' ' Perfect Enough To Break ' '

Unknown Lies

Sova

Prague had been on my list of promises for years—something I told myself I would earn if I did everything right, if I stayed useful, if I stopped wanting anything except to be better at the things they trained me to be. When the helicopter set me down on the perimeter and the air smelled like old stone and rain, a small, traitorous part of me remembered those childish daydreams about museums and quiet streets. For a second the city was almost gentle.

Then I remembered why I was here.

A man from the escort pointed toward the side street where the artifact was kept, voice clipped, efficient. No ceremony—HYDRA never wasted spectacle.

 The box that contained the sword was dull and heavy under my hand like a secret that had been kept waiting too long. The smell of metal and oil clung to the wood as I opened it: the blade was darker than I expected, not polished but functional, its edge humming with a cold that felt personal when I held it.

 I wrapped a cloth over the hilt and secured it to my pack, practiced motions, no hesitation. Mission first. Always the mission.

My phone buzzed before I could move away from the crate. Pierce's name on the screen alone made my stomach tighten—he never called unless there was something he wanted to fold tight around my skull. I answered because ignoring him was a different kind of mistake.

He spoke. He spoke for longer than he usually did. Mostly he spoke. His voice oiled over the line—calm, precise, the kind of voice that could make a threat feel like a lullaby. I kept my end of the call to nods and the smallest of replies because that was what he expected: compliance. He ran through details, small updates, logistics. 

Then his tone shifted, colder and tighter, and his words focused in on someone—someone I knew but didn't know in the same sentence. The words hit like a hand I hadn't seen coming, a surprise that wasn't a surprise because it belonged to him.

I hung up on him with a snap, the kind of motion that left the phone ringing at my ear for a second before the line went dead.

The anger filled my gaze like a visible thing. My hands, which are usually steady as instruments, clenched without thought. I was about to leave—pack up, move out—when the screen lit again. Pierce, but this time his voice carried a warning.

"You have to be careful," he said. "Someone's in the area. Not for you yet—maybe for the sword. Expect interference."

He didn't need to tell me more. The word interference meant bodies on the street, handlers watching the exits, an invisible net tightening. I slid my pack on, the cloth over the sword trading warmth for cold, and checked my stance. Fight-ready. The way my shoulders set, the way my knees bent—habits from another life. I moved into a posture that meant I was about to kill if I had to.

The alley ahead of me breathed shallow and dark. I stepped soft, boots whispering on old paving stones. Then boots in the corner of my eye—movement that wasn't mine. I turned, sword of untold truths already in my hand, and found him.

Bucky.