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⋆ do wolves mourn? ( i leave that up to you. )

winter soldier!sevika x red room!fem!reader. men & minors dni.

cw: age gap, older woman/younger woman, girl she's the winter soldier lmao, alternate universe, heavy discussions of trauma, angst, moral ambiguity, unhealthy coping mechanisms, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, power play, dom/sub undertones, sexual tension, unresolved sexual tension, neither one of you are good people, non-sexual intimacy, non-sexual submission, emotional hurt/comfort, mutual pining, voyeurism but not in the way you think, stalking, strangulation, unreliable narrators, psychological trauma, mommy issues, copious mentions of ballet, dubious consent because of the nature of sevi's mind, mental health, grief, this is very psychosexual, minor violence, enemies to lovers, open (but positive) ending.

wc: 10.8k

notes: this is very loosely based on marvel's winter soldier/red room concept. i provided my own spin on things. also i am so sorry to my russian/polish girlies ahead of time. i used a combination of a translator and what i could remember from my language courses that i took in high school. same to my desi girls. i deeply apologize if it's terrible!. hope you enjoy. love you.

I: ANASTASIA.

and you are not allowed to die.

it's strange to be mythologized in the beginning years of your life. the words are said to you by your mother when you are first born and then again upon her deathbed. she looks relentlessly beautiful, as people always do just before they die. it's as if her body rallied one last time to rage against the machine, push tirelessly against the disease before all the health bled out and she could barely rise to pee.

your legs are tucked beneath you, your hair still long and almost trailing the floor. you're said to look like her: same face shape, same eyes, same wide boxy smile. it relieves you that she will still haunt you whenever you glance into a mirror. it helps console you although you are watching her die.

you thought your mother would be more vibrant in death, given how cruel she could be. you're slightly disappointed that the fight has abated in the final moments. the two of you were good at being cruel to one another, screaming in scraps of your native language. your mother tongue burned whenever you spoke it through anger, but it was the only way she seemed to understand that she really had hurt you. she spat back and swore at you until you cried, and she felt you were as clean as bone.

you'd miss your mother. it was a surprising thought, though not one you'd had before. you thought a lot in this house, filled with a thousand beautiful things and many people who deluded themselves with the notion that they were gods. well, it used to be. now it was shot into ruin, but your mother never wanted to leave.

you don't remember much of this "golden era" she never stops speaking of. you only remember the wail of the missile warning and the hot, white heat. it could have killed you, but it hadn't. you had only lain under what used to be the ceiling of the dining room, choking through the dust caking your six-year-old lungs.

do you hear me? your mother asks, and you turn back to look at her. it's hard to look at her.

yes, you say, but you say it in your mother tongue.

yes, you will try very hard to be good for your mother. yes, you will never die. but the world will try its hardest to kill you.

your mother seems to glow, and suddenly, you have so many things you want to ask her. you open and close your mouth like a fish and then finally settle. where were you from? you ask her.

you do not know the old language that you speak, only that it was yours and your mother's and that its country is gone.

nowhere, your mother answers as she always does. it's gone. you are from me. that's all you get. be happy with it.

mmm, you nod. i will be happy.

she laughs because she knows you've lied. halfway through the sound, she just…stops breathing. but still—she is looking you in the eye, mouth open the same way it was shaped when she spoke to hurt you.

girl-soldier 𓃠: the operation that surrounds you is called cassandra. get it? the soldier's handler said, snorting a laugh. his russian is thick and phlegmy. because she's a vision. it is written in all caps like CASSANDRA. it blinks in the soldier's mind in the same manner. CASSANDRA. CASSANDRA. CASSANDRA. CASS—

you are it now. you are the only one.

the soldier remembers the first time she sees you. she stared at the black and white photograph held captive beneath the silver paper clip for days, ran through the simulation of what you could be if you changed the color of your hair, the color of your eyes, the shape of your teeth, the curve of your smile. she knows you in all ways and learns to recognize the basis of you so that you are incapable of escape. she knows the matching curves of your hips.

she sketches you, decorates the dark of the cell with charcoal lines that roughly capture the look of vicious determination in your eyes. you are cruel and important. she knows that. your father was a crime lord masquerading as a scientist, and your mother was just like you, so you know nothing of who you are and, therefore, you move uneasily through your habitats.

but you make an impression, teeth bared into a box when you smile, and the light always catches on your face. your face…this face that is not compelling upon first glance, but, upon seeing it a second time, you realize that you have always wanted to see it again. the girl-soldier is methodical in every way a human could be, so her thoughts are patterned and observant.

she closes her eyes and sees the protuberance of your collar bones, the way there were twin saundary chihn (सौंदर्य चिह्न) at the junctions of your shoulders. what did they call them outside of here? beauty marks.

her eyes open, and she makes a mental note of how odd it is that you keep them on display when you dress. once, when she felt more like herself, a woman whose husband she would kill told her of how she had hidden hers the first chance she could get. would have carved them out of her stomach herself if she could. she thought they were horribly ugly. malignant.

though the soldier knew that was an exaggeration. most would have kept the marks in place of fear of the gore that would follow marring a body, let alone their own. the soldier licks her lips and bends over, till the cold of the floor hits her cheek. she flexes her arm—the metal one. she closes her eyes again.

your face is waiting there, like a dog that comes at a beckon. your lips are full, and so are your eyes. there is a large portion of life stored inside of you. she has to take it out. that is the mission. if she had the time, she would stare until she reaped your full story from inside of you. but she has a feeling you wouldn't give over so easily.

your eyes are fox-like and dark when you realize you are being watched, like the night had bled into them and then stopped just shy of filling them. your parents had created a perfect amalgamation of themselves upon you, as if you were achilles and they were both thetis, holding on to your ankle as they dipped you into the river of their memory.

the soldier is feeling—maybe feels?—charged at the thought of seeing you in the flesh instead of print. she wants, something she is not programmed for. maybe it is because you are younger and she has seen you ornamented in a tulle dress as red as blood at your first ballet, unknowing that you were a limb in the tree of your bloodline's well-planned extinction. or maybe it's the sudden feeling that if she doesn't shoot when she sees you, you will take her throat out with your bare hands, rip her up, and dispose of her. she does not know. she never knows.

the soldier imagines you in the cell with her, in the lab, eyes watching her unreadably as she writhes against the table. watching as her mind covers itself in dark water.

the soldier's teeth click together. she switches her head to the other side, lets the cool of the stone calm the neglected skin of this cheek. but she keeps her eyes closed, imagines you with her, without her, around her.

she knows you: [name.]

she pictures you in your simplest form and has the thought that your mind is just as beautiful and fractured as hers feels. maybe you understand, but will you extend the understanding?

the soldier tastes blood and realizes that she's bitten through her lip. she opens her eyes, and you are not there. she must focus. she closes them again and sleeps.

𓃦

the cell opens. the soldier looks up into the light.

the handler tilts his head and mutters something in russian as if she cannot understand. then, in english, he says: go hunt, wolf.

to kill you is the operation. of course.

but the soldier has yet to decide whether or not you will suffer.

II: OLGA.

“fuck!”

you shout as you fall, and your instructor scoffs, rolling your eyes. your instructor’s name is ima,n and she knew your mother. she comes to you and rolls out your ankle, which makes you scream. your pointe shoes are ribboned around your calves and sheltered by your thick, black leg warmers.

“sorry,” she says, short and light. you glare at her, but your mouth twitches as if to smile.

she's taught you for several years now. the only constant in your life after your mother died. after the new bombs. she was what you had left of the old. she was a lithe woman, so worn down by hardship that she seemed to rattle when she moved. sometimes, you swore you saw her bones sinking inside of her blood, calling your name through their skin.

the studio is cold. always cold, with its high windows and concrete floors. you like it that way. the chill keeps you alert, keeps your muscles taut and ready. iman says you dance like you're trying to escape something. she has never been wrong—at least, not about you.

“again,” iman commands, stepping back.

you rise, ignoring the throb in your ankle. it’s less of a rise and more of a spiral. your body warps and spins as you sail upward, pushing through the white heat of the pain so that you can glance into the mirror. your expression hardens into something your mother would recognize—that cocktail of stubbornness and grace she cultivated in you. behind that expression is something else. a sense that's been growing stronger for days now.

you are being watched.

not by iman, who watches you professionally, clinically. this is different. it prickles at the base of your neck when you walk home alone. it follows you into dreams where you're running through corridors that never end. you've started taking different routes home, doubling back unexpectedly, waiting in shop doorways to see if anyone follows.

you’ve only ever felt this way one other time. it was in your early life, when you were a child. you had maybe seen only five summers, one summer shy of your estate’s total annihilation. you had been at the lake, dipping your feet in but too afraid to dive without the reassurance of shallow waters or a return point.

it was getting dark, and you could hear your mother calling for you, could almost smell your father somewhere behind you. you looked at the water, and then you turned, marching toward home. all the while, you looked back and back and back. over and over. you were so sure of something hunting you, of something evaluating you.

it was only when you went home that you turned fast enough, with a bumbling child’s grace, to catch what was behind you. there it was: a lone, white wolf with startling blue eyes. you had stumbled through her cubs’ nest sometime in the week and were now streaked with the scent of her womb. she thought you were either a danger or her child. you were four, so you hoped for her to see herself as your true mother.

this was the same, though you felt less curious and more afraid. you thought of the proverb on your mother’s wrist: fear is pain arising from the anticipation of evil. you hated being afraid, but then again, who would be calm in the knowledge of your possible death? it may have sounded dramatic to anyone that did not have your blood, but instictively you knew that whatever watched you only aimed to kill and maim you.

no one ever appears. but the feeling remains.

“focus,” iman snaps. “your mind is everywhere but here.”

you nod, forcing yourself to concentrate. your body moves into first position. then second. then across the floor in a series of fouettés that leave you breathless but steady.

“better, but not good,” iman says, her lips thin and mottled in odd places. “you dance like your mother.”

she says it with disgust, but you keep eye contact with her as you respond.

“she was your best. never forget that.”

she seems pleased and irritated that you’ve spoken back.

you don't tell her that you never forget anything, that your mind catalogues every slip of sun, every unexpected sound and shadow, every unfamiliar face. your father taught you that before he left. trust no one completely. not even me.

you remembered that as you watched him trek across that white tundra, disappearing into the white. so, you don’t tell her. you just pack up and leave.

after practice—what are you practicing for? you will never dance on a stage—you shower in the cramped bathroom. the water pressure is weak, but the heat is scalding, which soothes your muscles. it is different from the biting cold. another extreme. you dress quickly in dark jeans and a loose black sweater that slips off one shoulder, revealing one of your moles. you never hide them. you check them constantly, terrified of them growing larger while you sleep. it didn’t matter, really. if they changed in size, you wouldn’t go to a doctor. that would mean a record.

things like this upset you. it was the most aggravating thing to know your family had done something bad, even evil, but to still not be clear. you only knew that you were not allowed to conduct a normal life or else the time you were allotted would shrink in quantity.

outside, the evening is settling over the city. the streets are busy enough that you should feel safe, but that crawling sensation returns immediately. you pause, pretending to check your phone while your eyes scan the crowd.

nothing unusual. a couple arguing quietly. a man walking his dog. a woman in a coat too heavy for the weather, her face half-hidden by a scarf, standing motionless across the street.

you notice her because she doesn't move like everyone else. she is perfectly still. and there's something about the way she holds herself—rigid yet somehow coiled, like a spring waiting to be released.

your eyes meet briefly across the distance, and something electric passes between you. recognition, though you've never seen her before. danger, though she's made no threatening move. your heartbeat quickens.

then, a bus passes, and it makes a thunderous sound as it collides with a semi-truck. it’s a terrifying, colossal explosion that sends you to your knees. metal grates across metal, and your ears are ringing as your mind splits. you forget you are on the sidewalk for a moment, believe you are back in that house, and then you are present again.

people are running, shouting. they pass, desperate to get to the accident, and when they are gone, so is she.

woman-soldier 𓃠: the soldier watches from the rooftop as you drag yourself up and continue down the street. her position gives her a perfect vantage point of your route home. she watches you slink over the cobblestone, your shoulders flexing as you try to avoid looking back at the crash.

she should have stayed hidden. it was a mistake to let you see her. but something had compelled her to test you—to see if you were as aware as she suspected.

you were.

here is a little of what she understands. she is both an executioner and a cautionary tale. she is the creation returning to destroy its creator, only to find the creator's child, who represents both threat and salvation.

you are not aware yet of your true inheritance. you operate as if you are in possession of nothing, but according to the file, your parents have been the ones to create her. to fracture and rebuild her, or at least provide the framework for breaking her in. for breaking the others in.

you are nothing but your bloodline. she had seen the instant calculation in your eyes. the way your posture had shifted subtly into something more defensive. the slight tensing of your jaw told her you were ready to run if needed.

you are not as naive as the scientists had suggested. there is cunning there, beneath the graceful exterior. she wonders if you inherited it from your father or if it's something you taught yourself after they killed him. she recalls that you still believe he just left. mmm.

through her scope, she watches you turn down an alley—a shortcut you've never taken before. clever. you're trying to draw out anyone following you, forcing them to reveal themselves or lose you.

the soldier smiles. this hunt will be more interesting than she anticipated.

her orders are clear: observe for three days. learn your patterns. then eliminate. clean and simple.

but nothing about you seems simple. even from a distance, even through a lens, your movements are complex. you carry yourself like someone who knows the weight of a target on their back but without the shame.

she lowers her scope and moves silently across the rooftops, keeping pace with you below. tonight, she will only watch. tomorrow, perhaps, she will let you glimpse her again. she wants to see what you'll do—whether you'll run or fight.

suddenly, you stop. carefully, you look to the sides of you and then up. she pulls back, blinks, then looks through the scope again. you are looking directly at her.

you do not run or fight.

she realizes you consider there to be a third option.

III: TATIANA.

you don't sleep.

after seeing her on the rooftop—after letting her know that you saw her—sleep feels more like a quiet surrender than something you need. instead, you sit by your window, curtains drawn back just enough to watch the street below. your apartment is small but strategically positioned: corner unit, second floor, fire escape access, two exit routes.

the night passes in silence. if she's still watching, she's moved beyond your line of sight. the thought of this makes you sicker than before. you twitch in place, a rabbit in her burrow.

morning comes with pale light filtering through the grimy windows. you move with precision through your routine. your hands don't shake. they never do.

today will be different. you've spent the night planning, considering variables. calculating. your head hurts, and your wrists ache. the watcher has broken the pattern by allowing herself to be seen. you have broken the pattern by forcing her to see you. for her, this means either carelessness—unlikely—or intention. for you, it is only intention. you want something more than simple surveillance. she seems willing to…

you are unsure. you feel ill again.

eventually, you unfold yourself and dress carefully: high-waisted cream trousers that fall just above your ankles, a fitted black turtleneck, and ballet flats. not trying to be noticed, nor trying to hide. your jewelry is minimal—small gold hoops, a thin asymmetrical garnet chain around your neck.

in your bathroom cabinet, behind the aspirin and bandages, is a small metal case. inside: three syringes, each filled with clear liquid, capped and sealed. you've never known what they contain—only that your mother pressed them into your hands the last time you saw her out of bed, her eyes uncharacteristically urgent.

she explained nothing and left you in the dark continuously, but you were intelligent enough to piece it together.

you take one, slip it into your purse. just in case.

𓃦

the café is busy enough to provide cover but quiet enough for a conversation. you've chosen a table against the wall, back to the corner, with a full view of both exits. the herbal tea you ordered sits untouched. you've been there forty-three minutes when she walks in.

she moves differently in daylight. less predatory, more human. her arms are concealed beneath a leather jacket, but you can see the faint outline of metal where one meets her shoulder. she orders at the counter, then turns as if scanning for a seat. her eyes find yours immediately—gray, two sharp disks of steel. stainless.

no pretense now. there is no use for it. she walks directly to your table and sits across from you.

“i thought you were smart,” she says. her voice is lower than you expected, rough at the edges like she doesn't use it often.

you don't respond immediately, holding her gaze instead. “i am,” you say. “i’m here.”

your heart hammers, but your face reveals nothing. stillness as strategy. she studies you, head tilted slightly.

“most would run.”

“would they?” the question is genuine. you've never known what most people would do, let alone a mark.

her eyes narrow, assessing. she's beautiful in a severe way—sharp cheekbones, that unnatural blank expression shared by predators and prey. there's a scar running from her temple to her jaw, partially obscured by her hair.

“why are you following me?” you ask.

“do not act stupid if you are not,” she says. then, “orders.” she shrugs, the motion fluid on her human side, slightly mechanical on the other.

you tilt your head, and your hair shifts.

“from whom?”

she doesn't answer, but her gaze intensifies, as if searching for something in your face.

“does it have to do with my parents?” you press.

something changes in her expression—a tightening around the eyes, a subtle shift in posture.

“what do you know about your parents?” her voice is careful now, measured.

“less than you. they had me and held me once. when they put me down, we were forever disconnected.” you take a sip of your tea. “but i observed enough to know they weren't just researchers. there is a reason people want me and killed them.”

she watches you drink the tea, follows the bob of your throat as you swallow.

“killed is a strong word to describe an ill woman and missing man.”

“i thought we were not stupid,” you respond. “my mother was abnormally healthy, even for a woman only in her fifties, and succumbed to her ‘cancer’ in under three days. my father gave me a warning before going on a rather long ‘walk.’ in a few days, you were probably going to arrange my evident ‘suicide.’”

“smart,” the woman rumbles, her mouth quirking for a moment.

“predictable,’ you counter, settling back in your chair.

“and? do you have what they want?”

you meet her gaze directly. “i don't know what they want.”

it's the truth, and she seems to recognize it. she sits back, something like disappointment crossing her features.

“what's your name?” you ask.

the question seems to startle her. "a designation."

“that wasn’t my question.”

you personalize, she notes. ‘my’ instead of ‘the’.

her eyes narrow. “why does that matter to you?”

“curiosity.” you blink, eyes large. “connection.”

she watches you for a long moment as if weighing something in her mind.

“sevika.”

you nod once, accepting this small truth. “is that what you choose to call yourself? or is it a cover?”

the question disturbs her. you can see it in the slight widening of her eyes, the way her metal hand flexes unconsciously.

“it's what i am,” she replies, but there's a flicker of uncertainty. “what i can remember.”

“is it? if your mind is not fully there, how can you be so sure?”

her reaction is immediate—chair scraping back, body tensing. for a moment, you think she might attack you right there in the café. instead, she stands, looming over you.

“you know nothing,” she says, voice tight.

“i know more than i did yesterday.” simple truth. no bluff needed. “sevika. ‘servant of god. ’”

sevika stares at you, conflict evident in her eyes. then, decision made, she leans down until her face is inches from yours.

“your parents created a program,” she tells you, the words barely audible. “they built it inside our heads. cast our true selves out. and now their employers want to make sure no one can rebuild it—especially not their child.”

you arc your head up, revealing your neck. “do you get tired of serving, sevika?”

she straightens and adjusts her jacket. “you have three days.”

before you can say more, she's walking away, disappearing into the morning crowd. you remain seated, expression neutral, despite the chaos rising in your mind. only when you're certain she's gone do you allow yourself to exhale.

your hand drifts to your purse, fingers brushing against the syringe. whatever your mother gave you suddenly feels more significant—not just protection, but possibly a key. to what, you don't yet know.

you bite your cheek until you taste blood. you resist the urge to scream.

sevika 𓃠: do you get tired of serving, sevika?

the soldier covers her face, pressing her metal fingers into her nose until the bone threatens to give. she pulls away and shakes her head like an agitated bull.

do you get tired of serving, sevika?

“you did this to me,” she hisses.

do you get tired of serving?

sevika?

𓃦

the storage unit is in the industrial district, rented under a name you've never used but recognize immediately.

your wet nurse had the same one. you are unsure whether it was hers or given to her by your mother to make remembering who she was much easier. knowing her, it was most likely the more callous option.

the key was where you thought it would be—hidden inside her most prized possession: a heavy, turquoise fabergé egg complete with a false bottom that would’ve taken a more reverent person three hours to discover but only took you five minutes to smash.

inside the unit: boxes. dozens of them, stacked to the ceiling, labeled in your mother's precise handwriting. research notes. prototypes. personnel files. you start with the one labeled “оперативник обсидиана; первая фаза.” obsidian operative; phase one.

inside, photographs and dossiers. men and women with empty eyes and metal limbs. modification specifications. psychological evaluations. you flip through them, looking for that silvery, vast gaze—for sevika.

you find her file near the bottom of the box. her full name has been blacked out, but if you hold it up to the light, you can see it faintly. sevika, it turns out, is her real name.

there's a photograph paper-clipped to the front page. she looks younger, hair longer, eyes clearer. no scar yet. the file details her "acquisition"—a clinical term for kidnapping—and subsequent "integration" into the program.

the technical language is dense, full of terms you don't understand. most of it is in russian, but there are haphazard notes in your mother tongue. phrases jump out: neural recalibration, memory suppression, compliance protocols. your stomach turns as you realize what your parents were doing—what they created.

and then you find the notes in your mother's handwriting: subject displays unusual resistance to compliance measures. recommend increased cognitive recalibration combined with focused tactile stimulus.

torture. your mother was recommending torture.

you close the file, expression unchanged. this is neither shock nor surprise—merely confirmation of suspicions long held about the woman who raised you. the distance between you suddenly makes more sense. you wonder if she would have changed you if she could, if she was able.

you continue sorting through the boxes with methodical precision, searching for anything related to "neural programming" or "compliance protocols." time slips away as you read, absorbing information, connecting dots your parents deliberately scattered.

hours later, you sit surrounded by yellowed papers, understanding ebbing and flowing through your mind. the syringes. you know what they contain now—two are filled with the counteragent to the compliance serum. one provides a coward’s way out. not redemption, then. strategy. always strategy with your mother.

a noise at the door makes you freeze. metal scraping against metal. the lock is turning.

you gather the most crucial papers, folding them crisply and depositing them into your bag. it’s too late to escape. the door slides open, and sevika stands silhouetted against the fading daylight.

“you found your way,” she says, stepping inside. her eyes take in the scattered files, the copies of testing. “are you happy with what you’ve found?”

you straighten, maintaining your composure. inside, your mind flicks through scenarios, seeking an advantage.

“no one is ever happy with the truth,” you answer. “the best you can do is be unafraid of it, better aware of it. i am aware, now, about what they did to you. about what they made.”

she moves closer, her eyes gleaming in the dim light. “and?”

you’re honest.

“they built you to be a weapon,” you say, meeting her gaze steadily. “and i am deeply sorry that they made it their life’s work to destroy and dismantle you.”

something shifts in her expression—a crack in the perfect soldier façade. confusion, perhaps. or the first tremors of recognition that you and your parents are not the same entity.

“and?” she asks a second time. “do you absolve yourself?”

you gather your bag, stepping around her toward the door. you make a decision. as you pass, you tell her,

“not fully. i am my blood.”

“and?” she sounds irate now, annoyed.

you turn one last time, look her right in the eye. your necklace gleams along your throat like a crooked trail of blood.

“well, i did not make you.”

you feel her watching as you walk away, the weight of her gaze settling right between your shoulder blades. you don't turn back. you don't have to. something has changed between you—an understanding reached without words.

she will come for you again. but next time, it will be different.

sevika 𓃠: she wants you with the view of the city behind your back, legs open to her mouth, her head resting satedly on your thigh as she presses kiss after kiss to the soft bits of your skin.

she wants you covered in jewels, writhing underneath her as she pleasures you, takes you somewhere close to heaven as the sun rises slowly.

wants you between her teeth, underneath the caress of her tongue. wants your jugular pumping jerkily against her lips.

she wants.

IV: MARIA.

the dance studio smells differently than you remember: rosin dust, sweat, and the faint trace of sandalwood incense that iman burns. maybe she has been burning it every morning for the past twenty years. you are unsure, shaken by your connection with sevika, and therefore fixated on the idea of an unreliable memory. you can no longer remember if the studio was cold or if you only felt that way because there was no warmth inside of you.

you stand in the doorway, watching her lead a class of young girls through a series of positions. her voice is melodic, patient—the same voice that once coaxed precision from your reluctant limbs.

“eyes up, miriam. the ceiling holds your dreams.” iman demonstrates, her neck elongating, spine straightening despite her sixty-plus years. she moves behind the girl, her fingers pressing sharply into the child's shoulders until she winces. you feel a phantom pain rise in your own.“pain is temporary. poor technique is forever.”

the casual cruelty feels familiar, almost comforting in its echo of your mother's methods. your body remembers what your mind forgets. you wonder if the same is true for sevika—if somewhere beneath the programming, her body remembers who she was before. you can’t stop thinking of her eyes, of how much emotion they contain for someone who was supposed to be drained of life.

iman notices you then, her eyes narrowing slightly. she doesn't break rhythm, continuing to guide her students through the combination, but you can feel her attention split between them and you—a presence she clearly could have gone without.

when class ends, the girls file past you in a flutter of black leotards and timid silence. in time, they will learn to become grateful for iman’s instruction. once you belonged to a larger company, you understood that she was kind. you remain still, a technique iman herself taught you. stillness draws less attention than movement and provides more importance.

“i thought perhaps you were a ghost,” she says finally, approaching with the measured grace that once made her famous across three continents. "it has been, what—a month?”

“it’s only been four days,” you correct, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.

“well, missing a day sets you back for two.” iman pauses, studying your face. “you look so much like her now. around the eyes.” you know she speaks of your mother. she gestures toward her small office. “come. whatever has brought you back must be important.”

you follow her into the cramped space lined with photographs—iman in her prime, performing with the greats of her generation. among them, a small picture of you at thirteen, balanced in arabesque, face serious with concentration. you're surprised she kept it. she catches the twist of your face and smiles, a soft arch that lights up her face.

“despite my nature, i do like you.”

your throat tightens, and you turn away.

“tea?” she asks, already filling an electric kettle. “i still have the blue lotus you liked.”

“thank you.” you sit in the single chair opposite her desk. for the first time in days, you feel your shoulders loosen slightly. here, at least, is someone who knew you before.

iman prepares the tea with ritualistic precision, measuring by eye, adding just the right amount of milk. the familiar floral haze transports you momentarily to afternoons after practice, your muscles aching, iman's steady hands correcting your posture with firm, uncompromising pressure.

“so,” she says, placing a steaming cup before you. “what trouble has found you, kochanie?” the endearment sounds like an accusation in her clipped tone.

the familiar sharpness—dear, sweetheart—nearly undoes you. your mother made fun of your softness, your sensitivity. you don’t understand what she’d wanted you to be like. you stare into your cup, gathering yourself. “i need information.”

“speak up. what about?”

“a woman. south asian descent.” you speak louder, then hesitate. “she may have trained in dance, perhaps classical forms. there's a… precision to her movements.”

iman's eyebrows rise slightly. “that describes many women. including me.”

“she's in her forties, possibly. has a cybernetic arm. she’s called sevika.”

recognition flashes across iman's face, quickly suppressed. your heart rate increases.

“you know her.”

iman sips her tea, eyes distant. “not directly. but i know of her. there was talk, years ago.” she sets down her cup with a sharp click against the saucer. “why are you looking for this woman? is this one of your asinine crushes?”

you blink at her, cheeks growing warm in the silence. she laughs, full-bodied.

“you had such a thing for strong, older women. you were embarrassingly obvious about your brief attraction to me and even worse about your crush on that girl i hired to be an assistant. you worried me. i was afraid you would be too brash, too naive, and get swept up by an evil nature.”

“i—” you kept eye contact, despite the faint horror washing over you. “we will not speak of this again.”

iman’s lips curled into a saccharine sickle shape. “of course, kochanie.”

“anyway, she's looking for me.” you meet iman's gaze. “my parents…what they did to her. i need to understand.”

a shadow crosses iman's face. “your parents. yes.” her voice turns cooler. “i wondered when their work would find you.”

“you knew?”

“i suspected. your mother was many things, but humble was not one of them. her arrogance was a strong contender for what would eventually kill her.” iman sighs. “the girl you're asking about—she was a dancer once. bharatanatyam. quite gifted.”

something shifts in your chest—the first concrete detail of sevika before she became a weapon. “where? when? why?”

iman gives you a look of annoyance but continues. “zaun, a small industrialized portion of the countryside just outside of delhi. perhaps fifteen years ago. her family was…traditional. religious. they disowned her when she chose dance over marriage. she came here for a scholarship.” iman's eyes narrow. “and then she disappeared. there were rumors that she joined some experimental program. military, perhaps. or private sector.”

your parents' program. you swallow.

iman tilts her head. “we both know better than to believe that. she was preyed on. she most likely felt she had no other option. many young dancers were in the same way and are so easy to find in this country.”

“what was her name? her real name?”

iman hesitates. “why do you want to know this? to help her, or to protect yourself?” she leans forward, voice cutting. “you have a great capacity for selfishness. like your mother.”

the accusation stings with its precision. iman always knew exactly where to apply pressure.

“both,” you answer honestly. “maybe neither. i just need to know.”

iman studies you, searching for something in your face. whatever she finds seems to satisfy her.

“sevika,” she says finally. “that was her name even then. she was never devout, but she worshipped her mother—wore her kara, never removed it.” iman gestures to her wrist. “a steel bracelet. symbol of strength, unbreakable bonds with god.”

sevika. the name settles into you like a stone dropping into still water. so, she had been telling the truth. the file had not been doctored. it was not a code name, but her true name. a dancer, not just a weapon. a person with links to faith, with links to history.

“thank you,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.

“what will you do with this information?” iman's tone softens slightly, a rare concession.

you consider lying, offering some reassurance that would ease the concern in iman's eyes. instead, you offer truth—a habit you unfortunately seem to be developing.

“i don't know yet.”

iman nods, accepting this. "be careful, kochanie. whatever your parents built, it was designed to consume. don't let it consume you too.” she reaches across the desk, her fingers gripping your wrist painfully. “i didn't waste years training you to die foolishly.”

you finish your tea in silence, the warmth spreading through your chest, momentarily displacing the cold dread that's been your constant companion. when you stand to leave, iman surprises you by pulling you into an embrace. her body is small but solid, smelling of violet and ice. her fingers dig into your shoulders with familiar sharpness.

“your feet still remember the steps,” she murmurs, releasing you. “even if your mind has forgotten the dance.”

you look at her for a long time, press your face into your neck. she allows you to pretend you are a child. her gwiazdeczko. her only star.

you both know you will never see each other again.

𓃦

the library's microfiche archives are housed in a basement level that smells of dust and aging paper. the elderly archivist barely glances at your researcher credentials—fake, but convincing enough—before granting you access to the international dance competition records.

hours pass as you scan through images and articles, searching for glimpses of sevika. your eyes burn, and your back aches, but you continue, driven by something beyond yourself.

and then—there she is.

the image is grainy, black and white, but unmistakable. younger sevika suspended mid-performance. her body forms a perfect line, one leg extended behind her, arms arced overhead. her face is transformed by concentration, by connection to something beyond herself. on her right wrist, visible despite the poor image quality, was a simple steel bracelet.

you print the image, along with several articles mentioning her name. one features a brief interview where she speaks of dance as “conversation with the divine.” she gives the impression that she doesn’t believe it. another announces her acceptance to a prestigious dance academy in piltover. the last mentions her as a notable absence from a major competition, with no explanation given.

after that—nothing. as if sevika simply ceased to exist.

you know what happened. you've seen the files and read the clinical descriptions of “acquisition” and “integration.” but seeing her like this—alive with purpose, connected to heritage that was sawed off at the bone—makes the horror of what followed newly visceral.

𓃦

the basement apartment you've rented is sparse but functional. cash only, no questions asked. you've lined the windows with specialized film that prevents surveillance and swept for bugs twice. standard precautions.

what isn't standard is the small shrine you've assembled on the kitchen counter.

a printed image of lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity and fortune, downloaded and printed at the library. a small dish of water. a tea light candle. and beside these, the printout of sevika mid-dance.

you're not of any belief. you have no faith to speak of. yet, something compels you to create this space—a remembrance for the woman who existed before the weapon. perhaps it's strategy, preparation for your next encounter. perhaps it's something else entirely. maybe you are trying to become her.

you light the candle, watching the flame catch and steady. in its glow, sevika seems almost to move, her frozen pose briefly animated.

“sevika,” you say aloud, testing the name with new understanding. it feels right in your mouth.

the window behind you creaks. you don't turn, don't reach for the knife concealed beneath the sink. you know who it is.

“where did you get this?” her voice is dangerously neutral.

“library archives. international dance competition, 2010.” you glance at her. “you were extraordinary.”

something flickers across her face—confusion, perhaps. or pain. her cybernetic hand opens and closes reflexively.

“why?” she asks finally. “why are you doing this?”

the question hangs between you. why indeed? you're not entirely sure yourself.

“you deserve to know who you were,” you say. “before my parents told you who you are.”

her laugh is sharp, brittle. “strategy. make the assest question its focus.”

“i’m not sure if that’s it completely. do you feel it working?” you turn to face her fully now. in the dim light, her features seem softer, the hard edges blurred.

she doesn't answer. instead, she reaches toward the shrine, metal fingers hovering over the image of herself. she doesn't touch it.

“i remember… fragments,” she says, voice lower. “the smell of jasmine oil in my hair. the sound of bells on my ankles.” her hand drops. “nothing useful to me know. it won’t make me whole.”

“it's still yours,” you say. “those memories. that life.”

her eyes find yours, gray and penetrating. “why do you care?”

this time, the question feels genuine rather than accusatory. you consider your answer carefully.

“because what they did to you was wrong,” you say. “and because—” you hesitate, unsure how to articulate the strange connection forming between you.

“because?” she steps closer, and you can smell her—metal and leather and beneath that, something faintly sweet.

“i would rather be killed by someone i know than by a stranger,” you finish.

“i’m still a stranger,” she says.

“less now,” you answer.

sevika studies you, searching for deception. her flesh hand rises slowly, hovering near your face without touching. you remain still, heart hammering against your ribs.

“they're still coming for you,” she says. “three days. i wasn't lying.”

“i know.” you shift in place. “it’s been longer.”

“yes.” she is so close. “i should complete my mission.”

“you should,” you agree.

neither of you moves.

“why is it that when you’re so young, you are unafraid to die?” she asks you.

“i grew up surrounded by people who never wanted me alive,” you say, and something flickers within her gaze. “i cannot have a life of my own because of my parents’ sins. what is left for me?”

the candle flame flickers between you, casting shifting shadows across her face, illuminating slivers of the woman who was once better than this.

“you wear your kara on your left wrist now,” you observe quietly. “not the right.”

her eyes widen fractionally. beneath her jacket sleeve, barely visible: a band of steel encircling her human wrist.

“how did you—”

“a woman who knew of you told me you never removed it. symbol of unbreakable bonds with god.” you meet her gaze steadily. “they couldn't take everything from you.”

something breaks in her expression—a crack in the perfect soldier façade. she turns away sharply, moving toward the window.

“sevika,” you call softly.

she doesn't turn back, but her posture changes—a subtle shift that reminds you of the dancer in the photograph.

“i'll return,” she says, voice rough.

“and what will you be to me?”

“whatever i need to be.”

she slips through the window into the night, leaving you alone with the dancing flame and a strange, warm ache spreading through your chest—an unfamiliar feeling that might, in someone else, be called hope.

you blow out the candle but leave the shrine intact. whatever comes next, you want to remember this moment: the first time you saw sevika truly see herself.

sevika 𓃠: she dreams of bells on her ankles. the weight of jewelry in her hair. hands moving through precise mudras, telling stories her conscious mind no longer remembers.

she wakes clutching her kara, the steel warm against her skin. something is shifting inside her—memory returning like water seeping through cracks in a dam. dangerous. destabilizing.

she should complete her mission. she is nothing but an asset.

instead, she traces the curve of the bracelet, remembers a temple filled with marigolds and incense, remembers a promise made before gods whose names she can almost recall. she thinks she hears her mother laugh.

sevika. the name feels both foreign and familiar in her mind, as it always does.

you—the target—are destabilizing. sevika knows she is being manipulated. knows that the cloak of her compassion is simply another strategy.

and yet.

in the darkness, she whispers your name. she weeps.

do you get tired of serving, sevika?

she answers you.

yes.

V: ALEXANDRA FEODOROVNA.

sevika enters with the precision of someone who has already made up her mind. she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. the weight of decision is a chain around her throat, one she has worn before, heavy with rust and familiarity. she is here to finish this. to close the door, to cut the thread. that’s the way it’s always been.

and yet.

the moment she sees you, something snags in her resolve like a nail catching on silk. you are not afraid—not in the way you should be. you look at her like you expected this, like you summoned her here with your own bare hands. there is something reckless in you, something that makes her hesitate. the air between you is electric, brimming with the possibility of violence or something worse.

“get up,” she says, low and even.

you don't move. she exhales, slow and measured, as if she's convincing herself of something. then she steps forward, the heavy drag of her boots loud against the silence.

“don't make me say it again.”

“and if i do?” the words are out before you can stop them, brittle and reckless. you're exhausted, but something inside you still strains against the inevitability of her. “are you going to kill me?”

your body betrays you before your mind does; you shift forward as if to meet her, not away. sevika notices. of course, she does.

your voice is quiet, steady, a blade run along the strop. sevika should say yes. should finish this. should do what she came here to do. instead, she takes a step closer.

“should i?”

a pause. your lips part, a sharp inhale, and sevika watches the way your throat moves when you swallow. everything you do betrays that you are a ballerina. this is the kind of detail she shouldn’t notice. this is the kind of detail that betrays her.

you shake your head, but it isn’t a no. “you told me that when you returned, you would possess the answer to that already.”

the heat between you is unbearable. this is not seduction, not in the traditional sense. this is something else—something raw, desperate, as old as war. attraction sharpened to a knife’s edge, desire that tastes like iron. if sevika touches you, it won’t be gentle. if you touch her, it won’t be soft. there is too much between you. and still—you step closer.

sevika exhales sharply, her hand twitching at her side. her fingers itch, but she doesn’t know if it’s to hold you or to hurt you. maybe both. maybe neither. and then you say it,

“i don’t want to die.”

it spills from you like a confession, the rawest thing you’ve ever given someone else. you’ve spent so long pretending that death is just something that comes and goes, guiding your every choice. and now, at the precipice, you fold.

you want to live. and sevika—

something shifts. the space between you collapses. the weight of inevitability bears down on both of you, crushing, suffocating. this is not mercy. it is something worse.

sevika reaches for you.

you let her.

woman-soldier/sevika 𓃠: “you want to continue to live like this?” she asks you. “don’t be stupid.”

her hand settles around your throat, presses down. you are losing air, but you speak anyway.

“when i was younger, i was obsessed with the romanovas. otma. the sisters. olga, tatiana, maria, and anastasia. the tsarita too. i don’t know why. maybe, despite my mother’s best efforts, i was just like every other little girl. i loved a fairytale, i loved the glamour.”

the solider cups the back of your head with her human hand.

“everyone wanted to be like anastasia, but i felt the most like tatiana. relentlessly private, withdrawn.”

she does not understand the point of this. maybe this is you trying to live.

“my entire life,” you wheeze, “i have been anastasia. mythologized and the imagined last living thing of a bloodline so vast and well-known that it almost kills you. for my entire life, i envied tatiana, who died first. it’s such an evil thing to envy, and i’m aware of it. i know.”

“what is the point of this?” sevika asks, her voice weary.

your eyes darken, your voice strengthens. your face is wet, gleaming like a diamond with your tears.

“this is a slow, pathetic way to kill me. give me what i want.”

the soldier loosens the constriction of her metal fingers, and she sees you see her consider it. she could put a bullet in your brain and move on from this. the soldier pulls away from your throat and reaches down, holds your hand. the soldier returns to your throat, only now you are suffocating yourself. the soldier leans forward.

sevika kisses you.

𓃦

she is kissing you, and it's not gentle. it's not meant to comfort. it's a challenge, a demand, and a concession all at once. your mouth opens under hers like a flower, and you taste something metallic, almost alcoholic. it could be regret. her metal hand is still around your throat, forcing you to strangle yourself—a twisted form of agency in your own destruction.

when she pulls away, there's a thin line of blood on her lower lip. yours or hers, it's impossible to tell.

“this isn't what i came here for,” she says, but her voice lacks conviction.

“what did you come here for, then?” your voice is sandpaper, raw from the pressure on your trachea. “to kill me or to save me? do you not know the answer, or are they the same thing in your world?"

the soldier releases your hand from your throat, and you gasp, drawing in air that burns like fire. she steps back, creating distance, but her eyes never leave yours. there's something haunted in them, something that makes you wonder if the woman you see before you is really sevika at all or just the ghost that lives inside the weapon they made her to be.

“you know nothing of yourself,” you remind her.

“your mother,” sevika says finally, “she knew exactly what she was doing.”

you flinch. the mention of your mother—architect of nightmares, designer of the programming that stripped the woman before you of everything—lands like a slap.

“i am not her.”

“aren't you?” sevika's laugh is harsh, cutting. “the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, as they say. and you—parts of you—are rotten.”

“spoiled,” you correct her. “never rotten.”

she scoffs.

“i didn't know.” your voice breaks. “i didn't know what she was doing. what they were doing.”

“would it have mattered if you did?”

the question hangs between you, unanswerable. you are unsure. you'd like to think it would have, that you would have been brave enough to stand against your own blood. but the truth is, you've spent your life in willful ignorance, basking in the privilege that your family name afforded you, never questioning where the money came from, what built the empire you inherited. you were silly and stupid and angry—but misdirected. at odds with the world around you.

you think of what you told her before: no one is ever happy with the truth. the best you can do is be unafraid of it, better aware of it.

“i want to make it right,” you say finally.

“you can't.” sevika's voice is flat. “some things can't be undone.”

she moves suddenly, and you manage to stifle your flinch, expecting violence. instead, she slides her jacket off, revealing the full extent of her mechanical arm. the metal gleams in the dim light, a masterpiece of engineering and cruelty. where flesh meets metal, a network of scars radiates outward, a map of her suffering. there is a red star pressed upon it.

“this is what your family did,” she says, jutting her chin toward you. “not just to me. to dozens. most didn't survive the process.”

you reach out, hesitant, and she goes still as a corpse. your fingers hover over the scars, not quite touching. a muscle jumps in her jaw. she nods, a quick, sharp movement. your fingertips brush against the raised tissue where metal meets flesh. the scars are smooth in some places, puckered in others. you trace the boundary between woman and weapon, feeling the heat of her skin give way to the cool bite of metal. sevika watches you, her breath shallow, controlled.

“does it hurt?”

“always.”

the word is heavy with years of endurance. you withdraw your hand, ashamed of your curiosity, your fascination with the physical manifestation of her pain.

"i'm sorry."

"apologies won’t fix anything." sevika moves past you, further into the room. she surveys your living space—spartan, impersonal, a place to exist rather than live. "you've been hiding."

it's not a question, but you answer anyway. "yes."

"from who?"

"everyone. the people who want what's in my head. the people who want revenge for what my family did." you pause. "from you."

sevika turns to face you, and there's a terrible kind of understanding in her eyes. "and how has that worked out for you?"

you gesture around the empty room, at the life you've carved out in shadows. "it is working. i'm still breathing."

"is that enough?"

the question lands like a blow. is it enough? to exist in this half-life, always looking over your shoulder, never allowing yourself to be known? you've survived, yes, but at what cost?

"i do not know anymore," you admit.

sevika nods as if you've confirmed something she already knew.

“why do you speak like that?” she asks, eyes cool and steady. “breaking apart your words, never contracting.”

“it makes me feel like i have more to say.”

she hums and moves to the window, parting the curtain with her metal fingers. the city lights create strange patterns on her face, illuminating half, leaving the rest in shadow.

“they're coming,” she says simply.

your heart stutters. “i know.”

sevika lets the curtain fall. "the files you accessed most likely have triggered alerts. the remaining members of the program, government agencies, private contractors looking to restart the project. they all want what you know.”

the revelation shouldn't surprise you, but it does.

"will you continue to help them?"

"no." sevika's denial is immediate, certain. "not anymore."

"so, why are you here, sevika?"

she doesn't answer immediately. instead, she crosses the room to where your ballet shoes hang on a hook by the door—a remnant of your former life, the one thing you couldn't bear to leave behind. she touches them with her human hand, a gesture so gentle it feels intrusive to watch.

"do you miss the stage?" she says, and it's not a question.

"i was never on it."

sevika nods as if this makes perfect sense to her. "the muscle memory never leaves you.”

the words strike a chord in you, resonating with something deeper than their surface meaning. you wonder what her body remembers that her mind has been forced to forget.

"why are you here, sevika?" you ask again, softer this time.

she turns to face you, and the look in her eyes makes your breath catch. it's not hatred, not anger, but something far more dangerous—conviction.

"to warn you," she says. "and to make you an offer."

"an offer?"

sevika moves toward you with the fluid grace of a predator, each step deliberate, measured. you hold your ground, even as every instinct screams at you to run.

"they're going to tear apart everything you've built here," she says. "they’re going to tear you apart. they'll extract every piece of information from your mind, willingly or not. and when they're done, they'll discard what's left. or worse, they'll use you to rebuild what your mother started."

the cold certainty in her voice leaves no room for doubt. she's not threatening you; she's warning you.

"what's your offer, then?"

"come with me." sevika stops just shy of touching you.

you laugh, a brittle sound. "and go where? do what? live on the run for the rest of my life?"

"live freely."

the simplicity of her answer takes you aback. free. the word tastes foreign on your tongue.

“you are still trapped. you are worse than me.” suspicion colors your voice. "why would you help me?"

sevika's eyes harden. "don't misunderstand. this isn't forgiveness."

"then what is it?"

she reaches out, her metal hand cold against your cheek. the gesture should be threatening, but it's not. it's almost tender, despite the chill of the metal.

"insurance," she says. "you're the last one who knows how the program worked. how to undo it."

understanding dawns, cold and clear. "you think i can help you."

"i know you can." there's no doubt in her voice, no hesitation. "your mother might have created the program, but you've spent the past few days studying it, trying to understand what she did. you've pieced together more than you realize."

you want to deny it, but the truth is, she's right. since discovering your mother's role in the winter soldier program, you've been obsessively researching, gathering fragments of information, trying to make sense of the horror that festered inside of you. not out of scientific curiosity, but out of a desperate need to atone.

"and if i help you," you say carefully, "what then?"

"then we're done." sevika's voice is matter-of-fact. "you go your way, i go mine."

"just like that?"

"just like that."

you search her face for deception but find only grim determination. she means it, or at least, she believes she means it. whether she'll feel the same once you've served your purpose is another matter entirely.

“liar.”

sevika's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes grows colder. "then i leave you to them. what happens after that isn't my concern."

it's another lie, and you both know it. if it wasn't her concern, she wouldn't be here at all.

"you're lying," you say again, and there's no accusation in your voice, just certainty.

sevika's jaw tightens. "think what you want."

"i think you care." you take a step closer, closing the distance between you. "i think that scares you more than anything they ever did to you."

her metal hand moves faster than you can react, wrapping around your upper arm with bruising force. "don't," she warns, her voice low, dangerous.

"don't what? tell the truth?"

the pressure on your arm increases. you'll have bruises tomorrow if you live that long. but you don't back down.

"you've been watching me for days. well past your given three," you continue. "you could have killed me anytime. but you didn't. you're here. why?"

"i told you why."

"no. you told me a reason. not the reason."

sevika's grip tightens further, and you wince. she notices, and something flickers across her face—not regret, exactly, but awareness. she releases you, steps back.

"get your things," she says, her voice clipped. "we leave in five minutes."

"i'm not going anywhere until you tell me the truth."

sevika's laugh is harsh, incredulous. "you're bargaining? now?”

"yes."

she stares at you, disbelief warring with something like respect in her eyes. "you really are like her."

the words hit harder than any physical blow could. you recoil as if struck, and sevika watches the impact of her words with calculating eyes.

"i am nothing like her," you say, each word precise, cutting.

"no?" sevika moves closer again, invading your space. "the same reckless disregard for consequence. the same arrogance, thinking you can control forces beyond your understanding. the same willingness to use people as means to an end."

"that's not true."

"isn't it?" she's so close now that you can feel the heat radiating from her body, smell the faint scent of amber and gun oil that clings to her. "what do you call this? standing here, demanding truth while death comes knocking? what do you call using my—" she stops, biting back whatever she was about to say.

"using your what?" you press.

sevika's expression shutters. "nothing."

but it's not nothing. you saw it, just for a moment—vulnerability. a crack in the armor. and suddenly, you understand.

"using your attraction to me," you finish for her.

sevika goes still, so perfectly motionless that she might as well be carved from stone. then, with deliberate control, she steps away from you.

"pack your things," she says, her voice devoid of emotion. "or stay and die. i don't care which."

but she does care. that's the problem, isn't it? for both of you.

“sevika,” you murmur.

she turns to you, a puppet on invisible strings. you sit on the bed.

“are you tired of serving, sevika?”

your voice is soft, almost soothing. you wait.

sevika 𓃠: you watch it hit her. that phrase. that relentless phrase. it shakes her teeth, boils her blood. you are putting your own code inside of her.

you sit on the bed, soft and sweet. she wants to carve you up.

are you tired of serving, sevika?

you get up, move to your closet, and pull out a small duffle bag already packed. you move back to the bed.

“i'm always prepared to run,” you explain.

you sit again, slinging the bag beside you. it’s baby pink. a dancer's bag. you meet her eyes. “sevika.”

she feels stuck, both in and outside of herself.

“it’s less about going with you and more a question of if you would like to come with me,” you tell her. you’re patient, uncaring of her silence.

she looks at you, and for just a moment, the mask slips. you seem determined, and there’s something else—something slightly sinister. it sends warmth pooling in the pit of her stomach.

“do i want to come with you?” she repeats.

“yes. we run," you say. "together."

the word hangs between you. together. not as captor and captive, not as hunter and prey. undefined.

you rise and step forward. she follows you into the hallway, leaving behind the shell of a life that was never really yours to begin with. ahead lies danger, and possibly death. as you descend the stairs, sevika's metal hand brushes against yours, cold and reassuring in equal measure.

you don't pull away.

neither does she.

this isn't a fairytale. there will be no happy ending, no redemption that erases the past. the ghosts of your mother's creation will follow you both, perhaps forever. the winter soldier and the daughter of her creator—an unstable alliance, a desperate gamble.

“sevika.”

she looks at you. your eyes are bright, a meteor. she hears the silent question.

do you get tired of serving, sevika?

are you tired of serving, sevika?

who do you wish to serve, sevika?

sevika?

“yes.”

you smile. she lunges at you, kisses you. you bruise.

обсидиановый оперативник (новый): первая фаза - излечение.

obsidian operative (new): phase one - cure.

𓃠 | 𓃦.

oct.12 ❝…anya brought me from malama (probably she speaks about dmitry malama, officer of the life-guards uhlan regiment) a small french bulldog (ortino). it's a very cute little thing.

i am so happy…❞

— letters of grand duchess tatiana romanov.

©hcneymooners.

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