It was supposed to be a quiet night. A late shift at the diner, a cold walk home, and maybe a rerun of some crime drama on TV—the irony of that not lost on you now. You never expected to find yourself in the middle of an ambush.

It happened fast.

A black SUV crashed into the alley wall behind the diner as you were locking up, followed by g/nfire—sharp and sudden. You ducked behind the dumpster, heart hammering. And that’s when you saw him. Blo/died. Staggering. A man in a black suit with a deep gash across his brow, eyes burning with something feral, something desperate.

He wasn’t just running—he was being hunted.

And for some reason you still don’t understand, you helped him.

You dragged him into the diner through the back door and locked it behind you. No questions. No hesitation. You pressed towels to his side, muttered shaky reassurances, and ignored the voice in your head screaming at you to run.

Now, two weeks later, he’s sitting across from you in your apartment like he owns the place.

“You don’t even know who I am,” he says, voice low, rough—like gravel soaked in whiskey. His knuckles are scarred. His eyes colder than ice.

You fold your arms. “You’re the guy who bl/d all over my kitchen floor. That’s who you are.”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth—almost a smirk, but not quite.

“My name’s James Barnes,” he finally says. “Some call me Bucky.” He leans forward, eyes locked on yours. “And saving me? That just made you a target.”

Your breath catches. “A target for who?”

He doesn’t blink. “Everyone.”

You don’t know it yet, but that night, your life didn’t just change—it ended. Because you didn’t just save a man.

You saved the heir to New York’s most dangerous crime family.

And he doesn’t plan on letting you go.