Crimson Love

Chapter Eight | 1951

"Be prepared to move bases in an hour. You're getting shipped off to the Siberian facility. I'll arrive three weeks after you. I trust you know to be obedient while I'm not there," Viktor asserts, standing in the doorway of my room as I hastily pack my duffle bag.

With a nod, I reply, suppressing the memories of the repercussions for disobedience. The lingering pain from my previous punishment reminds me not to rest on my back, aggravating the wounds.

_______

"Welcome to Siberia!" a man shouts over the thunderous blades of the helicopter as we land.

Silently, I acknowledge his greeting, aware that speaking is forbidden. The man tightly grips my arm, guiding me towards the entrance of the facility. The frigid wind ceases its assault on my body as we step inside, bringing a wave of relief.

"I'll show you to your room. You're to remain there until someone retrieves you," the man instructs, leading me through a labyrinth of corridors fortified with steel walls.

He opens a heavy door and forcefully shoves me into the room. The resonating slam accentuates the silence as I drop my duffel bag onto the worn cot. The threadbare blanket offers little comfort, and the pillow is a mere semblance of its former self. Swiftly, I unpack, stowing my clothes in the drawers of the tall dresser and carefully placing my weapons in the closet. I always keep a blade strapped to my thigh, a constant companion.

Finished with my task, I lie down on the rigid mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Hours pass before someone finally arrives. I sit up as the door creaks open, my breath catching at the sight of Vasily Karpov himself, the enigmatic head of Hydra.

"Get up," he commands, and I obey without hesitation.

Vasily's gaze scrutinizes me, oozing with disdain. Stepping aside, he reveals a man standing behind him. The piercing blue eyes of the male fixate on me, devoid of any flicker of emotion. He enters the room, emanating the scent of leather and gunpowder. Blood seeps through the crevices of his bionic arm, a haunting sight. I know instantly that this man before me is the Winter Soldier, a legend in his own right.

I stand tall, every muscle taut, as I recall the rumors of his return from a covert operation in the Korean War. Whispers abound of his encounter with an American super soldier in Goyang.

Before I can react, his fist strikes my jaw with brutal force, hurtling me to the side. My hand instinctively rises to cradle my throbbing face. Vasily steps forward, his contemptuous glare penetrating my soul.

"Weak," he sneers, spitting on me.

As I gaze up at the Winter Soldier, an unsettling fear takes hold. Emotionless, he stands like an immovable sentinel, his gaze fixed ahead. Behind those cold eyes, there resides neither thought nor semblance of humanity.

Vasily's voice resounds, mocking me, "Welcome to Siberia, wench."