𝑾𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑺 ━━ 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

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THE STREETS OF BERLIN were alive with the hum of everyday life—cars honking, pedestrians weaving through traffic—oblivious to the storm brewing within the police convoy rolling beside the Spree River. Among the heavily armored vehicles was a gray truck carrying its dangerous cargo: Bucky Barnes, restrained and confined within a transparent prison pod. His hands were shackled, his expression unreadable, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his unease. Three armed guards sat across from him, their weapons at the ready, their eyes sharp.

In an SUV leading the convoy, the atmosphere was anything but casual. Steve Rogers sat silently, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, though his mind churned with unspoken worries. Beside him, Sam Wilson attempted to lighten the tension.

"So," Sam ventured, his voice breaking the silence. "You like cats?"

Steve shot him a warning glance. "Sam."

"What?" Sam shrugged. "Dude shows up dressed like a cat, and you don't wanna know more?"

From the front seat, T'Challa remained composed, though his narrowed eyes shifted briefly toward Sam before refocusing ahead. His presence was commanding even in the tight confines of the vehicle, a coiled spring of regality and lethal precision.

Steve, trying to steer the conversation back to something useful, broke the silence. "Your suit—it's Vibranium, isn't it?"

T'Challa turned his head slightly, his voice calm but firm. "The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations. A mantle passed from warrior to warrior." He paused, his words deliberate, carrying the weight of history and grief. "And now, because one of your friends murdered my father, I also wear the mantle of king."

Steve felt the words like a blow to his chest. He clenched his jaw, his hands gripping his knees to steady himself. He knew better than to argue, to try to reason with a man steeped in fresh loss. Yet, every fiber of his being screamed against the accusation. They didn't kill T'Challa's father. Not really. He didn't have proof, but he knew they didn't. But logic was no match for grief.

T'Challa leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze locking onto Steve's. "So, I ask you," he continued, his voice like a blade, cutting and precise, "as both warrior and king... how long do you think you can keep your friends safe from me?"

Steve's expression didn't falter, but inside, the question twisted like a knife. He knew T'Challa's resolve. The man wasn't making idle threats; he would pursue Bucky and Edda to the ends of the earth if it meant avenging his father. For Steve, the weight of responsibility felt suffocating. He wasn't just trying to protect his best friend, Bucky, from a world that wanted him dead for crimes he didn't fully commit. Now, he had Edda to think about too—a woman burdened by her own dark past, who had risked everything to try to make things right. The woman he still desperately loves.

T'Challa's words haunted him as the convoy descended into an underground tunnel, the sunlight fading into the cold, harsh glow of overhead fluorescent. How long could he protect them?

Steve knew the answer was measured not in time, but in resolve. He would protect Bucky and Edda with everything he had, no matter the cost. Even if it meant facing down a king with the power of Wakanda at his back. But deep in his heart, a gnawing uncertainty lingered. T'Challa was relentless, and grief had made him dangerous. Steve understood vengeance; he'd seen its toll, its unrelenting hunger. And he knew, as much as it pained him to admit, that T'Challa wouldn't stop until justice—or revenge—was served.