Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She was like the ocean, beautiful and calm with waves that crashed now and then,
carrying life and mystery beneath her surface.

They called her Anaya, or so she
was told.

In the chaos of her mind, he was the steady force, a calm she did not
realize she had always needed.

Sam Wilson, former pararescue, now a counsellor at the VA. Calm, collected, wise,
and empathetic.

And then, into his steady world, she arrived, a crashing force bearing secrets too
heavy for him to carry alone.

This is their story.

Chapter Text

She ran.
Every day, without fail, she ran. Around the same park, along the same winding path, pounding her frustration and fear into the ground beneath her feet. Running was not for fitness. It was a reminder. A reminder that she was still being hunted, that there were people out there who would eventually catch up to her. So she ran until her lungs burned, until the ache in her legs was louder than the thoughts she refused to face.

Eventually, she ran to a military base in Cardiff. She did not have a plan, just a name, a forged identity, and a desperate need to stay hidden. The base did not ask questions she was not ready to answer. For two years, she threw herself into everything they would teach her. Basic training came first — discipline, endurance, weapons handling. Most of it was muscle memory. The routines were familiar, almost dull, but she forced herself to blend in, making mistakes on purpose so no one would look too closely.

Then came the specialised work. Field operations, communications, tactical planning. Skills she had learned long before the military gave them names. She learned how to read maps and people with equal precision. Feigning surprise when lessons covered things she could do blindfolded. One week she was out in the field running drills. The next, she was stuck in briefing rooms decoding mission intel. There was no job too small, no task beneath her. She knew how to stay busy. Idle hands drew attention.

She made acquaintances. Comrades who shared rations and stories in the barracks. But she kept her distance. They called it friendship, but she had learned better than to believe in that. Connections made you vulnerable, and she had no interest in being anyone’s liability. Still, in the quiet moments, she wondered what it might feel like to belong somewhere.
When it was time to decide if she would stay, she packed her things in a single duffel bag, booked a flight, and left. No farewell parties. No tearful goodbyes. No one tried to stop her. She doubted anyone even noticed.

She landed in Washington, D.C., carrying nothing but her skills and a carefully guarded past. A former supervisor, someone who owed her a quiet favour, handed her a recommendation. It was enough to get her into the VA as a junior counsellor. It was not glamorous, but it was stable. It was quiet. She told herself it was a new start, though deep down she knew it was just a different kind of running.

Chapter Text

The building stood solid and unassuming amid the urban sprawl of the city, a sprawling campus of brick and glass, its entrance framed by a simple blue sign bearing the VA emblem. Inside, the hum of quiet conversations, ringing phones, and the soft shuffle of footsteps filled the air.

Anaya stepped through the doors, surprised by the manual swing of the entrance. She didn’t mind it. The rustic creak of the door brought comfort to a mind too often unsettled by the sterile beep of automatic sensors.

“Anaya Kapoor, Junior Counsellor. First day on the job,” she said, sharp and precise, meeting the receptionist’s eyes with steady confidence.

“Anaya! A pleasure to meet you here today!”

Anaya turned toward the voice. Standing there was the man she’d already heard about—Sam Wilson, the senior counsellor at the VA. He offered a warm, easy smile, the kind that reached his eyes.

For Sam, the VA wasn’t just a workplace — it was a place of purpose. His own past as a pararescue operative gave him an understanding of the silent battles many here fought, and a quiet resolve to help where he could.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, extending a hand. “Ready to dive in?”

Anaya hesitated just a fraction before taking it, the weight of unspoken questions pressing down on her. She was used to orders, to clear commands and defined missions, this was different. Here, she was expected to blend in, to appear normal. Control was something she wished she had, not something she possessed.

Sam led her through the maze of offices and waiting rooms. The soft murmur of voices mingled with the scent of coffee and antiseptic. Anaya’s eyes flicked over the veterans in the waiting area, some sat stiff-backed and silent, others fidgeted with trembling hands or stared blankly at nothing. She recognised the quiet pain; it echoed something deep inside her she preferred to keep locked away.

A nurse appeared with a young man clutching a folded piece of paper, his eyes flickering with both hope and hesitation. “This is Marcus,” Sam said. “Coming in for counselling about his PTSD.”

Anaya offered a practiced smile, though it felt fragile. “Hi, Marcus. I’m Anaya. It’s nice to meet you.”

Marcus shook her hand, the grip weak but grateful. They moved to a small, soundproof room, its muted light casting soft shadows.

Anaya studied him, the tight grip on his paper, the restless shifting, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. She could almost feel the weight of his memories pressing in, just as her own did.

You’re meant to help, she reminded herself. Not fix.

“Would you like to tell me a little about what brought you here today?” she asked, voice steady yet gentle.

Marcus’s eyes flickered away before settling back. “It’s the nightmares. I see… things. Things I can’t get out of my head.”

Anaya’s chest tightened, the kind of ache that wasn’t quite pain, but something colder, more distant. “That sounds incredibly hard. But you’re not alone, Marcus. We’ll work through this together.”

Her voice was calm, soothing, the voice she’d longed to hear in her own darkest hours. Memories pressed behind her eyes, but she pushed them down.

Marcus gave a small, tentative smile. “Thanks. It means more than I can say.”

Anaya’s fingers twitched, the urge to share her own story flaring for a moment, then dying away. For now, listening was enough.

After Marcus left, Sam’s gaze settled on her, softer than before. “You served in the military yourself, didn’t you? How long were you in?”

Anaya’s breath caught in her throat. It had been so long since anyone asked — and not just out of obligation, but care. Her words faltered, breaking the armour she’d worn for years. “I… I was there for a couple of years,” she whispered.

Sam’s eyes didn’t waver. “That must’ve been tough.”

She blinked rapidly, quickly shutting down the unexpected flicker of vulnerability. “Yeah, it was,” she said shortly, already turning her attention elsewhere.

The moment passed. The walls went back up.

Chapter Text

The chill of dawn bit sharply into Sam’s skin where his gloves ended, fingers numbed but determined. The riverfront was shrouded in a thin mist, pale and fragile like a secret that refused to be kept. He could taste the dampness in the air, a mix of cold earth, faint gasoline fumes from early trucks, and the iron tang of the Potomac flowing steady beside him.

His breath came out in quick white bursts, rhythmically matching the steady pound of his feet against cracked pavement. Every step was a defiant assertion: I’m still here. Still fighting. Still breathing.

He could feel the ache crawling from his calves up into his knees, the tightness in his muscles a reminder that his body remembered things his mind tried to forget. The sharp pulse in his lungs, the burn in his throat, those were the only things he could hold on to when the ghosts of his past stretched their cold fingers too close.

Washington D.C. was stirring around him, slow and reluctant. The streets were empty save for the early risers: a jogger pushing past in a blur, a newspaper vendor stacking papers on a rickety stand, the faint clang of a coffee shop’s metal shutters rolling up somewhere blocks away. The city wore its armour in these hours, clean, quiet, with the smell of fresh rain lingering on brick and concrete, waiting for the day’s chaos to peel it away.

His mind wandered, drifting back to Riley, not in memory of shared runs or easy laughter, but as an echo he couldn’t quite catch. The way Riley’s voice had filled a room, the stubborn light he carried even in the darkest moments. Riley, gone now, but never silent in the spaces Sam tried to keep quiet. The kind of presence that settled in your chest, a weight and a pulse all at once.

He didn’t run to outrun those memories. They followed too closely, always just behind the steady rhythm of his breath and feet. Instead, he ran because it was the only constant left, the only rhythm he could claim as his own when everything else was fractured.

His watch beeped softly, the glow against his wrist marking the time. One hour until work. Enough for a shower. Maybe coffee. Maybe silence.

The river caught the first soft light, silver and cold. Sam slowed to a jog, letting the rhythm ease his mind for a moment. Around him, the city breathed softly, waking with the promise of a new day, but the promise felt fragile, like it might shatter the moment he stopped moving.
The riverfront faded behind him as he turned into the quiet residential streets, footsteps slowing with each step. The city’s early morning hush followed him all the way home, soft and relentless, like a reminder that some things never quite rest.

The door to his apartment swung open with a familiar creak, the small space greeting him with its quiet stillness. Inside, the faint hum of the refrigerator was the loudest sound, a low, constant vibration that filled the empty corners. The air smelled faintly of last night’s takeout, mingled with the faint scent of coffee grounds left in the kitchen.

Sam dropped his keys onto the kitchen counter with a muted clink, the sound almost too loud in the silence. He shrugged off his jacket, the fabric heavy from the night’s damp air, and tossed it over a chair. His movements were automatic, the well-rehearsed rhythm of a man who didn’t trust much to memory anymore.

The kettle hissed to life, steam curling into the still air as he grabbed a mug from the shelf. His fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic like it was an anchor, something solid in a life that felt otherwise untethered.

His eyes flicked to the fridge, where a single photograph was pinned by a magnet, a small island of colour in the muted kitchen. Sam paused, breath catching slightly at the sight of it.
It was him and Sarah, arms thrown around each other, smiles easy and real, caught in a moment of simple happiness. The kind of happiness that felt fragile now, like glass that could shatter with a single careless word.

Family had always been everything. Not the perfect kind you saw in movies or magazines, but the messy, complicated kind you held onto because sometimes that was all you had. Sarah was miles away now, their lives threading apart across time zones and missed calls, but that photo was a tether, a reminder that some bonds didn’t break with distance.

Sam exhaled slowly, the breath leaving him heavier than it should have been. He forced himself to turn away, to break the hold of the past before it pulled him under.
There was a shower waiting. Coffee to drink. A day to face.

The sharp ring of the door buzzer at the VA was softer than Sam expected as he stepped inside. The early morning rush had thinned to a steady, quiet pulse, the kind that settled into the building’s bones like a familiar hum.

A faint scent of disinfectant mixed with the lingering aroma of brewed coffee greeted him. The muted murmur of voices drifted from the waiting rooms, punctuated by the shuffle of worn sneakers and the distant tapping of keyboards. The place felt lived-in, a shelter of worn walls and quiet resilience, thick with the invisible scars of those who came seeking relief and understanding.

Sam gave a nod and a brief smile to the receptionist behind the desk, her eyes tired but alert beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. She returned it with a tired but genuine warmth, a silent acknowledgement of the weight they all carried here.

He eased into the maze of hallways, the soft clack of his shoes on linoleum a steady metronome. Coffee in hand, he allowed himself a moment to breathe, to settle the restless thoughts he carried like shadows under his skin.

Turning into the common area, his gaze found her almost immediately.

Anaya.

She sat poised opposite Marcus; a veteran Sam had known for years, a broad-shouldered man whose warm laugh could fill a room but whose eyes still carried storms. Marcus was a talker, the kind who could unravel silence and stitch it back together with stories both painful and hopeful.

But Anaya wasn’t just listening. She was holding onto every word as if it were a lifeline, her posture sharp, every muscle taut like a wire stretched too tight. Her fingers hovered just above the edge of her notebook, trembling ever so slightly before she clasped her hands tight in her lap. Her eyes flickered briefly to Marcus’s hands, calloused and scarred like a map of all the battles he’d survived, before snapping back to meet his gaze.

She could read the room like Braille, every twitch of Marcus’s fingers, the way his gaze darted away when silence stretched too long, the shallow rise and fall of his chest when old memories threatened to break through. But beneath her steady exterior, Anaya was counting breaths, rehearsing the words she’d never quite learned to say aloud.

When Marcus asked about her own service, the carefully constructed walls she’d built cracked just enough for a cold draft to slip in. Her lips parted as if to answer, but no sound came. Instead, she swallowed hard, her mind spinning through a thousand rehearsed answers, none truthful enough to say aloud. She deflected smoothly, shifting the focus back to Marcus without missing a beat.

Around them, the room hummed with quiet energy, the scraping of chairs, the low buzz of whispered conversations, the occasional cough or rustle of paper. Other veterans lounged or paced nearby, their faces etched with stories no one dared ask about, while the faint hum of an air conditioner wove through the background like a steady heartbeat.

Sam watched quietly from across the room, his eyes narrowing just slightly, taking in the subtle tremor of Anaya’s fingers tapping against the spine of her notebook. That small crack wasn’t lost on him. When their eyes met briefly, she returned a polite, professional nod, fingers still moving in a restless rhythm. It was a rhythm only someone paying close attention would notice. It wasn’t weakness. It was survival.

Sam allowed himself the barest hint of a smile, not to reassure her, but to silently acknowledge that he was paying attention.

The door clicked softly closed behind Anaya, but the room was already thick with tension, an invisible weight pressing down on everything. Sam felt it in his chest the moment he walked in, the kind of weight that had nothing to do with the hours in the day but everything to do with the nights that refused to end.

Daniels sat slumped in the chair opposite him, leg bouncing with a restless fury. His jaw was clenched tight enough to bruise, muscles twitching as if trying to hold something in that wanted to explode free. His eyes, dark and haunted, darted between Sam’s calm face and the cracked windowpane as if willing some ghost to shatter the glass and pull him back into a nightmare he couldn’t escape.

“You sit there, all calm and collected,” Daniels spat, voice rough and ragged like gravel scraping over broken glass. “Telling me to ‘face it’ like it’s some kind of goddamn pep talk. Like I can just snap my fingers and make the nightmares disappear. The guilt that eats at your guts every time you close your eyes. The goddamn loneliness that’s been a shadow dogging my every step since the day I left the field.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. He kept his voice steady, firm but not unkind, because he knew there was no room for pity in this fight. “Mr Daniels, I’m not here to hand out empty words. I’m here to help you carry that weight, whatever it takes.”

Daniels let out a bitter, humourless laugh that cracked like ice breaking beneath a frozen lake. “Carry it? You think you carry it? You sit behind your fancy desk, pushing papers, making calls, living in a world where you can forget what it feels like to look in the mirror and see a stranger staring back. To see the pieces of yourself missing, shattered, never to be found again.”

His hands trembled, fists clenched so tight the knuckles whitened. “You don’t know what it means to live with this every damn day. To wake up and wonder if it’s worth it to keep breathing. To fight for a life that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.”

Sam’s eyes darkened, but he didn’t flinch or retreat. “You’re right. I don’t know your mirror, but I know what it’s like to carry pieces you don’t know how to fit back together. That’s why we’re here, Mr Daniels. You don’t have to face this alone.”

Daniels scoffed, running a rough hand over his face, the skin slick with sweat. His gaze was fire and ice, a mix of defiance and despair. “Alone,” he repeated bitterly, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s the damn truth. You walk out of the warzone and suddenly the world’s too loud, too bright. You try to talk about it, but no one hears you. They don’t see the way you flinch when a car backfires, or how the shadows in your room stretch like fingers trying to pull you under.”

His shoulders sagged, not in defeat, but crushed under the weight of battles fought long after the bullets stopped flying.

“I’ve lost friends,” Daniels said, voice breaking with the memory. “Fallen in ways no one understands. I’ve buried parts of myself in silence because if I spoke, if I let it all out, I don’t know if I’d come back from that.”

The room fell into a brittle silence, the kind of heavy stillness that swells with everything left unsaid. Sam’s throat tightened. He felt every jagged edge of Daniels’ pain, the rage, the grief, the unbearable loneliness.

A knock at the door fractured the tension like a single drop disturbing still water.

Anaya stepped inside at Sam’s signal, quiet but not uncertain. Her eyes swept the room, not just scanning, but assessing. Years of surviving had taught her to read danger in people’s body language. And Daniels... Daniels looked like a man two seconds from breaking something, or someone.

He clocked her immediately. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, the deep shadows under them painting him hollow, almost skeletal.

“You another shrink?” he barked, venom already rising in his throat. “Christ, how many of you does it take to fix a broken soldier?”

Anaya said nothing at first. She simply sat, her posture straight but not rigid. She didn’t shrink from him. She didn’t placate. That only pissed Daniels off more.

“You gonna ask me how I feel?” he spat. “Wanna talk about breathing techniques? Maybe some fuckin’ journaling while we’re at it?”

Anaya’s jaw tensed, but she didn’t react. Not yet.

Daniels leaned forward, his voice low and bitter. “You ever seen a man’s lungs collapse while he tries to cry out for his mother? Watched someone choke on their own blood ‘cause the medevac was three minutes too late? I smelled him burning before I saw him. You ever carry that into your goddamn dreams? Wake up choking on a name you can’t even say out loud?”

Still, she didn’t speak. But something shifted in her eyes, just slightly. Enough that Sam noticed, even if Daniels didn’t.

He wasn’t done. “Don’t sit there and play counsellor if you haven’t been there. If you haven’t bled for it. You all come in here with your degrees and your soft voices and your concern, but you don’t know jack shit. You don’t know what it’s like to live with ghosts you didn’t choose.”

Anaya’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet. Too quiet.

“I know more than you think.”

Daniels scoffed. “Yeah? You see someone’s face after it’s been blown wide open? You hold their hand while they scream, knowing it’s the last goddamn thing they’ll ever feel? You kill a man and try to scrub the smell off your skin for days?”

Her silence was answer enough.

Daniels went in for the kill. “Didn’t think so.”

The air shifted, subtly but wholly, like a tightrope pulled too far.

Anaya’s fingers gripped the edge of her chair, her knuckles pale. Her voice came out hollowed, stripped of performance or protection.

“I haven’t seen the worst of it,” she repeated, but this time there was a tremble at the edges, not weakness, but pressure. A dam straining. “But I’ve carried the weight of ghosts that don’t ask permission. Haunted by things I can’t share, things I’m not allowed to remember properly. It’s not blood that stains my hands, it’s silence. It’s absence. It’s wondering if I’m even allowed to exist without looking over my shoulder.”

Daniels stared at her. Something in his expression cracked, not softened, not yet, but cracked.
“I’ve buried people I didn’t even get to mourn,” she continued, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I’ve looked in the mirror and seen someone I don’t fully recognise. I’ve lied to survive. Smiled through grief so it wouldn’t choke me in public. Some days, it still does. Some nights, I wake up and forget where I am, not because of war, but because the world I knew erased me.”

Her hands dropped into her lap, empty now.

“You learn to hide the cracks,” she finished, voice rasping. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Daniels stared. Hard. Something in him was fighting her words, like admitting he saw himself in them was too much to bear.

“So what then?” he asked, quieter now, but not gentle. “You in here playing saint while you bleed in private too? How’s that work?”

She blinked, slowly. Sam could see the vulnerability etched into the corners of her mouth now. The way she bit the inside of her cheek like it would hold her together.

“I’m not here to save you,” she said. “I’m here because if I don’t sit in rooms like this, I forget how to breathe.”

Daniels looked away. Just for a second.

“You think this helps?” he asked hoarsely.

“No,” she said honestly. “Not all the time. But it’s better than drowning in silence.”

A long beat.

Daniels let out a slow exhale. “You hide it well.”

Anaya offered a sad, crooked smile. “You’d be surprised how many people do.”

Daniels was quiet for a while. His gaze drifted to the floor, then to her again. He tilted his head slightly.

“You’re... what? Late thirties?”

Sam looked over, startled. Anaya paused.

“No,” she said.

“Well, early thirties then. Still too young for the amount of shit you’re carrying.”

She looked him in the eye. And this time, there was no mask. Just plain, difficult truth.

“I’m twenty-four.”

The room went still.

Daniels blinked. His mouth opened slightly, as if to say something, but he didn’t. Sam, too, looked over at her, stunned. He had assumed she was older. Everyone had.

Anaya didn’t flinch under the weight of their silence, but the confession lingered in the air like smoke.

Daniels sat back, visibly shaken. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah,” Anaya murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “I get that a lot.”

And for once, Daniels didn’t have a response.

Not because he was defeated, but because the truth had landed so heavily, even he couldn’t lift it.

The door clicked shut behind them. The silence that followed was deafening.

Sam remained seated, elbows on his knees, hands laced together in front of his mouth. The air still felt thick, like the walls hadn’t quite let go of what had just passed through. The room held the echoes of Daniels’ rage, Anaya’s voice like a wound reopened, the heavy, unspoken truths that lingered in their wake.

He'd led dozens of sessions. Heard grief in every form. But this... this had been something else.

Anaya.

She never flinched. Never raised her voice. But when she spoke, it cut deeper than most confessions ever did. There was pain behind her calm, not just old pain, but something ongoing, something festering. Not just a history she carried, but a weight she was still under.
And Daniels had seen it too.

Sam leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the scuffed floor. He thought he understood the people who sat across from him, vets with shattered lives, anger in their teeth, regret carved into their bones. But Anaya? She didn’t fit. Not quite. Too young, too composed, too careful. Like she was holding herself together with thread and willpower.

“How old are you?” Daniels had asked.

“Twenty-four.”

Twenty-four.

Too young to carry that kind of darkness. Too practiced in hiding it. And still, she made Daniels pause. She made him see her.

Sam rubbed his hands over his face, jaw tight. He didn’t know what to make of her. But something told him he needed to.

She wasn’t just haunted.

She was hiding.

And if she didn’t trust anyone enough to let it out, eventually, that weight was going to crush her.

He found her outside, near the back steps of the building where the smokers went when they needed space. She wasn’t smoking, just sitting on the concrete, elbows on her knees, staring out at the low skyline of D.C.

Her coat was off, sleeves pushed up, arms bare despite the chill. Like she needed to feel something. Anything.

“You alright?” Sam asked gently.

Anaya didn’t look at him. “He needed to say it,” she said. “Even if it was aimed at me.”

“He came in looking for a fight,” Sam said, lowering himself to sit a few feet away. “But you didn’t flinch. You met him where he was.”

Her lips twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. “That’s not strength. That’s recognition.”

A pause settled between them. The wind caught a loose strand of her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear with absent precision.

“He got under your skin,” Sam said carefully.

She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “He didn’t get under it. He just… scraped something raw.”

Sam studied her. “That thing you said. About ghosts that don’t ask permission. You weren’t talking metaphorically, were you?”

Anaya turned her face toward him then, eyes dark and steady. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he nodded slowly, as if accepting terms to something unspoken.

“You're twenty-four,” he said. “And you carry more weight than most do at fifty.”

Anaya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I didn’t get a choice.”

Sam nodded again. “Most of us didn’t.”

She looked away, swallowing hard. “I’m not trying to be a mystery, Sam.”

“Then stop hiding like one.”

She flinched, not from the words, but from how softly he said them.

And still, she didn’t walk away.

Chapter Text

Anaya woke choking on air, her chest tight and muscles clenched like a fist. The cold bite of the floor pressed sharp against her cheek, scraping skin rough where it had slid during her fall. She didn’t remember moving, just the sudden jolt, heart hammering, breath ragged and shallow, like she’d been dragged from the depths of drowning. The darkness around her felt suffocating, yet somehow exposed, as if the shadows themselves were watching, waiting.

Her eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on the gloom. Shapes blurred and shifted. The room tilted, and a wave of nausea rolled over her. She swallowed hard, gulping air that tasted faintly stale, then gritted her teeth against the panic clawing its way up her throat.

The nightmare clung like a second skin, heavy and relentless. She saw it again: the man’s face, or rather, the glint of cold metal where his arm should have been, a stark, unnatural shimmer against the dim backdrop. She could feel the warmth of blood seeping into her palm, sticky and real as it soaked into her clothes. The edges of the memory twisted and frayed, slipping away like smoke on the wind, but the terror, raw, unyielding, remained, squeezing her chest with icy fingers.

Her body curled instinctively, folding in on itself as if she could disappear through the cracks in the floorboards. The small, sparse room seemed to shrink around her, walls pressing in like an unwelcome reminder. This was her refuge, but it felt more like a cage. Every corner bore the weight of silence and secrecy.

The apartment was the kind of place you settled into only when you had nowhere else to go. Cramped and rough around the edges, with paint peeling like forgotten scars, and a kitchen so tiny the cupboards groaned when she forced them shut. The sink was chipped and stained; the counter littered with a cracked mug and a half-empty jar of instant coffee. The single lightbulb in the ceiling flickered faintly, casting tired shadows over the clutter.

The bathroom was a sliver of space barely big enough to swing an arm, the walls yellowed and marked by years of damp. A faint scent of mildew mixed with harsh disinfectant lingered in the air, stubborn and unwelcome. The cracked mirror above the sink showed a face she barely recognised, sharp cheekbones, eyes too tired for her age, lips pressed tight as if holding back a storm.

Her bed sat shoved into the far corner like an afterthought, a narrow mattress covered in rumpled sheets she rarely used. Too many nights had been spent on the cold floor, where she could feel the unforgiving hard ground beneath her spine, a small comfort compared to the weight of restless dreams. The thin blanket was folded neatly at the foot of the bed, untouched, as if it were a fragile promise she didn’t trust.

Slowly, painfully, Anaya pushed herself up from the floor. Her muscles protested with every movement, a dull ache lingering in her calves and back, the soreness of someone who hadn’t slept right in weeks. She planted her feet firmly on the threadbare carpet, each step measured, deliberate, as if she were navigating a minefield.

Outside, the city was beginning to stir. Through the cracked window, she caught the first pale fingers of dawn brushing against the skyline, a muted palette of greys and blues, softened by early morning mist. The distant hum of traffic drifted upward, mingling with the faint chirping of birds waking from their roosts. Somewhere deep in the building, a heater clicked to life with a hollow clunk, breaking the silence with mechanical certainty.

Anaya crossed the room, moving toward the kitchenette with a slow, practiced grace. Her hands shook just slightly as she filled the battered kettle with tap water, the cold metal cool against her skin. The ritual was familiar, grounding, a small anchor in a day that often threatened to slip away from her control.

As the kettle began to whistle softly, the scent of instant coffee filled the cramped space. Bitter and harsh, it was a far cry from the rich espresso she once loved, but it was all she could afford. She spooned the coarse granules into a chipped mug, the faded blue paint flaking off at the rim.

Her thoughts flickered unbidden back to Daniels. Their first session had been like walking into a storm, raw, unpredictable, and brutal. His anger had crashed over her like waves, each word cutting through the thin armour she’d worn for so long. But beneath his fury, she’d glimpsed something else: pain, buried deep, and a grudging respect that was almost imperceptible.

Despite herself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. It was unwelcome, unexpected, but real, a fragile spark in the darkness. She found herself wondering if this rough man, so full of scars and bitterness, might become something more than just another ghost she had to face.
She wrapped her fingers around the warm mug, drawing strength from the heat as she stared out at the awakening city. The nightmare still lingered, lurking just beneath the surface of her mind. But alongside it, a tentative thread of something else began to grow, the possibility of connection, of not being completely alone.

Today was another day. And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so damn lonely.

There was a knock on the door around 9:00 a.m. Sharp, precise, but not impatient. Three taps. Then silence.

Anaya froze.

It wasn’t the kind of knock that made your heart jump out of fear. But it wasn’t one she expected either. She didn’t get visitors. Not here. Not ever.

She slid the mug onto the counter and moved toward the door quietly, barefoot. Her apartment didn’t allow for stealth; the creaky floorboard near the fridge betrayed her step, but she didn’t rush.

She didn’t need to check the peephole. She already knew who it was.

She opened the door just enough to see Sam’s face.

He looked casual, but not aimless. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, the winter breeze lifting the hem slightly.

“Morning,” he said, voice calm, measured, that usual gentleness she hadn't quite decided if she trusted yet.

Anaya blinked, then stepped back with a sigh, leaving the door open as a silent invitation. She walked away from him before he could read her face.

“Didn’t realise this came with home visits,” she muttered, grabbing her mug again and leaning against the counter.

Sam stepped in quietly, his eyes scanning the apartment. He didn’t comment. Didn’t look shocked. Just observant.

“You didn’t show up this morning,” he said simply.

“I wasn’t scheduled.”

He gave a light shrug. “You’re still on probation, Kapoor. Showing up isn’t a bad look.”

Anaya rolled her eyes and took a long sip of coffee. “Didn’t sleep. It happens.”

Sam didn’t press. He looked around again, not with judgment, but as if cataloguing the facts, the untouched bed, the cracked tile, the second-hand everything. Then, he looked at her.

“You alright?” he asked.

She hated that question. It always felt too big.

“Fine,” she replied, too fast.

Silence lingered.

Then Sam, carefully, said, “I was going to run a small session this afternoon. Just a few guys. Less structure, more conversation. I think you should co-lead.”

Anaya’s laugh was dry. “You think I should?”

“I do.”

“You get a kick out of throwing me into the deep end, huh?”

“You swam just fine yesterday.”

Anaya paused. Daniels’ voice echoed again in her mind. You think you’ve seen war, girl? You still smell like safety.

She took a slow breath. “I’m not… I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Sam didn’t push. He just nodded like he’d expected the answer or at least the hesitation.

“It’s not about doing it perfectly. It’s about being in the room. The rest comes.”

He took a step toward the door. “Think about it. It’s a learning opportunity.”

Anaya’s brow twitched. “I hate that phrase.”

“I know,” he said, smiling as he left.

***

The door creaked open, and Anaya stepped inside the small, fluorescent-lit room. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale coffee and old sweat, mingled with the unspoken weight of years spent fighting wars no one talked about once the uniforms came off. Sam’s eyes flicked up, a subtle nod welcoming her into the circle.

Four veterans sat waiting — Marcus, late twenties but hollowed by battles he carried long after the guns fell silent; Daniels, grizzled and scarred, the years etched deep in his face and voice; Alex, restless energy barely contained, his jaw clenched tight with decades of frustration; and Ralph, the oldest, sharp-eyed and bristling with suspicion.

Sam cleared his throat, his voice low but steady. “Welcome. This is our space, where we tell the truth, no matter how hard. Anaya’s joining me in co-leading. Let’s start.”

The room didn’t breathe; it waited. Then Daniels leaned forward, voice gravelly from years of shouting at ghosts no one else could see.

“Ten years since I lost my leg to an IED, and some nights it feels like it’s still there. The phantom pain’s a constant reminder, a cruel echo of what was taken. But it’s the things no one talks about that eat at you. The screams of the men I couldn’t save. The ones who begged for help with their last breaths. That guilt… it’s heavier than any prosthetic.”

Alex’s foot tapped a hard rhythm against the cracked linoleum. “I was out of service for five years before I stopped waking up screaming. The nightmares never left. They don’t fade; they get sharper. I see my squad’s blood on the walls every time I close my eyes. The stench of burnt flesh, the silence after the firefight… that’s the war no one sees.”

Josh’s hands trembled in his lap, voice thin. “I’ve been back eight years. The longer I’m out, the harder it gets. No one knows how to deal with the man who came back, broken and empty. My family thinks I’m just tired. They don’t see the weight crushing my chest, the hollow feeling like I’m already dead.”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his hands over his knees. “I’m younger than most here, but it doesn’t matter. The panic attacks, the flashbacks, they don’t care about age. The nightmares come in waves, and I drown in them. Sometimes I can’t even breathe. People expect me to move on, to heal, like it’s something I can choose. But it’s not. Not when the war follows you home.”

Ralph’s voice cut through the confessions like a razor. “You all want to talk about pain and loss? What about betrayal? The politicians who send us to fight their wars then forget we exist? The lies we were fed? This place feels like a fucking joke when it comes to that. And that…” His gaze snapped to Anaya, cold and unforgiving. “That girl sitting there? She hasn’t earned a damn thing. She doesn’t belong here.”

Anaya’s hands clenched into fists on her lap, but she held her tongue, eyes fixed on the scuffed floor.

Alex sneered, voice dripping with contempt. “Yeah. Twenty-four, playing counsellor. What the hell does she know about living with this?”

Sam shifted, voice even, unaware of the storm he was about to unleash. “Healing doesn’t require matching scars. We all bring different battles.”

Marcus’s face darkened instantly. His hands clenched into fists on his knees as he leaned forward, voice sharp and cutting through the room like a knife.

“Healing. You say it like it’s a goddamn fairy tale. Like I can just flip a switch and wake up whole again. You want to talk about healing? What about the nights I’m paralyzed by the smell of burning rubber, screaming in silence because my throat’s been ripped raw? What about the screams of a kid in my arms whose face is blown apart, begging me to make it stop? You don’t want to hear about that, do you? You sit there, all calm and collected, telling me to heal while my chest feels like it’s being crushed under the weight of a thousand dead friends. You don’t get it. You. Don’t. Get. It.”

His voice cracked, raw with pain and fury. His breath came fast, chest heaving, tears glistening unashamedly as his body trembled with the panic crashing in.

“I can’t breathe. I’m drowning in memories that won’t leave me alone. I’m sick of pretending I’m okay. Sick of the silence. Sick of the goddamn masks.”

His breath caught, body shaking violently. The room shrank around him as his world blurred.

Anaya was at his side before the chaos could consume him, voice soft, steady, the calm in his storm. “Marcus, look at me. Breathe with me. In… two… three… Out… two… three. You’re safe. You’re here.”

His shaking slowed, eyes fluttering closed, the grip loosening as she grounded him in the moment.

The others watched, silence thick as raw pain settled.

Ralph’s tone turned harsher, slicing through the fragile quiet. “I don’t buy it. She walks in here like she’s got the answers, but she doesn’t know our world. You don’t earn respect with a clipboard and a smile. You earn it with blood and sweat.”

Anaya’s eyes flickered with tears she refused to shed. Her voice was clipped, professional. “I don’t claim to understand your battles. But I am here to listen.”

Daniels rose slowly, eyes blazing with a sudden fire. His voice was low, deliberate, carrying the weight of decades.

“Enough of this. Ralph, you want to tear her down because she doesn’t fit your mould of pain? Because she’s younger? Because her wounds aren’t written in scars on her skin but in the silence, she carries? You don’t get to decide who belongs in this room. Not when you’ve never stood where she stands, trying to hold together what’s left of a broken soul while still carrying your own chains.”

He stepped forward, voice growing stronger, shaking the room with conviction.

“Anaya is here because she fights a war most of us never see, the war inside. Because she shows up every day when it’d be easier to run. Because she’s earned respect not through the number of tours but through the courage it takes to keep healing and keep helping others do the same. If you can’t see that, maybe you need to look in the mirror before you cast stones.”
Ralph’s glare didn’t waver, but the room shifted. Something fragile cracked in the air.
Sam leaned forward, voice calm, unwavering. “This group is for every kind of pain — visible and invisible. We don’t judge how it’s carried, only that it is. And that we face it together.”
The room exhaled, fractured but unbroken.

Anaya swallowed hard, voice trembling but steady. “I’m here to stay.”

A brittle silence held before Alex’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

Marcus nodded, respect softened his features.

Daniels settled back into his chair; eyes fixed on Anaya.

Ralph’s suspicion didn’t vanish, but for now, the war in the room paused.

For these broken men, and the woman who’d stepped into their fire, that fragile truce was everything.

The VA halls were empty by the time Sam found her. The light buzz of a vending machine hummed in the distance. Fluorescents above flickered faintly as if even they were exhausted.

Anaya sat in the break room, alone, one leg folded beneath her, her notebook resting untouched on the table.

She looked up when he entered, eyes tired but aware.

“You’re still here,” Sam said gently.

She shrugged. “Could say the same to you.”

He pulled out the chair across from her, slumped into it with a long sigh, running both hands down his face.

“That was rough,” he said, finally.

“It was honest,” she corrected. “Painful. But honest.”

Sam leaned back, his head resting against the wall. “I shouldn’t’ve said what I did to Marcus.”

Anaya didn’t respond right away. She watched him instead, really looked at him. The man who held this room together most days. Who kept others standing even when he was barely holding himself up. His guilt was written in the tight line of his jaw, the way he avoided eye contact.

“I’ve worked with Marcus for almost a month,” she said softly. “You didn’t cause his reaction, Sam. It was waiting to happen.”

“I pushed,” he murmured. “I thought I was helping. And I just… watched him spiral.”

“You gave him a space to say what he never could,” she replied. “Sometimes the floor falls out when that happens.”

Sam’s eyes finally met hers. “You’re good at this.”

“I listen,” she replied, voice lower now. “That’s half the job.”

A quiet passed between them, the kind that didn’t beg to be filled. The air smelled faintly of old coffee and paper. Sam tapped the table lightly with his fingers.

“I’ve seen men break down before,” he said. “Seen them shatter in warzones. But today felt... heavier.”

“You care,” she said simply.

He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “That’s not always a good thing.”

“It is when you’re building trust with people who’ve been torn apart,” she said, voice still measured but soft. “They feel it. Even if they pretend they don’t.”

Sam studied her. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You ever let someone in? Trust them with what’s weighing on you?”

She didn’t answer at first. Instead, she turned her gaze to the far wall, to the peeling edge of a safety poster taped near the microwave.

He noticed the hesitation. “Anaya.”

She smiled, but it was barely there. “I trust the work.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s all I’m offering.”

Her voice was gentle, but firm. A boundary wrapped in warmth. It was a strange duality she carried — softness that didn’t equate to openness. Her eyes flicked back to him and he caught the faintest shimmer there.

“I don’t push you,” she added. “Don’t push me.”

Sam nodded, accepting it. But something in his posture shifted — less guarded, more honest.
“I worry about them,” he admitted after a beat. “All of them. But Marcus… he reminds me of Riley.”

That name. She knew it meant something. The air between them changed the second it was spoken.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and this time, her tone cracked a little. Just a little.

“I can’t lose another one,” Sam murmured. “I tell myself I’m doing good work here but then something like today happens and I wonder if I’m even helping at all.”

“You are,” she said quietly. “More than you think.”

He looked at her again, long and slow. “Do you believe that? About yourself?”

This time, she didn’t smile. She stood slowly, collecting her notebook. “I think… I need sleep.”
It wasn’t a dismissal. But it was the end of the conversation.

He stood too. “Thank you. For staying.”

Anaya nodded. “You’re not alone in this, Sam. Even if it feels like it sometimes.”

Their eyes met again, and something passed between them. Not answers. Not clarity. But recognition.

***

Anaya jerked awake with a muffled cry caught in her throat. Her body was curled on the floor beside the cold mattress she never used. She didn’t know how long she’d been lying there, face damp, chest heaving, sweat slicked down her back like a second skin. Her fingers clawed at the cheap linoleum floor, grounding herself as the tail-end of the dream still pulsed behind her eyes.

Her breath staggered out in bursts. She blinked fast. The ceiling above was cracked in the corner, yellowed from old damp, but the room was dark, quiet, safe. Still, her arms trembled as if they remembered something her mind didn’t.

In the dream, she was bleeding.

It wasn’t the pain that had jolted her. It was the silence that followed. She remembered running, no, crawling, her fingers slipping in mud and blood. Then the flash of silver. Not a weapon. Not quite. A glint of something impossible. A hand. Not hers.

And then, nothing. Darkness. Cold air and the smell of rust. Or iron. Or maybe both.

Now, her back hit the peeling wall behind her. She tucked her knees in and dropped her forehead against them, forcing her lungs to obey. One. Two. Three.

Her apartment, as always, felt like it belonged to someone else. The walls were thin, the radiator groaned like it hated her, and the window above the sink let in just enough light to make the mould obvious. The bed, narrow, hard, was pushed into the farthest corner. She rarely touched it.

Anaya sat curled on the small armchair by the window, feet tucked beneath her. A cardigan thrown over her oversized T-shirt. A ceramic mug rested between both hands, untouched.
The window overlooked nothing in particular, just rooftops and the sloping arms of power lines stretching like skeletons. But she liked the view. It didn’t ask for anything.

On the coffee table sat a folder, Daniels’ intake file. She hadn’t opened it this morning. Didn’t need to. She remembered the notes. The angry scribbles in the margins. The sharp words that leapt off the page and clung to her skin long after reading.

But yesterday, he’d defended her.

Not kindly. Not gently. But deliberately.

She turned the mug in her hands.

Daniels was like a minefield she’d chosen to walk into barefoot. Every step felt like a dare.
But something had shifted. She couldn’t explain it, not yet, but she felt it in the way his jaw hadn’t clenched quite as tight after the session. The way his shoulders had dropped, even for a moment.

And Marcus.

Her heart clenched.

That outburst. That look of panic. The way his voice collapsed into itself mid-sentence. She’d never seen him unravel like that. She wanted to check in, to make sure he was safe, but she’d promised to give him space. She always kept her word.

The flash of that scream still echoed in her ears. Not in the room, in the dream.

The man with the metal hand.

She pressed the mug harder between her palms.

Anaya didn’t know where the memory ended and the nightmare began anymore. There were pieces missing from her life, missing on purpose. Erased like chalk from a board. But every now and then, the smudges came back. In dreams. In flashbulbs of sensation. A cold metal clamp. A voice she didn’t recognise saying her name like a curse.

There was a file locked away in her wardrobe. A dossier she hadn’t opened in months. It held more questions than answers.

She wouldn’t open it today.

Her phone buzzed once. A text from Sam.

“You okay?”

She didn’t reply.

Instead, she got up, set the mug down, and pulled on a pair of jeans. She needed to be at the VA in an hour. Daniels had a session. And for once, he hadn’t cancelled.

Which meant… something.

She didn’t know what yet. But she was going to find out.

The door clicked shut behind Anaya, muffling the sounds of the bustling VA hallway. Daniels sat slouched in the chair, the lines etched deep around his eyes, his hands clenched in restless fists on his knees. The exhaustion clung to him like a second skin.

Anaya took the seat across from him, her notebook closed and resting in her lap. She let silence settle between them for a moment, giving him space to choose the words he was ready to say.

Finally, Daniels spoke, voice gravelly, tight with tension. “I don’t know why I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know if I want to be here. People like me, they don’t get better. We just learn to fake it better.”

Anaya kept her gaze steady, voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to have it all figured out today. This is a place to try. No judgment.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Try, huh? Like that means anything. Try and fail. Try and just keep dragging myself through the muck.” His jaw clenched. “I don’t want pity. I don’t want ‘you’ll get through it.’ I want it to stop. The nightmares. The shaking. The guilt. The silence.”

Anaya nodded slowly. “What do the nightmares say? What do they show you?”

Daniels’ eyes flickered with pain. “Faces. People I couldn’t save. Screams I can’t forget. The look in their eyes when they knew it was over. I hear their voices in my head when I close mine. And the guilt? It’s this weight that never lifts. Like I’m carrying all their broken pieces around, and there’s no way to put them back together.”

His voice cracked as he brushed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “Some nights, I wake up and I’m still there, on the ground, covered in blood. No one comes to pull me out.”

Anaya’s throat tightened. “You’re not alone here, Daniels.”

He swallowed hard, eyes narrowing. “Doesn’t feel like it. They all see the ‘strong vet.’ The guy who came back. The guy who’s supposed to be fixed. But no one sees the broken. No one wants to see it.”

“People carry their own pain in silence,” she said gently. “It’s hard to let others in, especially when you’ve been told to ‘tough it out’ your whole life.”

Daniels leaned forward, voice low and raw. “Tough it out. That phrase’s a poison. It’s what keeps us locked inside ourselves, afraid to reach out. I’m tired of being told to ‘man up.’ Tired of pretending I’m okay.”

Anaya’s eyes softened. “It takes strength to admit that. To be honest about where you’re at.”
He let out a harsh breath, eyes flicking to her face. “I didn’t think I could say it to anyone. Not even a shrink.”

“You don’t have to say it to anyone else if you don’t want to,” she said quietly. “But if you ever do, I’m here to listen. No judgement. No expectations.”

Daniels’ jaw slackened for a moment, the hardened edges of his expression softening. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Maybe... maybe this is a start.”

Anaya nodded, a flicker of hope stirring between them. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Chapter Text

The desert night stretched endlessly, a vast canvas of indigo pierced by cold stars that held no warmth. Sam adjusted the controls on his EXO-7 Falcon harness, the mechanical wings buzzing softly like a restless bird eager for flight. Beside him, Riley’s familiar silhouette was a steady presence, carved against the sky like a shadow that refused to waver.

They’d flown together for years, partners in every sense, and the comfort of that unspoken bond was a balm against the cold and silence. Tonight was supposed to be routine, another rescue mission in a long line of missions, but even in the chill air, Sam felt the faintest tickle of unease.

“You know,” Riley’s voice crackled through the comms, low and teasing, “I swear you fly that thing like you’re trying to impress some girl back home.”

Sam snorted despite himself, the sound catching like a rusty hinge. “You wish. I’m too old for that nonsense.”

“Old?” Riley scoffed, the warmth of his laugh cutting through the tension. “You’re practically a granddad in Air Force years.”

The words were easy; a lifeline tossed across the void between them. Sam smiled beneath his helmet, heart a little lighter. The years of shared missions had woven a tapestry of jokes, rivalries, and trust that no enemy fire could unravel.

“Alright, wiseass,” Sam replied. “Let’s just get this done before you start waxing poetic about your own heroics.”

Riley’s laughter crackled through the static again, a brief bright spark in the night. “Always the modest one, huh?”

The twin harnesses hummed in synchrony as they swept lower, the desert landscape blurring beneath them. The wind whipped past their faces, dry and biting, carrying the scent of sand and something sharp, oil, smoke, and the faint metallic tang of danger.

Sam’s gaze flicked down to the enemy campfires scattered like glowing embers in the darkness. Their mission was clear: locate and extract Khalid Khandil, a high-value target tucked deep within a hostile zone guarded fiercely by soldiers armed with RPGs and small arms.

“Visual on target area,” Sam whispered into his mic, voice steady despite the tightening coil in his gut.

“Roger that,” Riley responded. “Eyes peeled for hostiles. We move fast, in and out.”

The night was deceptively calm, but Sam knew better. The silence was the predator stalking before the strike.

As they glided closer, the lights below became more distinct, figures moving cautiously, shadows shifting between rocks. Riley’s voice was a constant companion, calm and precise as they coordinated their approach.

“Right flank clear,” he reported. “You good on your side?”

“Clear,” Sam replied, muscles tensing as the adrenaline crept in. The familiar rush sharpened his senses, the world narrowing to the hum of the wings and the flicker of firelight below.

Their wings flared as they adjusted altitude, slipping into tight formation. The comms buzzed softly with static, punctuated only by their quiet banter and occasional situational updates.

“Remember that time in ‘Nam?” Riley’s voice softened, almost nostalgic. “You nearly fell off that ridge trying to prove you could out-fly a local hawk.”

Sam chuckled despite the tension, the memory a welcome distraction. “I was trying to impress the lieutenant. Didn’t realise the hawk was a better pilot.”

“Bet she didn’t let you live that down.”

The words floated in the night air, a reminder that beneath the armour of duty were men who longed for normalcy, for laughter amid the chaos.

“Yeah,” Sam murmured, voice thick. “Sometimes I wonder if any of that mattered.”

A pause. Then Riley’s voice, firm and unwavering. “It mattered to me. You mattered.”

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat; eyes fixed on the dark horizon. The bond between them was a tether, unbreakable even in the face of death.

Suddenly, a burst of tracer rounds tore through the sky, sharp, deadly arcs of red that slashed through the night.

“Contact!” Riley barked, voice cutting through the calm.

Sam’s muscles coiled instinctively, wings adjusting to dive toward cover. The night exploded into chaos as the enemy opened fire, RPGs lighting the darkness with deadly blooms.

“RPGs inbound!” Riley shouted. “Hold low! Hold formation!”

The world erupted in a fiery bloom beneath them, a violent burst of flame and shrapnel that tore through the night like a scream split in two. Sam’s heart slammed against his ribs as the shockwave rattled through his very bones. The roar of the RPG swallowed everything else—his training, his instincts, even Riley’s voice.

But his eyes were locked, unblinking, on Riley’s harness as the violent jerk sent his partner spiralling out of control.

Time stretched and slowed, warping into a cruel theatre where every heartbeat thundered like a drum of doom.

Riley’s body twisted, limbs flailing in a desperate, graceless dance against the dark canvas of the night sky. The harness groaned, metal biting into flesh and fabric as it strained against the violent forces tearing them apart.

Sam’s hands scrambled frantically over the controls, every nerve screaming to pull Riley back, to snatch him from the abyss.

“Hold on, damn it!” Sam’s voice cracked, raw with panic.

But the mechanical wings were unyielding, a cruel cage trapping Riley’s fall.

Sam felt his breath catch in his throat, hot tears burning behind his helmet’s visor. His mind shattered, caught between action and helplessness.

He reached out, fingers trembling, as if grasping the empty air could somehow tether Riley back to life.

The night air rushed past, thick with the acrid tang of smoke and the electric charge of fear.
Riley’s eyes, wide and wild, met Sam’s in a fleeting moment, an unspoken plea, a flash of brotherhood before gravity claimed him.

And then.

The fall.

A sickening, bone-jarring plunge into darkness.

Sam’s world tilted, his own wings faltering as the horror of loss slammed into him like a tidal wave.

He was suspended above an abyss he could not reach.

Just a witness to his friend’s last moments, powerless and broken.

The silence that followed was heavier than any explosion, filled with the hollow echo of absence.

Sam’s chest tightened, every breath a stab of agony.

The nightmare had begun.

The night’s silence shattered with a sharp gasp as Sam’s eyes flew open, drenched in cold sweat that clung to his skin like a second shroud. His chest heaved violently, ribs straining against the relentless pounding of his heart, a frantic drumbeat echoing the chaos of his nightmare. The darkness of his apartment pressed in on him, thick and suffocating, as if the shadows themselves were mocking his helplessness.

His hands trembled uncontrollably, fingers clawing at the rough fabric of his shirt as if gripping it could anchor him back from the edge. Every breath felt ragged, caught somewhere between panic and exhaustion, raw and burning in his throat. The stale, heavy air tasted metallic, laced with the phantom scent of dust and gunpowder, a ghost from the desert night that refused to fade.

Sam’s mind reeled, caught in a tempest of fractured memories. Riley’s face, alive and laughing one moment, twisted in silent terror the next. The explosion that tore through the sky, the sickening wrench that sent his partner spiralling into darkness. The unbearable weight of watching, powerless and broken, burned brighter than any flame.

His body ached as though he had been carrying the world on his shoulders, muscles tight and trembling from the unyielding grip of fear and grief. The apartment was deathly still except for the faint hum of the city beyond the window and the uneven thud of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

He forced his trembling hands to steady, dragging ragged breaths through his clenched jaw. The nightmare’s horror clung to him like a second skin, every shadow whispering betrayal, every silence a gaping wound. Sam pressed his palms against his face, trying to scrub away the memory, but it clung stubbornly, etched deep into his mind.

“I should’ve saved him,” he muttered, voice thick with anguish. “I should’ve… done something.”

The words felt hollow even as they escaped, swallowed by the emptiness around him. The crushing guilt wrapped tight around his chest, a suffocating weight that made each breath a battle.

Sam shifted slowly to sit on the edge of the bed, muscles stiff and trembling. His gaze fell on the dim outline of a framed photo on the nightstand, a frozen moment of laughter shared with Riley, brotherhood immortalised in glass. The smile that once brought light now felt like a cruel reminder of all that was lost.

He wiped at his eyes, trying to fight back the tears that blurred his vision. The room felt colder now, the loneliness deeper, as if the very walls mourned with him.

“Why am I still here?” The question hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

Sam’s fingers clenched into fists on his knees, nails digging into flesh in a futile attempt to ground himself. The weight of survivor’s guilt pressed down, relentless and unyielding, threatening to consume what little peace he could find.

He closed his eyes, willing the storm inside to calm, but the memories surged like a tidal wave. Riley’s fall, the fire, the silence that followed. Each breath felt like inhaling shards of glass.

In the quiet, Sam finally let himself break. A ragged sob tore free, raw and desperate, filling the room with the sound of a man carrying unbearable pain.

Minutes passed, the silence returning slowly, but the ache remained, an unhealed wound, a shadow that would not fade.

Sam stayed seated on the edge of the bed, letting the silence stretch thin between his ragged breaths. The city’s distant hum filtered through the cracked window, indifferent to the war raging inside his chest. His fingers slowly unclenched, trembling as they lay limp against his thighs, the cold creeping into his skin like an unwelcome visitor.

Every muscle ached, not just from the nightmare’s grip but from the years of carrying invisible burdens, the scars no one could see. The weight of memories, regrets, and the unspoken promise to those lost pressed down with relentless insistence.

He rose unsteadily, each step a deliberate act of will. His bare feet met the cold floor, grounding him, a small reminder that this was real, this room, this moment, unlike the cruel desert night that had just bled from his mind.

Sam moved to the small kitchen, the soft flick of the light switching on harsh against his tired eyes. The water he poured trembled in his hand, a fragile lifeline he clutched desperately. The cool liquid soothed the dryness in his throat but did little to quell the fire of guilt burning inside.

He pressed the glass to his lips, closing his eyes to the steady drip of water, willing the cold calm to seep deeper than his lungs to reach the parts of him still shattered.

But the silence was a mirror, reflecting everything he wished to drown out, the what-ifs, the haunting echoes of Riley’s last moments, the hollow space beside him where his brother-in-arms should have been.

Sam’s mind flicked back to the day they’d trained together, laughing as they pushed each other past exhaustion, the warmth of Riley’s easy grin a beacon in the darkness. He could almost hear the teasing, the rough camaraderie that had made the impossible bearable.

A shadow flickered behind his eyes as he traced the rim of the glass, the memory sharp and raw.
His voice, barely more than a whisper, broke the quiet. “I’m still here, Riley. But I don’t know how much longer I can carry this.”

The weight was suffocating, but it was also a tether, a reminder of why he fought, why he survived. For Riley. For every brother and sister who never made it home.

Sam drained the glass and set it down gently, his fingers lingering on the smooth surface as if it could absorb some of his pain.

He moved to the window, staring out as dawn’s first light painted the sky in muted shades of pink and gold. The world outside was waking, oblivious to the ghosts that haunted him.

In that fragile morning light, Sam felt the stirrings of something long buried, grief, yes, but also a stubborn ember of hope.

He tightened his jaw, breath steadying.

Today, the nightmare might have won the battle, but it wouldn’t claim the war.

Sam Wilson squared his shoulders, the weight on his chest a little less suffocating.

There was still work to do. Lives to save. And somewhere deep inside, a promise to keep.

With one last glance at the photo of Riley, Sam turned away from the window, steeling himself to face the day.

Chapter Text

The sky was still bruised with the last shadows of night, faint light pooling behind the towering cityscape. Frost crunched under Anaya’s boots as she stepped out of her car. Her breath came out in thin clouds, vanishing almost as quickly as they appeared. She glanced across the parking lot where a lone figure leaned against the side of a silver sedan, shoulders squared but unmistakably worn down by something heavier than the early chill.

Sam.

His coat was pulled tight, hands tucked in his pockets, head bowed just enough to hide the exhaustion lining his face. There was a weight in the air, something more than the cold, that wrapped around her chest and slowed her breath. She wanted to ask if he was alright, but the words stuck, brittle and fragile.

He looked up as she approached, the faintest flicker of a smile ghosting his lips, but it did not quite reach his eyes.

“You’re early,” she said, voice low enough to not disturb the quiet stillness.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam answered without looking at her, a rough edge to his tone that hinted at battles fought far from this parking lot.

Anaya nodded, stepping closer but still careful to keep a respectful distance. They walked together toward the building, their footsteps falling out of sync before settling into a rhythm neither tried to break.

Neither spoke of the heavy silence that stretched between them, but it hummed, unseen, almost tangible.

She caught the way his jaw clenched slightly as they neared the entrance, as if the weight he carried pressed harder the closer they got to the life waiting inside.

For all the noise the VA would bring today, right now, it was just two people moving through the cold, each wrapped in their own battles, bound by a quiet, fragile understanding.

Anaya tightened her scarf as they stepped out into the brisk morning air. The VA parking lot still smelled faintly of wet asphalt from the night’s rain, and somewhere far off a truck’s brakes squealed, sharp against the muted hum of early traffic. Sam moved with an easy stride toward his car, his hands tucked deep in the pockets of his jacket, eyes forward but mind clearly elsewhere.

“You’re driving?” she asked, falling into step beside him.

“Unless you’ve got a better playlist,” he said, pulling his keys out and unlocking the door.

She didn’t answer, just gave a faint tilt of her head, the kind that suggested she might, but wasn’t about to argue. The interior of his car still carried the faint, warm scent of coffee from earlier that morning. She settled in, adjusting her bag at her feet, the leather strap winding loosely around her wrist.

They didn’t talk much on the road. Sam’s attention was split between the traffic and whatever thoughts had been dogging him since she’d first seen him in the lot. The city moved past in its slow, waking rhythm, vendors setting up stalls, steam lifting from the grates, joggers making their early rounds.

Halfway across the bridge, Sam broke the silence. “You’ve done one of these before?”

“Outreach? A few,” she said, her gaze still on the water below. “Different cities. Different… kinds of crowds.”

“Same approach?”

She allowed herself a small, almost private smile. “There is no same approach.”

Sam’s laugh was short but genuine. “Fair enough.”

The community centre sat at the edge of a neighbourhood in slow recovery, brick buildings with tired faces, murals brightening the walls in defiance of peeling paint. Inside, the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and the tang of cleaning supplies. Tables were set up with brochures, job listings, and mental health resources. A few volunteers milled about, setting out trays of pastries and fruit.

Sam was immediately greeted by a man in his sixties, his handshake firm and eyes crinkled with the warmth of familiarity. Anaya hung back, taking in the room, noting the veterans already gathered in small knots — some leaning on canes, others with wheelchairs parked close to the wall. There was laughter here, but it was thin in places, like it could give way under too much weight.

She gravitated toward a corner table where a younger veteran was flipping through pamphlets without really looking at them. “Anything in there catch your eye?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Same stuff I’ve seen before. Jobs I can’t do. Numbers I won’t call.”

“Not much of a sales pitch, is it?”

That earned her a brief smile. “Guess not.”

Before she could say more, a loud metallic bang from outside rattled the windowpanes, maybe a dumpster lid slamming shut, maybe something heavier. The room stilled.

One man near the coffee table stiffened, his cup shaking in his hand before it clattered to the floor. His breathing went quick, sharp. “No. No, no, no—”

Sam was already moving toward him, voice low, steady. “Hey. You’re here. You’re safe. With me, alright?”

Anaya’s steps were quieter but no less purposeful. She positioned herself just slightly to the man’s left, making sure she didn’t block his line of sight. “You’re hearing something that’s not here anymore,” she said, calm but certain. “But I need you to look at me. Just me. Nothing else.”

It took a few moments, long enough for the volunteers to look uneasy, long enough for the silence to stretch tight, but his eyes finally shifted toward her. His breath was still uneven, but the frantic edge had dulled.

“That’s it,” Sam murmured. “Right here with us.”

A minute later, the man’s shoulders loosened, and he gave a shaky laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Someone handed him a fresh cup of coffee, and he muttered his thanks.

Sam glanced at Anaya, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them, not quite gratitude, not quite relief, but the kind of acknowledgement only shared between people who’ve been in that space before.

The rest of the event rolled forward, the ripples from the incident slowly smoothing out. Anaya found herself talking with a group of women veterans about housing insecurity, their voices alternating between matter-of-fact and fiercely protective. Sam drifted in and out of conversations, but she noticed the way he always kept half an eye on the man from earlier.

When it was time to pack up, Sam came over carrying the last box of flyers. “You handled that well.”

“I didn’t handle it. He did. I just… made sure he had room to.”

Sam gave a short nod, like he understood exactly what she meant. And maybe he did.

Outside, the late afternoon light had softened into gold, catching on the edges of buildings and stretching their shadows long across the pavement. The hum of the city felt just a little quieter than it had that morning, as if both of them were carrying the echo of that moment with them, unspoken but heavy in the air.

The amber glow of the streetlamp cast long, soft shadows over the cracked pavement as Sam approached the familiar figure leaning against the brick wall. The man shifted, a slow smile spreading across his face as recognition sparked.

“Wilson. Took you long enough to show up.”

Sam laughed, the sound rough but genuine. “Had to finish up some business first.”

They clasped hands, grip firm, like anchors in a storm.

“Still flying?” his friend asked, nodding toward the dark silhouette of a helicopter parked nearby.

“Not lately. Seems the sky’s less forgiving these days.”

His friend sighed, eyes heavy with memories. “Riley’s still on your mind, huh?”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Every damn day. It’s like I’m carrying his weight, even when he’s not here.”

The friend nodded, exhaling slowly. “I know. Me too. That night… I still hear the explosions, see the smoke. Wish I could’ve done more.”

Sam’s voice dropped, haunted. “We were supposed to be a team. I should’ve had his back better.”

“Hey,” his friend said, slapping Sam on the shoulder. “You had him as long as you could. Sometimes that’s all you get.”

Sam stared down at his hands, clenched into fists. “Feels like I was just a spectator, watching him fall and not being able to reach out.”

“Same here,” his buddy said quietly. “I lost guys I thought I’d bring home. Hell, some days I don’t even know how to get out of bed.”

For a moment, silence wrapped around them like a shroud.

“Talk to me,” his friend said finally. “Really talk.”

Sam swallowed hard. “I keep it buried most days. But when I’m alone, it comes back — the noise, the fear. The ‘what ifs’.”

“Yeah.” His buddy’s voice cracked just a little. “I don’t think any of us ever stop hearing that.”

Sam looked up, meeting his friend’s eyes for the first time in a while. “How do you live with it?”

“Don’t know,” came the honest reply. “Some days, you don’t. You just put one foot in front of the other, try to be here for the guys still standing.”

Sam nodded slowly. “That’s why I do the VA work, to give the ones left a chance.”

“You’re a good man, Sam,” his friend said softly. “Don’t forget that.”

Sam let out a bitter laugh. “Good man with a lifetime of ghosts.”

His friend smiled sadly. “We all got ghosts. It’s what we do with them that counts.”

They stood there for a while, two men bound by pain and loyalty, sharing a space where words were the only weapons left.

From a distance, Anaya watched quietly, understanding more than she let on.

The night air was cooler now, the city’s buzz settling into a gentle murmur as Sam and his friend parted ways with a few more claps on the shoulder and promises to catch up soon. Sam pulled his jacket tighter around himself, the weight of the conversation lingering like a low hum inside his chest.

He walked back to where Anaya waited by the curb, her silhouette outlined faintly by the streetlamp’s glow. She didn’t say anything, just nodded as he approached, offering a space of quiet solidarity.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Sam started the engine, the car’s warmth blooming between them. The roads were slick from a light drizzle, reflections of streetlights and neon signs blurring in the wet pavement as they pulled away from the centre.

Anaya stared out the window, the city rushing by like a film she wasn’t part of—her fingers drumming lightly on her lap, the steady rhythm a soft counterpoint to Sam’s quiet focus on the road.

Neither spoke immediately; the silence was heavy but familiar, as if words might shatter something delicate between them. Finally, Sam cleared his throat.

“Sometimes I wonder if the sky got darker the day Riley went down,” he said, voice low and almost to himself. “Like something inside me just... went out with him.”

Anaya glanced briefly at him, catching the raw honesty in his tone. She didn’t respond, but her steady gaze said more than words could.

“I keep trying to fly,” Sam continued, eyes on the road. “Not the way I used to, but with whatever wings I have left.”

Her fingers curled around the edge of her bag, the subtle sign of a struggle beneath her composed exterior.

They drove in silence a little longer, the city’s rhythm pulsing softly through the speakers—an unspoken soundtrack to shared wounds and tentative healing.

When they pulled up outside her apartment, Sam killed the engine but didn’t turn to her immediately. Instead, he let the quiet settle, a small breath between them.

“Thanks for coming with me,” he finally said, voice rough but sincere.

Anaya gave the faintest smile, the ghost of one she didn’t often show. “You’re not as alone as you think.”

She climbed out, the night wrapping around her like a cloak as Sam watched, the distance between them both comforting and charged.

As she disappeared inside, Sam lingered a moment longer before driving off, the hum of the engine mingling with the city’s distant sounds, a quiet echo of battles fought and the fragile hope of new beginnings.

Sam sat in the driver’s seat a moment longer, the engine off, the streetlights casting pale pools of light through the windshield. The city felt distant here, with fewer cars and quieter sidewalks, as if the world was holding its breath.

He glanced at the passenger door where Anaya had just stepped out, her figure briefly illuminated before she disappeared inside. The faint scent of her lingering in the car, something earthy, a trace of jasmine, stayed with him.

He ran a hand over his face, trying to shake off the heaviness that had settled in his chest since the bar, since the outreach event. Tonight had dredged up more than just memories—it had opened wounds he’d tried to keep closed.

Pulling out his phone, Sam stared at the screen without unlocking it. The VA had sent a dozen messages today, missed appointments, paperwork reminders, but none of it felt urgent enough to break through the fog.

His mind kept returning to Anaya, how she stood beside him during the vet’s panic, how she moved with that quiet strength, the way she held herself like she was both shield and sword.

A knock on the window startled him. He looked up to see a familiar face, Marcus, one of the vets from the group session earlier, standing by the curb, eyes wary but hopeful.

Sam unlocked the door. “Marcus? You, okay?”

Marcus shrugged, voice low. “Just wanted to say thanks. For what you did back there… and for not giving up.”

Sam nodded, the weight of the day shifting, if only slightly.

“Come on,” he said, motioning him into the car. “Let’s grab a coffee. Talk.”

As they drove off into the night, the city lights blurred past, but for the first time in a long while, Sam felt less alone.

The hum of the engine was steady, a low constant beneath the quiet conversation between Sam and Marcus. The streets were nearly empty now, the city winding down as if it shared the exhaustion both men carried.

Marcus shifted in the passenger seat, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his jeans. “It’s hard,” he said finally, voice barely above the drone of tires on wet asphalt. “Some days, I don’t know why I keep showing up.”

Sam glanced sideways, catching the flicker of vulnerability behind Marcus’s tough exterior. “Because you’re still fighting. Even when it feels pointless.”

Marcus let out a bitter laugh. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just scared to stop.”

The words hit Sam like a punch—raw and honest. He knew that feeling all too well, the terror of surrender, the weight of ghosts that refused to stay buried.

“I get it,” Sam admitted. “Some nights, I’m wide-awake reliving things I wish I could forget. The things I couldn’t fix.”

Marcus nodded, swallowing hard. “You’re not alone, Sam. We’re all carrying something. Some days it’s heavier than others.”

There was a pause, the silence between them thick but not uncomfortable. Two men bound by pain, sharing the same battlefields now on different fronts.

Sam’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing enough. If I’m just putting on a show for everyone else.”

Marcus turned to look at him, eyes sharp and steady. “You’re doing more than most. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Sam gave a small, grateful smile. “Thanks, Marcus. That means more than you know.”

They pulled up outside a 24-hour café, neon lights buzzing softly in the night. Sam killed the engine and turned to Marcus. “Coffee? My treat.”

Marcus smiled, the first genuine one Sam had seen from him that day. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

As they stepped inside, the warmth and chatter of the café felt like a fragile sanctuary. For a little while, the weight of the world eased, replaced by the quiet strength of human connection.

The café’s warmth wrapped around them like a balm, a stark contrast to the cold bite of the night outside. The hum of quiet conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine filled the small space as Sam and Marcus settled into a corner booth, two worn soldiers carving out a brief respite.

Sam stirred his coffee slowly, the weight of unsaid words pressing on him. Marcus watched him, sensing the silence was a fortress rather than peace.

“You ever think about how we ended up here?” Marcus asked, voice low but steady. “Not just physically, but everything. The missions, the losses… the mess inside.”

Sam nodded, his gaze distant. “All the time. Sometimes I feel like I’m chasing ghosts I’ll never catch. Like every mission was a page I’m stuck on, unable to turn.”

Marcus leaned forward, hands wrapped around his cup. “Yeah. And the silence after, it’s louder than the war. Feels like nobody really hears what we’re saying when we finally try.”

Sam’s fingers tightened around his cup. “I try to help others, but it’s hard to admit how much I’m still broken. Feels like if I show too much, I’ll fall apart.”

“Falling apart is not the worst thing,” Marcus said quietly. “Maybe it’s the only way we start putting ourselves back together.”

For a moment, Sam let the vulnerability settle, the raw truth shared between two men who’d seen too much yet carried on.

Outside, the night deepened, but inside that small café, two fragments of a shattered past found a flicker of understanding, a rare, fragile connection that didn’t demand fixing, only presence.

Anaya paused at the railing, the night breeze cool against her skin, the dark water of the Potomac flowing endlessly beneath her. She breathed in deep, the city’s distant hum mingling with the steady pulse of her own heartbeat.

Inside her, the day’s moments settled, Sam’s worn smile, the vets’ raw stories, the quiet spaces between words where pain and hope tangled.

Some memories don’t surface until they’re ready. But when they do, they don’t knock.

They break the door down.

Chapter Text

2007, Somewhere in Russia

The room smelled of cold iron and sterile antiseptic. A faint, metallic mist clung to the air, settling deep in the back of the throat until it left the taste of rust on the tongue. The Red Room training hall was never truly quiet; somewhere beyond the concrete walls, the constant hum of machinery merged with the muffled cadence of boots on tile, filling the space like a slow, relentless pulse.

She stood in the centre of the mat, bare feet planted on worn canvas, shoulders squared, chin level. Sweat traced a slow, deliberate path down her temple, catching the light from the harsh fluorescents above. Anaya Kapoor did not blink.

Around her, four other trainees circled in a predator’s slow prowl, their steps soft but deliberate, the shuffle of movement almost drowned out by the sound of measured breathing. No one spoke. Speaking wasted breath, and breath was precious here. Precious when the air was about to be stolen from your lungs.

The handler, a tall, gaunt man with frost in his hair and a voice like cracked glass, raised one hand. The gesture was minimal, almost bored, but in this place, it was the drumbeat before the charge. His other hand closed around the metal stopwatch that hung from his neck, thumb coiled and ready.

Then it began.

The first girl lunged for Anaya’s throat, aiming to end it in a single movement. Anaya shifted sideways with a precision that looked effortless but was born from years of drilling. Her fingers hooked around the girl’s wrist and twisted until the air split with the wet pop of a dislocated joint. The girl dropped, silent but for the sharp hiss of breath forced between clenched teeth.

No pause. No hesitation.

The second came in from behind, taller, heavier. Anaya pivoted sharply, ducking low as her leg swept out, cutting the opponent’s foundation. Her elbow slammed into his sternum before his back could hit the mat, driving the air from his lungs in a ragged grunt.

The third avoided a direct charge. She feinted left, then struck hard for Anaya’s ribs. The blow landed with a dull, bone-deep thud, pain sparking white-hot, but Anaya didn’t stumble. Pain was nothing more than data. She caught the girl’s arm, turned her momentum, and sent her skull-first into the padded wall with a crack.

Three down.

The fourth was different. Older. Smarter. Her steps were patient, deliberate, forcing Anaya to match her pace. Their shadows shifted against the far wall. The older girl moved first, but her shoulder’s twitch betrayed her pivot. Anaya read it in a heartbeat, caught her mid-swing, and drove her knee into the girl’s abdomen hard enough to fold her in half. She dropped without a sound.

Thirty-nine seconds.

The handler’s thumb clicked the stopwatch shut. His face remained unreadable, but his voice carried like a blade.
“Again.”

The assistants along the wall hauled the trainees upright. One clutched her arm, another spat blood onto the canvas, but all returned to position without question. Pain was the rule here. Weakness was a sin, and sins were punished in ways that made death look merciful.

This time, they came together.

Hands clawed for her wrists, legs hooked for her ankles, the fight a knot of motion and survival. Her movements were precise, efficient. Every strike was a calculated injury, designed to take away mobility without ending the fight outright. A corpse could not teach you, but a breathing, broken opponent could teach you never to be slow again.

Still, there was something, so faint most would miss it. The smallest hesitation before crushing a windpipe. The flicker of her eyes toward the security glass in the corner, the place where she knew eyes watched from the shadows.

The man behind the glass noticed. They always did.

When it ended, the stopwatch clicked again. Fifty-two seconds. Too long. The handler’s gaze thinned.

“You grow tired,” he said, his tone flat as slate. “Tired does not survive.”

Anaya straightened. She could taste blood, metallic and sharp, at the back of her throat. She didn’t speak, but for a heartbeat she held his gaze. That stubborn ember in her eyes, the one they had tried to extinguish with years of obedience, flared, if only for him to see.

The corner of his mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile, before he turned away, already calling for the weapons drill.

The next was worse.

Knives. Short, dull-edged, meant for bruising more than cutting, though a slip could still open skin. The trainees were armed alike. The walls began to close in with a mechanical groan, shrinking the fighting space. Less room to move meant less room to breathe.

She adapted. She always adapted.

The first strike scored a shallow line along her forearm, the sting sharp but meaningless. She ignored it, sliding inside her opponent’s guard to bring the hilt of her knife down against the base of their skull. One down.

Another caught her in the side, a glancing slice, and she repaid it with a slash across the knuckles. The blade fell from her opponent’s grasp, clattering against the floor. She didn’t bother picking it up. One knife was faster.

By the end, she was marked in three places, breath tight but steady. Her last opponent lay groaning on the mat. The handler’s stopwatch clicked for the third time.

“Acceptable,” he said, which in the Red Room passed for praise.

She left with the others, her bare feet whispering against the cold floor as they filed into the locker room. She washed quickly in the sink, the water running pink before swirling away. A fresh black uniform waited for her, loose enough for speed, tight enough to remind her she belonged to them.

The assistants began moving the others out. That was when the handler appeared again in the doorway, his gaze sweeping until it found her.

“Stay.”

The door closed behind the others. He stepped forward, hands still clasped behind his back.

“You have a mission.”

No file was offered. There never was. The words would be spoken, memorised, and left to vanish into silence. Her targets were already dead. They simply had not been told yet.

This time, his voice held something colder.

“Do not be seen. Do not be known.”

She nodded once. She didn’t need to know the truth to pull the trigger.

The night sky was a bruised canvas, smeared with low-hanging clouds that swallowed the stars. Anaya moved with a quiet confidence, the weight of the mission folding into every step she took. The Red Room’s black uniform clung to her lithe frame, seamless and unyielding. Her breath was steady, measured, everything about her said control.

She was young but trained to act older. Too young to understand the cracks forming beneath her discipline, but old enough to carry the burden.

The target was in sight. A small compound, its perimeter guarded by shadows and whispered threats. The kind of place where lives were taken and lost without ceremony. Her orders were simple, observe, eliminate, disappear. No questions, no hesitation.

The streets were quiet, the kind of silence that didn’t promise peace but warned of waiting dangers. Anaya moved through the shadows, a ghost among ghosts, every sense sharp beneath the cold mask she wore.

Her mind flicked briefly to the hours spent on the mats, the knives, the broken bodies left behind in training. The Red Room taught her that nothing mattered but the mission and survival. But survival was starting to feel different.

As Anaya crossed the threshold into the compound, the night air grew colder, heavier, as if the darkness itself was watching. The sharp scent of wet earth mingled with smoke curling faintly from a distant fire. Somewhere beyond the chain-link fence, crickets chirped uncertainly, their song trembling beneath an unnatural stillness.

Then a subtle shift, a brittle snap of a twig underfoot, sharp enough to cut through the quiet. A breath, too loud, caught and held. A rhythm emerged behind her footsteps, steady, deliberate. Someone was coming.

Her body tensed instantly, every nerve coiling tight beneath her skin. There was no time for fear, only focus, the years of training and conditioning surged to the surface like a wave.

She spun around, muscles burning with adrenaline. Standing in the shadowed path was a figure, tall and imposing. His presence sucked the air from the space between them. The faint glint of metal caught the moonlight on his forearm, and the cold, unreadable mask in his eyes chilled her deeper than the night.

It was him. The Winter Soldier.

The night was thick around them, swallowing sounds and swallowing light. Every breath Anaya drew burned cold in her lungs, sharp and ragged. Her legs trembled, muscles screaming with the effort it took to stay on her feet. She’d faced countless drills, brutal training, relentless punishment, but nothing prepared her for this raw, merciless fight.

The Winter Soldier moved like a ghost, silent but lethal, every movement a precise calculation honed through years of killing on command. His metal arm gleamed briefly in the moonlight, a cold weapon of war that swung down with brutal force.

Anaya ducked, the air whistling just inches from her hair as his fist smashed the ground where she had stood. Dirt and debris sprayed up, stinging her eyes. She scrambled back, blood slick on her palms from a shallow cut across her knuckles.

Pain bloomed in her ribs, white-hot and relentless. A slash of the Winter Soldier’s blade had torn through her uniform, slicing raw skin beneath. She swallowed a cry and pressed her hand against the wound, tasting copper on her tongue.

There was no room for mercy here. Only survival.

Anaya lunged forward, desperate, throwing every ounce of strength she had into a blow aimed at the metal arm. Her fingers caught the edge of the cold steel, and she pulled herself closer, using the momentum to throw the Winter Soldier off balance.

But he recovered swiftly, catching her wrist in a vice grip that crushed bone and sent sharp pain shooting through her arm. His other hand pulled a pistol from its holster with brutal speed.

The flash was blinding. A crack shattered the night.

The bullet tore into her thigh, searing fire exploding beneath her skin. She crumpled to one knee, the impact knocking the air from her lungs in a cruel, punishing gasp. Her vision blurred, edges darkening as waves of nausea rolled through her.

Her mind screamed for her to get up, to fight, but the blood flowing hot and fast from the wound whispered a terrifying truth, she was breaking.

The Winter Soldier advanced, relentless, his face an unreadable mask of duty.

Anaya’s hands scraped the dirt as she crawled backward, her breaths shallow and ragged. Every inch of her ached, muscles trembling with exhaustion. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, thick and bitter.

Her knees pressed into the rough concrete, jagged pebbles biting into skin already raw from sweat and blood. The acrid scent of gunpowder hung heavy, mixing with the copper tang of fresh blood that coated her trembling hands. Each breath she took was ragged and shallow, burning like fire in her cracked throat. The world around her spun, a blur of dust motes dancing in the harsh sunlight, the distant shouts fading into a hollow silence that pressed down on her chest like a stone.

Her skin was cold where the blood seeped through the ragged tears in her clothes, sticky warmth pooling beneath her. The sharp sting of the bullet wounds throbbed with every heartbeat; searing pain mixed with a numbness that spread like frostbite through her limbs. The metallic taste of blood was thick on her tongue, bitter and unforgiving.

She lifted her eyes, swollen and red-rimmed, to meet the shadowed gaze of the man standing over her. The gun in his hand trembled slightly, betraying the calm his trained exterior tried to hold. In that moment, beneath the harsh glare of the sun, her raw, shattered plea cut through the silence.

“Please… don’t,” she whispered, voice cracking like dry branches breaking in a storm. “I’m nothing. I’m just a nobody. I’m tired. I don’t want to die.” Her voice was ragged, but she clung to the words as though they were a lifeline thrown into a bottomless sea. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please, just…please.”

Her fingers, weak and shaking, reached out, grasping at the air as if she could somehow catch hold of mercy itself. “I won’t fight anymore. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t…don’t kill me.”

A sob wracked her body, tears streaming down dust-streaked cheeks, mingling with the grime and sweat of years she hadn’t dared to count. The girl who had once been a weapon, trained to kill without hesitation, now lay exposed, pleading like a frightened child, utterly stripped of all defences.

The man’s breath hitched. His eyes, usually so cold and unyielding, flickered with something fractured, something almost human. The bullet-riddled armour of his mission cracked. He lowered the gun just slightly, fingers curling around the trigger but not squeezing.

His voice was low, nearly lost beneath the heat of the afternoon air. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “I don’t want this.”

Something inside him shattered.

Slowly, carefully, he knelt down beside her, ignoring the aching pain that pulsed through her body. His hands, large, steady, trembling, moved with a gentleness that seemed impossible after all the destruction they had wrought. He tore a strip from his own uniform, hands fumbling as he pressed it to the worst of her wounds, a crude bandage soaked in warmth and desperation.

Her eyelids fluttered, fighting to stay open as the dizziness pulled her under. The taste of blood thickened in her mouth, mixing with the faintest flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope.

He hoisted her carefully into his arms, the weight of her broken body a strange kind of burden, both physical and emotional. Every step away from the battlefield was heavy, as if he carried not just her fragile form but the crushing guilt of failure.

Behind him, the distant sound of orders barked, boots pounding on cracked pavement, but in this suspended moment, there was only the ragged rhythm of her laboured breathing against his chest.

Her fingers twitched weakly, curling around his shirt as if to anchor herself to the only lifeline left. She murmured something incoherent, a fragile plea slipping through cracked lips.

He whispered back, though the words felt hollow even to himself. “You’ll be safe now.”

Carrying her to a forgotten corner, a place no one would look, he laid her down gently against the cold stone, the rough texture biting at her bruised skin. The sun dipped lower, shadows creeping over them as he hesitated, torn between the mission he had failed and the flicker of mercy that had saved a life.

His jaw clenched, pain flickering across his eyes. The Winter Soldier was a ghost bound by orders, but in this moment, he was something else, a fractured man who could not kill a child pleading for mercy.

He stood, his breath steadying as he vanished into the encroaching dusk, leaving behind the girl whose life he could not end.

***   

The dimly lit chamber was silent except for the steady hum of the machinery that lined the walls. Shadows pooled in the corners, thick and impenetrable, swallowing the faint glow of flickering screens and the occasional spark from exposed wires. The air smelled of cold metal and something sharper, antiseptic mixed with the faintest trace of burnt oil. It clung to the skin and made the breath taste sterile and thin.

The Soldier sat restrained in the chair once again, leather straps biting into his wrists and chest, the cold steel frame pressing uncomfortably into his back. His fingers twitched, the skin pale and stretched tight over knuckles that clenched and unclenched in silent frustration. The chair had become a cage, both physical and mental, holding him prisoner to memories that refused to fade and orders that chilled his soul.

The faint echo of footsteps approached, slow and deliberate, breaking the thick silence. A tall figure in a black uniform stepped into the dim light, face obscured beneath the shadow of a cap. The man carried an air of cold authority, the kind that demanded obedience without question. His eyes, sharp and unforgiving, fixed on the soldier with a mix of disdain and calculation.

"You failed the mission," the man said, voice low and precise, each word falling like a hammer blow.

The soldier said nothing, the weight of the accusation pressing down harder than any physical restraint. His mind flickered back to the girl, the one he was supposed to eliminate, the pleading in her eyes, the break in her gaze when she begged for mercy. A crack had formed in the ice around his heart, and despite every conditioning and command, he had hesitated. He had let her live.

The officer took a step closer, the faint scrape of polished boots against the floor echoing in the chamber. "Failure is unacceptable. You know the consequences."

The soldier’s jaw clenched, his breath shallow. He remembered the cold efficiency of Hydra, the relentless training that had shaped him into the weapon they wanted. Mercy was a flaw. Weakness. Punishment was inevitable.

The man reached into his pocket, pulling out a small device. It clicked sharply as he activated it, and a low, buzzing sound filled the room. The Soldier’s muscles tensed involuntarily, the restraints tightening just enough to remind him he had no escape.

"You will be recalibrated," the officer said without emotion. "Your obedience will be absolute."

The buzzing grew louder, a mechanical murmur that crawled beneath the soldier’s skin, threading through his nerves and sinking deep into his bones. Pain blossomed, sharp and burning, but he fought to keep his eyes open, to hold onto the fragments of himself that remained untouched.

Memories flashed behind his eyelids, the girl’s whispered pleas, the warmth of her blood soaking into his hands as he carried her away from the battlefield, the cold emptiness of this chamber where compassion was a crime.

The buzzing ceased suddenly, leaving a ringing silence that pressed into his ears. The officer stepped back, satisfied, and the restraints slackened just enough for the soldier to slump forward, sweat slick against his skin.

"You will not fail again," the man warned. "You are a weapon. Nothing more."

"You did what you were told to do," the officer corrected sharply. "But mercy has no place here."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. He closed his eyes, the taste of iron on his tongue and the ghost of a warmth he had once dared to give another flickering like a dying ember.

Outside the chamber, the world moved on, indifferent to the man trapped inside, wrestling with the ghosts of a mercy that nearly broke him.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the labyrinthine corridors of Hydra’s shadowed stronghold, a storm brewed. The operatives scrambled through databases, combed through training logs and mission reports, scanning every corner of the Red Room and beyond. Anaya Kapoor, the girl who should have been contained, neutralised, erased, was nowhere to be found. No record, no trace, not in the training registers or the field reports. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.

Whispers echoed through the halls: no loose ends tolerated; no failures left to fester. Yet this one had slipped through the cracks, a ghost without a body. The thought sent ripples of anger and confusion through the ranks.

They scoured the facility again, with harsher protocols, deeper scans, more invasive measures. Still nothing. The consensus settled hard and cold, Anaya Kapoor was dead. Eliminated or lost in the field. Either way, she was gone, a variable erased.

Back in his chair, the soldier could hear the distant rumble of the search, but it might as well have been worlds away. His body still burned with the aftershocks of the recalibration, muscles twitching involuntarily, nerves raw and humming. The physical punishment was nothing compared to the invisible chains tightening inside his mind.

He was a weapon, nothing more, and yet the image of the girl’s tear-streaked face haunted him relentlessly. Mercy had been his undoing. And Hydra’s verdict was clear; the price of weakness was death.

Chapter Text

The dream slipped away like smoke, but its edges lingered, sharp and unyielding.

She woke gasping, breath ragged and uneven, heart hammering like distant boots across frozen ground. The room was dark and cold. The thin sheets tangled around her limbs, barely shielding skin chilled by the night’s quiet weight. A metallic tang clung stubbornly at the back of her throat; iron, blood, rust, something real but unnamed. She swallowed hard, tasting the ghost of it as if it were still inside her.

Her fingers twitched with tremors as she reached blindly for the edge of the mattress. Her nails scraped against rough wood beneath, the sound faint but sharp in the silence. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, flickering and shifting in ways her tired mind could not trust. Her muscles coiled beneath the thin fabric, nerves thrumming with a tension that had settled deep into her bones over nights like this, nights filled with restless echoes.

She had not truly closed her eyes in days. The fragments of the dream haunted her, shards of something she could not grasp. There was the gleam of cold steel, a metal arm moving in the darkness, the crunch of gravel beneath heavy boots. Blood, warm, sticky, flowing without a clear source or reason.

Her own voice, cracked and pleading, hovered on the edges of the nightmare, a broken echo that made her skin crawl.

The silence in her apartment was thick, pressing in on her chest with weight. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant car passing outside, sounded like a threat. She forced herself to breathe slowly, carefully, counting each inhale, each exhale, to anchor herself to the here and now.

The room felt too large. Too empty. Like it was watching.

She sat up slowly, limbs stiff and shaking. Her feet hit the floor, cold biting through thin socks. She moved with deliberate caution, fingers curling tightly into fists to steady the shaking. Crossing the room to the window, she pressed a hand against the glass, the cool surface slick with condensation. Outside, the streetlights blurred into soft orbs of light, distant, unfocused, like memories out of reach.

A sudden noise, a faint thud, a door closing somewhere in the building, made her flinch. Her heart leapt, hammering fiercely against her ribs. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, muscles tightening like a spring, but the room was empty. Just the quiet hum of the city settling into the night.

She backed away from the window with care, moving like someone stepping over invisible traps. The door to her apartment was locked three times, the chain latched with a sharp snap. She checked it again, fingertips brushing the cold metal as if the lock could somehow hold back the ghosts that hovered at the edges of her mind. Her hands were steadier now, but her eyes betrayed the wariness simmering just beneath her calm.

In the kitchen, she filled the kettle with water, a routine that brought a small comfort against the storm inside her. The whistle pierced the quiet, a brief, sharp sound that settled something frayed and taut inside her chest. The warmth of the ceramic mug in her hands steadied her trembling fingers. She sipped slowly, the bitter taste of coffee cutting through the metallic aftertaste that clung stubbornly to her tongue.

She leaned against the window again, pressing her forehead to the glass, breathing shallow and uneven. The sounds of the night came through, distant traffic, footsteps on wet pavement, but beneath them, she caught something else. A flicker. A scent.

Metal. Blood. Something burning, sharp and sudden.

It vanished almost as quickly as it came, but it twisted her stomach and set her nerves alight.

Her reflection startled her. The woman who stared back was pale, with dark circles shadowing wide eyes rimmed red from sleepless nights. Her jaw trembled, lips pressed tight, trying to hold the unnamed fear at bay.

She lifted trembling fingers and brushed them over her wrist, tracing faint scars hidden beneath the fabric. They were pale, almost invisible now, but the skin beneath pulsed with a pain she could not place.

Turning away from the window, her footsteps hesitant and measured, her mind caught on a sudden flash, the glint of cold steel, a looming shape in darkness. She blinked hard, chasing the memory away before it could form.

The images were shards, jagged fragments of something broken and terrifying.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, and suddenly the room felt vast and empty, swallowing her whole. She crossed back to the bedroom, every step weighed down by exhaustion and dread. Her hands paused at the doorframe, fingers grazing chipped paint before she closed the door behind her with a soft click.

She leaned back against the wood, heart pounding fiercely, breath shallow and quick. The silence wrapped around her, thick and suffocating.

The nightmare was not over.

She sank slowly to the floor, knees drawn tight to her chest, arms wrapping around herself as though she could shield the pieces of herself left exposed. Her skin prickled, the ghost of pain crawling beneath her ribs. Every heartbeat was a dull hammer pressing against her chest.

The past was a weight she bore without understanding. A puzzle with missing pieces and jagged edges.

Her fingers traced the faint scars concealed beneath her sleeves, each one a secret she had never learned to name.

Sleep was a stranger.

The nights stretched endlessly ahead, haunted, fractured, broken.

Her phone vibrated suddenly against the wooden floor, startling her. The screen glowed with an unknown number.

She let it ring out, the unanswered tone a quiet defiance against the world that never stopped reaching for her.

Drawing the blinds tighter, she sealed out the restless city lights. Outside, distant voices whispered on the wind, but inside the silence was absolute. She was alone with fragments that refused to fade.

Her breath was barely a whisper; words lost even to herself.

“I’m still here.”

She wrapped her arms tighter, willing the tremors to stop, the fear to fade.

The cold was still with her.

The metal arm still reached out.

The night was far from over.

The room felt too silent now, as if the darkness was holding its breath. Anaya’s eyes darted across the space, catching the faintest movement of dust motes caught in the weak shaft of streetlight filtering through the blinds. They floated like tiny spectres, caught between worlds, and for a moment she wondered if she too was caught there, neither fully present nor fully lost.

She rubbed her arms, the cool air prickling her skin, raising goosebumps that made her shiver despite herself. The cold was always there. It was the undercurrent to everything she felt but could never name. She pressed her palms to her temples, fingers trembling as they traced invisible patterns, trying to soothe the storm inside her head.

Her breath hitched when a sudden noise came from the radiator, a soft pop, a faint hiss of expanding metal. It was a small sound, but it made her flinch, and her heart lurched into her throat. The rational part of her mind knew it was nothing, the old building settling in the night, yet her body screamed warnings she did not want to listen to.

The ache behind her eyes grew heavier. She blinked rapidly, willing away the spots of darkness that flared at the edge of her vision. She had to keep focus. To stay grounded. To stop the spiralling that wanted to swallow her whole.

Her hands trembled as she reached into the pocket of her worn jacket hanging by the door. She pulled out a small silver locket, the cool metal smooth against her palm. She did not open it. She never opened it. It was a weight she carried, a reminder of something lost but never named.

The city outside breathed quietly, distant and indifferent. Somewhere, a siren wailed, faint and sorrowful. She pictured the dark streets, empty except for shadows and ghosts. The cold air smelled of rain and gasoline and something old and forgotten.

Her thoughts scrambled back to the fragments, a glint of metal, a voice screaming in the snow, blood warm and thick on her skin. She wanted to run from them, to bury them beneath layers of distraction and denial, but they always found a way back.

The moments between flashes stretched longer, but the silence was never complete. Sometimes a scent would catch her, the sharp copper tang of blood, the oily burn of gunpowder, the sterile sting of antiseptic, and her breath would catch in her throat, chest tightening as if squeezed by invisible hands.

She tried to fight the shadows in her mind, but they pressed closer every day. Memories that were not memories, feelings without source or explanation, the constant sense of danger that lurked just beyond the edges of sight.

In the early hours before dawn, she often sat by the window, watching the first pale light creep over the horizon. It was her small ritual of hope that light would bring clarity, that it would wash away the night’s darkness. But the light never came fast enough. The shadows clung stubbornly, and the cold refused to leave.

Her body was exhausted, but sleep was a stranger. The nights stretched on endlessly, filled with fractured dreams and restless terror. Her mind circled endlessly, replaying scenes she could not fully recall but that left her shaking.

She sometimes imagined herself walking through endless snow, the crunch of footsteps behind her, the weight of something cold and unyielding at her side. A presence she could not name but could never escape.

Her fingers curled tightly into fists, nails biting into skin. She hated the weakness she felt, the way her body betrayed her with tremors and the sharp pangs of panic that tightened her chest. She hated that she was alone with these ghosts, forced to carry the burden without anyone who could understand.

Her phone vibrated again, the screen lighting up with a name she barely recognized. She let it go to voicemail, her fingers hesitating over the keypad before slipping away. Connections felt dangerous, fragile. She was afraid of being seen. Afraid of being known.

She moved through her apartment like a ghost, tracing careful paths that avoided mirrors and open spaces. She listened for sounds behind doors, for steps in the hallway, for signs that someone, or something, was watching.

Her reflection was a stranger, tired eyes, a jaw set hard against despair, skin paler than it had been months ago. She wanted to reach out, to shake the woman who looked back at her, to tell her it would be okay, but the words stuck in her throat.

Her thoughts fractured and scattered like glass shattered on cold concrete. Pieces of the past that might have been memories, might have been nightmares, danced just beyond her grasp.

The ache in her chest deepened. She pressed her palms flat against it, as if she could hold the pain at bay.

The night was still far from over. The metal arm still reached from the shadows, a cold phantom that haunted her every step.

And she was left with the fragments, broken shards of a life she had lost, a self she could not fully claim, and the growing terror that the past was not done with her yet.

The VA building hummed quietly, a dull drone that clung to every inch of the narrow corridors like a weight. The faint morning light struggled through the blinds, slashing the walls with thin, sharp lines of gold and shadow. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper, sterile but somehow heavy, as if soaked with years of unsaid stories and buried pain. Posters on the walls, faded and curling, carried messages of hope and strength, but the words felt hollow here, whispers against the persistent ache.

Anaya Kapoor moved through the hallway with a careful precision, every step measured and cautious. Her shoulders were rigid, pulled back just enough to hold herself upright but not enough to fool anyone watching closely. Her eyes flicked sideways like a hawk’s, sharp and restless, darting to every noise, every movement, every shadow that played tricks against the cracked walls. Each breath she took was shallow and uneven, a silent battle waged with the simple act of breathing.

She had not slept in almost a week. The sleepless nights were etched on her face, dark bruises under her eyes that the soft morning light only made more visible. Her limbs trembled beneath the thin fabric of her clothes, each muscle taut like a wire stretched to its breaking point. Her pale skin bore a faint flush, a fragile flicker of warmth betraying the exhaustion that pulled her down. Her fingers twitched in restless spasms, curling into loose fists as she reached the door to the counselling suite.

The door creaked softly as she pushed it open, breaking the stillness with a fragile sound. Sam Wilson looked up from the worn chair beside the window. His calm presence filled the room with steady strength, a quiet grace that wrapped around her like a protective shield. The crease in his brow softened as he took in her appearance, but his eyes held a steady, watchful concern, like he saw past her defences, straight to the raw, trembling core beneath.

The room was too still.

Anaya sat on the far end of the room, her knees drawn up under her, arms wound around herself like she was holding the pieces of her body in place. She had not moved in a long time, not really. The only sign of life was the faint tremor running through her fingers, a pulse she could not suppress.

Sam had been sitting opposite her for what felt like hours, though neither of them had been counting. He did not fill the silence. He let it stretch between them, the kind of silence that could either settle or snap.

Her gaze flicked to the doorway, then the window, then back to him. Each movement was sharp, defensive, like a bird expecting the shadow of a predator.

“You didn’t have to come,” she said finally. Her voice was hoarse, like it had been dragged across gravel.

“I know.”

She looked at him for a moment too long, as if trying to decide if he meant it, then dropped her eyes to her hands. Her fingernails dug into her sleeves until the fabric dented.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” The word came too fast, too loud, and she winced at herself. She exhaled slowly, pressing her lips together. “I don’t want you to leave. I just… I don’t know what to do with you here.”

“I’m just here,” he said, steady as stone.

Her mouth twisted like she wanted to laugh but the sound would not come. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is.”

Her eyes slid away again, scanning the corners of the room. The shadows there seemed to pull her focus like magnets. “Nothing’s simple. Not now. Not anymore.”

She pulled her knees tighter. “I haven’t slept in…” She trailed off, frowning as if she was trying to remember the number. “A week? No. More than that. Feels like months. I lie down and it’s worse. Everything gets louder when I close my eyes.”

“Louder?”

She nodded, jaw tight. “The sounds. The steps. The voices. They’re quiet when I’m moving, but when I stop, it’s like they’re all leaning in to whisper at once.”

Sam’s eyes softened but he didn’t interrupt.

Her voice thinned. “They follow me from room to room. I look and nothing’s there, but I can feel it anyway. Like air moving just behind me.”

She pushed herself upright suddenly, restless energy snapping through her. She crossed to the other side of the room, then back again, her arms crossed so tightly she might bruise herself.

“I keep thinking I smell smoke,” she said. “Sometimes I hear metal scraping. Sometimes it’s my name in the walls. Sometimes it’s nothing. But it feels like everything.”

She stopped in front of him, eyes sharp and wet. “Do you know what that does to a person?”

He shook his head slightly, not because he didn’t believe her, but because he didn’t have an answer that would not be a lie.

“You don’t,” she said, and the words came harder now, faster. “You can’t. I see things that aren’t there and hear things that shouldn’t be real, and they’re here right now. Always here. They don’t go away. I close my eyes and they’re closer. I keep telling myself they’re not real, but they’re so loud, Sam.”

She dropped onto the couch again, elbows on her knees, fingers pressed into her temples. Her breath hitched. “It’s like my head is a hallway full of footsteps. Always following. Always catching up. I keep turning around but there’s nothing there and that’s worse because I know something is.”

Her voice pitched higher without warning. “And I’m tired. God, I am so tired. You don’t know what it’s like to go days without closing your eyes because you’re afraid of what’s waiting when you do. My body’s shaking even when I’m still, my skin feels wrong, like it’s not mine. I keep thinking I hear metal… smell blood… feel cold even when I’m burning.”

Her breathing sped. She stood again, unable to keep still. She took a step toward the door and stopped, fists clenched until her knuckles whitened.

“They told me to be strong,” she said. “Always strong. Smile, straighten your shoulders, keep going. But every time I keep going, I lose another piece of myself, and no one notices because I’m still breathing, and they think that means I’m fine.”

Her voice caught on the last word, and she laughed, not with humour but something cracked. “Fine. I’ve been pretending so long I almost convinced myself. But I’m not fine. I’m breaking in ways I can’t even name. I can’t think without hearing them. I can’t sleep without seeing them. I can’t breathe without feeling like I’m choking on smoke that isn’t there.”

Sam shifted slightly, but before he could speak, she cut him off, almost pleading. “And you… you sit there, and you say I’m not alone, that I have a choice, that I’m human. But what does that even mean when I feel like my head’s not my own anymore? When I can’t tell what’s real and what’s memory and what’s something else entirely?”

Her hands tangled in her hair, pulling until strands slipped free. “I can’t keep this up, Sam. I can’t keep… walking into rooms and wondering which corner they’re hiding in. Which shadow is about to move. I keep thinking I hear my name in the walls. Sometimes I hear it when I’m talking to someone else. Do you know what that does to a person? Do you?”

She moved closer, her eyes glassy and fierce. “I don’t need you to fix it. I don’t think it can be fixed. I just… I need you to know that I’m scared out of my mind. That I’m losing. That maybe I’ve already lost and I’m just the only one who realizes it.”

Sam’s hands twitched against his knees, an instinct to reach for her, but he stayed still.

Her voice softened but shook. “Don’t tell me it’s going to be okay. Don’t you dare. I’ve heard that before and it’s a lie. It’s not okay, and it’s not going to be, and I can’t… I can’t live inside that lie anymore.”

She pressed her hands to her mouth as if she could hold the sound in, but it was too late. Her shoulders trembled.

Sam rose slowly, no sudden moves, and came closer.

She didn’t step back.

Her breath stuttered. “I’m so tired, Sam. I don’t want to fight anymore.”

This time, he reached for her.

His hand hovered for a second before it touched her arm.

Not a grip, just the warm weight of his palm resting there, steady.

Anaya’s first instinct was to flinch.

The movement flickered through her shoulders, barely noticeable, but he caught it. He didn’t pull away.

Her eyes darted to his, searching, and in that moment the fight inside her shifted from lashing out to holding herself together.

“I can’t—” Her voice cracked, the rest of the sentence collapsing before it could leave her.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

The words were low, quiet enough that she could almost pretend she’d imagined them.

Her breathing came too fast. The rhythm was wrong, uneven, like every inhale scraped her throat raw. She looked past him to the wall, to the shadows in the corner. “They’re still here,” she whispered.

He didn’t look. “I know.”

“You don’t see them.”

“I see you.”

That made her blink, a small pause, like the words had cut through the noise for half a heartbeat. She shook her head anyway, a sharp, jerking motion. “That’s not enough. You think it is, but it’s not. You can’t keep me from—” She broke off again, mouth tightening. “From losing it.”

He said nothing, and the silence pressed against her, but not in the way that frightened her. It was heavy, yes, but warm in the middle, like the air before rain.

“I’m not asking you to be fixed,” he said after a long moment. “I’m just asking you to stay right here for now.”

Her lips parted, but she didn’t answer.

She felt the heat of his hand through the thin fabric of her sleeve, the quiet weight of it anchoring her in a way that startled her. It was nothing dramatic, no desperate clutch, no whispered promise, but it felt like something she hadn’t realized she was starving for.

Her body leaned forward a fraction, the smallest surrender, and his hand slid to her shoulder. Still gentle. Still patient.

“You’ve been carrying this alone for too long,” he said.

Her laugh was a ghost of sound. “What would you know about that?”

“More than you think.”

Her gaze flickered to him, sharper now, almost challenging, but whatever she saw in his face made her look away again. The muscles in her jaw worked, but no words came.

He shifted his stance, I so he was closer, his presence filling the narrow space between them. Not crowding her, just there.

She swallowed hard. “If I stop moving, they’ll catch me.”

“Then I’ll move with you.”

Something twisted in her chest. She hated how those words felt, hated that they made her want to believe him.

“I don’t want to need anyone,” she whispered.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her eyes stung again. She blinked fast, but the tears didn’t obey.

The noise in her head hadn’t gone away. The shadows were still there, whispering, waiting. But his voice cut through them, low and steady, not to silence them but to make space for something else alongside them.

Her knees buckled without warning, a slow collapse rather than a fall. He caught her before she could fold in on herself, his arms solid around her.

She didn’t hug him back. Not at first. She just stood there, her forehead against his collarbone, her breath shaking.

“I hate this,” she muttered, the words muffled against him.

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this.”

“I already do.”

Her hands hovered in the space between them, then finally, reluctantly, they found his shirt. She gripped it tight, like she was holding on to the idea that she was still here, still real.

The sound she made wasn’t quite a sob, but it was close.

His thumb moved absently against her back, not soothing so much as reminding her he was still there. She didn’t realize until then how badly she had needed that reminder.

Minutes passed. The room stayed the same. The shadows didn’t leave. But her breathing slowed, inch by inch, until it no longer felt like she was swallowing glass.

When she finally pulled back, her face was pale, her eyes red, but there was a strange steadiness in her posture, as if something had anchored in the middle of the wreckage.

She looked at him, really looked, and for a moment the paranoia loosened its grip enough for her to notice the warmth in his gaze.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence between them had changed.

***

The city was quiet at this hour, the streets just beginning to stir under a pale, hesitant sky. Sam’s breath came steady in measured bursts, each exhale forming a thin cloud that dissolved quickly in the cold morning air. His feet struck the pavement with rhythmic precision, a familiar cadence that let his body move before his mind did.

The chill pressed sharp against his skin, biting at the edges of his gloves and slipping beneath his jacket collar. It was the kind of cold that woke you up, raw and honest, impossible to ignore. Sam welcomed it. It grounded him, kept him tethered to the present as his thoughts tangled elsewhere.

He ran a route he knew well, one that wound past shuttered shops and empty intersections, beneath streetlights that flickered and hummed. The world felt stripped down to essentials here: the steady thump of his heartbeat, the whisper of his breath, the crunch of worn sneakers against cracked concrete.

But his mind wasn’t as still as the city around him. It kept drifting back to yesterday, to Anaya, to the fragile edge she’d been teetering on when he found her. The way she’d looked when she’d stepped into the room, the tightness in her jaw, the darting of her eyes to the corners as if shadows lurked just out of sight. He could still hear the tremor in her voice, that brittle edge that cracked through the silence.

He told himself he was just being professional, that this was part of the job, to be patient with those who carried invisible wounds. But the truth was more complicated. Watching someone unravel like that wasn’t something he was used to. It wasn’t just difficult to witness, it was raw, unsettling. It made him want to fix things, even when he knew some things couldn’t be fixed with words or gestures.

His breath found rhythm again, long and steady, but the weight of her confession lingered. She’d talked about footsteps, endless, chasing, never ceasing, like a hallway full of ghosts he couldn’t see but could feel pressing close. He knew enough about trauma to understand that some fears were impossible to outrun. Some battles fought inside the mind were invisible to everyone, but the person caught in the storm.

And she had been so tired. God, so tired. That exhaustion had seeped into her skin; into the way she moved and spoke. It wasn’t just physical; it was something deeper, a kind of bone-deep weariness that swallowed light and hope whole.

Sam’s thoughts looped again to the moment she’d pressed her hands against his shirt, holding on like she was afraid of losing herself completely. That grip had been quiet, not desperate, but fiercely real, a silent plea for something steady, something solid.

He pushed his legs harder, the muscles burning lightly as he accelerated down a long stretch of road. Running helped, or at least it distracted him from the swirl of emotions. It reminded him that movement could break cycles, that forward momentum was sometimes the only way out.

The sky had started to brighten, faint pink bleeding into grey, as he passed beneath a line of bare trees. Leaves rustled softly in the breeze, the first tentative sounds of the city waking up. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, sharp and surprised by the hour.

He thought about the things Anaya hadn’t said, the spaces between her words. There was so much locked away, memories too jagged to touch, fears too deep to name. She hadn’t asked for help outright, and maybe she never would. But she had let him in, even if just a crack, and that was something.

Sam clenched his fists briefly, not in frustration but in resolve. He wasn’t going to pretend he understood her completely. No one could. But he could be there. He could listen. He could hold space when everything else felt like chaos.

His pace slowed as he reached a small park, the ground damp and soft beneath his feet. He paused briefly to catch his breath, eyes drifting up to the pale wash of sky. A part of him wanted to push harder, run further, outrun the shadows in his mind. But some part told him to stay present, to sit with the weight instead of fleeing it.

He considered the last words she’d whispered to him: “I’m so tired, Sam. I don’t want to fight anymore.” The honesty in that confession was both a crack in her armour and a cry for something more. It echoed in his chest long after the words had faded.

Sam’s mind flickered briefly, a quiet question he didn’t voice. Was there more between them than he was willing to admit? Something beneath the surface, fragile and unspoken, threading through the distance and years between them? He shoved the thought aside, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of his breath and steps.

The streets were waking now, the faint hum of traffic stirring as shops unlocked and lights flickered on. The world was moving forward, indifferent and relentless.

He crossed another intersection, cautious even though the road was empty. Habit. The reflex of someone who’d learned to be alert, to expect the unexpected.

Then, just ahead, the sound of footsteps approached from behind, light, quick, assured.

A voice rang out, casual and teasing, breaking through the quiet.

“On your left...”

Chapter Text

Washington DC, 2014

The morning air was cool but already stirring with the first hints of summer heat, the Potomac’s steady murmur a distant soundtrack to the rhythm of feet against pavement. Sam Wilson’s breath came steady and measured as he jogged the familiar path along the river’s edge, each step a practiced beat. His muscles burned pleasantly in the light exertion, the world around him still slow to wake. Trees stretched their limbs overhead, casting mottled shadows that danced on the cracked concrete beneath his trainers.

Then, suddenly, a shadow flickered past him, lighter on the feet than Sam’s own stride, cutting the air with effortless speed. A familiar voice broke through the calm.

“On your left.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder to see Steve Rogers grinning, jogging easily, already halfway ahead. Before Sam could react, Steve looped around and passed him again, light as a breeze, like a boy who had never known the weight of time.

“On your left.”

Sam shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “Uh-huh, on my left. Got it.”

The third time Steve swept past, Sam’s smile cracked into mock irritation. “Don’t say it! Don’t you say it!”

Steve’s grin widened as he shot by, “On your left!”

The chase was on. Sam pushed harder, the burn in his lungs now sharp and urgent. He could feel the distance closing, a surge of competitive pride driving him forward—but only for a moment. His breath hitched, his pace faltered, and finally, he stopped, hands pressed against knees, chest rising and falling like waves breaking on a shore.

Steve slowed beside him, the light of the morning catching the strands of his blonde hair, the familiar steely calm in his blue eyes.

“Need a medic?” Steve asked, voice easy, teasing.

Sam laughed, wiping sweat from his brow. “I need a new set of lungs. Dude, you just ran like thirteen miles in thirty minutes.”

Steve shrugged, “Guess I got a late start.”

“Oh, really? You should be ashamed of yourself. You should take another lap.”

Sam shook his head, amusement colouring his words. “Did you just take it? I assumed you just took it.”

Steve’s expression softened, the teasing replaced by a steady focus. “What unit you with?”

“Fifty-eight, Pararescue. But now I’m working down at the VA.” Sam lifted a hand, extending it.

Steve took it without hesitation. “Steve Rogers.”

“Yeah, I kind of put that together,” Sam said, chuckling. “Must have freaked you out coming home after the whole defrosting thing.”

Steve’s smile was small, almost wistful. “It takes some getting used to. It’s good to meet you, Sam.”

As Steve turned to leave, Sam’s voice caught him. “It’s your bed, right?”

“What’s that?”

“Your bed. It’s too soft. When I was over there, I’d sleep on the ground and use rock for pillows, like a caveman. Now I’m home, lying in my bed, and it’s like—”

“Lying on a marshmallow. Feel like I’m gonna sink right to the floor.”

Sam smiled, nodding. Steve’s gaze drifted briefly to the sky, thoughtful. “How long?”

“Two tours.”

There was a pause, the kind that stretched comfortably between two people who had both seen more than they talked about.

“You must miss the good old days, huh?”

Steve laughed softly. “Well, things aren’t so bad. Food’s a lot better—we used to boil everything. No polio is good. Internet, so helpful. I’ve been reading that a lot, trying to catch up.”

Sam raised a finger thoughtfully. “Marvin Gaye, 1972, Trouble Man soundtrack. Everything you’ve missed jammed into one album.”

Steve pulled out a small notebook, scribbling it down with a grin.

A buzz in Steve’s pocket interrupted, a message flashing: Mission alert. Extraction imminent. Meet at the curb. :)

Steve gave a small nod. “Alright, Sam. Duty calls. Thanks for the run. If that’s what you wanna call running.”

They shook hands, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

Sam’s grin lingered. “Oh, that’s how it is?”

“Oh, that’s how it is.”

Sam laughed, watching Steve walk away.

Just then, Natasha pulled up in her car by the curb, rolling down the window. “Hey, fellas. Either one of you know where the Smithsonian is? I’m here to pick up a fossil.”

Steve chuckled, sliding into her car. Sam watched her go, a rare smile touching his lips.

***  

England, Gloucestershire 1995

The autumn light spilled through the kitchen window, painting the tiled floor in soft gold. Anaya’s socks slid a little on the smooth surface as she bounced in place, clasping her hands in exaggerated pleading. “Pweaseee, Mummy,” she said again, drawing the word out until it dissolved into giggles.

Soundarya shook her head, stirring the chai on the hob. “Anaya bacha, we already spoke about this. Your papa is allergic, he will be really ill if we get a dog, beta.”

But Anaya’s eyes, wide, dark, stubborn, stayed fixed on her mother as if sheer willpower could erase an allergy.

From the doorway, Arjun leaned his shoulder against the frame, a small grin playing on his lips. “Soundarya, it’s okay, ma. Let’s get one for her, she’s asking so nicely.”

“Don’t you start,” Soundarya sighed, half-laughing despite herself. “You are the reason she is so spoiled. How will you manage when she goes off to big school, hmm? Her teachers are already scolding us for pampering her so much.”

Arjun snorted. “Have you seen that boy David? His parents treat him like he was born on a diamond spoon. Our Anaya is a saint compared to him.” He walked into the kitchen, brushing past Soundarya to ruffle Anaya’s hair. “We prayed to every god for this child, Soundarya. I would burn the world for her if I had to. Plus—” he waved a dismissive hand “—allergies are nothing. I can take medicine. Let’s at least go see if she even likes any. She might run away once she sees them.”

Anaya clapped her hands, squealing, as Arjun grabbed his jacket and crouched to help her with her little shoes. She hummed under her breath, some half-remembered nursery rhyme, as he zipped up her coat.

Soundarya turned off the hob, shaking her head but smiling despite herself. “Both of you will be the end of me,” she muttered.

If only they knew what storm was brewing. That the child they prayed for, the one they wrapped in every protection they could offer, would be gone in an instant.

The bell over the shop door jingled as they stepped inside, a rush of warm air carrying the faint scent of hay, shampoo, and something vaguely biscuit-like. A chorus of tiny yips and squeaks rose from behind a glass pen in the corner, where a tumble of puppies scrambled over one another in a blur of wagging tails and twitching noses.

Anaya froze.

Her small hand clamped around Arjun’s fingers, eyes going wide as the smallest of the puppies, no bigger than her father’s shoe, tottered towards the glass with a determined wobble.

Arjun crouched beside her, his grin widening. “Go on, bacha, they just want to say hello.”

But Anaya shook her head so hard her pigtails slapped against her cheeks. “It’s looking at me,” she whispered, inching backwards.

Soundarya pressed her lips together, trying to hold back a laugh, but it was no use. The shop assistant glanced over, and a muffled snort escaped before they could turn away.

When the tiniest puppy, a fluffy caramel-coloured thing barely heavier than a loaf of bread, let out a high-pitched bark, Anaya yelped and all but hid behind her father’s leg.

That was it. Arjun bent double with laughter, one hand against the wall to keep himself upright. Soundarya’s shoulders shook as she tried, and failed, to look sympathetic, and even the assistant was red-faced with mirth behind the counter.

“They’re babies, Anaya,” Soundarya managed between breaths, “they’re smaller than your teddy bear.”

“They have teeth,” Anaya countered gravely, peeking around Arjun’s leg before darting back out of sight when another bark rang out.

By the time they coaxed her towards the door, the shop staff were still chuckling, and Arjun had tears of laughter in his eyes. “Alright, no dogs today,” he said, scooping her into his arms. “Come on, let’s get you something sweet instead.”

Anaya sniffed with the righteous dignity of someone who had narrowly survived a dangerous mission. “Cake,” she declared.

“Cake it is,” Arjun agreed, carrying her out into the crisp Gloucestershire afternoon, Soundarya falling into step beside them. The air smelled faintly of rain on cobblestones, and the late-autumn sun slanted low, catching in Anaya’s hair like a halo.

The happy family strolled away, their laughter drifting down the quiet street. None of them noticed the figure across the road, motionless in the shadow of a narrow alley, hawk eyes following their every move.

The happy family failed to notice the hawk eyes that watched their every move.

It was the kind of evening that should have been remembered only for its peace.
The narrow country road was wrapped in the fading gold of dusk, the hedgerows on either side swaying lazily in the breeze. Arjun walked with one hand resting lightly over Soundarya’s, the other carrying a paper bag from the village shop. She leaned against him just enough for their steps to match, her sari brushing his arm as they walked. Between them, Anaya skipped with boundless energy, holding a half-melted chocolate ice cream cone in one hand and her mother’s fingers in the other.

The lamplights were just beginning to glow, their amber halos spilling across the cracked pavement. The air was warm enough to be pleasant, cool enough to make you want to linger. No cars passed. No neighbours waved. Just the steady rhythm of their footsteps and the distant hum of crickets in the hedgerows.

They were so wrapped in the small, perfect world they’d built, the little family that had taken them years of prayers, heartbreak, and hope to form, that they didn’t see the black van glide silently around the bend.

It moved without headlights, the low purr of the engine swallowed by the countryside quiet. Its windows were tinted, its paint dull and unremarkable, a predator hiding in plain sight.

The van swerved in close. Too close. Before Arjun could react, the side door slammed open, and three figures poured out, boots hitting the ground in unison.

“What—?” Arjun’s question was swallowed by a blow to his ribs. A masked man wrenched his arm behind his back and slammed him forward. The paper bag dropped, groceries spilling across the road.

Anaya’s ice cream cone fell too, landing with a muted splat. She screamed, a piercing, high sound that jolted Soundarya into motion.

“Arjun!” Her voice was sharp with panic. She yanked Anaya toward her chest and stepped back, heart pounding.

Another figure lunged, shoving her sideways, tearing at her grip until Anaya was wrenched free. The child kicked and flailed, shrieking, “Amma! Appa!” in a voice already breaking with terror.

“Stop! She’s just a child!” Arjun roared, but his captor twisted his arm harder, forcing him to his knees. A fist cracked against his jaw, and the copper taste of blood filled his mouth.

Soundarya’s bangles rattled as she clawed at the man holding Anaya. “Let her go! Let her go!” Her voice was hoarse now, shredded by the force of her own fear.

In seconds, all three were shoved into the van. The door slammed shut with a metallic thunk that sounded final, sealing them into darkness.

The warehouse was a tomb of cold concrete and shadows.

The single lightbulb overhead swung faintly, its flicker making the world stutter in uneven frames. Rust stains crept down the walls, pooling at the base like dried blood. The air reeked of oil and damp iron, each breath sharp enough to sting.

Anaya was slumped in Soundarya’s lap, unconscious from the blow she’d taken in the van. Soundarya rocked her gently, whispering her name in an endless loop, her tears sliding down onto the child’s small face.

Arjun, his wrists bound, kept shifting forward, desperate to touch Anaya, to check her breathing, to prove to himself she was still here.

From the darkness, a man emerged. Taller than the rest, broad shoulders encased in black, a crude skull painted over his mask. He moved like someone who knew he didn’t need to rush, the kind of predator who had already won.

“We want your kid,” he said, voice calm, almost conversational. “Name a price. We’ll pay.”

Arjun stared at him. “She’s five years old. She is, our daughter.”

“That’s the point.” The man’s head tilted slightly, as though he were inspecting something under glass. “She’s valuable. More valuable than you know. Name your price.”

Soundarya’s grip on Anaya tightened until her knuckles blanched. “She’s not for sale. Are you mad? You think we’d—”

“You prayed for her,” the man cut in, his voice quiet but cutting. “Every temple, every shrine. Seven years of empty arms. And then, finally, this. Your miracle.”

Arjun’s blood ran cold. They knew. They knew about the years of offerings, the whispered vows in candlelit corners, the desperation that had once consumed them both.

“She’s ours,” Soundarya said, trembling but defiant. “We’d rather die than—”

The man didn’t blink. He simply nodded at one of his companions. “Show them what happens to people who don’t listen.”

The blow to Arjun’s side was brutal, knocking the air out of him. Another fist smashed into his temple, sending sparks through his vision. He staggered, refusing to drop, his eyes locked on Anaya.

“Last chance,” the skull-masked man said evenly. “Say yes.”

Soundarya was weeping openly now. “Please, please don’t hurt her. She’s all we have—she’s our baby—”

The man raised his gun and aimed it at Anaya’s head. The click of the hammer echoed like a death knell.

“No! Stop!” Arjun lurched forward, straining against his captors. “Take me! Do whatever you want to me! Just—don’t touch her!”

The man’s voice was almost amused. “We don’t want you.”

The order came without warning.

The metal pole swung hard, cracking into the side of Soundarya’s head. The sound, a hollow, sickening thud, seemed to split the air. She dropped instantly, her body crumpling beside their daughter.

Arjun’s scream ripped through the warehouse. “SOUNDARYA!” He threw himself toward her, falling to his knees. His bound hands fumbled uselessly at her shoulders. “Ma… ma… wake up! Please! You can’t leave us, please—please, stay with me—” His voice broke, shattering into sobs. “You promised… you promised we’d always be together…”

He bent over her, forehead pressed to hers, shaking her limp body like he could pull her soul back by force. Tears blurred everything, his chest heaving in jagged, choking gasps. His cries echoed in the cavernous space, raw and animal.

The masked man stepped closer, his shadow falling over them. “Last chance, father.”

Arjun’s head snapped up, eyes blazing through the grief. “Go to hell.”

The blow came fast, sending him sprawling. His vision doubled, then tripled, the world spinning away. Through the haze, he saw them lift Anaya, her small, unconscious body dangling like a ragdoll, and carry her toward the exit.

“No…” His voice was barely a whisper now. “No, give her back…”

The concrete beneath him was cold, leeching the heat from his body, but his mind was already slipping somewhere else. The pain in his ribs, the metallic tang of blood in his mouth, the muffled echoes of boots retreating with his child, all of it began to fade into a distant hum.

In its place came a memory.

It began in darkness. Not the darkness of death, but the darkness of endless nights when he and Soundarya had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of an empty house. Seven years of that silence, broken only by whispered reassurances neither of them fully believed anymore.

Seven years of appointments of sitting in cramped waiting rooms under flickering fluorescent lights while doctors explained, in voices too clinical, why it might never happen for them. Seven years of well-meaning relatives offering remedies and advice, of friends’ children growing older while their arms stayed empty. Seven years of Soundarya weeping quietly in the bathroom so he wouldn’t see, and of him forcing smiles so she wouldn’t lose hope.

Seven years of temples.

He saw them all now, stone steps worn smooth by generations of bare feet, the air thick with incense and marigold. He remembered kneeling side by side, the red powder smeared on their foreheads, the murmured mantras spilling from their lips like lifelines. They had made promises to gods they could barely name, vows that if this one prayer was answered, they would spend the rest of their lives in gratitude.

And then, one day, after so many years of hearing “no,” they had heard “yes.”

The delivery room flooded into his mind in perfect detail. He could smell the faint sweetness of jasmine oil someone had rubbed into Soundarya’s temples to ease her pain. He could hear the rhythmic beeping of the monitor, the low murmur of nurses preparing the instruments.

Soundarya’s hand had clamped over his, her grip fierce enough to leave marks. Her hair clung damp to her forehead, her breath coming in ragged bursts, but her eyes… her eyes burned with a determination he had never seen before.

“You’re almost there,” he had whispered, leaning close so she could hear him over the chaos. “Just a little more, ma.”

And then it happened.

A thin, sharp cry pierced the air, uncertain at first, then louder, stronger, filling every corner of the room. The sound hit him like sunlight after years of storm.

The nurse had lifted a tiny, wriggling bundle and placed her into Soundarya’s trembling arms. Anaya. Their Anaya.

She had been impossibly small, her fists balled tight, her skin flushed and soft. A tiny cap covered her head, but a few strands of jet-black hair peeked out, already curling at the ends. Her eyes, dark and unblinking, had opened for a moment, and he had sworn she looked straight at him, like she knew exactly who he was.

Soundarya had cried then, great shuddering sobs of joy, her tears falling onto the baby’s cheeks. “We did it, Arjun… she’s here. Our little miracle.”

He had leaned over them, wrapping his arms around both, breathing in that new, warm scent that only new-borns carry. He had kissed Soundarya’s hair, then Anaya’s forehead, and made a promise aloud, without shame or hesitation.

“I swear to you both… nothing in this world will ever harm her. I will protect her with my life.”

The warehouse came back into focus, but dimly now, like a scene glimpsed through smoke. His vision narrowed, the edges going dark. He could feel the weight of his body sinking further into the concrete. His breaths grew shallow, his chest struggling for air that wouldn’t come.

Somewhere far away, a door clanged shut. Somewhere even farther, a child’s voice, in memory, not in truth, cried for her father.

Arjun closed his eyes, clutching the memory to him like a talisman. He let himself see it again, the jasmine-scented air, the sound of her first cry, the way her tiny fingers had curled instinctively around his thumb.

He took his last breath with that image in his mind: the moment his daughter, the miracle they had prayed for through seven long years, entered their lives.

Arjun and Soundarya didn’t have time to say goodbye. Before the shock could settle, before their hearts could even begin to break, their lives were violently ended, snatched away in a cruel instant. The miracle they had prayed and begged for, their daughter Anaya, was ripped from their arms and twisted into something they never could have imagined. Every desperate prayer at every temple, every sleepless night spent hoping for this child, was crushed beneath the merciless weight of Hydra’s ambition.

She was no longer their little girl. She had become a weapon. A pawn in a game far bigger and colder than they could comprehend. The family they had built on hope and love was shattered, broken beyond repair. Their home, once filled with warmth and laughter, became a tomb of silence and grief.

Arjun and Soundarya were gone. Their last breaths had been stolen alongside their daughter, leaving behind only memories and heartbreak. Theirs was a love story cut painfully short, a future erased by violence and ruthless calculation.

In the blink of an eye, the lives they had nurtured, the prayers they had whispered in darkness, were extinguished. Anaya was the light that had pushed back the shadows of seven years without a promise, the fragile bloom in a long winter of despair. But those who took her saw not a child, but a weapon; not a family, but casualties in a merciless war.

The world moved on around the empty space they left behind, but for them, time was frozen in that brutal moment. The door closed behind the men who carried away their miracle, sealing their fate and casting a shadow that would stretch long and dark. Arjun and Soundarya were lost to the world, their bodies cold and broken, while their daughter was lost to them forever, held captive by the cruel hands of Hydra.

All that remained were the echoes of prayers unanswered, and the cruel knowledge that the family who had once hoped for a future was dead, and the child they had loved was now a weapon forged from their destruction.

***  

Present Day (2014)

The dim light filtered through the thin curtains, casting faint stripes across the pale walls. Anaya’s eyelids fluttered, heavy as if weighted by the fog clinging stubbornly to the edges of her mind. She was somewhere between sleep and waking, that hazy place where the past and present blurred, slipping through fingers like smoke.

Her breath came uneven, shallow, a quiet rhythm that barely disturbed the stillness of the room. The rough cotton sheets tangled around her arms, cool against skin still slick with sweat from a dream she couldn’t quite grasp.

But one image lingered, sharp and insistent.

“Mummy, I want a dog pweaseee!”

The small voice echoed softly in her mind, innocent and eager. She could almost feel the tiny hand reaching out, the soft tug of a child desperate for something simple, something real.

Anaya blinked, trying to hold onto that moment, the warmth of a sunlit kitchen, the muffled laughter, the gentle scolding of a mother’s voice. But it slipped further away, a fleeting shadow dissolving with every breath.

Her chest tightened. The ache was unfamiliar and raw, a silent alarm flashing beneath the surface. She scanned the dim room, eyes searching for something, anything, to anchor her. The faded photographs on the bedside table blurred together; the familiar clutter of a life half-remembered offered no answers.

A tremor ran through her fingers as she curled them into fists, knuckles whitening. The space inside her chest felt hollow, a missing piece she couldn’t name.

“Dog,” she whispered, voice brittle and uncertain. The word felt foreign on her tongue, like a forgotten language she was just beginning to remember.

Panic pricked at the edges of her mind, cold and relentless. Why was this memory so vivid when everything else was a blank? Why was she afraid to reach further back?

Her heart hammered in her ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing in the quiet room. She swallowed hard, lungs shallow, the walls closing in with silent questions.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, toes brushing against the worn wooden floor. The familiar creak beneath her feet should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like stepping into a void.

Anaya’s gaze dropped to her hands, the hands that had fought and healed, the hands that trembled now with uncertainty. She flexed her fingers, tracing the faint scars she barely remembered earning, hoping for something solid in the sea of confusion.

The sound of distant traffic, muted and routine, seeped through the window. It was a reminder that the world was still turning, indifferent to the fragments of memory slipping through her grasp.

She pressed her palm against the cool glass, breath fogging the pane. Her reflection stared back, eyes wide, searching, lost.

For a moment, she closed her eyes again, willing the storm inside her to calm. But the silence that followed was thick and suffocating, the kind that presses down with the weight of unspoken truths.

Anaya’s fingers brushed over the edge of the bedside table, catching the corner of a small, framed photo, a faint smile frozen in time. She reached out, heart tight with longing and fear.

But the faces were blurred, indistinct, ghosts of a past she couldn’t claim.

She swallowed, a single tear trailing down her cheek.

And in that quiet moment, she understood that the answers she sought were still buried deep beneath the shadows of her mind. locked away, just out of reach.

***

The room hummed quietly with the low murmur of voices fading into silence. The last few veterans gathered their things, some exchanging quiet goodbyes. The afternoon light slanted through the blinds, casting long shadows over the worn carpet.

A female war veteran shifted in her chair, rubbing the back of her neck. Her voice was low, strained with the weight of things unsaid.

“The thing is I think it’s getting worse. A cop pulled me over last week, he thought I was drunk. I swerved to miss a plastic bag. I thought it was an IED.”

Sam nodded slowly, his gaze steady, worn from too many stories like this. His voice was calm but carried the unmistakable gravity of shared experience.

“Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It’s our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it gonna be in a big suitcase or in a little man-purse? It’s up to you.”

The veteran gave a small, tired laugh, some tension easing from her shoulders as she gathered her things.

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Yeah.”

She gave Sam a quick nod before standing and leaving the room. Sam watched her go, then turned toward the door where Steve stood waiting.

Sam smiled, voice warm but teasing.

“Look who it is. The running man.”

Steve chuckled, stepping inside.

“Caught the last few minutes. It’s pretty intense.”

Sam shrugged, the weight of the room lingering in his expression.

“Yeah, brother, we all got the same problems. Guilt, regret.”

Steve’s face softened.

“You lose someone?”

Sam’s eyes darkened for a moment.

“My wingman, Riley. Flying a night mission. Standard PJ rescue op, nothing we hadn’t done a thousand times before, till RPG knocked Riley’s dumb ass out of the sky. Nothing I could do. It’s like I was up there just to watch.”

Steve’s voice was quiet, sincere.

“I’m sorry.”

Sam swallowed hard, staring at the floor before looking back up.

“After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?”

Steve nodded slowly.

“But you’re happy now, back in the world?”

Sam’s lips curled slightly into a tired grin.

“Hey, the number of people giving me orders is down to about zero. So, hell, yeah. You ever think about getting out?”

Steve shook his head, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.

“No. I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t know what I would do with myself if I did.”

Sam laughed softly.

“Ultimate fighting?”

Steve laughed with him.

“It’s just a great idea off the top of my head. But seriously, you could do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?”

Steve’s smile was small, almost wistful.

“I don’t know.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder and motioned toward Anaya, who stood quietly nearby, observing the last veterans leave, her posture composed but her eyes distant, distracted.

“That’s Anaya,” Sam said. “Junior counsellor here. Keeps me in line.”

Steve’s gaze softened as he looked at her. “Hey, Anaya.”

She gave a brief nod, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

Steve continued casually, “You’re doing important work here. It takes a certain kind of strength.”

Anaya’s eyes flickered, just briefly, before she masked it with professionalism. “Thank you. It’s a team effort.”

Steve caught the subtle weariness beneath her calm exterior but said nothing.

Sam chuckled. “She’s got a sharper eye than most of us. Keeps us honest.”

There was a comfortable silence before Steve added, “It’s good to have someone like you around.”

Anaya met his gaze steadily. “Likewise.”

“Feels like family here,” Steve said quietly, almost to himself.

Sam grinned. “Yeah. It’s not just a job.”

Anaya exhaled softly, the tight knot in her chest loosening just a fraction.

The moment held, fragile and tentative, before Steve’s phone buzzed sharply, breaking the quiet.

“Duty calls,” Steve murmured, rising. He exchanged a nod with Sam; a bond forged through pain and resilience.

Steve’s car pulled away, the soft rumble fading into the morning bustle. The space they left behind felt oddly hollow. Anaya stood a little apart, arms crossed loosely but her hands twitching slightly, betraying the storm beneath the surface. She was quiet now, reserved in a way that Sam didn’t often see. The lively spark she usually carried had dimmed, replaced by a weight she wore alone.

She hated this feeling. Hated that just yesterday, she had let herself unravel in front of Sam, had shown a side of herself she tightly guarded. It wasn’t that she blamed him, far from it. It was her own frustration that gnawed at her: how could she be so weak? So exposed? The mask she’d worn for so long felt suddenly fragile, cracking where she thought it was unbreakable.

Her mind replayed every word, every glance, every touch that had helped her stand back up after that meltdown. Sam’s steady presence was an anchor she desperately needed, yet even that comfort sparked something difficult, a fear that if she leaned too hard, she’d lose control. Vulnerability wasn’t just a crack in the armour; to Anaya, it was a risk she hadn’t yet learned to take without flinching.

Sam noticed it immediately. The way her shoulders tensed despite the calm she tried to show. The distant look in her eyes that didn’t match the sharpness of the woman he knew. It wasn’t in her nature to retreat, and yet here she was, folding inwards, like she was shrinking away from the very safety she’d just accepted.

He wanted to say something, something gentle, something to bridge the silence, but words felt clumsy. Instead, he gave her space, standing close enough to be there but far enough to respect the invisible barrier she’d raised. Sam knew that sometimes, what people needed most was presence, not pressure.

The VA’s quiet buzz resumed around them, but Anaya remained still, her breath shallow as she wrestled with the messy knot of gratitude and self-reproach twisting inside her. The memory of her breakdown, the raw, shaking fear, the suffocating weight of her past, was still close. And despite everything Sam had done to help her that day, the battle wasn’t over.

Sam’s gaze lingered on her, the familiar flicker of protectiveness sparking in his chest. He’d seen many kinds of battles, external and internal, and he knew that healing was never linear. For Anaya, every step forward was hard-won, and sometimes the hardest part was simply facing the parts of herself she wanted to keep buried.

Without breaking the silence, he let her know she wasn’t alone.

Chapter Text

The VA was still asleep, though it never truly rested. The corridors smelled faintly of disinfectant and old carpet, a combination so sterile it pressed against the back of Anaya’s throat. At 4:30 a.m., the building existed in a state of uneasy anticipation, caught between quiet and the inevitable rush of the day to come. She walked slowly, deliberately, letting the soles of her boots scuff against the linoleum just enough to ground herself. Her bag bounced lightly at her side, weighted with the small absurdity of running shoes she hadn’t used in days. They were meant to be her escape, a place to outrun the memory, but the thought of moving, of confronting her own body and its aches, made her stiffen instead.

She paused outside the counselling room, hand hovering over the cold metal handle. The light from the early dawn slivered through the blinds, uneven and intrusive, painting the floor in streaks of pale gold and shadow. She should have welcomed the brightness; it was morning, it was life, but it felt accusatory. Exposing. Laying bare a person she wasn’t ready to show. Her fingers trembled, and she flexed them, trying to dispel the phantom chill that crept up her arms and into her chest.

The sound of a door somewhere behind her clicked shut, a harsh, final punctuation. And in an instant, the floor under her bare feet was cold and hard, the air antiseptic, the voice sharp and unyielding: “Weakness is death.” Boots clattered behind her, echoing on tile. She had learned, years ago, that anticipation and fear could be locked together, that the body remembered before the mind did. She shook it off, swallowing the surge of panic, but it left a residue in her chest, a hollow note she could not ignore.

“Early bird again, huh?”

The voice startled her out of herself. Maria, always attuned, leaned over the counter with a faint smile that didn’t quite hide concern. The receptionist’s eyes were sharp but kind, reading the tension in Anaya like a page. She slid a small flyer across the counter: For survivors of trauma. No labels. No judgment. Just people who get it.

Anaya’s fingers brushed over it, lingering longer than she expected. “Thanks,” she said, voice tight, forcing the words out like they were just another task to complete.

“I’m fine.” Her grip on the notebook that held the flyer tightened. She didn’t meet Maria’s gaze. She couldn’t. Not yet.

Maria’s eyes softened, but her tone carried weight. “You keep telling yourself that, kid. Doesn’t make it true.”

Anaya wanted to respond, to push back, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, she adjusted her bag and opened the door to the counselling room, stepping inside with the quiet precision of someone trying to hold the floor steady beneath her feet.

Inside, the room smelled of stale coffee and faint antiseptic. The chairs were lined neatly in rows, the table wiped smooth, waiting for a world that hadn’t yet arrived. She ran her hands along the edges, adjusting the papers into straight lines, smoothing the small imperfections she could control. Her fingers shook slightly; she knew the tremor would be visible if anyone were here, but for now, it only mattered to her.

The flyer in her notebook pressed against her thigh, a silent insistence. She had shoved it aside the first time she saw it, but now its presence was insistent, almost accusatory. She turned it over in her mind like a question with no answer. Do I want to be helped? Can I even do that? The words wouldn’t form yet, not fully.

The blinds rattled gently in the morning breeze, a subtle, persistent sound. Anaya’s gaze followed the lines of light on the floor, tracing them like a map she couldn’t read. Every flicker of the fluorescent lights above mirrored the unsteady rhythm in her chest, the way her body carried tension she couldn’t release. She tried to steady it with slow, deliberate breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Each breath a small rebellion against the storm inside her.

Maria’s voice drifted again, quieter this time, a thread of warmth in the emptiness. “You’re a counsellor, not a martyr. Take a breath, kid.”

Anaya gave a half-smile, brittle and fleeting. “Since when did you become my therapist?”

“Since I started working in a place where half the staff needs one,” Maria said with a quiet laugh, soft but knowing. Her eyes held a flicker of understanding, a recognition that went beyond words.

Anaya exhaled slowly, letting the sound fill the empty room. Her shoulders, usually squared and rigid, sagged just a little. She placed the bag on the chair, letting the strap slip from her shoulder, the weight pressing down like it belonged there. Her eyes travelled across the room, lingering on the empty chairs, the stillness, the faint smell of coffee that would soon be replaced by whatever chaos the day brought. She hated that she noticed the absence of people, the emptiness she had to fill with her own presence. The VA had always been a sanctuary, but sanctuaries demanded honesty, and she wasn’t ready to give it.

Her hand brushed the surface of the desk again, tracing the outline of a coffee stain she’d cleaned weeks ago. The act grounded her, tethered her to the present moment, if only barely. The flyer inside the notebook called to her again. No labels. No judgment. The words teased at the corner of her mind. She could almost hear the promise behind them, almost, but not yet.

The first faint streaks of dawn crept higher, brushing the tops of the blinds, softening the harsh fluorescent light into something less intrusive. Anaya’s eyes followed the movement, the subtle changes in the room, the way the light fell across the linoleum and the edges of the chairs. She breathed again, deliberately, tasting the quiet in her lungs.

Her gaze settled on the running shoes in her bag, the ones she hadn’t worn in days. They had become a symbol of avoidance, a promise she had yet to keep. She flexed her fingers around the strap, feeling the fabric, feeling the weight. A part of her longed to run, to leave the building, leave the memories, leave the tension coiled in her chest. But another part of her, the part that had survived the Red Room and every phantom it left behind, kept her planted. She could survive the day. She would. Somehow.

She straightened the chairs once more, checked the papers, and adjusted the pens on the desk. Each small motion was deliberate, controlled, a ritual against the chaos threatening to rise inside her. The trembling in her hands persisted, but it was quieter now, softer, manageable. She placed the notebook with the flyer in the centre of the desk for a moment, letting the edges brush the wood. She didn’t open it. Not yet. Not until she was ready.

The building remained silent, save for the distant hum of the heating system and the faint creak of pipes settling. She could hear her own heartbeat, each pulse a reminder of the weight she carried. A weight no one could see, and no one had yet asked her to share.

Anaya allowed herself one final glance out the window. The horizon was lightening; the first hints of a sun that promised a day she wasn’t sure she wanted but had to face anyway. Her fingers lingered on the window sill, tracing the rough paint. She let the tension in her jaw soften, just a fraction, and felt a small, almost imperceptible release in her chest.

The day had begun. She would survive it. She didn’t yet know how to ask for help, didn’t yet know how to let someone in, but the flyer pressed against her notebook, insistent and patient, a small promise she might one day answer.

She took a steadying breath, lifted her bag, and stepped fully into the counselling room. The empty chairs awaited, and so did the veterans she would meet soon. She was tired, restless, and wary, but for the first time that morning, she allowed herself a flicker of something else. A hint of readiness.

The VA was waking. And so was she.

The counselling room smelled faintly of coffee and linoleum, faintly antiseptic, faintly like everything left unsaid. The blinds were half-drawn, slicing the early light into thin lines that cut across chairs and the cracked linoleum floor. Marcus sat slouched, shoulders heavy, hands resting in his lap like he was bracing against an invisible weight. Daniels paced near the back, boots scraping against the floor, restless as a caged animal. His movements were a silent echo of combat training, discipline interwoven with anxiety.

Anaya stood at the front, notebook in hand, heart hammering against her ribs. She tried to summon composure, the familiar mask she wore for the veterans settling over her shoulders like armour. Her chest felt tight, thoughts scattered, her stomach coiled with anticipation.

“Morning,” she said, voice steady at first. The words felt hollow, though, drifting into the room with the faint buzz of fluorescent lights. The veterans’ eyes pinned her, assessing, wary, and unafraid to notice weakness.

“You’re not here today, Kapoor,” Marcus said softly, voice carrying warmth and steel in equal measure. “Where’s your head at?”

Anaya exhaled and tried to steer the session back to familiar territory. “We’ll focus on coping strategies today… techniques to manage stress, grounding exercises—”

Daniels cut her off, voice rough, immediate. “We’re not your damn patients if you’re not here with us. You wanna lead? Be here. Not floating somewhere else in your own head.” His eyes caught hers, challenging, refusing the polite veneer of control.

Her throat tightened. “I… I’m fine.” The words felt fragile, breaking before they left her lips. Silence descended, thick and heavy, almost physical.

Marcus leaned forward slightly, a soft anchor in the tension. “We’ve all been there. Doesn’t mean you have to carry it alone.”

Anaya’s hands clenched the notebook, knuckles whitening. “I don’t know how to not carry it,” she whispered, voice barely audible.

Daniels ran a hand through his hair, voice rough and honest. “None of us do, kid. None of us. We do our best. But some days, best isn’t enough, isn’t it?” His pacing slowed, eyes sweeping the circle. “Some days you wake up and the nightmares didn’t stop overnight. You walk around pretending, but inside… inside it’s chaos.”

Marcus nodded, softer now. “It’s not about stopping the memories. It’s about surviving them. Accepting that they exist without letting them swallow you whole. I’ve got weeks, months, where I just… pretend to be busy, pretend to be present. Alone, I crumble. This, this talking, keeps me tethered.”

From the back of the room, a man hunched over in his chair, fingers gripping his knees, shoulders tense. He had been silent for weeks, almost invisible, trying so hard to stay unnoticed, to fade. Daniels’s voice softened as it reached him.

“You think no one sees you, huh?” Daniels asked.

“You try, work, push, and it feels like everyone’s too busy to notice. But we see it. Every tremor, every attempt to speak, every failure you hide. You’re not invisible. You never were.”

The man’s fingers relaxed minutely, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. Anaya noticed. Her chest lifted slightly, a small tether to shared understanding.

Marcus spoke again, voice quiet but precise. “I used to hate seeing people after tours. Friends married, jobs moved on, the world moved on. And there I was, stuck. Pretending I fit. Inside? Screaming. I tried to matter, to be seen. Most days… invisible. Like a ghost walking the streets of my own life.”

Daniels’s boots scraped the floor as he came closer, gesturing to the circle. “I lost my brother. Not over there, not in combat, but after. I wasn’t close. And still, the guilt clings. You go through the motions at work, at home, trying to feel normal. Time heals? Not for me. Not for most of us. You learn to carry it differently… but some days, it crushes you anyway.”

Anaya’s chest tightened with the echoing truths. She’d anticipated vulnerability being one-directional, hers alone. But these men were speaking aloud, naming what she often hid. Her hands, resting lightly on the desk, trembled subtly. She gripped the edge, letting it anchor her.

Marcus added, quietly, almost to himself: “Sometimes it’s the tiny moments that wound you more than the big ones. Someone’s glance that says, ‘I don’t see you.’ You try to make yourself matter, and it feels like shouting into a void.”

Daniels paused near the window, gazing at the pale light slicing through the blinds. “But here? In this circle? You’re seen. Every failure, every tremor, every word you didn’t dare say anywhere else—it counts. And when you let it out… it eases. Doesn’t fix it. Doesn’t make it okay. But it eases.”

Anaya exhaled slowly, feeling the room respond to her vulnerability. The tremor in her hands persisted, but now it carried less fear and more raw recognition. She realised the veterans weren’t expecting her to fix anything; they were offering presence, honesty, and mirrored humanity.

A quieter voice broke through, hesitant, almost shy. “I try… I try to be normal. To not be a burden. But… nobody notices. Even when I do my best. Even when I sit through all the sessions, all the drills, all the appointments.” His hands trembled slightly. Daniels nodded sharply.

“Notice this,” Daniels said. “Notice what he just said. The effort it takes, the weight of being overlooked. That’s real. And being here? Even sitting quietly? It matters. Don’t you dare forget that.”

Anaya’s breath caught. She had a glimpse of the invisible pain threading through the room, the unacknowledged, the painstaking labour of survival, and the resilience that persisted despite it all. She straightened, inhaled, and allowed herself to meet the eyes of each veteran, one by one, with honesty.

Anaya felt her throat tighten with the weight of recognition. They were offering her what she had tried to give them alone. She exhaled slowly, letting herself feel it, and then spoke, voice steadying: “Let’s try this again. And this time… I’ll stop pretending I’ve got it all together.”

The room went quiet, but not awkwardly. It was watchful, heavy with acknowledgement. Daniels stopped pacing, leaning against the back of a chair, jaw tight but open. Marcus slouched slightly, shoulders easing, eyes softening. The man in the corner, the one who usually tried to vanish, shifted, fingers unclenching, faint recognition flickering across his face.

Marcus broke the silence. “You know, sometimes it’s not the big moments that get to you,” he said quietly. “It’s the little ones. Walking down the street and hearing a laugh, seeing a family, feeling like you’re not supposed to be there. Like everyone else moved on while you’re stuck watching.”

Daniels snorted, half-bitter, half resigned. “Yeah. I see it. Every day. You’re trying, you’re working, you’re here, but nobody notices. You feel invisible. I’ve been there. Still go there. It’s exhausting.”

Anaya let herself feel it, the pull of acknowledgement, the quiet bond threading through the room. She cleared her throat, voice steadier now. “I can’t fix any of this,” she admitted. “I can’t stop the nightmares, erase the guilt, or make the world fair. But I can be here. And we can try, together.”

Daniels gave a half-smile, softening his tone. “Yeah. That’s enough. Real enough. That’s all anyone can give sometimes.”

Marcus leaned back slightly. “We survive by being seen. Even here, even briefly. That counts. Enough to keep going.”

Anaya let the words sink in. Her heartbeat was still uneven, her stomach tight, but the weight had shifted. She realised she wasn’t just the counsellor here, she was part of this circle, participating, sharing, receiving as well as giving. She noticed the subtle cues around her: Marcus’s small, approving smile, Daniels’s rare nod of vulnerability, the quiet acknowledgement in the corner that invisibility had been challenged.

She kept the session moving, gently steering without imposing. “We’ll continue next session,” she said softly, layering authority and honesty. “We’ll keep talking. Keep being honest. Keep surviving.”

Daniels leaned back, boots scraping slightly. “Messy. Ugly. But real. And that’s better than pretending.”

Marcus added, softly but firmly: “Every small step counts. Every time we share, we tether ourselves. That’s the fight we fight outside these walls, too.”

Anaya exhaled, finally allowing herself to acknowledge it privately: she had participated in her own guidance today. She had shared vulnerability without retreating, without pretending. She didn’t feel healed, but she felt present, grounded in the weight of shared honesty.

The session ended not with answers, not with resolution, but with connection. The veterans lingered briefly, exchanged glances, nodded in acknowledgement. No forced smiles, no polite platitudes, just the raw acknowledgement of being seen and bearing witness to one another’s struggles.

Anaya gathered her notebook slowly, noting the subtle energy that lingered. Her hands trembled slightly less. The session had been difficult, raw, emotional, but she had held space for truth, for honesty, for connection. And that, she realised, was enough for now.

The room had emptied slowly, chairs scraping against linoleum, the faint hum of fluorescent lights echoing the heartbeat of every story left lingering in the air. Anaya stood near the front, hands stacked neatly atop her notebook, taking deliberate, grounding breaths. Each inhale drew in the faint bitterness of coffee, the antiseptic tang lingering at the edges, and the unmistakable weight of unsaid words. Her gaze swept across the circle, noting the subtle changes: Marcus’s shoulders had eased, Daniels had unclenched slightly, and even the quiet veteran at the back had allowed a small flicker of acknowledgement to show across his face.

She moved to straighten a chair, then another, letting the motion tether her to something tangible. The tremor in her fingers had not disappeared, but it had slowed. She let herself be present with it, letting the pulse of shared vulnerability fill the room, without forcing it or flinching away.

At the edge of her perception, a shadow lingered beyond the door. She didn’t notice him at first; the veterans had carried her attention entirely. But he was there, leaning lightly against the frame, arms crossed, silent and patient. Steve Rogers.

He hadn’t intruded, hadn’t stepped into the session, hadn’t made a sound, but he had observed. He watched the way her voice carried over the veterans, soft but unwavering, with a firmness that could contain even Daniels’s sharp, restless energy. He noted how she had leaned subtly toward the quiet man in the corner when he hesitated to speak, how her hands had rested lightly on the table when her chest tightened at the weight of unspoken truths.

Steve had learned long ago to recognise endurance when he saw it. Not the kind that demanded accolades, but the quiet, stubborn kind, the type that carried others while barely noticing its strain. And in her, he recognised that someone carrying the room, carrying the people, even when it threatened to unravel her from within.

He waited. He stayed in the doorway as the last veteran filed out, murmuring soft acknowledgements, stepping lightly across the threshold into the day beyond. Only when the room fell entirely silent, save for the scrape of a chair against the floor, did he step fully into view.

“You do good work here,” he said, voice even, carrying the weight of observation without intrusion.

Anaya started, spinning slightly. “I—I didn’t hear you come in,” she admitted, voice tight, raw from the session. Her hair fell into her eyes, and she tucked it back behind her ear, straightening her spine. “You weren’t supposed to… sit in on a session.”

“I wasn’t,” Steve said, a faint smile touching his lips. “I just… got here early. Stayed back. Didn’t want to disturb anything. But I saw enough. Enough to know how much of this matters. How much you carry, even when no one’s looking.”

Anaya blinked, letting the words land. She tucked her notebook under her arm, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“It matters,” she said softly. “To them. To me, it’s… exhausting sometimes. But necessary.” She paused, unsure whether to continue. “You wouldn’t get it—not fully. You’ve never… been in this room with them. Seen it, felt it.”

Steve didn’t need to respond immediately. The silence stretched, comfortable and weighted, heavy with recognition. Then he spoke, deliberately, carefully, as if each word had to traverse a long, quiet distance.

“I know about carrying weight,” he said. “You hold people together. You try to shield them. You see the fractures in everyone else, but your own… until someone looks right at you. Daniels did that, like he just stripped away the pretence and looked for truth. You can’t fix everything. Sometimes, you’re just there, holding space.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but in acknowledgement. She studied him, his posture, the tension in his shoulders, the careful steadiness of his gaze. She saw the history there: loss, guilt, survivor’s weight. He carried it like armour and chains at once, a soldier’s imprint of war that didn’t need to be explained.

“You’re not wrong,” she admitted, softer now. “It’s a fine line. Between being present and being swallowed. Between guiding and losing yourself.”

Steve inclined his head. “I’ve been there. After the war… everyone else moved on or tried to. I stayed in the moments that didn’t move, the ones that kept me tethered. You’re doing something similar. Keeping them tethered… and yourself too, I hope.”

Anaya swallowed, the tremor in her hands rising slightly, a signal, not a flaw. “Some days it’s harder than others. You see people go through hell and survive, and then you realise the hardest battles are still in your own head. Some of us… we just survive in fragments. Tiny pieces at a time.”

Steve’s gaze softened. He was quiet for a moment, letting the gravity of her words sink into the spaces between them. Then he said gently, “Sometimes you see a face and it just… takes you back. Like they’ve been frozen in time, while you’re the one that keeps moving.”

“I- I lost my best friend, a brother really, to the war. James. Bucky to those that cared. Joined me on a mission and fell from the train. I feel it till this day. If only…”

“If only you did something differently…” Anaya finished for him. “Except, you couldn’t have. Losing someone close is hard, especially when we rewind the incident and try and think of what we could’ve done differently. We live with the guilt that never goes away, but creating possibilities doesn’t make our guilt any better.”

A soft smile formed on Steve’s face, brief and fleeting, as though the act of remembering itself weighed him down. “Trying to counsel me?” he said quietly, the guilt and sadness still lingering in his tone. “Buck would’ve loved you.”

He slid a photo across the table toward her. Anaya’s eyes followed it, taking in the image, the young man frozen in a frame, a quiet echo of someone who had once been whole. She nodded minutely. She didn’t speak; she didn’t need to. She understood what it meant: the weight of absence, the imprint of loss, and the silent acknowledgement of someone who had shaped a life and left too soon.

Her fingers hovered over the edge of the photo, lingering for just a moment before drawing back. The gesture was small, almost imperceptible, but Steve caught it. That pause, that quiet understanding, was enough. No words were necessary.

“Sometimes,” Steve continued, voice low, reflective, “we hold on to fragments of people we’ve lost. Not just for memory, but to remind ourselves why we keep moving, why we survive. And some days… it feels like the world moves on without you, without them. But you—” He gestured lightly toward her, not accusing, not demanding, “you notice. You carry it differently. You see the weight in others. That’s… rare. And important.”

Anaya’s chest tightened. She let herself inhale slowly, grounding her thoughts in the stillness between them. “It’s… exhausting sometimes,” she admitted quietly. “Feeling like you have to keep everyone upright, even when you’re not sure you can stand yourself.”

Steve nodded slowly, eyes soft. “I know. It’s a burden I’ve carried a long time. You learn to hide it, mask it… but the mask gets heavy. Sometimes you just need someone to see that weight. That it’s there, and it’s real. And… that it’s okay to feel it.”

She swallowed, her voice a whisper: “I want to be strong for them. I have to be. But sometimes, I wish… someone would just see me too.”

“That’s the hard part,” Steve said gently, leaning back just slightly. “Most of the time, people can’t. They’re too caught up in their own survival. But every now and then… someone notices. And it makes all the difference. Even if they don’t say it out loud.”

Anaya gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, feeling the quiet weight of understanding. “You notice,” she said softly, not as a question, but as an acknowledgement.

“I do,” Steve replied. His gaze softened, quiet but unyielding. “You do good work, Anaya. Not because you have to, but because you care. And that… that matters. More than you realise.”

Anaya allowed herself a faint, tired smile. “Thank you. That… that means more than I can say.”

Steve exhaled, a measured breath. “I’ll see you again,” he said, voice soft, carrying promise and intention.

She nodded, letting the moment linger, understanding that some truths didn’t need to be spoken, only felt.

As he stood, moving toward the door, Sam crossed paths with him in the corridor. Steve’s voice was low, deliberate, carrying a quiet command wrapped in care: “Keep an eye on her.”

Sam’s response was subtle, a slight nod that conveyed understanding. Steve passed on, leaving Anaya to gather herself in the quiet room, the weight of shared vulnerability and unspoken understanding lingering like a tangible thread around her.

The office was quiet, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the distant scrape of a chair from somewhere else in the building. Anaya sat at her desk; the leaflet Maria had slid across the counter still resting between her fingers. She traced the edges, her mind circling the words she hadn’t yet read properly: “No labels. No judgment. Just people who get it.”

She hadn’t opened it when she first saw it, pushed it aside like everything else she’d been asked to consider. But now, in the aftermath of the session, it felt heavier. A quiet insistence, a question she wasn’t ready to answer out loud yet.

A soft knock at the door pulled her out of the spiral of thoughts.

“You got a minute?” Sam’s voice was even, calm, but carried that underlying weight of attention that made her chest tighten without panic this time.

She lifted her head, meeting his gaze. “Yeah… come in,” she said softly, her voice steadier than she felt.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with careful, deliberate movement. He leaned casually against the edge of her desk, hands tucked in his pockets and studied her for a moment before speaking again.

“I saw the flyer,” he said quietly, nodding toward the leaflet. “You thinking about going?”

Anaya’s fingers tightened on the paper, curling it slightly. She shifted her weight, uncertain how much to let him see. “I… don’t know. I’m not sure if I want to… or if I can,” she admitted, the words fragile, carrying the weight of hesitation.

Sam gave a small, understanding nod. “If you go, I’ll be there with you,” he said, simple, straightforward, no pressure, just presence.

Her eyes flicked up, surprised. “You don’t have to come,” she said quickly, almost defensive, as though the offer itself was an intrusion she hadn’t earned.

“I know that”, he replied, voice calm, measured. “I want to.”

A pause lingered between them, filled with quiet understanding. She studied him, trying to decipher the subtle steadiness in his expression. The reassurance wasn’t loud, wasn’t insistent; it was just there, like a solid presence in the space she could cling to if she chose.

“It’s… harder than I thought it would be,” she murmured, eyes dropping to the leaflet again. “Even thinking about showing up feels… impossible.”

“It’s supposed to be hard,” he said gently, leaning a little closer. “That’s why it matters. And you won’t be alone. Not for a second.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “I… I’ll think about it,” she said, soft, hesitant. She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust that she could take the first step, but years of survival instincts didn’t loosen easily.

Sam nodded, giving her a faint, reassuring smile. “That’s all anyone can ask,” he said. “Take your time. Decide when you’re ready. And I’ll be here.”

The quiet stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but charged. Her fingers brushed the leaflet again, tracing the words that seemed to hum beneath her touch. She wanted to tear it in half, crumple it, throw it away, but she also wanted to see what it could be.

Later that night, the office lights were off, and the building had slipped into quiet for the evening. Anaya sat on the edge of her bed, the city’s muted hum outside her window filling the gaps left by silence. Her phone rested on the nightstand, a small glow illuminating the screen.

She stared at it, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Finally, her fingers moved, careful, deliberate.

“I think… I’m going to the support group.”

She watched the message linger, unsent for a moment, the simple act of typing it already weighing on her chest. Then, finally, she pressed send.

Almost immediately, the response appeared.

“I’ll be there. No pressure, just here with you.”

Her chest lifted fractionally, a small tether to comfort she hadn’t allowed herself all day. A quiet gratitude threaded through her, unspoken but present, like a fragile pulse she could feel without needing to name it.

***

The room smelled faintly of coffee and paper, the low hum of the heater filling the silence as Anaya stepped into the circle of chairs. Sam followed closely behind, offering a small, reassuring smile that needed no words. She had tucked the flyer from Maria into her notebook, the paper pressed flat against her thigh like a secret she wasn’t ready to share.

She sank into the chair near the edge of the circle, hands folded in her lap, back straight but rigid. Sam took the seat beside her, close enough to be a quiet presence, far enough to let her breathe. The other participants were already seated, some shifting nervously, others staring at their laps, fingers twisting or tapping.

The facilitator, a calm woman with a gentle tone, broke the silence. “Welcome, everyone. Today, we’re here to simply share, if you feel comfortable. No pressure, no judgment. You can pass, you can speak, you can just listen.”

A young man at the far side of the circle cleared his throat, voice small and hesitant. “I… I lost my mom last year. Cancer. I thought I’d… I don’t know… feel okay after the funeral, but it’s like it never leaves. Some days I can’t even leave the apartment.” He glanced down at his shoes, cheeks flushing. “I feel… weak for that.”

A woman with a loose braid spoke next, voice shaking. “I was in a car accident. No one else was hurt, but I… I can’t drive anymore. Every time I even get in the car, my heart races, my hands shake. People tell me to get over it, but I can’t.”

Anaya’s eyes shifted from their hands to their faces. Ordinary people, ordinary lives… and yet they carried weight she hadn’t expected. She hadn’t realised trauma existed so quietly, so invisibly, beyond the horrors she’d seen.

A middle-aged man cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly. “I… I was in a bad marriage. Emotional abuse. Took me years to even call it that. Some nights, I wake up thinking I can hear the arguments again. My kids… they don’t even know.”

The facilitator nodded gently. “Thank you for sharing. Remember, every story matters here.”

A teenager’s voice, trembling, cut in softly. “I… I’ve been bullied since I was eleven. Still… it follows me. School, work, everywhere. I try to… just blend in, but I’m always… on edge. Like I’m waiting for the next attack.”

Sam’s hand shifted slightly, brushing the edge of Anaya’s notebook, a subtle tether. She didn’t look at him, just focused on the circle, absorbing the fragmented stories.

A woman with a quiet voice, eyes red-rimmed, added, “I survived cancer. I’m supposed to be happy now, I guess, but I… I feel guilty every time I cry. My friends say I should be grateful, but gratitude doesn’t erase the panic, the sleepless nights.”

The dialogue overlapped now, hesitant words spilling over one another. A man whispered about losing his brother to addiction, a woman shared her childhood trauma, and a young man admitted struggles with anxiety that made leaving the house impossible on some days.

Anaya shifted slightly, fingers flexing around the edge of her notebook. She had never considered the everyday weight people carried. Her own past felt extreme, yet here were these lives, normal in every sense, still fractured, still struggling, still needing help. She realised she had assumed trauma was something only extraordinary people bore, something tied to danger, to war, to life-and-death stakes. But it wasn’t. It was here, quiet, persistent, invisible.

The facilitator’s voice cut gently through the murmur. “If anyone feels comfortable, you can talk about small victories, progress, even if it’s tiny. Sometimes that’s what keeps us moving.”

A young woman spoke softly, voice cracking. “I managed to go grocery shopping today without panicking. I… I didn’t even cry. I know it’s small, but…” She trailed off, eyes misting over.

“That’s huge,” another participant replied, voice firm but kind. “Little victories matter more than people realise. Every step counts.”

A man in a grey hoodie spoke, voice low but clear. “I called my dad after years of silence. He didn’t answer, but I tried. That counts. Even if he doesn’t know it, it counts for me.”

The facilitator smiled warmly. “Yes. That’s exactly it. Every attempt matters. Every small act of courage matters.”

Anaya felt the tremor in her hands lessen slightly. She stayed quiet, observing, letting the words seep in. Sam’s presence beside her was constant, steady. He didn’t speak, only nodded occasionally, a silent affirmation.

A middle-aged woman, voice gentle but firm, added, “I’ve been in therapy before. I’ve tried all sorts of coping mechanisms. But sometimes, just showing up, listening… it’s enough. Someone acknowledging your existence, your pain, it matters.”

Anaya’s chest tightened. She hadn’t realised she craved this acknowledgement, not from a crowd, not from strangers, not from the world at large. Just from being seen, from having her presence, her silence, her weight recognised.

The room fell into a quieter rhythm, voices less hesitant now, more grounded, each participant adding small pieces of themselves without forcing perfection. Stories of panic, grief, anxiety, illness, estrangement, and silent battles filled the air. There were no heroic tales, no grand rescues, just human endurance.

The facilitator leaned forward slightly. “Remember, you don’t have to fix anything. Being present is enough. Witnessing, acknowledging, surviving—these are acts of courage.”

Anaya exhaled slowly, realising the truth of it. She hadn’t spoken a word, hadn’t shared a fragment of her own past, yet the circle had shifted something inside her. These were ordinary people, and yet, the weight they carried resonated with her own. Not because it was the same, but because it was human.

Anaya’s fingers traced the edge of her notebook. Her pulse was still uneven, her chest tight, but it no longer felt like a trap. It felt… expansive, like she had stepped into a world she had never seen but had always needed.

The facilitator’s soft voice drew the session to a close. “Take what you need from today. Let the rest, rest for now. And remember, showing up, even in silence, is progress. You matter, and so does your story.”

The participants began to gather their belongings, murmuring small acknowledgements to one another. Anaya rose slowly, notebook in hand. She didn’t speak, didn’t need to. Sam followed, a quiet shadow, as they moved toward the door.

Outside, the morning sun touched the edges of the building. Anaya felt the weight of the room lingering in her chest, a strange mixture of heaviness and light. She realised, with a subtle ache, that survival wasn’t just about strength or endurance. It was about witnessing, being witnessed, and carrying forward in fragments, quietly, deliberately, and together.

She looked at Sam, voice finally breaking her silence. “I… I’ll try again next time.”

He gave a faint, encouraging smile. “I’ll be there with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know that.”

She exhaled, letting the words and the moment settle. For the first time that day, the ember of something like hope flickered within her.

“You did good today,” he said softly. “Really good.”

She offered a small nod, still quiet, letting the words settle.

The streetlights flickered along the pavement, long shadows stretching across parked cars and empty sidewalks. For a moment, she thought she saw movement, a figure lingering across the street, just beyond the glow of a lamp. The shape was indistinct, easily dismissed, but her chest tensed in a familiar way, the instinctive alertness of someone who had learned too young to trust the absence of danger.

She shook her head slightly, trying to ignore it. “I’m fine,” she murmured, more to herself than to Sam.

He didn’t push. He never did.

And somewhere, in the distance or the shadows, it became clear: after all this time… Anaya Kapoor wasn’t as gone as they had believed.