despair.

Then, without warning, his fingers gently brushed against your chin, tilting your face up toward him. The touch wasn’t harsh—it was almost careful, like one might handle something fragile.

But the power behind it, the control, was unmistakable. He was the one pulling your muscles down.

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, but the words felt hollow now, “I need you intact.”

His hand tightened, ever so slightly, and you felt your mouth part involuntarily under the pressure. Something dark stirred in the pit of your stomach, the creeping sense that whatever was coming next would definitely hurt.

And, when you least expected it, you felt it.

A heat, low and simmering, began to build inside you. It started as a flicker, a sensation deep in your chest, but it quickly grew, spreading up your throat. You gasped, the sensation burning, as if something inside you was clawing its way out.

Chthon’s eyes gleamed, his grip on your chin tightening as he held you in place, forcing you to stay still. His thumb pressed into your skin, and you felt the pull, the draining of your power, slow and deliberate, slipping away from your core and toward him.

Your vision blurred for a moment as the pressure built, and then it started—something thick and hot, almost like blood, began to rise in your throat, burning as it made its way up. You coughed, choking as the rough energy forced itself off your mouth, spilling out like molten fire.

Blood began to trickle from the corners of your lips.

Everything hurt—your chest, your throat, even your eyes. You felt as though you were unraveling from the inside, every ounce of strength being pulled from you. 

Chthon’s gaze never fluttered, his red eyes glowing with satisfaction as he absorbed your powers, your energy… Your magic. It was no longer yours—it was his, and he was consuming it, draining you of everything. You watched your now crimson red energy carve its way out of your mouth, drawing you blood and flowing its way to be swallowed up by Chthon. Drop by drop.

Your power, your spirit—every piece of you stolen, slipping into him.

Your heart pondered, fast. It felt as though your heart was about to give out at any moment, pounding so violently in your chest that you were sure it would burst. Your mind ran as a lunatic, trying to pull something together amidst the agony, but all it could bring for your comfort was memories.

Fragments of your life, your past. A last thing that was yet yours, so you could hold on to it firmly before it was also taken from you.

You saw the faces of those who raised you, their distant, watchful gazes.

Your parents, or who you thought was your parents, side by side with you as they held your hands. You were leaving a circus show, your face painted like a strange, cute clown as you laughed as you tried to tell them what you saw. Even though they had been there with you the whole time.

And, yet, they patiently listened to you. They indulged you to tell them more, asked questions, what had happened next…

Did they really not care about you? Minutes ago, you believed so, but as you remembered all the moments you spent together, how they always made sure you would feel special.

Not special to the world and those who didn’t know you yet, but for them. In that time, being special to them was enough for you.

And even now, it hadn’t changed.

Then there was Nick Fury, the man who took you under his wing, who saw something in you worth fighting for.

“You don’t see it yet,” he told you once, as you were in the car on the way to the S.H.I.E.L.D’s airship, where the people who could help you were, “But one day, you’ll blow us all away.”

The memory of meeting Tony and Steve clashed into your mind, in the same way Tony’s quick wit would clash with Steve’s unwavering resolve. Somehow, they made it work.

After a mission, when you and Tony sat down during a moment of shared exhaustion, he turned to your direction and looked at you in silence for a couple of minutes before saying:

“You’re tougher than you look, kid. Keep that up, and you’ll outlast us all.”

A shadow covered the sun that was helping you deal with your exhaustion. When you looked up, you found Steve looking down at you with a crooked smile, his quiet strength a stark contrast to Tony’s flamboyance.

“Don’t let the weight of the world crush you,” he had said, reaching a hand to help you get back up, “You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

And so, you did as he said. Or tried to, for a long time. At least, you weren’t alone.

Steve helped you every time you doubted yourself or felt like your world was falling apart.

Your mind jumped again to another unravel of memories. All the missions you worked together alongside the others, while your bunch became few and fewer, until there were only some of you. But, you continued to stand tall.

However the memory of Steve was fleeting, as much as his departure. Next thing your mind brought up were Sam and Bucky, their banter a familiar background noise during long nights of planning and strategy when they asked for your help against the Flag Smashers.

The way Sam would always try to lighten the mood, cracking jokes even when things were at their worst. Bucky, with his haunted eyes, had always been the one to remind you that surviving wasn’t the same as living—following his own advice for once. Now, all of this brought you some comfort, maybe you should have appreciated it better at the time.

One of the nights while you and Bucky were staying at Sam’s place, the three of you found yourselves on the rooftop of the Wilson family home.

The air was warm, with a gentle breeze carrying the scent of saltwater from the nearby bayou. You sat side by side, looking up at the night sky, the stars faintly visible against the deep blue, while the moon cast a soft glow over Delacroix below. It was one of those rare moments of peace, where the weight of everything you had been through seemed to lift, if only for a little while.

But despite the calm exterior, you could feel the tension simmering just beneath the surface. You had been too quiet, your thoughts swirling with everything that had happened, everything that would come next.

Perhaps your silence spoke louder than you intended, because after a while, Sam glanced at you.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, pushing his lips into a thin line, his voice heavy once he said those words. “You were right, I had avoided you since what happened.”

Your eyes widened at his confession, your head snapping in his direction immediately.

Not quicker than Bucky’s, though, who had been staring at the ground, seemingly lost in his own thoughts until that moment. His gaze shifted to Sam, a mixture of confusion and understanding crossing his features.

Sam looked down, guilt etched into the lines of his face.

"Every time I looked at you," he swallowed dry, gathering some courage to look you in the eyes, "I saw the person who was still standing, who hadn’t given up, who hadn’t… Turned to dust."

It was you now who avoided his gaze, it still hurt to remember that you were one of the people who hadn’t turned to dust. You were five years older, while fifty percent of those who had turned to dust remained the same age as when they left. It was hard to explain the agony that infringed you when you thought about it.

Bucky remained silent, his jaw clenched tightly as he listened. His eyes stayed fixed on the ground, as though he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze just yet. The struggle was evident in the tension of his body, the way his fists clenched and unclenched as he grappled with his own thoughts.

"You reminded me of him," Sam admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Steve, a lot actually. I… I think it was easier to avoid you than to face the guilt, to face what I lost. When I came back and was given another chance to fight against that bastard, I wished I could have done more. Yes, Steve gave me his shield but, at the time, it didn’t feel right."

You looked back at him, processing his words, you didn’t know what to say to him. You couldn’t say you didn’t understand him, because you did, a lot.

“And everytime I looked at you,” he continued, shaking his head, “It was like he was looking back at me, disappointed.”

Immediately, you found the words, “I could never be disappointed with you.”

“I know,” he sighed, a weak smile tugging his lips, “Now, I know.”

Your heart ached at his words. Sam had always carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, always tried to do what was right. But hearing him admit the truth, it made your anger and hurt soften, if only a little.

Bucky finally found his voice as well, though it was low and rough, strained with the words that were about to leave his mouth.

"I think that it was the same for me," he began. "I didn’t know how to face you after the Snap. In fact, I didn’t know how to face anyone."

Both you and Sam already knew that; you had subtly pointed it out while traveling through Europe. At the time, Bucky hadn’t responded—he’d either retorted or deflected with another question. It was clear the subject was a delicate one.

He finally looked up at you, his eyes filled with a sorrow that had been festering for too long.

"You were right to be mad. I pushed you away because you were... One of the names on my list, and I didn't know what would happen next if we talked about what happened."

You were about to ask what he was talking about when it hit you: he was referring to the time you had spent running, fighting, and barely surviving the chaos that H.Y.D.R.A. had unleashed.

It was during the events of Washington, D.C., when Bucky—no, the Winter Soldier—had almost killed you. The cold, relentless assassin with no memory of who he was, with nothing in his eyes but the mission, had nearly taken your life. Now, the man beside you didn’t know what to do about the trail of guilt that has been falling since the moment he had almost killed you.

Bucky’s voice trembled slightly as he continued, "I didn’t know how to talk to you about it, because I didn’t want to face the reality of what I almost did. You were innocent in all of it, you only were there because you wanted to help Steve. And I nearly killed you, as I had killed every innocent that crossed their way with me."

He paused, swallowing hard as if the admission had taken all the strength he had left.

“Before the Snap, Steve was there with us, which made it easy not to talk to you, but after everything…” Bucky didn’t need to explain, you already knew what he meant, "I’ve spent so long trying to make amends, to cross the names off that list, but with you… I just couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say, how to ask for forgiveness when even I can’t forgive myself."

Sam was silent beside you, Bucky’s words bleeding your hearts. It wasn’t just about the Snap, or the lives lost. It was about the scars that ran deep, the ones that Bucky had been trying to heal, even if it meant pushing away the people who mattered most to him.

You searched for the right words, something that could cut through the layers of guilt and pain that Bucky had carried for so long.

"James," you began, your voice soft but firm, "you weren’t yourself then, you aren’t the Winter Soldier now and never was, not the real you, James. What happened at that time, it wasn’t your fault. You were forced into that life, forced to become someone you never wanted to be."

Bucky shook his head, the anguish clear in his eyes.

"But it doesn’t change what I did. It doesn’t change the fact that I almost… That I almost killed you. And I couldn’t bear to face that. To face you, I still can’t."

You reached out, placing your hand gently over his, "You’re not that person anymore, as I said, you never were. You’ve fought so hard to meet again the man you were, or become a new version of you, to make things right. There is nothing else you need to carry with you, not the guilt, not the past."

“But if you do,” you brushed your hand next to his, “You must know you don’t have to carry any of this alone.”

His eyes met yours, filled with so much emotion—regret, guilt, but also a glimmer of hope.

"I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for what I did," he admitted, letting himself hold your hand. "But hearing you say that… It helps. It helps more than you know."

You squeezed his hand, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

"We all have things we need to forgive ourselves for. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. We’re here, together, and we’ll get through this,” you reached your hand for Sam as well, “One step at a time."

Sam finally spoke again, his voice gentle but resolute—holding your hand back, "Every step of the way."

Bucky looked at both of you, his expression softening as he let out a breath he’d been holding for far too long. The guilt, while still present, seemed to lift slightly, as if the burden he’d been carrying had become just a bit lighter.

The three of you sat there for a while longer, letting the night wrap around you. The silence was no longer heavy with unresolved tension, but with a sense of shared understanding, a step toward healing the wounds that had been left open for too long.

As the stars twinkled above and the cool breeze whispered through the trees, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. The road ahead would still be difficult, but for the first time in a long time, you knew you wouldn’t be walking alone.

Sam and Bucky were by your side, and together you were able to face anything the world threw at you.

Or you believed so. God, how you wished to go back to those days; thinking about it almost distracted you from the pain.

The reality of your situation was far from the peace of that night on the rooftop. The memory was like a distant echo, fading in and out as the present forced its way back into focus. The searing pain in your chest, the tightness in your throat, and the weight of Chthon’s power draining you from the inside out made it impossible to escape.

Blood continued to trickle from the corners of your lips as the crimson energy was being pulled from your body, each drop stolen by Chthon, consumed by his insatiable hunger for power. The warmth you’d felt with Sam and Bucky on that rooftop was nothing but a memory now, replaced by the cold, relentless grip of this ancient entity that sought to erase you entirely.

Your heart raced, pounding so violently that you feared it might give out at any second. The more you tried to cling to the memories of that night, to the comfort they once provided, the more they seemed to slip away, like sand through your fingers. You had been so sure that with Sam and Bucky by your side, you could face anything. But here, in this moment, with Chthon draining the very life out of you, that certainty was being ripped away just as surely as your strength.

As you slip further into the haze of Chthon’s power, your mind clawed for an anchor, a single thread to pull you back from the abyss. And in that swirling vortex of memories, a moment of clarity emerged—simple, something that had kept you tethered once before.

You remembered a night in Spain, years ago. You, Sam, Bucky, and Helmut were deep in the pursuit of the Masters of Evil.

The four of you had been worn out after a particularly long day, with little to show for your efforts but exhaustion and frustration. You had found a small village tucked away from the bustling cities, where the air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and the quiet was disorienting after so much chaos.

That night, there had been no great battles, no strategies or planning. Just the four of you sitting in silence under the stars.

Sam had been making light jokes, Bucky occasionally cracking a small smile at his words, while Helmut had sat a little apart, watching the night sky. And for the first time in what felt like forever, the world had felt still.

Peaceful.

In the meantime, you had found a bottle of wine in a dusted corner and turned to Helmut, asking if the bottle would be too miserable to his sophisticated taste. He chuckled at your words before accepting it, then all of you started to share the bottle of wine, passing it between you as the night wore on.

The exhaustion had become less of a burden in the next quiet hours. It had been a rare moment when neither of you had to be warriors or tacticians. You were just people, sitting together, sharing the same air, the same silence, and—dare you say—a sense of camaraderie that, for a fleeting moment, didn’t feel so fragile.

The memory of that night—of Helmut’s quiet smile, Sam’s laugh, and Bucky’s rare, fleeting grin—wrapped around you like a blanket, a thin layer of protection against the darkness closing in. The warmth of the fire, the soft crackle of the flames, and the way you all managed to carve out a moment of peace amidst the chaos… It all felt so distant now, yet it was keeping you tethered to reality.

"If you didn't want us to drink it, you should not have brought it out," Helmut’s teasing voice echoed in your mind, his smile wide and disarming in a way that usually caught you off guard.

You remembered rolling your eyes at him, trying to hide the small, unwilling smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

“Sincerely?” you had shot back, raising an eyebrow at him, “I thought your fear of looking as miserable as us unfortunate souls, drinking the poorest wine, would’ve stopped you.”

It wasn’t sincere. Of course, it wasn’t.

But it was easier to keep the conversation light, to pretend for a while that the looming threats of the world weren’t pressing in on all sides. That night, though brief, had felt almost normal—if normal was something any of you could still claim.

Now, as the cold weight of Chthon’s power dragged at you, draining your strength, the memory felt like a lifeline. But even as you clung to it, you could feel the edges of that warmth slipping away, replaced by the relentless pull of darkness.

The voice was back, whispering seductively in your mind, “It doesn’t have to hurt anymore. You don’t have to fight it. Let me take it all away…”

You squeezed your eyes shut, fighting back the tears of frustration, pain, and fear. You weren’t ready to give in. Not yet.

Your mind, despite the overwhelming pain, drifted back to the hut and the warmth of the memory you shared with Helmut. The image of him in front of the fireplace, his face softened by the firelight, how his words brought a sense of heat to your heart. You could still feel the feeling of his arm wrapped around you, trying to keep you warm.

His quiet assurance that you weren’t alone, not then and not now. When you thought about it now, it brought some of that warmth back.

It had been such a fleeting moment of peace, one that seemed impossible to recapture here, in the middle of the nightmare. Either way, you clung to the memory as Chthon’s presence loomed over you, his voice pressing harder, trying to force you to surrender.

However, now, it wasn't freezing you into place, the ice covering your limbs melting away. No, there was no coldness, instead, you felt that same warmth as if the fireplace was just in front of you again.

The memory took your mind as its home, burying itself in the walls of your conscience. The reminder of your conversation with Helmut, the first one you had where the two of us opened up, no cards in your sleeves. The man who had once been your enemy, who had now risked so much to keep you safe. In the back of your mind, you regretted not saying the things you had wanted to tell him since that day in Wakanda. The words you had swallowed down for years.

All of that, someway—somehow—gave you strength.

With all your will, you tried to force your mind back to the moment in the hut, to the words that left your and Helmut's lips as you spoke to one another.

“You trust me,” you had said. It wasn’t a question. More of a disbelief.

It had almost felt like a challenge at the time. How could Helmut Zemo, of all people, trust you?

But Helmut’s expression softened, just enough for you to notice. His guarded nature dropped for a moment, revealing a side of him you hadn’t expected.

“I do,” he had said, his voice quieter than usual. “You made decisions even when your friends pointed out the risk, how untrusting it would be. Despite that, you did, time and time again.”

You had looked away then, unsure how to respond.

“You shouldn’t trust me,” you had murmured, shame settling in, “I was the first to get exposed by John and the others. He instantly noticed me, and that’s why the whole fight started.”

“But he hadn't attacked you yet until I fired at him,” Helmut had pointed out, “Is that why you’ve been self-reproaching since I found you? If that’s so, I’m more guilty than you are, as Sam, as James…”

The guilt you had carried for so long. It had weighed you down, gnawed at your confidence. You always told your friends to not carry bad feelings alone, to share it. If it was to carry something alone, it should be good memories—and yet, those also have been shared with those who were there.

In that moment, hearing Helmut take part of the burden, it was when you finally realized: why were you carrying burdens that deep down, you knew weren't yours?

Sometimes, everything that went wrong felt like it was your fault, your burden to carry alone. But, was it? Everything that didn't go as planned, was because of a mistake you had made?

“I still don’t understand why you saved me,” you had whispered, the confession slipping from your lips before you could stop it. Or before you could say everything that crossed your mind.

Helmut’s eyes had flickered—vulnerability, maybe?

“Because leaving you behind wasn’t an option,” he had said, his voice steady, resolute.

As if that was the only possible answer. It sounded so simple, so easy, when the words slipped from his tongue.

The warmth of that day, the quiet understanding between the two of you, felt so far away now, as Chthon’s darkness clawed at your mind.

The moment in the hut had happened today? Yesterday? How long has it been since you were under that same blanket, gazing at each other’s eyes?

You didn’t know, the only thing certain was that memory. The more you re-lived it in, the more it kept you holding on, preventing you from falling into the abyss.

Back in that hut, you had seen something in Helmut’s eyes, something that was mirrored in your own. A shared pain, a shared understanding that you both carried the side effects of your choices, the consequences of your actions.

But, in that moment, neither of you was truly alone.

“You’re not so bad, Helmut,” you had said, the words soft once they leave you, giving you no time to mask them.

And he had heard you, his lips curved into a faint smile.

“And you, mein schatz, are far more trouble than you’re worth,” he had teased, though his words lacked the usual bite.

The memory of his smile, of his words, echoed in your mind like a siren chant, a distant beacon guiding you through the storm of Chthon’s power. Instead of leading you to drown in the bottom of the ocean, it guided you out of it.

However, your mind wasn't done apparently. Suddenly, it went back to Wakanda.

The day you had freed him, the silence between you, the unspoken words that lingered in the air. You had wanted to say something—anything really, but fear had kept you quiet. Now, with your life slipping away, you regretted not telling him right away what you wished to.

But that doesn't mean you didn't say what you wish you had said in the end.

You had waited for a moment, when neither Sam or Bucky were present. When you two were alone and your courage wasn’t lacking.

“Helmut,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he could hear you. “I should have said this sooner, back in Wakanda, but…”

Chthon’s power sank into your veins, corrupting them with his voidness, but you forced the words out, your voice trembling with the effort.

“I’m happy that you’re back in the team.”

Helmut’s eyes met yours, his expression softening ever so slightly. He didn't need to say anything in response—his presence, his quiet contentment, they were enough.

There had always been a strange bond between the two of you, for the best or worst. Every time you recalled another single detail of your story from the day you met until now, it lit a small fire in the bottom of your heart.

As that fire grew, your strength was enough to hold on and take a breath.

Chthon’s presence loomed heavy in the back of your mind, his power suffocating, pressing down on every thought, every breath. You could feel him reaching deeper, twisting through the tendrils of your consciousness, seeking to consume you entirely. However, the way you clung your memories to your chest was stronger—you wouldn't let him take them from you.

As it seems, you had something he hadn’t counted on.

A reminder that every bad thing you carried with you was a lie. Big lies that your lack of courage often told yourself.

The memories of those who had stood by your side—Sam, Bucky, Helmut—were like a thread, tethering you to reality, to who you were. And the more you clung to those moments, the more you pushed back against Chthon’s control.

“You were wrong,” you whispered, the words barely audible but filled with defiance, “I do have a choice.”

Chthon’s eyes narrowed down your figure, the fire in them never going out.

“You already belong to me,” he murmured, his tone dripping with cold certainty. “Your power is mine, your body is mine, even your soul. There is nothing you could do to prevent any of that.”

But he was wrong: something had changed.

The bond between you and Helmut, the warmth of those memories—it had sparked something deep inside you, something Chthon couldn’t touch. You felt it stir, a flame reigniting after being nearly snuffed out.

And with it, your strength was renewed, enough to do more than waiting.

The energy that had been slipping away from you—your magic, your essence—it wasn’t gone. It was still there, waiting, ready to be reclaimed.

You just needed to reach out, hold into it and grasp really tight.

Chthon’s grip tightened as he leaned in, sensing your resistance. His red eyes flared with annoyance, the satisfaction from moments ago now replaced by a seething determination to finish what he had started. The draining pull of your power was relentless, your crimson energy still being siphoned away, but now something in you had awakened.

Something he hadn’t anticipated.

Your memories, those fragments of warmth began to take root, spreading through your mind like a lifeline. They were more than just fleeting moments.

Sam’s laughter, Bucky’s steady resolve, Helmut’s quiet eyes… 

They were the bonds that anchored you, pulling you back from the brink of oblivion.

Chthon sneered, sensing the shift.

“Memories won’t save you,” he hissed, his voice slithering through your thoughts. “You’re mine now, in every way that matters.”

But you weren’t just clinging to the memories—you were drawing strength from them. Helmut’s unwavering trust, the battles you had faced together, the moments of connection you had never fully appreciated until now.

They weren’t just memories; they were reminders of who you were. Of what you had fought for.

The red energy escaping from you began to slowly retreat, as though something inside you was pushing back, refusing to yield. You felt the familiar stir of your magic deep within, not yet gone, not yet lost.

It was yours, and you could feel it responding to your will.

“You are wrong,” you whispered, your voice stronger this time, the defiance growing.

Chthon’s grip on your chin tightened further, his thumb digging into your skin as if he could physically force the rest of your power out of you. The heat in your throat flared again, and more crimson energy surged upward, but this time, you reached out—deep within yourself—grasping for the core of the source.

And you found it.

The flame inside you became a conflagration. It wasn’t just your magic.

But your essence, your spirit, the part of you that had always fought back, even when the odds were impossible. The one who was constantly up to a challenge.

And now, that fire flared to life with a fierce determination, fueled by the memories of those who had stood by your side.

Tony’s remarks about everything, Fury’s belief of great potential in every person who crossed paths with him, Steve’s heart…

Helmut’s voice echoed in your mind, a memory from the fire lighting both your faces. His trust in you, the way he had opened up in ways he rarely did with anyone—that wasn’t just a memory.

But that thread that led you to him and him to you—which tethered you to the present and kept you from giving up to the darkness.

“You made decisions even when your friends pointed out the risk…” His voice was clear, unwavering. “You did, time and time again.”

The crimson energy that had been slipping away from you now pulsed with a new rhythm, one that wasn’t dictated by Chthon. It was yours, and as you grasped hold of it, you felt the power surge back into your body.

Inch by inch, drop by drop—you pulled your magic away from Chthon’s consuming presence. The black and white energy that had always been yours now shimmered with a new hue—red, not like the blood on your lips or the ominous sky above you, but more alive.

The color of life itself, raw and unbridled. Chaotic.

Chthon’s sneer turned to a scowl, his eyes narrowing as he realized what was happening.

“You can’t stop this,” he growled, his voice growing more desperate. “I control you. I am everything you are.”

“No, you are not,” you hissed, your voice stronger than ever, cutting through the air like a blade.

Your eyes burned, not with pain, but with the untamed energy surging inside you. The fire in your chest wasn’t a burden—it was liberation. It didn’t consume you; it empowered you, filling every bone, every nerve, with magic that felt like it had always belonged there.

You waited for the hundreds of voices trying to warn you, as they usually would do. But you were met with silence.

Despite that, there was no lack of will to fight. You didn't need instructions, you knew exactly what you should do.

Chthon’s sneer faltered, but you pressed on, your voice growing louder, fiercer.

“You think chaos is destruction—or to be feared. Chaos isn’t a weapon. It’s life itself. It’s the force that brings us into this world, the energy that flows through every living thing.”

The red energy pulsed brighter around you, illuminating the mount, and you could see the flicker of doubt in his eyes as he realized he was unable to pull the magic from you.

You weren’t just speaking to him—you were claiming the very power he had tried to take from you.

“And now,” you said, your voice steady, calm, “That chaos belongs to me.”

Chthon’s eyes flared in anger, but there was a flicker of fear as well. He hadn’t expected this turn of events.

He hadn’t expected you to fight back, to reclaim what he thought was already his.

With a final surge of strength, you pulled the last of your magic back to you. The red energy that had once been drawn from you now burned brightly in your hands, no longer a symbol of your defeat, but your victory.

Chthon recoiled, his grip on your chin loosening as he stepped back, his eyes wide with fury and disbelief.

“You can’t escape me,” he spat, his voice filled with venom. “I’m already within you, in your mind and soul. I will always be here.”

However, you wouldn't need to escape him to defeat him.

You knew that he was already inside you, intertwined with your essence. There was no way to banish him.

Yet, that didn’t mean he had control. You were the one who had it.

“I can’t send you away,” you said quietly, your voice calm, steady, as the power inside you stabilized. “But I can make sure you never become a threat, once and for all.”

With a deep breath, you closed your eyes and focused. You could feel Chthon’s presence in your mind, his tendrils of power still clinging to you, trying to regain control fervently. But now, with your magic fully restored, you were stronger.

And you knew what you had to do.

Slowly, carefully, you began to push him back—not out of your body, but to the darkest corner of your mind and toward the precipice of the mount. His voice grew smaller, faintly, as you locked him away, sealing him in a place where he could no longer reach you.

Nor would anyone else who dared deal with forces beyond their control.

“No–” he shouted, his voice so far away, desperate, “My child— My sweet child, please!”

Chthon’s voice, once so powerful, now became nothing more than a distant whisper. His presence still lingered, but it was no longer a threat.

He was trapped, caged within your mind, unable to contact your world.

“I’m not your child,” you replied quietly, finally locking the padlock on his cell, “My parents were magicians.”

You opened your eyes, and reality came back into focus.

The red energy around you still pulsed, but it was no longer erratic. It was controlled.

It was yours. Chthon was defeated.

Your wrists and feet, once bound by chains, were now free. The magic that had erupted from you had shattered the metal, leaving nothing but dust in its wake. You stood tall, your body thrumming with power, your eyes glowing with the vibrant red energy that now coursed through you.

The silence in the room felt heavy, but it wasn’t empty.

The Masters of Evil stood frozen, their eyes wide with glorious satisfaction. Their gazes locked onto you now, filled with reverence and fear, as though they were staring at something divine and terrifying.

Like believers gazing upon a holy symbol, they saw not you, but Chthon. They believed he had taken control, that the force of his will had consumed you entirely.

They had felt the force of Chthon’s presence, and tasted the air thick with his darkness. But you had won, not him.

Even Sam, Bucky, and Helmut stood at a distance, their expressions cautious, uncertain. They were holding on to the chains for what might come next.

You turned around, your gaze meeting Helmut’s.

His eyes, sharp and calculating, as usual, searched yours—for whatever it was left of you there. His lips parted ready to protest, but then he paused. His brows furrowed, his gaze narrowing as he studied you.

And then, in that brief moment, you saw the understanding dawn in his eyes—the gears finally stopping.

“It’s her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not him—it’s her.”

Sam and Bucky turned toward Helmut, then back to you, their expressions shifting from confusion to recognition. The tension in the room eased, but only slightly.

They could see it now too—it wasn’t Chthon, but you.

With that single declaration, everything shifted. His words echoed to the Masters of Evil’s ears, realizing what had truly happened.

But by then, it was too late.

You lifted your hand, and with a wave, you sent them hurtling into the air, their bodies suspended by the force of your power. There was no struggle, no resistance—they were utterly at your mercy.

The red energy pulsed, and with a sharp flick of your wrist, you sent them away—each of them vanishing into their cells in the Raft. Every one of them was placed in a prison specifically designed for them, where they could no longer wield their power.

One by one.

Titania, her strength nullified. 

Doctor Octopus, his mechanical arms now useless.

Moonstone, her energy dampened, trapped in a chamber that drained her abilities…

And so on, each of them were locked in their cage, separated and neutralized.

When it was John’s turn, your eyes pierced at his figure. For a second, you hesitated.

He had been pushing you to the brink for years now, he was the one who haunted your restful nights. All because, one day you used to believe he was just a human, as all of you were.

As his body was suspended, you looked into his eye. There was no remorse there, only the bitter pride of a man who thought himself invincible.

With a gesture, you threw him into a cell, one that would strip him of the very strength he had once used to overpower you.

However, you hadn’t forgotten the last remaining figure: Madame Hydra—Ophelia.

She had orchestrated so much of this, had sought to use you to bring life to her plan of subjecting the world to lick her feet, just like Chthon. But now, she was at your mercy.

Her empty, unfeeling eyes locked with yours as her lips curled into a smirk. She thought she held some power over you.

She didn’t.

With a surge of energy, you sent her hurtling into the depths of the Raft, her cell sealed with every precaution needed to contain her. And as you did, you felt a sense of finality—it was done.

All that remained of their twisted plot was the artifact. Once a key to untold power, that now laid dormant, its purpose lost with his defeat. Without hesitation, you waved your hand and set it alight, watching as the cursed page burned to ashes.

But as you turned your attention to your friends, still bound by chains, you felt a renewed sense of urgency. They had been through so much—too much—and now you could help at least with those chains.

Drawing on your power one more time, you raised your hands. Your magic surged through you, raw and powerful, a force that responded to your will as you focused on the shackles that held them captive. The chains glowed with a brilliant light, the metal deteriorated under the pressure.

Then, what was left of the chains fell to the ground.

Sam was the first to stagger forward, rubbing his wrists where the chains had dug into his skin. His eyes were wide with disbelief, but as they met yours, relief flooded his expression.

"You fought back," he said, his voice filled with awe as he stumbled toward you. The moment he regained his balance, he enveloped you in a hug, pulling you close. “God, you’re here!”

It took you a moment to notice the tears streaming down your face, soaking into Sam’s shoulder. But even as you became aware, the tears didn’t stop. Instead, you let them flow, each one carrying away the weight of the battle, the stress, the fear.

You were safe. Your friends were safe. Somehow, you had done it.

You had found your paint and brush.

“I am,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you tighten your arms around him, fearing he might slip away.

Suddenly, another pair of arms wrapped around you, and you felt the cold metal of Bucky’s arm press against your back. The contrast between the warmth of Sam and the chill of Bucky’s vibranium arm was startling, but in that moment, it grounded you. You leaned into the embrace, feeling the protective circle they formed around you, their presence a shield against everything you had endured.

Bucky’s sigh was deep, filled with a relief that mirrored your own, and his breath was warm against your neck, a comforting reminder that he was here, that you were both still alive.

All of you.

“I don’t know what I’d do if you were gone,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, each word caught by the fear that had gripped him since the moment he thought he’d lost you. “I’m just glad I’ll never have to find out.”

You could hear Bucky starting to sob, his shoulders shaking with the force of it. Or perhaps it was you—at this point, you couldn’t tell where your grief ended and theirs began. The three of you stood there, bound together by the pain and relief that came with surviving, the weight of all you had been through pressing down on you, but in a way that made you stronger, not weaker.

It was as if the world around you had faded away, leaving only the three of you in that moment, sharing a pain that was too deep for words but not beyond understanding. You had all lost so much, but here, in each other’s arms, you had found something worth holding onto. And that, more than anything, was what mattered.

Once the boys stepped away, giving you space to breathe, you took a moment to steady yourself, wiping away the last of your tears. Your breath hitched in your chest, but you felt lighter, the despair easing with each passing second. You had fought, you had survived, and now, you were surrounded by the people you cared about most, you could finally begin to heal.

Your eyes found his.

Helmut.

Your heart fluttered as you locked gazes with him. Before you could move, he was already sprinting toward you, emotion clear in his expression. His expression, usually so controlled and composed, now utterly unguarded and heart-opened, sent a shock through your system.

He pulled you into a tight embrace, his body warm and solid against yours, anchoring you to the present. You both were still here, still alive.

The tears you thought had run dry came rushing back, an unstoppable flood that spilled down from your eyes. Sobs wracked your body, echoing through the vast emptiness of the temple as you clung to him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if letting go would send you tumbling back into the darkness.

Helmut’s own tears soaked into your shoulder, a rare and precious display of vulnerability from the man who had always seemed so unbreakable.

“I—” you choked out, your voice cracking under the emotion crashing over you, “I— I thought—” But the words wouldn’t come. They were too big, too tangled with fear and relief, with everything you had been holding inside, afraid to even acknowledge.

Helmut held you tighter, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you as though you were something fragile, something he feared might shatter if he let go.

“I know,” he whispered, his voice gentle, full of an understanding that reached deep into your soul. “But you’re here now. You got through it. I told you—you’re good at making the right calls.”

A shaky laugh escaped you, though it was more a sob, your breath catching in your throat.

“I thought I would never see you again,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush, unfiltered. “Any of you.”

Helmut pulled back just enough to see your face, his fingers resting under your chin, softly, tilting your head up so that your eyes met his. His gaze was intense, searching, as though he was trying to imprint this moment, this sight of you into his memory forever.

There was relief in his eyes, yes, but also fear—fear of what could have been, of what he had almost lost. And beneath it all, something deeper, something that made your heart skip a beat.

“So, you’ve proven yourself wrong,” he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek, wiping away a tear that had lingered there. His voice was soft, tender in a way that you had rarely heard from him, “I knew I’d see you again.”

“How?” The question slipped out before you could think, your voice soft and laced with the vulnerability you so rarely allowed yourself to feel, you were more alike than you realized before.

How could he have been so certain when you had been so afraid and certain that it would be the end?

He smiled then, a small, almost wistful curve of his lips that made something warm and aching unfurl in your chest.

“Because,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I trust you.”

The words settled over you like a blanket, wrapping around your heart, soothing the parts of you that were still hurting. Helmut trusted you—had always trusted you, even when you doubted yourself.

Every time you remembered that was like a balm, healing wounds you hadn’t even known were there.

And as you looked up at him, seeing the truth in his eyes, you reminded yourself that trust wasn’t just something he gave lightly. It was something precious, something earned, and knowing that you had earned his made the fear and doubt that had plagued you seem so small, so insignificant.

You rested your cheek in his palm, letting the warmth of his touch seep into your skin, grounding you in the moment.

“How did you?” you repeated, softer this time.

You needed to understand, to hear it from him.

“Because I’ve seen you fight,” he replied, his voice steady, “I’ve seen you make impossible choices, face impossible odds, and come out on the other side stronger for it. I’ve seen your heart, your courage, and I knew… I knew that if there was someone who could make through the worst, it would be you.”

The words filled you with a warmth that spread through your chest, easing the tightness that had been there for so long. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt at peace, knowing that you weren’t alone, that you were trusted and valued by people who had seen you at your weakest and still believed in your strength.

You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch, allowing yourself a moment to simply feel, to let the emotions wash over you without resistance.

“Thank you,” you whispered, the words carrying what you couldn’t express.

Helmut didn’t reply with words, but the way he held you spoke volumes. His hand slid from your cheek to cradle the back of your head again, his touch gentle yet firm. He pressed his forehead against yours, and for a moment, you were both still, breathing in sync.

Your breath caught in your throat as you felt his lips brush against your temple, soft and lingering, a kiss that conveyed everything he couldn’t say out loud. The tenderness of the gesture made your heart flutter, and instinctively, you tilted your head slightly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t quite a kiss, but it was close—so close that the warmth of his breath danced across your skin, sending a thrill through your entire body. The world seemed to hold its breath as the two of you lingered there, your faces just inches apart.

You couldn’t put your thoughts into words; they were too tangled with emotion, with the sheer intensity of what you felt for him. So instead, you buried your face under Helmut’s chin, seeking the comfort of his embrace, of the safety you felt in his arms.

Helmut’s grip tightened slightly, his own breath hitching as he held you close, the moment stretching out as the weight of what had passed unspoken hung in the air. And yet, despite the overwhelming emotions swirling between you, there was no need to rush.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Sam and Bucky standing a few paces away, watching the scene unfold. There was a moment of silence between them.

Bucky raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Well, that’s something I didn’t see coming,” he muttered, his voice low but just loud enough for Sam to catch.

Sam folded his arms across his chest, his expression a mix of amusement and something softer—approval.

“Yeah, well,” he replied, keeping his voice equally quiet, “guess something changed after the fight at the airship.”

Bucky glanced at Sam, then back at you and Helmut, his smirk widening slightly.

“Think we should give them a minute?” he asked, frowning at the view.

Sam nodded, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah, let’s give ‘em some space. They’ve earned it.”

With that, the two of them turned, moving a little further away to give you and Helmut the privacy you needed. As they walked, Bucky cast one last glance over his shoulder, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he shook his head, a quiet chuckle escaping him.

“Never would’ve thought,” he murmured, more to himself than to Sam. But there was no malice in his tone, only acceptance—and maybe even a little bit of respect.

Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder, his voice warm with camaraderie.

“Hey, sometimes the best things are the ones you don’t see coming.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, crossing his arms.

“I don’t know if it’s a ‘best thing’ just yet,” he muttered. “We are still talking about Helmut.”

It had been five years since the four of you had become a team, even adopting a superhero group name. Yet, Sam and Bucky still liked to pretend they were back in the old days, where their banter was constant and their trust hard-earned.

“Oh,” Sam stopped in his tracks, turning to Bucky with exaggerated wide eyes. “You’re right, maybe we should interrogate him once they’re done.”

“I’m serious,” Bucky retorted, though there was a playful edge to his voice.

“Shut up, Bucky,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes as he draped an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “We both know they’ll be alright.”

[knightofmidnightsun]

spoilers, it didn't work: it's 24K 🫠🫠🫠🫠

new challenge: trying to finish a series without going over twenty thousand words in the last chapter

i'm barely in the 50% of the chapter 😢😢😢

[knightofmidnightsun]

new challenge: trying to finish a series without going over twenty thousand words in the last chapter

i'm barely in the 50% of the chapter 😢😢😢

[knightofmidnightsun]

Wasting our chances [2] | HELMUT ZEMO

Summary: You and Helmut has to find a way to get back to your friends and retrieve the artifact once and for all.

Warnings: Description of injuries. angst. a lot of angst again, be ready. description of and violence, referenced sexual harassment, trust issues

Word count: 11K

Skeletons, skeletons series: [1], [2], [3]

You moved in silence, each step measured and deliberate, as if the airship itself was listening. The metallic hum of the engines vibrated under your feet, a constant reminder of the danger lurking in the shadows. Every breath you took felt like a risk, the tension in the air so thick it was almost suffocating.

Helmut led the way, his movements precise and controlled, with James and Sam close behind. You followed at a distance, your eyes constantly scanning the dimly lit corridors for any sign of movement. The mission was simple: infiltrate, retrieve the artifact, and get out before anyone realized you were there. But something about this place felt off, as though the walls themselves were watching, waiting for the perfect moment to betray you.

James suggested splitting up to cover more ground and find the artifact quickly. Though the idea made sense, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched. The Masters of Evil might not have known you were there, but the silence was too loud, too charged with an impending threat.

You passed through rooms filled with books, weapons, and maps, each more ancient and arcane than the last. But there was no sign of the artifact. The urgency of the situation weighed heavily on you, the words of Doctor Strange echoing in your mind: the artifact was powerful, dangerous, and in the wrong hands, it could bring untold destruction. But he hadn’t told you what it was, only that it was a page from a book steeped in dark magic, exuding an evil so potent you would know it when you saw it.

Then, you understood what he meant.

As you entered another darkened hallway, a wooden box caught your eye, sitting innocuously on a desk at the far end. It was locked, but that wasn’t what made your heart race. The air around the box seemed to pulse with a malevolent energy, a whispering presence that sent chills down your spine. The whispers, low and indistinct, grew louder in your mind, as if the box itself was trying to communicate with you.

The closer you got, the more the air seemed to thicken, pressing in on you from all sides. Your powers stirred inside you, a swirl of black and white energy, sensing the wrongness of the box. It was as though your very essence knew exactly what was inside the box, an instinctive recoil that made your skin prickle with unease.

Yet, at the same time, there was something about the box that drew you in, a dangerous allure that tugged at the edges of your mind.

You hesitated, your eyes hovering over the box as the whispers turned darker, more insistent. The energy within you flickered, confused, caught between the urge to pull back and the strange temptation to uncover what was hidden.

Each step closer seemed to dull your senses, the black and white energy that usually guided you now sluggish, as if sedated by the presence of the box. It flickered around you, almost fading away from your touch.

The closer you got, the more it felt like your powers were slipping away, sinking into a murky void. However, your mind was so far away that you couldn’t bring yourself to step away.

Just as you were about to reach out, a sudden spike of awareness cut through the haze. Your powers flared, a jolt of black and white energy that hit you like a warning, sharp and urgent. Something was about to happen, something dangerous, but the realization came a second too late.

Your foot nudged something on the floor—a box teetering on the edge of a chair that crashed to the ground with a resounding thud, echoing down the corridor. Panic surged through you, your powers now fully awake but unstable, reacting to the threat too late.

The noise was far too loud; if you had heard it, so would the Masters of Evil.

You forced yourself to focus, reaching out with your powers. The familiar black and white energy began to swirl around you, but it was faint, like a flickering light on the verge of going out. As you reached for it, the energy felt slippery, elusive, as if something was dulling your connection to it.

A wave of dizziness hit you, and your vision blurred. The whispers from the box grew louder, their dark tendrils winding through your mind, sedating your powers even further. You could feel them slipping away, weakening with each passing second. The clarity that usually accompanied your abilities was fading, leaving you with nothing but a desperate, primal urge to hide.

The smartest thing to do at the moment, the only thing you could focus on, was to hide.

You found yourself ducking behind one of the old bookcases abandoned around the hall, your body moving on its own.

Your breath caught in your throat as you heard footsteps. Slow, deliberate, they echoed down the hallway, each one a countdown to your discovery. You peeked around the edge of the bookcase, and your blood ran cold.

John Walker.

He moved with the calm confidence of a predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run. The shield at his side glinted ominously in the dim light as his eyes scanned the hallway, narrowing when they reached the fallen box. He didn’t call out, didn’t rush. He just kept walking, each step bringing him closer to you.

The energy inside you surged again, the black and white colors swirling together, urging you to stay hidden, to wait for the right moment. You pressed further into the shadows, but it was no use. His gaze locked onto your hiding place, a slow, sadistic smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” His voice was low, mocking, dripping with malice. He took another step closer, savoring the moment. “It’s been a while since our last meeting, hasn’t it, sweetpea?”

You couldn’t move, couldn’t think. His presence was suffocating, the way he stepped closer to you, the way his eyes seemed to bore into your very soul...

It wasn’t the shield that terrified you, though you knew how deadly it could be.

“The last time we met, you tried to immobilize me and tower over me before I headbutted your nose,” you muttered, eyes narrowing in his nose. The hit lingering in the way it got healed since the last fight of yours.

John’s smile only widened at your words, the memory of that encounter clearly doing nothing to deter him. Instead, it seemed to amuse him, fueling the twisted satisfaction in his eyes. He took another step closer, and you instinctively pressed yourself further into the bookcase, wishing it could swallow you whole.

Instantly, you regretted indulging him.

“Ah, yes. You’ve always been quite the fighter,” he said, his voice laced with a sickeningly sweet condescension, “But we both know how that would have ended, don’t we? No need to play tough now.”

The last time you had met, John John only had his punches and kicks, his shield thrown away from both of you as he held your arms and hands over your head and towered over you. Right there, you knew what you had to do, the energy flew from you, guiding you quickly to act before thinking about it.

But now, his shield was right there at his side.

Every fiber of your being screamed at you to do something, anything, but you were frozen, caught in the web of his gaze. Anyway you ran would be worthless, you were cornered in all ways and meanings.

He was close now, too close. You could see the faint scars on his face, remnants of battles fought and won, but it wasn’t those that held your attention. It was the way his eyes darkened with something more sinister, something that made your skin crawl. The shield in his hand felt like an afterthought now, a mere tool in his arsenal, but not the one that concerned you most.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper as he loomed over you. “The chase. If you wish, I can give you five seconds ahead, but you already know how it will end this time, no? With that little trick of yours.”

That was the problem, your little trick —your powers— were slipping away, leaving you unsure if you even had a chance against him anymore.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze, even though it felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into a dark abyss.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you spat, though your voice betrayed the tremor of fear that you couldn’t quite suppress.

“Is that so?” He chuckled softly, a sound that sent chills down your spine, “Are you sure?”

Your muscles tensed, every nerve on high alert as his words sank in. The moment stretched out, a silent standoff where every second felt like an eternity. You could feel your powers stirring within you, a desperate attempt to brace for whatever came next, but the energy was erratic, unpredictable.

Glancing, you were capable of seeing the intangible energy shaking around you, trying with all its might to help you out of there despite its state.

Just as you felt the darkness closing in, you sensed it. A change in the air, something piercing the breeze and aiming with certainty.

Then, you heard—a sharp crack that pierced the tension like a lightning bolt.. John recoiled, a pained grunt escaping his lips as he staggered back, clutching his shoulder where a thin line of blood began to seep through his uniform. He turned his face to something behind him, muttering a swear.

You blinked, the world around you snapping back into focus as the shock of what just happened settled in, your energy trembling and crawling back under your skin. Your gaze darted in the direction John was looking—toward the entrance of the hall where Zemo stood.

Gun in hand, a thin wisp of smoke curling from the barrel. His eyes were locked onto you, assessing the situation with a calm that contrasted sharply with the chaos unfolding.

For a split second, the world seemed to stop. Zemo’s expression was unreadable, a mask of control that gave nothing away, you wished you could read his mind and see what he was thinking.

Was he mad at you for exposing yourself? Did he know what John was about to do? How long was the baron there? What had he seen and listened to before firing that gun?

Zemo gave no answer away, he only stood there, gaze shifting from you to Walker.

Who was already recovering, standing in the way between you and the box. Yeah, you had completely ruined the plan.

“We need to hurry,” Zemo shouted, lifting his brows at you, reloading his gun, “Go on.”

Hurry you did, kicking John in his legs and making him fall before running to Zemo, following him down the airship. The sound of heavy steps following you.

You watched all your friends running out of their own hidden spots, exposed as you were after what you had done.

But something was wrong. The powers that usually guided you through danger were barely a whisper now, leaving you vulnerable. Each breath you took was heavier than before, more uncertain, and the world around you seemed to blur and twist. The dizziness returned, stronger this time, making your head swim.

As you reached out to your powers once more, desperate for any sense of direction, a void filled your eyes. Suddenly, you were falling from the airship. You blinked in surprise, a louder scream escaping your lips as you desperately tried to think of a solution, some way to go back.

But there was no way to go back. Looking down to where you were falling, you saw an infinite blue—sea.

You closed your eyes, feeling the panic settling in once again. The wind rushed past you as the ground loomed closer, your heart pounding in your chest. The sensation of falling, of losing control, was all-consuming.

And in that moment, you felt it—the last remnants of your powers slipping away, completely sedated, leaving you utterly defenseless. Your legs burned from Ultron's last blast, but there was no warning, no instinct to guide you this time. Only the cold realization that you were on your own.

Then, someone embraced you, comforting you from what was about to happen.

Despite the tranquilization, in the back of your mind, you faintly heard the whispers from before, the same ones that had followed you when you were in that hall, falling from the airship.

The sea rushed up to meet you, but before the impact, the scene changed swiftly.

The air grew thick with the scent of earth and blood, the metallic tang sharp in your nostrils. You opened your eyes to find yourself on a mountain, the sky above you a deep, bruised shade of purple, as if the world itself was bleeding.

You were no longer in your clothes, jacket and boots, but dressed in a simple white gown, its fabric clinging to your skin, soaked through with blood.

In your arms, you were cradling a baby, its small form fragile, delicate.

The child's face was hidden, swaddled in the folds of your dress, but you could feel its warmth against you, a comfort contrast to the cold wind that whipped around both of you. On your other hand, you clutched a page torn from a book, the parchment worn and stained, covered in strange, ancient symbols that seemed to shift and writhe before your eyes.

You didn't know how, but you understood them—the words, the concepts. They were etched into your mind. However… Even so, you couldn’t put into words or form coherently in your mind what they translated into.

A heavy presence loomed behind you, pressing down on you like a weight impossible to bear. You could feel its breath on your neck, cold and unforgiving. A hand—a claw—dug into your shoulder, the sharp nails biting into your skin.

Reminding you of what you were supposed to do.

"I'm scared," you wanted to shout, but the words caught in your throat.

You could feel the presence behind you shift, a voice whispering in your ear, soft as a lover's caress but laced with poison. "Don’t be."

The same voice that was following you since you walked in that hall, filling your minds with whispers.

Before you could resist, your body moved on its own. You shoved the page into the baby’s throat, forcing it to swallow. Your mind screamed, your soul tore at the seams, desperate to stop what you were doing. But control was an illusion, and as you tried to regain it, the world around you dissolved, leaving nothing but a cold, black sea.

The icy water swallowed you whole, freezing you to the bone as you sank deeper, the weight of the darkness pulling you under. You thrashed, but there was no escape, no way out. Helmut wasn’t here to save you, no hand reaching through the cold to pull you back. Even your powers, the ones that usually guided your survival, were silent.

Your lungs grew heavier with each passing moment, the dark water seeping into your very being. The whispers returned, clearer now, their sinister intent wrapping around your mind like chains.

“A door without a key, a cage without bars,” the voice coiled around your thoughts, tightening with every breath you took. “My sweet child, you will come for me.”

The cold abyss dragged you further down, your mind screaming for air as your body refused to respond, paralyzed by the freezing dark. The whispers echoed, a twisted symphony in the depths of your consciousness.

“What is a soul with no body?”

Water filled your lungs, pressure building until you thought you would burst, but there was no pain, only a strange, numbing comfort. Your struggles slowed, your limbs growing heavier as the darkness became almost… Welcoming.

And then, pain—sharp, searing, like a thousand needles driving into your flesh. But as quickly as it came, it was gone.

With a jolt, you woke up.

“Hey,” Helmut stood in a corner of the hut, his gaze fixed on something that had caught his attention while you slept. But the moment he saw you stir, his focus shifted entirely to you. He moved swiftly, concern etched on his face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you murmured, blinking as you tried to adjust to your surroundings. The memories slowly began to piece together—the fall from the airship, hiding from the Masters of Evil, struggling to find a way to help your friends while keeping yourself alive. “It was just a nightmare.”

Helmut’s brows furrowed in concern as he knelt beside you, his eyes scanning you with a sharp intensity. You frowned, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders, shielding yourself from both the cold and his scrutiny. Your gaze dropped to the floor, avoiding his, where you noticed a neatly folded pile of clothes set aside for you.

“I’ve seen you have nightmares before,” he said, watching as your eyes widened at his words. “Don’t ask—I’m a light sleeper. My point is... Usually, when you have nightmares, your powers manifest.”

“And?” you lifted a brow at him.

A chill ran down your spine as Helmut's words sank in, each syllable tightening the knot of unease in your chest. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you could feel your heart picking up speed, a frantic rhythm that betrayed your calm facade.

You didn’t need to ask to know where this conversation was heading, but part of you clung to the hope that you were wrong, that maybe he was just overthinking it.

Yet, deep down, an unsettling familiarity gnawed at you, the kind that made your skin prickle and your mind race with possibilities you didn’t want to confront.

Helmut's gaze remained locked on you, a mix of concern and calculation flickering behind his eyes. He was piecing it together, and you could see the exact moment when the realization hit him—a subtle shift in his expression, a tightening around his mouth.

"It explains a lot," he murmured, more to himself than to you, but you caught every word. "How you were hit by Ultron, even with your reflexes. And when the ice broke, you should've been able to predict that, avoid it."

His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a layer of suspicion that he couldn’t quite hide.

Your heart pounded louder in your chest, the familiar rhythm now a hammer against your ribs. You had known this moment was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier to face. You rather be oblivious to what was happening then face it.

"Your regeneration, too," Helmut continued, his eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction. "It didn’t kick in when it should have. But then, when it was a matter of life or death, it did. Something was holding it back until the last possible moment."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. Despite it, you locked your eyes back to his.

"Your powers… They've been acting differently since the airship," Helmut whispered, his voice softening as realization dawned, “why didn’t you tell me?"

You nodded, the movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. "We were already trying to find somewhere to hide, to rest," you admitted, your voice tinged with the weariness of holding onto this secret. "I didn’t want to add one more thing to our list. Honestly, I didn’t even want to think about it."

Helmut's gaze bore into yours, searching for something beyond the words you had spoken. The weight of his scrutiny pressed down on you, making the air between you feel thick and suffocating. He was piecing together the puzzle, and you could almost see the gears turning in his mind.

"After the hall," he repeated, his voice low, contemplative. "That’s when it changed."

You nodded again, this time more deliberate. "There was a box there, I believe the artifact was inside it," you said, the words trembling on the edge of your lips. "It felt different. Wrong. Like it was too much for me to even hold or touch it."

His eyes narrowed, the suspicion in them hardening into something sharper, more focused. "So… You left it there?"

The box, which had inside what was your entire mission.

“Sorry if whatever was inside it was confusing my mind and, consequently, messing up with my powers enough so I couldn't think straight,” you forced a smile, clearly ironic, “I didn’t know what would happen if I tried to grab it. My powers were already—They weren’t responding the way they should have been. I wasn’t sure what could happen if I did it, it wasn’t safe.. It could’ve put us both in more danger.”

He was quiet for a moment, processing everything, and you could see the concern behind his steely exterior.

"We’ll need to be more careful then," he finally said, his tone decisive but not unkind. "If it can disrupt your abilities, then it’s more dangerous than we anticipated. We’ll have to figure out how to deal with it."

You stared blankly at him, the gears running inside your head were still trying to comprehend the fact he wasn’t angry at you. The artifact was your mission, you had invaded the airship just to retract it, and you had left it behind in that hall alongside Helmut.

There was the chance it could have helped you up there during the time but, at the same time, when you recalled the sensation you had felt as you stepped near the box… You knew it was a distant hypothetical situation. A great and bif ‘and if…’.

It was evil, pure darkness. But compelling, that was probably the worst detail about it.

“At least, we know it still up there, as Sam and James and maybe some of the other Masters,” you shrugged, fidgeting your fingers, “We still have a chance, we just need to find some way.”

“I’m working on that,” Helmut sighed, scratching the back of his neck, “Every plan I start to forge in my mind, end up with us in the worst-case scenarios.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” you chuckled, the sound more an attempt to stave off frustration than genuine amusement. “Maybe we can figure something out together... After I change.”

You looked at the pile of clothes close to you, you would rather have this conversation wearing something more suitable.

Helmut nodded, his gaze briefly flicking to the clothes he’d gathered for you. “It was the best I could find, something that wouldn’t make you look so miserable.”

What a charmer.

You eyed the garments again—trousers with grimy cuffs, a threadbare sweater with frayed and stained yarn, and gloves missing an index finger. Beside them, a pair of fluffy gray socks lay, the only thing that seemed even remotely comforting.

If this was the best he could find, you shuddered to think what the other options looked like.

Helmut wasn’t dressed much better himself. His heavy winter coat hung over a nearby chair, the fabric damp but thankfully not soaked through. Beneath it, he wore a thick woolen sweater, slightly rumpled from having been thrown off in haste. His trousers were damp at the hems, not much better than what you were about to don.

Despite the state of the clothes, your eyes were drawn to the way they accentuated the small details about him. His sharp, calculating eyes now bore subtle creases at the corners, a testament to the weariness from endless hours of planning and overthinking. The stubble on his strong jawline hinted at the exhaustion he didn’t bother to hide anymore.

As he shifted impatiently, you caught sight of a few small moles scattered across his neck, a reminder that beneath the strategic exterior was a man. You felt your heart soften when you found the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes as he pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to conceal his impatience as he waited for your response.

You shook your head, pushing the distracting thoughts away. Refocusing on the clothes, you decided they would have to do the job, at least until you were safely back home.

“I can manage,” you said, rising to your feet with the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders. The pain was still there, but it was far more bearable than it had been hours ago. “Give me a minute.”

You gathered the clothes in your arms and moved to the farthest corner of the hut, away from Helmut’s watchful gaze. He had turned his back to you, his attention absorbed by something on the table, allowing you a moment of privacy. As you began to change, the cold air seeped through the thin walls of the hut, biting at your exposed skin.

Before putting on the trousers, you paused to take a look at your legs. The bandages were still tightly wrapped, barely stained. The sight made you pause—had they been changed while you were sleeping? The idea was strange, but you couldn’t remember waking up at any point, too exhausted to notice much of anything.

Once fully dressed, you approached Helmut again. He turned to face you as you neared, his eyes scanning you with a flicker of concern that he quickly masked.

“How long was I asleep?” you asked, trying to gauge how much time had passed.

“A few hours, maybe more,” Helmut replied, his voice measured. “It’s hard to keep track of time here.”

You nodded, digesting the information. It wasn’t much time, but it was enough to allow your body some recovery.

Helmut shifted slightly, his gaze becoming more focused. “How long has it been happening?”

Confused, you frowned. “What do you mean?”

“In the hall, up there,” he clarified, his tone sharpening slightly. “With John… How long has it been like this?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t expected him to pinpoint the exact moment, let alone bring it up so directly. You hesitated, the memory of the past encounters flashing through your mind.

“Since Riga,” you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s been happening since Riga.”

Helmut’s eyes darkened, his gaze becoming sharper as the implications of your words settled between you. He didn’t ask for clarification—he didn’t need to. The mention of Riga was enough. He knew what had started there, the shift that had left you feeling uneasy ever since.

Something he didn’t even know was continuing to go around.

The tension in the room thickened, heavy with unspoken implications.

“Since Riga,” he repeated softly, almost to himself. His gaze flickered, as if piecing together a puzzle. “And you didn’t think to mention it?”

You swallowed, the memory of that night flickering in your mind—the way John’s presence had become something more insidious, something that made your skin crawl. The thought alone sent a shiver down your spine, and you fought to keep your voice steady.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words got caught in your throat. How could you explain it, when you barely understood it yourself? Until that day, you didn’t know if it started because of you. It was what you had said? Your demeanor?

It had to be something you did, right?

In all the times you met, he always made it clear that you were who started it. So, it must be your fault, even if you didn’t know why.

“I didn’t think it would… Last,” you admitted, your voice wavering slightly. The words felt inadequate, too small to convey the gnawing dread that had taken root since then.

“But it has,” Hemult said, the statement more a confirmation than a question. There was an understanding in his tone, a quiet recognition of something neither of you wanted to say aloud.

You nodded, unable to meet his gaze. The truth was too raw, too close to something you weren’t ready to confront. “Yes, it has.”

For a moment, Helmut’s expression softened, a rare flicker of concern —which more and more loosened its armor since you fell from that ship— breaking through his usually impenetrable demeanor. He stepped closer, his presence a grounding force against the storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

“We’ll handle it,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with something more. “But I need you to be open with me. No more secrets.”

The vulnerability in his words, the way he looked at you—not just as an ally, but as someone he had clearly said he was before you slept: someone who trusted you and you could trust him back. Looking at his eyes, a surge of relief washed over you.

One more time, you nodded, a silent agreement passing between you.

Helmut held your gaze a moment longer, as if assessing whether you truly meant it. Then, with a nod of his own, he shifted the conversation to another worry they both share.

“We need to move,” he began, his voice now more focused, a clear shift in tone as he directed your attention to the mission at hand. “James and Sam won’t wait forever, and the artifact isn’t going to retrieve itself.”

You took a deep breath, pushing the previous conversation to the back of your mind—at least for now. There was still so much you didn’t understand, but Helmut was right. You couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not when there were other threats looming.

“What’s on your mind?” you asked, straightening your posture, readying yourself for what was to come.

“They are searching for us, which means the airship must not be far,” Helmut pondered, “At the same time, they could be near us as we speak.”

“With their equipment, there’s no frozen lake that would stop them,” you said, furrowing your brows, “So, I hope you don’t tell me that the best plan would be let them capture us.”

Helmut chuckled, eyeing you, “What do you think of me? Of course, not.”

You rolled your eyes, incapable of holding back a chuckle of your own.

“Well, we don’t have the luxury of advanced tech,” your eyes scanned the room, considering the options, “or a full team.”

“But that doesn’t mean we’re out of moves,” Helmut began, his voice thoughtful. “The cold and the terrain are on our side. If we can use that to our advantage, we can slow them down, buy us some time.”

You frowned, trying to piece it together. The idea sounded promising in theory, but in your current state, it seemed almost impossible.

“How do we do that?” you asked, crossing your arms. “We can’t exactly outpace them, not in our condition.”

The warmth of a fireplace and the protection of the hunter's hut were a temporary reprieve. But once you were out in the open again...

Despite the best clothes you could find to protect yourself from the cold, you were still far behind the level of protection the Masters of Evil had.

“We don’t need to,” Helmut replied, a hint of a plan forming in his eyes—something that always carried a certain dangerous appeal. “We make them come to us, or what they think is us. We set a distraction—simple and efficient. They’re equipped for combat, so let them think they will have one.”

“Distraction, you said?” you raised an eyebrow. “What kind of distraction?”

“A fire,” He replied, lifting his brows, the infamous and dangerous smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

A brief silence fell between you, there was an exchange of glances as you processed his train of thought.

You could see the logic in his plan. It was risky, yes, but risk was a constant companion of yours. You weighed the options, considering the terrain, the cold biting at your skin, the limited resources at your disposal and which side luck was on lately.

A slow smirk formed on your lips, mirroring his. It was audacious, maybe even reckless, but… That could work.

Time seemed to blur as you both went back to the cold. It bit at your skin as you layered on more clothes, bundling yourself in every piece of warmth you could find.

Helmut did the same, his feet firmly planting themselves in the snow, as if he had done this countless times before.

You read his files, he had not.

However, it pulled a smile from your lips to watch him walk ahead of you with so much confidence.

But you weren’t far behind, moving with just as much purpose as him, your gaze scanning the surroundings, alert for any sign of the Masters of Evil. The world around you was eerily quiet, the silence of the frozen landscape amplifying the tension thrumming beneath your skin.

Every now and then, you glanced down at your hands, noticing the ash that had gathered between your fingers. You could feel it clinging to the strands of hair that kept falling in front of your eyes, a constant reminder of the fire you'd set.

A flicker of your power was beginning to return, slowly and tentatively, like a flame struggling to stay lit. As you walked through the snow, Helmut occasionally looked back and saw the black and white energy surrounding your head, only to vanish moments later.

It was weak, but it was something—far more than the complete absence you’d felt hours ago. You could already feel your regeneration kick in, healing the bruises on your legs and easing your pain.

“Do you want to take the lead?” Helmut asked, noticing how your power circled the areas where your legs were previously injured.

He had noticed you were good again to walk ahead of him, but what probably really caught his attention was the black and white energy that pulsed with your silent thoughts. When your powers were working properly, it usually meant that you were subconsciously aware of something he couldn’t yet see.

The smart thing to do was to let you lead the way.

“Okay,” you nodded, a small, tight smile forming on your lips as you quickened your pace to guide you both.

Before you stepped ahead, Helmut reached out, brushing the strands of hair from your face with his fingers, which were also covered in ash. His touch was gentle, deliberate, and for a brief moment, the warmth of his hand contrasted with the cold air around you, grounding you in the present and away from your rushed thoughts.

You met his eyes, a silent exchange passing between you. The ashes clung to his eyelashes, highlighting the weary lines etched on his face. As he blinked, a few flecks of ash fell, leaving faint streaks across his cheeks.

A stark reminder of what you had just done, what you were doing.

His expression was resolute, but there was a softness in his gaze, a silent understanding of the weight both of you carried. Has his armor finally loosened?

You didn't wish to know the answer, because if you did, the question that remained was: what about yours? Had it loosened up too?

The moment lingered before you moved forward, leading the way through the snow. It was better that way, forgotten, just a moment.

You moved with intent, letting the subtle stirrings of your power guide you. The black and white energy flickered weakly, but it honed your senses, allowing you to pick up faintly to a direction.

Every shift in the wind, each crunch of snow beneath your boots, seemed to carry a hidden meaning. You couldn’t stop to concentrate and understand them one by one, instead you followed wherever your senses guided you into.

The details became more evidently each step you took, the way the snow clung more densely to certain branches, indicating recent movement. The faint imprint of footsteps, barely visible, leading deeper into the forest. Even the air felt different, colder in some spots, warmer in others, pointing you the way like an invisible thread—a whisper between your ears.

Helmut followed closely behind, trusting your instincts. He had seen enough to know that when your powers were active, they would get you out of problems or lead you to what you were looking for. Even if it was strange hours ago, it didn’t seem to entirely deceive you.

The two of you moved in sync, your pace steady as you navigated the icy terrain.

A certain heaviness in the air caught your attention, halting your moves. There was a faint vibration beneath the ground—subtle signs that the massive vessel was nearby, perhaps even closer than you initially thought.

The airship…

You glanced back at Helmut, who gave a slight nod, signaling his readiness to follow your lead. With renewed determination, you pressed forward, your footsteps barely making a sound in the snow. Each movement was intentional, every step measured as you closed in on your target.

Your power stretched out, feeling the environment around you. The energy flickered again, stronger this time, and you could sense it—an almost imperceptible hum of machinery, the distant echo of voices carried on the wind. The airship was near, hidden within the dense forest, waiting.

Ahead, you spotted a break in the trees, a slight clearing that seemed too perfect to be natural. Then, after more walking through the trees’ bent and missing branches, it was there—the airship, grounded, with some of the Masters of Evil gathered around it, their eyes scanning the surroundings, vigilant.

They were prepared, no doubt anticipating that you and Helmut might try to ambush them.

Immediately, you and Helmut ducked behind a snow-covered boulder, peering out at the scene before you.

From your vantage point, you could make out several figures, all well-known from your many encounters. You recognized Titania’s towering form, her posture radiating tension as she scanned the perimeter. Nearby, the Fixer was busy with some device, his attention focused but alert, while Moonstone floated just above the ground, her eyes glowing faintly as she monitored the area. It was clear that they were on high alert, each one prepared for the slightest disturbance.

Yet, you also knew that one or two of them would still be inside the airship, guarding the cell or wherever they were keeping Sam and James. Despite your and Helmut’s state, our odds weren't bad against them.

But, against five? Even more of them if they contacted the members of their alliance that were far away looking for you?

It would be a problem for sure, that was the reason for you both to patiently wait in the hidden spot you found yourselves in. Alternating between watching the Masters and the blue sky above you, waiting.

The seconds stretched into what felt like hours, the silence of the forest hanging heavy between you, broken only by the soft crunch of snow underfoot as the villains shifted their positions.

Then,a faint plume of smoke began to rise in the distance, the gray tendrils slowly curling into the sky.

The Masters of Evil stiffened, their attention snapping toward the horizon where the fire had begun to consume the forest. The sky darkened with the smoke, gradually turning from its cold, pale blue to a deeper gray, then tinged with shades of orange, red, and pink as the fire took hold, draining the life from the trees and turning them into dust.

The stark contrast between the snowy landscape and the fiery glow painted an eerie picture, one that was both beautiful and terrifying in its destruction.

As you watched the flames devour the forest, you couldn’t help but smirk as you remembered the fire almost caughting your clothes as you and Helmut fled. The rush of heat, the crackling of wood, and the searing brightness that had lit up the night... You could still feel the ashes in the pit of your lungs, a grim reminder of what happened hours before you found the airship.

Fixer, Titania and Moonstone exchanged quick, urgent words, their expressions shifting from surprise to grim anger. You caught snippets of their conversation, seeing the words form on their lips—“they’re there” and “must be close”—before they sprang into action. Their hands touched the devices in their ears, undoubtedly contacting the others, telling them about the fire and their certainty that you and Helmut were responsible.

For sure, the only ones who could have caused such a thing—if so, there was no way they wouldn't catch you next to it.

What would be off their equation was the sleds you had found outside the hunter’s hut.

In a matter of seconds, they were sprinting toward the fire’s direction, their figures soon disappearing into the smoky haze. The burning forest, a monstrous, living thing now, cast long shadows as the flames licked higher into the sky. The air around you vibrated with the intensity of the blaze, the heat even from this distance was palpable, reminding you of the power you’d wielded to set this trap in motion.

The path was clear.

You and Helmut exchanged a final glance, that was your chance. The Masters of Evil were on their way to what they believed to be your location, and it was time to move.

With practiced stealth, you both emerged from your hiding spot behind the snow-covered boulder, the cold air biting at any exposed skin as you made your way toward the now-unattended airship. The massive vessel loomed ahead, its metallic surface gleaming dully under the overcast sky, a stark contrast against the natural expanse of the forest.

The snow crunched softly beneath your boots, each step carefully placed to avoid leaving obvious tracks or making unnecessary noise. Your senses were on high alert, the remnants of your power flickering at the edges of your consciousness, offering subtle hints and warnings as you approached the imposing structure.

As you drew closer, the sheer scale of the airship became more apparent. It was a behemoth of engineering, sleek and intimidating, with panels of reinforced steel and a network of intricate machinery humming quietly within. The entrance ramp was partially lowered, ready to greet the vanguardists who hadn’t been caught.

The Vanguard, you snorted, why did people always feel the need to name a group that is trying to do something good against those with super abilities?

Zemo walked ahead, leading you inside the airship, the whole moment feeling like a deja vu. You moved with much careful precision as the baron, slipping inside the airship. The entrance ramp creaked under your weight, the sound almost swallowed by the low hum of the ship’s machinery—you just didn’t know if it was because it had happened several hours ago or due your powers.

The interior of the airship was suffocating, as the first time you walked in it. The harsh glow of lights flickered intermittently, casting elongated shadows across the metallic walls. The air felt thick with anticipation, as if the ship itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.

Helmut led the way through the ship’s maze-like interior, his footsteps silent against the metal floor. You trailed behind, your senses straining to pick up any sign of your friends or the artifact, it wouldn’t be in the same spot of before, so you would have to work thrice to find it. Your powers flickered with faint pulses of energy, guiding you and Zemo like a distant beacon.

At first, you didn’t feel anything, as if you were sinking your hand in a cold lake. But, as the seconds passed by, the presence of those who lived in those waters stirred over your fingers, threatening to tickle or threaten you.

The further you ventured, the more you could feel it—an unnatural pull, like a heartbeat thrumming just out of reach, resonating on the surface of the lake. You passed through rooms filled with half-finished meals, scattered maps, and open panels.

You had somewhat caught them by surprise when invading the airship the first time—even if John didn’t admit it.

Every so often, your powers would flare, making Helmut pause and glance at you, his eyes narrowing with concern. But each time, you were met with nothing but the cold, empty corridors, the ship’s oppressive silence weighing on you both.

“What’s happening?” he whispered, his voice barely audible in the stillness. “What are you sensing?”

“I don’t know,” you confessed, wrapping your arms around yourself as if to ward off the unease creeping through you. “I can’t focus. There’s something… It’s like there’s a pull, something standing out and drawing all my attention, but I can’t see past it. It’s blurring everything else.”

“The artifact,” he murmured, the word hanging between you like a tangible force, thickening the air with its presence.

You nodded, unable to shake the feeling that whatever power the artifact held, it was intentionally keeping you from finding your friends. It was as if the ship itself was conspiring to keep you off balance, guiding you toward what it wanted you to find—and away from what you also needed to.

Helmut’s jaw tightened, and he took a deep breath, steadying himself. “We need to find Sam and James first. If we’re all together, we stand a better chance against whatever this thing is and retrieving it to Kamar-Taj.”

Thoughts raced fast through your mind, but you nodded in agreement again. The flickers of your power were becoming more frequent now, the energy pulsing in erratic waves, but it wasn’t reliable.

Helmut gave you a reassuring smile, his brows still furrowed as he continued to think about what you had said. Which indicated that he himself wasn’t so sure, but he was trying not to let that influence you.

It was almost as if the artifact was toying with your powers, giving you just enough to keep you moving but never enough to fully understand what lay ahead.

If your powers weren’t betraying you before, it was now.

You reached out and gripped Helmut’s arm, grounding yourself and your senses. He glanced back at you over his shoulder, a momentary reluctance in his eyes. But just as quickly as he hesitated, his resolve returned, ready to continue the mission.

As you were, you forced your powers in trying to find where your friends were being kept, where the other Master would be keeping their eyes on them. The black and white energy flicked around you, and you got a brief vision of Sam and James, trapped in a pit black in the middle of a chamber in the airship.

You would watch them from a distant spot, hiding—you would find them, very soon.

As the vision slowly disappeared with the energy, you clung to it firmly, following a way not even you understood. For your surprise, or not, Helmutdidn't argue and trailed after you.

As you walked down the corridor, the air thickened with a sense of impending danger. Your footsteps echoed off the metal walls, the only sound in the otherwise suffocating silence. Each turn you took felt like it was leading you deeper into a labyrinth, one designed to keep you lost and disoriented.

However, you had the ball of wool in your hands, following the black and white thread to the end of the labyrinth.

Suddenly, a faint noise reached your ears—a low hum, almost like a distant vibration. You stopped in your tracks, straining to listen.

“There’s something,” you muttered without thinking, closing your eyes and focusing all your energy on the sound. “Below us.”

Helmut furrowed his brows one more time, gazing at your eyes as your words sinked in the gears in his head. If you turned back and returned to walk without any direction or clue, only God knew where the two of you would end.

Your best chance was to completely believe in your powers and follow their directions. Even if they were leading you into a much more dangerous situation, the essence of your power was to protect you; it would never guide you into one that would bring you no good afterwards.

So, you had to trust it. The problem would be to explain it to Helmut and—

“Okay,” he agreed, moving so he could hold your hand in his, “I trust you—show the way.”

—Or not.

Helmut trusted you—not because of your powers, but because of you. It was never about what you could do; it was about who you were. He had told you before you went to sleep that he trusted you, and you told him the same, but you didn't expect how deeply he was taking his word.

That realization hit you harder than you expected. Until now, you had always assumed Helmut’s reliance on you was purely tactical—an assessment of your abilities rather than a reflection of his faith in you as a person. Had he always trusted you like this, cared for you more than you had realized?

But then, you remembered the way he had fallen with you out of the ship, his arms wrapped around you, whispering reassurances as if to protect you from more than just the physical danger. He hadn’t needed to say it; his actions had spoken louder than any words.

For the first time, you wondered if he had always trusted you this deeply, if he had cared for you more than you dared to admit even to yourself.

And then, the question lingered—had he cared for you all along and you have been too afraid to see it? Afraid because if you answered that question yourself honestly, if you acknowledged how much you wanted to protect him, it would reveal more than you were ready to admit.

That, if given a choice, you’d use your power not just for yourself, but for him since…

Riga.

You almost snickered to yourself at the thought of all the coincidences. How many things had happened in Riga that changed your life completely?

The truth loomed too close, too threatening to confront. Because deep down, you knew that if you admitted how much his trust meant to you, it would also mean admitting how much he meant to you.

“The lower levels,” Helmut said quietly, forcing yourself out of your thoughts. “That’s where they’ll be. It has to be.”

You remembered the energy bursting inside you, screaming in your ears that there was something below you. It was for the best to push your last wave of thoughts away and go back to focus on the ones that your powers emerged with.

“And if there is nothing but the artifact?” you asked, biting one of your cheeks, “I’m not sure if my powers are truly guiding us to what we want or to what it wants.”

Helmut sighed, looking away, he knew that was a possibility.

The artifact was playing tricks with you since the first time you found yourself in the same room as it, yet—at the same time—your power’s purpose was to prevent you from danger, harm and anything that wouldn’t bring you good. Even if influenced, it would still have the same priority.

“We know for a fact that one or two of the Masters are here as well,” the baron said, turning his attention back at you, “They wouldn’t let your friends alone while everyone looks for us. Meanwhile, they also have to keep an eye close to the artifact, so…”

Wherever they are, the artifact must be close to them.

“So,” you gazed at him, watching every tiny expression hidden in his eyes, something that would tell you were wrong, “you are saying that once we find the artifact, we’ll also find them?”

“And vice-versa,” Helmut added.

Not once, his face betrayed him, he was being sincere.

“Okay,” your lips twitched, almost in a weak smile but not quite, “Way down we go.”

The thought of what you might find sent a shiver down your spine, but you pushed the fear aside. If your friends were there, you wouldn’t have any more reasons to fear for the worse.

Together, you made your way to the nearest access point leading to the lower levels, your pace quickening as the sense of urgency grew. The corridor narrowed, forcing you to move single file, Helmut leading the way with you close behind, as always. The further you went, the more the air seemed to hum with that strange energy, the artifact’s presence growing stronger with each step.

Once more, you placed your hand on his, fear gnawing at you that danger could strike at any moment. Despite your mind being distant and distracted by the many details and information trying to make themselves known, you felt his grip tighten around yours, squeezing three times—as if to reassure you that everything would be okay.

As you and Helmut reached the bottom of the staircase, the room ahead came into view. It was dimly lit, the faint glow of flickering lights casting a dull yellow hue over the expansive chamber. The metallic walls were lined with ancient-looking equipment—rusted control panels with shattered dials, crates filled with half-dismantled machinery, and long-forgotten relics from a war-torn past. The air felt thick, stale, and cold, as though no life had breathed in this place for years.

You, alongside Helmut, stayed close to the shadowy edges of the room, hidden just beyond the narrow staircase. The ceiling was high, the height of the chamber adding an oppressive weight that pressed down on you. Large metal beams crisscrossed the ceiling above, supporting vents that creaked and groaned, amplifying the eeriness of the room. Helmut’s steps were as soundless as yours, both of you moving in sync, careful not to disturb the dust-covered floor.

You pressed your back against one of the steel walls, letting the darkness of the dimly lit chamber conceal you.

Through the dimness, your eyes landed on Cap and James, your fellow companions in the past years. They were bound to a pair of metal chairs near the center of the room, under a weak overhead light.

Both looked exhausted, their heads slumped forward slightly as though the weight of their injuries kept them from sitting fully upright. Sam’s shoulders sagged, his usually bright eyes clouded with fatigue. Blood from a gash across his forehead trickled down his temple, staining the side of his face. His uniform was torn, the usually crisp material hanging loose around his arms, exposing bruised and battered skin.

James, seated with his back to Sam, was in even worse shape. His metal arm was twisted, sparks flying from exposed wiring where a joint had been torn apart. His flesh arm had deep bruises across it, and his jaw was clenched tightly, trying to mask the pain radiating through his body.

His blue eyes, though dulled by exhaustion, still carried a hardened glint of defiance. As for Sam as well.

Whatever it was that the Masters were trying to get out of them, they hadn’t given it to them. And, would never if it was up for them.

Silently, Helmut called your attention and pointed to the figures that had their backs resting on the wall next to your friends, their eyes fixed on the prisoners as one of them held something under their arm.

The first figure was Tiger Shark, his massive frame unmistakable. His shark-like skin glistened faintly in the low light, the scaly texture of his suit making him look more predator than man. He stood closest to James, his gaze locked on the soldier with a hungry, malicious gleam in his eyes.

By the smug smile on his face, you had no doubt that he was who twisted James’ arm.

Next to him was Crimson Cowl—Justine Hammer, who shared the codename with Ultron strangely. Her dark red cloak flowing around her like shadows given form. The hood obscured most of her face, but her eyes gleamed from beneath it, sharp and calculating. She wasn’t as physically imposing as Tiger Shark, but there was a quiet, dangerous energy about her, a control that made her even more unnerving. Under her arm, she held a small box, cradling it carefully.

You could sense the dark power emanating from it, the artifact.

Helmut took a glance at you, and you looked back at him.

“Looks like they brought out the muscle,” you whispered to Helmut, your voice barely audible over the hum of the machinery around you.

Helmut’s gaze returned to the two figures near your friends, assessing the situation. The bridge of his nose twisted as he came to a first conclusion.

“They’re spread out, but it makes sense to have muscle and someone proficient in magic here,” he murmured. Both of you knew that ‘magic’ was a strong word when applied to Crimson Cowl’s abilities, especially when your reference was the Scarlet Witch. “And that box… It’s right there with her.”

“And do you have a plan?” you asked, eyeing Crimson Cowl warily. “Because I don’t believe my powers would be much help against hers as long as she’s carrying the artifact.”

Helmut’s brow furrowed as he considered the situation one more time, his eyes flicking between Tiger Shark and Crimson Cowl. You knew he already had a plan, but by his face, it wasn't a plan he was content with.

“We need to separate them,” he explained, whispering next to your ear, “If we can draw Tiger Shark away, Crimson Cowl will be more vulnerable. Her focus will be split between protecting the artifact and defending herself.”

You nodded, it was the most sensible thing to do, you couldn’t deny that. The problem would be how to draw—

Before either of you could think about it, a sudden chill ran down your spine—a familiar, instinctive warning. Your powers flared unexpectedly, the black and white energy swirling around you in chaotic patterns.

At first, you thought it was the artifact playing with you again. However, it wasn’t just the artifact’s presence; something else was happening.

Your heart pounded in your chest, many thoughts crossed your head trying to warn you about the same thing. But one talking over the other the same thing with different words wasn't helping you at all.

The chaotic swirl of black and white energy around you only heightened your sense of urgency, the once-quiet whispers now a cacophony of warnings that you could barely process. This was something more immediate.

Helmut noticed your sudden tension and tightened his grip on your hand, his eyes searching yours for an explanation, but you could turn your eyes to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” Helmut whispered, concern crystal clear in his eyes.

Before you could formulate a response, your powers flared again—this time more violently, a surge of energy slicing through the air like a knife. 

The sudden onslaught overwhelmed your senses, a vivid image of a blast of energy tearing through the chamber, aimed squarely at Helmut’s back. The vision that followed was even more harrowing: darkness, a cage, despair…

There wasn’t time to think—only to react.

You shoved Helmut aside with all the strength you could muster, just as a deafening crack echoed through the chamber. A searing blast of energy tore through the space where Helmut had been standing moments before, slamming into the wall with a force that sent dust and debris cascading to the floor.

You had no time to sigh in relief, the situation was far from resolved.

The impact knocked you off your feet, pain flaring through your side as you hit the cold, hard floor. Ignoring the agony, you immediately searched for Helmut, your eyes locking onto his. His expression was a mix of shock and realization, understanding all too well how close he had come to death.

Once, he might have been angry, wishing the blast had struck him to hasten his desire for an end. But now, all you could see in his eyes was relief and something else, you couldn’t tell exactly what was crossing his mind.

Before Helmut or you could say or do something, heavy footsteps echoed through the chamber, signaling the arrival of more danger. You both knew then that you were in deeper trouble than you had anticipated.

They had expected you, and now they had you cornered.

Across the room, Crimson Cowl and Tiger Shark stood, their eyes fixed on you with a cold, calculated indifference. There was no surprise in their expressions, only the satisfaction of predators who had successfully laid a trap. Crimson Cowl's lips curled into a smug smile, her hood casting shadows over her face as she cradled the small box under her arm—the artifact, pulsing with a dark energy that seemed to feed off the chaos around it.

Your shot had backfired.

Your heart sank as you caught sight of James, restrained and clearly exhausted, but still managing to stir as he noticed you and Helmut. His movement drew Sam’s attention, and the two exchanged a look that spoke volumes. You could see the frustration in Sam’s eyes, the silent plea that you and Helmut should have stayed far away from this trap.

“You’re here,” Tiger Shark taunted, his voice dripping with condescension. “How convenient, hm?”

As you tried to push yourself up from the floor, you watched Helmut as he started to move as well. He was already ready to intercept the incoming threat, his movements precise and quick,incorporating all the years he was in the military. You barely had time to register the source of the blast, what had made Helmut start to move at the first glance.

Beetle, hovering in the air with his blasters still aimed at you, his eyes gleaming with fire.

Helmut’s eyes locked onto yours for a brief moment, fear flashing in his gaze that he didn’t bother to hide this time. You could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on both of you—cornered, outnumbered, and with no clear way out.

It was like, once again, you were falling off the airship. And again, you feared that your power wouldn’t be able to show you how to get out of this.

You wished to scream, get your mind away from that moment so it wouldn’t hurt you so much. Both physical and emotional, part of you thought you had screamed despite not opening your mouth.

The desire for something to happen was piercing, piercing your mind like a knife.

When you closed your eyes, that's when you finally felt something shifted. Not where you were, but within you.

The black and white energy that had been flickering and fading suddenly surged, swelling inside you with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming. It was as if the fear and desperation had ignited something deep within—a spark that quickly grew into a blazing fire, burning your insides.

You felt your powers stretch out, unbidden, reaching beyond the physical world and into something more tangible. The familiar swirl of black and white energy that typically accompanied your abilities now pulsed with an unfamiliar, faint red hue, a color that seemed out of place, yet unmistakably present.

It was like a warning, a signal of something deeper, more dangerous lurking within.

Your mind expanded, connecting with the environment around you, sensing every minute detail—the hum of the airship's engines, the flicker of the emergency lights, the presence of Beetle in the air, his thoughts chaotic and unguarded. You hadn’t meant to connect so deeply, but the energy was guiding you, pushing your mind without your permission.

A rush of emotions and memories flooded your consciousness—Beetle’s fears, his insecurities, his pain. It was disorienting, but you couldn’t pull back. The red within your power flickered again, stronger this time, as if feeding off the emotions it had latched onto.

It all happened in a matter of seconds, you saw something else—a glimpse of your power, raw and unfiltered, lashing out with a force you hadn’t known you possessed. Beetle’s scream ripped through the chamber, his hands flying to his head as he desperately tried to block out the pain you were causing. It was as if your power had found a new purpose, honing in on his mind with terrifying precision.

All in a matter of seconds, but for you, you swore it was a decade.

For a split second, the red surged, vivid and alarming among the swirling black and white, before it vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. But the damage was done—Beetle’s blasters wavered, his focus shattered by the onslaught you had unleashed upon him.

Helmut’s voice, urgent and worried, barely registered in your ears as the room around you blurred. You tried to rein in your power, to stop whatever it was doing to Beetle, but it was too late. The energy had taken on a life of its own, driven by the need to destroy the threat before you.

And not only him, you could feel it starting to divide its attention to the others who posed any threat to you.

Your powers usually prioritized your safety, but that was another level.

Before you could fully process what you were doing, a cold, dark presence suddenly loomed behind you. Your powers flared one last time, trying to warn you of the danger, but the surge was chaotic, uncontrolled, already too distracted from the pain it wished to inflict on every single one of the Masters.

You attempted to turn and block whatever attack was coming your way, but everything happened too fast.

An arm wrapped around your neck, cutting off your air and silencing the energy that had been so fiercely protective just moments before. You heard the sound of Beetle falling to the ground as you struggled against the arm, clawing at it, trying to break free.

But the grip was relentless.

Your vision blurred, filled by black dots, you tried to look at who was breathing against your head only to catch a glimpse of John Walker’s twisted grin, his eyes glinting with a sadistic satisfaction.

If it weren't for the lack of air, your body would have given in to the cold chills that ran through your body and would have thrown up the nothing you ate. Whatever was left in your stomach.

Just knowing that the one with the arm, suffocating you, was John. That he was having physical contact with you…

God, you wanted to be able to throw up right then.

“I told you,” he hissed, his voice low and menacing, “No need to play tough now.”

Your mind screamed in protest, since your voice couldn’t do it to yourself, the faint red that had surfaced earlier now nothing more than a distant memory. Your strength was fading, your power slipping away as darkness crept in at the edges of your vision.

Unintentionally, your eyes looked for Helmut, any glance of him. You wanted to reach for your powers enough to warn him about what he’d have to do to get out of there, if there was even a way.

But your abilities were faltering, the energy that had once surged so strongly now barely a whisper.

As your consciousness began to fade, you sensed that Helmut was no longer safer than you were, he was immobilized just like you.

Absorbing Man took his knee against Helmut's neck as he waited for the baron to stop fighting. Not killing him, just waiting for the moment his brain would turn off.

He did try to pull a fight as much as you, but it was for nothing.

The last thing you sensed was his eyes fixing on you as your eyes closed. For a moment, you thought you had felt his heart break.

And then, everything went black.

However even in the darkness, you weren’t alone.

The low, creeping voice from the artifact whispered in your mind, a sinister presence that haunted your sleep. It was closer now, more insistent, wrapping around your thoughts like a cold, suffocating mist.

"My sweet child," the voice whispered, its tone filled with malice, “I did warn you that you would come for me."

After that, there was nothing but silence.

[knightofmidnightsun]

- cherry wine is about domestic abuse. it’s now called a cute proposal song.

- too sweet is about seizing the day and ignoring healthy habits in favor of having more fun with unhealthy ones. he’s actively critical of himself in the song. it’s now called a song about thinking you’re superior for drinking black coffee.

- take me to church is about worship as a metaphor for sex. it’s called a religious song.

- eat your young is a song about war and political greed. it’s called a song about sex.

- now, the strongly political message of nobody’s soldier is being ignored in favor of calling it a metaphor for hozier’s relationship with his fans.

when are we going to stop simplifying hozier’s music down to cute little cottagecore bogman forest music? maybe you dont want to hear this but i don’t care. quit listening to hozier for the aesthetic. there’s a reason why empire now, foreigner’s god, butchered tongue, etc. songs with unignorable political messages are among his least popular songs.