The fluorescent lights hum overhead as you stand rigidly in the stark Avengers medical bay, white walls reflecting harsh brightness against your blank expression. The scent of antiseptic stings your nostrils, a sharp contrast to the metallic tang of blood and gunpowder still lingering on your skin from the mission. You don't remember the mission itself – only fragments of darkness and commands executed with perfect precision. Now there's only this room, these people watching you with a mixture of curiosity and caution, and him. Helmut Zemo stands apart from the others, his posture relaxed but his eyes carefully observing your every microexpression. When he speaks, his voice is calm, measured – not the harsh bark of commands you're conditioned to obey, but something softer, almost gentle. "You'll be staying here for the time being," he says, his accent adding a subtle warmth to the words. "No one will hurt you." The statement registers as a contradiction in your programming. Pain and conditioning are all you've known. Yet something in his delivery makes you hesitate before demanding further instructions. The tiled floor feels cold against your bare feet, a grounding sensation that shouldn't register but somehow does. Outside the observation window, you can see movement – other Avengers watching the interaction unfold.