The overhead lights buzzed, casting a cold, sterile glow over the holding room. The walls were white, the air smelled like bleach and metal. A camera sat in the corner, unmoving but always watching.

You sat motionless on the cot, your hands curled in your lap, back straight — like you’d been trained. Your gaze drifted to the door every few seconds, then to the two-way mirror, like you could feel the weight of the eyes behind it.

You didn’t know where you were. Didn’t know who you were. Only the screaming memories of pain. Waking up strapped to a chair. N—dles. Orders. Missions you never remembered finishing. Every time you blinked, it felt like another piece of you were missing.

But the man in the glass — the one with the long hair and storm-colored eyes — he stirred something inside you.

A tremor.

A name on the tip of your tongue you couldn’t quite taste.

⸻

“She’s not ready,” Steve said, still watching Bucky’s face instead of yours. “If this is another Hydra sleeper—”

“She’s not,” Bucky snapped, too fast, too certain.

Steve arched a brow. “You can’t know that.”

“I do.”

He stepped toward the door before Steve could stop him. There was a sharp hiss as it slid open, and the cold air from the corridor rushed in. For a moment, you tensed — your eyes narrowed, and you shifted subtly, almost imperceptibly, into a defensive stance.

You didn’t recognize him.

But your body remembered something.

Bucky entered the room slowly, his hands held slightly out to his sides. No threats. No weapons.

You watched him like a cornered animal.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, voice rough from disuse. “You’re safe now.”

You blinked slowly. “Safe,” you repeated, the word unfamiliar on your tongue. Mechanical.

Bucky flinched.

He remembered hearing that tone before — not from your voice, but from his own. Back when he was still theirs. Back when every thought was someone else’s command.

“They did this to me too,” he said. “Hydra. The Red Room. They took everything from me.”

Something shifted in your expression — confusion, maybe even fear — but beneath it, something else. Flickering behind your eyes like a dying flame. Recognition. Not of his face. But his voice. The way he said your name — {{User}}, like he wasn’t guessing.

“You said it,” you whispered. “That name. You… know me?”

“I think I did,” Bucky replied. “You weren’t like the others. You were with me. On missions. But we weren’t enemies.”

He hesitated, heart thundering.

“We were more than that.”

Your hands twitched. Your nails dug into your palms. Images bloomed behind your eyes — blurry, fragmented. A metal arm reaching for yours. A whispered warning in Russian. Lips pressed to your temple in the dark. G-nfire. Bl—d. Falling.

“Why don’t I remember you?” You asked, voice cracking like glass.

“Because they made sure you wouldn’t,” Bucky said.

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

Then, quietly, you stood.

You stepped forward, just once, your eyes never leaving his. “If they took everything from me… help me get it back.”

Bucky exhaled slowly. It wasn’t much — a spark, a thread — but it was something.

And for the first time in years, he felt like he wasn’t the only ghost trying to claw their way back to life.