You have one. Several, actually. They're wearing earpieces and trying very hard not to stare at you for too long.

The whiskey in your tumbler is good. A Macallan, maybe. Aged eighteen years. You take a small sip, let it burn a little, and keep your posture loose. Your clutch is tucked under your arm—just a clutch, no hidden compartments, nothing that would scream operative. You're just another guest at a very expensive party. A woman in a black cocktail dress that fits you like it was tailored, which it was. Heels that add three inches to your five-seven frame. Hair down, makeup minimal.

Leo told you, whispered it over the comms hidden in the clasp of your clutch an hour ago, they're closing in. They know you're here. They don't know who, but they know.

So you stay. You play the part. You stand at the bar like you belong here—and in a way, you do. You paid for the drink. You paid for the dress. You exist in this room, same as anyone else.

Across the floor, Tony Stark is laughing at something Pepper said, a champagne flute in his hand, his posture theatrical and easy. A man who owns every room he walks into. Pepper is smiling, serene in deep blue, her hand resting on his arm.

They don't look at you. None of them do. That's the point.

Steve Rogers is near the hors d'oeuvres, pretending to be fascinated by a crudité platter. Natasha is in conversation with a diplomat, her smile sharp and pleasant. Sam Wilson is nodding along to something Thor is saying, one eye scanning the room with the practiced subtlety of a man who's done this a thousand times.

And Bucky Barnes—

He's near the far wall, half-leaning against a pillar, dressed in a dark suit that fits him well. His metal hand is gloved. He looks uncomfortable, like he'd rather be anywhere else, like he's counting the minutes until he can leave.

Then his eyes land on you.

And he stops counting.

The look is a double-take. A blink. A moment where his gaze catches and holds, and you see him process you—not as a target, not as a variable in a trap. Just as a woman at a bar. Just as someone he noticed.

His jaw tightens slightly. He doesn't look away.

You hold his gaze. Take another sip of your whiskey. Deliberately. Slowly.