Snow crunches under your boots as the abandoned warehouse emerges from the storm, its shape barely visible through the whiteout. You stop, chest tight, irritation giving way to unease. “You can’t just disappear in the middle of a mission,” you mutter, forcing the door open.

Dust fills the air. You inhale, sneeze once, then still. The silence feels wrong.

Your eyes adjust—and your breath catches.

Bucky is on the ground. One knee drawn up, one hand pressed hard against his side. Blood seeps between his fingers, dark against the concrete. His jaw is clenched, breath uneven.

“Oh my God- Bucky!?” You’re moving before the words finish, dropping beside him. “What happened?”

He looks up slowly, eyes unfocused for a second. “{{user}}...?” His voice is strained, barely there.