#Zemo: He's a problem. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

knightofmidnightsun · 3 months ago

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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.”

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