That was the first thing she registered—a cold so deep it felt like it lived in her bones, like she'd been lying on ice for hours. Or days.

The second thing was the dark. Not the soft dark of a bedroom at night, but the thick, suffocating dark of a place where light had never been meant to reach.

She tried to move.

Metal clinked against metal. Chains. Her wrists were bound above her head, arms stretched taut, shoulders screaming in protest. Her ankles, too—spread just enough to keep her off-balance, useless.

She blinked. Or thought she did. Her eyes were already open.

Where was she?

The last thing she remembered—the street. Sunlight. A coffee shop. She'd been walking home, hands in her pockets, thinking about Bucky. About the wedding. About the way he'd kissed her that morning, soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world.

Then—

Nothing.