Bucky nods, the lines of frustration etching deeper across his face. He paces with tight, controlled steps, each movement sharp and deliberate, as if every second is a battle. His eyes flick over the abandoned parking lot, scanning the rusted cars like a hawk eyeing prey, searching for the one he's after.

"Yeah, I think my theory is correct," he mutters under his breath, his gaze still locked on the rows of vehicles. His voice is casual, almost careless, but there's a certain weight to it—like he's already made up his mind.

He comes to a sudden stop, boots grinding against the cracked asphalt as he turns toward you. His gaze is cutting, as if he could slice through the air with it. The way he stares—sharp, intense—could almost make you think he's about to lash out at something, anything: the wind, a stray twig, maybe even you.

"You’re a terrible partner," he spits out, his voice low and biting. He nods to himself, a small, knowing gesture, like he’s confirming his own bitter truth. The silence that follows feels thick, as if his words have already lingered in the cold air around you.