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Ivanov Residence: Moscow Outskirts

Date: August 10, 1995

Subject: PROJECT N-13 (Anya Ivanova)

Pale winter light slipped through the lace curtains of her room, casting shadows across the wooden floor. Anya sat cross-legged by the window, brushing the hair of her porcelain doll while the gentle hum of an old Russian lullaby filled the room.

She had adjusted to life here so completely that the memories of her real family—the life she had before—were only shadows now. Faint whispers of faces, voices, and places she could no longer touch. Howard and Maria Stark, her parents, Tony Stark, her brother, were distant ghosts, their names strangers on her tongue. They were nothing but a fading dream, lost in time.

Her mother—Irina—sat behind her, carefully parting her long dark hair and running a comb through the strands with patient, practiced hands.

"Ты моя маленькая пташка..."
(You are my little bird...)

Anya closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the lullaby calm the quiet hum inside her chest. This was the only time she felt peace. Her mother's hands didn't hurt. Her mother's voice didn't order. Her mother's love wasn't sharp like the others.

"Mama," Anya said softly, breaking the silence, "Will we go to the market tomorrow?"

Irina paused, her hands lingering on the braid she was finishing. "If your father allows it, moya milaya, we will."

"Can we get a scarf for Sasha?" Anya said, holding up her doll with a shy smile.

A doll—given to her by her mother—to give her some normalcy of the child she was meant to be.

Irina chuckled. "We'll see."

There was a knock at the door. Firm. Precise. Cold.

Irina's face changed, just slightly—her smile dimming at the edges.

Anya could sense that her mother did not wish for this sweet moment to end.

She liked it when it was just her and her mother.

"He's ready for you," came the voice of the guard outside.

Irina's hand dropped from Anya's hair. Her warm fingers brushed against the girl's cheek as she leaned close and kissed her head. "Go. Don't speak unless asked. And remember, moya milaya... do not let them see your fear."

"Yes, Mama."

Irina once again caressed her daughter's cheek, smiling at her. "I love you, Anya."

Anya nodded, though the words felt foreign to her, no matter how many times Irina said it to her. She had no room for love anymore—not in this place.

So she smiled softly in return, but the smile never quite reached her eyes.

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The air was colder in her father's study. The fire burned low in the hearth, but there was no warmth here.

Dimitri sat at his heavy oak desk, hands folded over a thick file marked with red symbols and black tape. His uniform was crisp. His eyes were not.

She stood in the doorway, not moving until he gestured.

"You're nine," he said without looking up. "Old enough."

She said nothing. Her face was a mask—emotionless, unreadable. She had learned long ago that tears were punished, that smiles were pointless. Her father was not a man who responded to feeling. He only responded to results.

"We're moving to the final stage of your preparation," Dimitri said. "You begin formal combat training today. There are others who have already started at your age. You're late. Soft. We're fixing that."

Still, she said nothing. Not a flinch. Not a blink. Just a silent nod.

"You'll be training with the Winter Soldier," he added, voice darkening. "Do as he says. No talking. No questions. No weakness. Understood?"

Another nod.

He finally looked at her—and there was nothing in his eyes. Not pride. Not disgust. Just ownership.

When she turned to leave, she felt a hand on her shoulder, turning her around to face him.

"You're forgetting something."

Anya knew what he wanted her to say. It was a tradition amongst them all to say those words.

She never understood why though.

"I–"

"Don't make me hit you again," he warned, his hand squeezing the shoulder that had been bruised not too long ago. "What do you say?"

Anya gulped, blinking back the tears away quickly. "Hail Hydra."

A satisfied nod was received by Dimitri. "Leave."

She turned and left.

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The underground facility smelled like oil and metal. This was her true home. She just didn't remember the one before.

Her boots echoed down the long corridor until she reached the training chamber.

He was already there.

The Winter Soldier.

Four months had passed since she had last seen him. Back then, he had disappeared after a mission gone wrong. She wasn't supposed to hear anything—but she always listened. She'd heard Dimitri muttering about him being "unstable," about "reprogramming."

Now, he stood at the center of the mat like a statue made of frost and violence. His metal arm gleamed under the lights. His eyes—still tired, still haunted—watched her as she approached.

But something was different. Each time he disappeared, he came back more hollow. Like they were scooping out pieces of him and leaving behind just a shell.

He didn't speak as she stepped onto the mat.

He simply raised a hand, motioning for her to attack.

She did.

They moved like dancers—violent, silent, efficient. She was small, fast, and focused. He was brutal and unrelenting. But never cruel.

He corrected her form with the gentlest pressure of his hand, but said nothing. No commands. No criticism. Just nods.

It lasted over an hour.

Then, when she landed flat on her back, winded and gasping, he finally spoke.

His voice was low. Rough. Scarred. "Again."

She looked up, stunned—not by the word, but by the sound. In all her years here, she had never heard it from him. His voice. It was like hearing the world shift slightly on its axis.

She rose, catching her breath. "You speak."

He looked away.

"What's your name?" she asked softly.

His jaw tightened. "I don't have one."

Anya tilted her head. "Everyone has a name."

The Soldier's face hardened. "I'm not everyone."

She hesitated. "Then I'll give you one. Just like my mama gave me mine."

He snapped his head toward her, voice sharp now. "No."

The word cut like ice. Final. Unmovable.

She shrank slightly, surprised. Not afraid—but confused.

"Why?"

"Names are for people," he said. "I'm not a person."

Anya stared at him for a long moment, heart thudding quietly in her chest.

"...I think you are," she whispered.

He looked away again. And this time, his silence was different.

Not cold.

But appreciated?

And, for the first time in years, Anya was starting to realise that maybe... the Winter Soldier wasn't just a shadow in the darkness.

Maybe... he was the closest thing to a protector she would ever have.

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author's note:

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