' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

Planned To The Second

Sova

The heels click too loud.

The fabric hugs too tight.

And the air is too sweet, too fake—perfume and champagne masking the rot underneath.

I stand still, watching men and women in glittering gowns and polished shoes swirl around each other, laughing like the world never asked anything of them but to exist. These people have never had to bleed to earn their place. Never fought tooth and nail just to be seen. Never knelt on cold floors, wrists raw and ribs cracked, and still had to prove they were useful.

They don't even know what it means to survive.

I stare at them and feel it crawling up my spine—that old, coiled thing made of steel and teeth and spite. The need to break something beautiful just to see if it bleeds.

My eyes search for an anchor. Something real.

Bucky. He's standing across the ballroom, awkward in a suit but pulling it off somehow. Tense shoulders. Watchful eyes. He looks as out of place as I feel—but steady. Real. I let myself look—just for a second—at the way the light hits his jaw, the set of his mouth, the way his hand twitches before taking the glass of champagne.

He catches me watching.

His gaze softens.

I look away before I let it soften me.

And when I look back... he's gone.

Gone.

A cold ripple licks at my gut.

I tap my comm. "Where's Barnes?"

Static, then Fury's voice: "We've lost his signal. Could be interference, but—"

"I'm going to find him."

"Negative. Stay where you are, that's an order. If they're baiting you, you're walking straight into it."

"I don't follow bad orders." I pull the earpiece out mid-threat and pocket it. Fury can yell later.

The air outside is colder. Quieter. I slip through the garden terrace and follow the alley shadows. The dress isn't made for this—neither are the shoes—but I've fought in worse. I was worse.

A sound.

Footsteps. From the dark.

I stop, breath held.

Then—

He steps out.

And I freeze.

Pierce.

Alive.

Not dead. Not locked up. Not a memory. Here.

The world drops away for a second.

He's older—barely. Controlled as ever. He's not armed, not visibly, but he doesn't need to be. His presence alone is a gun to the temple.

"Well," he says smoothly, like we're old friends meeting by coincidence. "Ace. You're back, dear."

I don't move. Can't. My brain is trying to decide whether to kill him or scream or run. I do none of those.

He smiles like he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "You look good. Healthier than I expected. That dress—flattering. Barnes must've appreciated it."

My breath stutters for half a second. He saw. He's been watching.

"You... shouldn't be here," I say finally, voice low, hoarse.