It had been three days since the mission. Three days since the extraction had gone wrong. Three days since the building had collapsed with Y/n still inside.

The team was scattered across the room. Tony sat at the bar, a glass of scotch untouched in front of him, staring at the holographic blueprints of the Hydra facility he refused to close. Steve was by the window, arms crossed, watching the city like it might offer him an answer. Natasha was on the couch, legs drawn up, eyes fixed on the muted television. Clint sat on the floor, back against the wall, twirling an arrow between his fingers. Bruce was in the armchair, a tablet in his lap, scrolling through data that hadn't changed in hours. Thor stood near the balcony doors, his silhouette massive against the glass. Bucky was in the corner, half in shadow, his metal hand clenched into a fist.

Peter was the one who broke the silence.

Bucky was still staring at the floor, jaw tight.

Far away, buried beneath layers of broken concrete and twisted steel, Y/n's fingers twitched.

Dust filled the air. Thick. Choking. The first breath was a ragged, shallow thing. Pain bloomed across their ribs. Their leg was pinned. Something wet was drying on their temple. The world was dark and cold and so, so quiet.

Above them, a sliver of light cut through the rubble.

They were alive.