' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

The Start Of The Hunt

Sova

"You did so well, my dear."

Pierce's voice dripped like oil—smooth, heavy, and suffocating. The term of endearment made my stomach twist. My dear. He said it like I was something he owned, a pet he'd trained, a weapon he'd built.

I stood at attention in his office—the same room where he'd once ordered my isolation. The air smelled faintly of old paper and antiseptic, the hum of the overhead lights slicing through the silence. My gaze stayed locked on the golden crest embedded in the marble floor, not daring to meet his eyes until I had to.

When I finally did, his pale stare was waiting. Unblinking. Testing.

I knew better than to let anything show. With Pierce, even tension was a tell. He could make a single twitch of muscle feel like betrayal.

I nodded once. Silent. Precise.
The image of the target flashed again—his eyes wide, blood bubbling past his lips as he reached for me. The weight of the dagger twisting in my hand. The sound it made when it broke through flesh. I could still feel the warmth splatter against my cheek. Too real. Too familiar.

"Mission report."

His tone was sharp, like a blade drawn clean from its sheath. He stepped out from behind his desk with that measured gait of his—too smooth to be casual, too deliberate not to mean danger.

"The target is deceased," I said, my voice devoid of anything human. Even I was startled by how flat it sounded. "Killed by a dagger. Twist cut."

Pierce's lips curved—not into a smile, but something worse. Amusement. Approval. Cruel pride.

"I knew you could do it," he said, stopping just short of me. I could feel his presence like static, pressing against my skin. "After all, your achievements are a reflection of how well my efforts have paid off."

My jaw clenched before I could stop it. The smallest flicker of tension. His eyes caught it immediately.

His efforts. That's what I was to him. Proof that his manipulation worked. That I was the perfect outcome of his design.

"Although," he continued, voice softening into something that pretended to be kind, "I do have another mission for you. I'd wager you're up for it?"

I lifted my chin from where my gaze had dropped to the porcelain floor. "Affirmative."

He clapped once. The sound echoed like mock applause.

"Excellent."

He turned to his filing cabinet—metal drawers that had seen more blood than paper—and pulled out a folder so worn it had lost its color. When he handed it to me, I hesitated. My fingers brushed the surface, and for a split second, I thought of all the other folders that had led me to kill. Then I opened it anyway.

"The Sword of Unspoken Truths," he said, watching me carefully. The words were weighted, ceremonial—fake importance wrapped in self-indulgent grandeur.

As I skimmed through the pages, I caught fragmented details. A location. A timeframe. A name—Avengers.

Pierce's voice sliced through the quiet again. "We have intel they're planning to take it before we can. This is your moment to show HYDRA—and me—that you're still loyal. That you're not... compromised."

The word hit harder than it should have. Compromised. His eyes were sharp, dissecting me, looking for a flicker of something—regret, fear, hesitation. A glitch in the code he'd built me from.

The seed of doubt he planted took root instantly. The thought of him—Bucky—flashed through my mind like an exposed wire. I forced the image away. The mission came first. Always. Above all.

"What are my orders?"

Pierce smiled faintly, the kind of smile that could convince someone it was mercy when it wasn't.
"To protect and retrieve the sword," he said. Calm. Absolute. "Don't disappoint me, dear."

The name made my chest tighten, the weight of it pressing against bruised ribs. I wanted to tell him not to call me that—but I knew better. Words were weaknesses in his world.

"Dismissed," he said simply, turning his back to me to stare at the map behind his desk. Red strings connected cities, names, and numbers like veins across the surface. His world, his control.

I didn't hesitate. I turned and walked out, each step precise. Controlled. My heartbeat was the only thing betraying me—loud and unsteady against the emptiness inside.

In the corridor, the fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, flickering over steel and concrete. The air felt too thin.

Rumlow passed me, an earpiece dangling from one hand, a tablet in the other. His smirk was casual—too casual. Like he knew something I didn't. Like he could already see the strings tightening around me.

And for the first time, that scared me.

Not failing the mission. Not Pierce's punishment. But the feeling that whatever came next was already decided—and I was just walking straight into it.

Thirty-five hours.

That's what the file said. Thirty-five hours until deployment. Thirty-five hours until the hunt began.

Unless, of course, this time...
I was the one being hunted.