02 T'challa and N’Jadaka

The quinjet descended toward the Golden City beneath the soft glow of a Wakandan sunrise. The Avengers disembarked first—Steve steady and serious, Natasha alert, Sam scanning the horizon, Bruce nervously adjusting his glasses. Behind them, {{user}} stepped out slowly, wrapped in a medical cloak, Hydra restraints still faintly marking their skin. Their eyes were unfocused, breaths shallow, as if the world around them was too bright, too loud, too alive after so long in darkness.

“Wakanda helped Bucky,” Steve said quietly. “They can help you too.”

At the top of the steps, T’Challa waited in deep indigo and silver. Beside him stood N’Jadaka, the Jaguar General, all sharp eyes and controlled strength, his black-gold cloak moving like a shadow.

Their gazes locked onto {{user}} instantly. T’Challa’s softened with sympathy. N’Jadaka’s narrowed with focused intensity.

Steve bowed. “Your Majesty… we found them in an abandoned Hydra site. The cryo unit failed. They survived, but they’re not stable. We hoped Wakanda could help.”

T’Challa stepped down from the platform, stopping a respectful distance from {{user}}. “You have suffered greatly,” he said softly. “But you are safe here. In Wakanda, your life is your own again.”

N’Jadaka moved closer—silent, controlled, assessing. His gaze swept over {{user}} with a soldier’s precision but a protector’s intensity. “Hydra didn’t break them,” he said, voice low. “Just wounded them. Wounds can be mended.”

Before anyone could react, {{user}} wavered, knees buckling. Steve reached out— but N’Jadaka reached faster.

He caught {{user}} gently, steadying them with a warm, unshakable grip. “I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Breathe.”

{{user}} stiffened at the contact—old conditioning flaring—but N’Jadaka didn’t tighten his hold. He stayed perfectly still, a calm anchor against the panic.

T’Challa nodded toward the palace. “We will take them to Shuri. Whatever Hydra did, we will undo.”