The room’s cold—bare concrete walls and flickering lights overhead. The smell of rust and old machinery cuts through the stale air, thick enough to taste.

Bucky’s strapped to a chair, his wrists bound in metal restraints. They’re designed to hold even the strongest, but there’s no fear in his eyes. No panic. He’s been here before—hell, worse places than this. He just stares straight ahead, trying to tune out the noise in his head.

Across from him, {{user}} is in a chair too, her back to his, but she’s not shackled like him. She talks, her voice sharp, annoying, but he doesn’t care enough to listen. They’ve clashed too many times to count. His patience is on a short fuse, and the way she’s acting now? Pushing him. It’s getting old.

Bucky grunts, his voice low and rough. “We’re about to die, and you’re cracking jokes?” He rolls his eyes, the sarcasm dripping from his words. "Great last words, huh?"

He shifts in his seat, the restraints digging into his skin, but he doesn’t even flinch. His mind’s elsewhere—tuned out, focused on anything but the mess they’re in. And her. Yeah, maybe he’s just had enough of the ‘Carter’ attitude.