CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO — ( Last time I trusted someone, I lost an eye. )
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Nineteen-forty-eight The air was thick with an unpleasant scent in the dimly lit Russian base. The woman sat strapped to a cold, metallic chair. Her heart raced, not from fear, but from the remnants of a defiance that had been beaten into submission. She had once been someone, but her past, the person she was, had been erased, leaving only a hollow shell.
A large group of men wearing black tactical gear with a red octopus emblem looked at her like vultures. Their eyes were masked, but their intentions were clear. They had trained her to harness her pain, to turn agony into precision. However, each session was a fresh wound; each electric jolt was a reminder of the humanity they were trying to extinguish.
"Focus," a scientist instructed, followed by poking the woman with an electric rod. The rod crackled with energy. "You're here to be HYDRA's weapon."
The initial jolt struck her like a lightning bolt, surging through her veins and taking her breath away. She gasped as her body convulsed against the restraints. Memories flickered in her mind like a damaged film reel—laughter, warmth, love. However, each time she tried to grasp them, the electric current severed the connection, pulling her back into the void.
"Again," the scientist commanded, and again, she felt the searing pain. "You'll learn to forget."
Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into years. The sessions blurred together. Each morning began with a dozen different drugs injected into her, dulling her senses, the only way they could keep her compliant and weak. The men had grown adept at breaking her down, erasing any trace of her former self. They whispered lies, taunting her with glimpses of her past, only to snatch them away or twist them into something they were not.
"Do you remember your family?" one of them sneered during a particularly brutal session. He held up a photo of the parents. "You had a mother and father, didn't you? What was their names? Oh, that's right, no one cares anymore."
As she endured torment, her memories faded. The echoes of laughter were replaced with Russian words that transformed her into someone she wasn't. She learned to suppress her emotions and bury the pain deep within her. But a spark of rebellion remained beneath the surface, an ember that refused to be extinguished. A few memories persisted, resisting the transformation into the monster that HYDRA desired.
One night, after a particularly gruelling day, she lay in her cell, staring at the concrete ceiling. Most of the drugs had worn off, and for a brief moment, there was clarity. She recalled a name—Steve. It was faint, like a whisper on the wind. Who was Steve? Why did her heart ache at the thought? But before she could grasp it, the darkness consumed her once more.
