I moved fast through the lower levels, each hallway darker and more cracked than the last. The deeper I got, the less clean and structured Hydra's base became—wires dangled like vines from the ceiling, and scorch marks lined the walls from past failures, fights, or maybe worse. The place felt abandoned in spots, like even Hydra didn't like coming down here.
Good. That meant fewer eyes.
The prison block was in chaos behind me—screams, gunfire, the roar of something massive echoing through the vents. I didn't look back. I couldn't afford to. Those poor souls I'd let out were either going to die free or live angry, but either way—they bought me time.
I hit the final corridor marked Hangar Access B4, my boots kicking up dust as I ran. A siren blared above me again, mechanical and cold, followed by the same voice from earlier.
"Warning: Level 4 breach confirmed. Reinforcements en route. Engage all threats."
Reinforcements. That was my cue to move faster.
I turned a corner and froze.
A lone Hydra soldier was standing guard by the hangar's bulkhead doors. Young. Too young, maybe—helmet slightly askew, hands trembling as he fumbled with his rifle. Maybe they'd pulled him from a desk. Maybe he was fresh out of some training program.
He looked up. Our eyes met.
He raised his rifle.
Too slow.
I fired twice—center mass. He dropped like a sack of bricks, blood spreading across the floor. No time for hesitation. No time to feel bad. If I started counting kills, I'd drown in it.
The hangar door hissed open with a clang.
Inside was the jackpot: a maintenance station tucked into the corner, tools scattered everywhere, fuel drums lined against the wall. And right in the center, sitting on a maintenance jack, was a matte black motorcycle. Sleek, fast, custom-built for combat.
Hydra insignias painted on the side.
"Perfect," I muttered.
I dropped my rifle, grabbed a pair of Hydra gloves off a bench, and checked the bike's fuel—full tank. No keys, but that didn't matter. I'd already figured out how to hotwire anything with wheels thanks to a mix of old Shredder memories and whatever Bucky had buried in his head.
The bike roared to life, its engine snarling like a beast awakened.
I backed it off the jack, turned it toward the massive hangar exit—a blast door cracked just wide enough to slip through—and hit the throttle.
The bike exploded forward.
I shot through the tunnel, engine howling, the wind tearing at my jacket. The tunnel wasn't built for speed—pipes and cables hung dangerously low, and sharp turns threatened to toss me off—but I leaned into it, letting instinct guide me. One wrong move and I'd become paste on the wall.
But the longer I rode, the closer freedom got. I could feel it.
Then the tunnel opened up. The concrete gave way to rock—then daylight. Blinding daylight.
I burst out of the tunnel mouth and into open air, the front wheel of the motorcycle catching a bit of air before landing hard on dirt and gravel. My eyes adjusted quickly, and I realized where I was.
A mountainside.
High up. Trees below me, snow-dusted peaks above. A hidden facility carved into the spine of the earth. I looked back once, just long enough to see smoke rising from the hidden exit. A metal door slowly closing behind me, sealing the nightmare I'd just escaped.
But I was already gone.
The road ahead was rough—narrow trails, gravel paths, no guard rails—but I didn't slow down. I weaved through the trees, tires kicking up dust and leaves as I thundered down the mountain, faster and faster, each second putting more space between me and that hellhole.
I didn't know where I was going. Didn't know what country I was in. Didn't know if anyone out there would help me.
But I was alive.
Free.
And for the first time since waking up in this body, I wasn't surrounded by steel walls and Hydra lies.
Just the wind.
The mountains.
And the long road ahead.
Hydra would come.
They'd send everything they had.
But now?
Now I had a head start.
And I was done running.