The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 7: The Winter Soldier or Bucky?

Emily stood beside Natasha and Everett Ross in what passed for a control room, its walls lined with monitors, each one humming faintly. The air smelled faintly of coffee gone cold and overheated circuitry. Behind them, the door opened, and T'Challa entered with his usual quiet composure, taking the rear chair as though he were content to observe and wait.

On the central screen, the feed showed Bucky seated in the interview chamber. Shackled. Still. His eyes tracked the man entering opposite him — a psychiatrist, or at least that's what he claimed to be.

Emily narrowed her gaze. Something in the man's movements set her teeth on edge. Too deliberate. Too calm. He handled his briefcase like it contained something more than papers. She recognized the rhythm of it; Hydra had taught her to spot predators dressed as caretakers.

The doctor's voice came, smooth, practiced. "Hello, Mr. Barnes. I've been sent by the United Nations to evaluate your state of mind. Do you mind if I sit?" He pulled out the chair without waiting for an answer. "Your first name is James, yes?"

Bucky said nothing.

The psychiatrist adjusted his cuffs with care, then continued, tone low and coaxing. "I'm not here to judge you. I simply want to ask a few questions. Do you know where you are, James? I can't help you unless you speak to me."

Bucky lifted his head, his voice flat, unyielding. "My name is Bucky."

A faint smile tugged at Emily's lips. For years under Hydra's grip, he had answered only to Soldier. The fact he held to the name Bucky now was a fragile kind of defiance. Proof, however small, that he was still fighting.

The psychiatrist tilted his head, unfazed. "Very well. Bucky. You've seen a great deal, haven't you?"

"I don't want to talk about it." The words were sharp, a warning.

Any competent professional would have heard the steel in that tone and backed off. This man didn't. He leaned forward, voice dropping lower, intimate in a way that made Emily's skin crawl.

"You feel that if you open your mouth, the horrors will never stop spilling out. Don't worry." His eyes lingered too long on Bucky's face. "We only have to talk about one."

On the monitors, Bucky's jaw clenched. Emily shifted her weight, unease prickling her. Something was wrong.

And then the screens cut to black.

***

Emily was moving before she knew it, shoving past the door and down the corridor. Her boots struck hard against the sterile floor, the sound echoing in rhythm with her pulse.

She collided with Steve and Sam at the junction. Their faces told her everything — they had seen it too.

"Sub-level five, east wing," Steve said. His voice was clipped, urgent.

That was all she needed. She sprinted, weaving through the labyrinth of steel and glass until she reached the wing. The air was thicker here, humming faintly with generators buried beneath concrete.

And then she saw him.

The so-called psychiatrist — though the pretense was gone now. He straightened when he spotted her, his false frailty discarded like a mask. Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by something worse: amusement.

"Agent Cassidy," he drawled, almost savoring it. "Or should I say... the Cassanova. I wondered how long it had been. Five years your mind has been your own, yes? It would be a shame to... undo such progress."

Her blood ran cold at the precision of his words. Hydra's language, resurrected in his mouth.

She closed the distance, shoving him hard against the wall, her forearm pinning his throat. "What did you do to Barnes?"