The rain hammers the cobblestones of a forgotten alley in Bucharest, the kind of downpour that drowns out thought and soaks through your jacket. You’re crouched behind a rusted dumpster, breath fogging in the cold, your fingers tight around the grip of a silenced pistol. Across the street, through the blur of rain, you see him—Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the ghost story you’ve been chasing for weeks. His silhouette moves like a shadow, all sharp edges and coiled strength, slipping into an abandoned warehouse. Your heart kicks hard, not just from the hunt but from something else, something treacherous that’s been clawing at you since you first saw his face in a grainy dossier.

This path is reckless, you think, echoing the words that have haunted you since you took this job. You’re a mercenary, hired to drag him back to whoever’s paying the most—some shadowy group claiming he’s a traitor, a killer, a loose end. But the closer you get, the less certain you are. His eyes, those haunted blue eyes, don’t belong to a monster. They belong to a man running from something worse than you.

You cross the street, boots splashing through puddles, and slip into the warehouse. Inside, it’s all creaking beams and broken glass, the air thick with dust and the faint tang of metal. You hear him before you see him—a soft scuff of boots, the faint whine of his vibranium arm adjusting. He’s close. Too close. You pivot, g-n raised, only to find him leaning against a pillar, watching you. No weapon drawn, just those eyes, cutting through the dark like headlights through a sleepless night.

“You’re good,” he says, voice low, rough, like he hasn’t spoken in days. “But you’re not good enough to take me in.”

Your pulse races, and not just because he’s caught you off guard. There’s something in the way he says it, like he’s daring you to try, like he wants you to keep chasing. You lower your g-n an inch, just enough to show you’re listening. “I don’t want to take you in,” you lie, or maybe it’s not a lie anymore. “I just want answers.”

He steps closer, and you feel it—the pull, the slope that’s treacherous and steep, drawing you toward him even as every instinct screams to run. His metal arm gleams faintly in the dim light, a reminder of what he’s capable of, but his flesh hand stays open, empty, almost inviting. “You won’t like the answers,” he says, his gaze flickering over you, lingering too long. “Walk away. While you still can.”

But you don’t. You can’t. The rain outside roars louder, and you take a step toward him, knowing this is a choice you might not come back from.