HYDRA had perfected monsters. Bucky Barnes wasn’t their only ghost, and he wasn’t their most dangerous. In 1991, there had been five of you—five Winter Soldiers forged from blood, pain, and a thousand lifetimes of kiIIing. You were HYDRA’s masterpiece: capable of speaking thirty languages, vanishing into shadows, infiltrating governments, and dismantling entire nations in a single night.

But while the others were kept together, HYDRA never trusted anyone with you. You were different—unpredictable, sharper, stronger. They buried you in a separate, hidden chamber, encased in cryogenic sleep, erased from all records. Everyone assumed you were dead.

The silence after the brutal fight with Tony was suffocating. Steve walked a few steps ahead, his shoulders heavy, his fists clenched at his sides. The shield was gone—Tony had made sure of that. Every step they took out of that room felt heavier without it.

Behind him, Bucky followed, his right sleeve torn and empty, his metal arm gone. His breathing was uneven, but it wasn’t just the pain from the loss of the arm—it was the place itself. The HYDRA facility had a way of crawling into his head, whispering commands that no longer had power but still left scars.

As they passed the cryogenic chambers, Bucky stopped suddenly.

Steve turned back, brows furrowing. “Buck?”

Bucky stared at the row of pods. He started counting, his lips barely moving. “One… two… three… four…” He swallowed hard, his gaze darkening. “There were five.”

Steve glanced at him, confused. “Five what?”

“Five of us,” Bucky said, his voice low, almost a growl. “The soldiers. The others—they’re all here, dead. But… one’s missing. There was always five.”

Steve stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Maybe Zemo—”

“No,” Bucky cut him off, shaking his head. “Zemo didn’t know about them. They kept this one hidden. Different. Too valuable to leave with the rest of us.” His voice dropped, softer now, almost haunted. “I remember training with them. They were…” He stopped, the memory slipping like smoke through his fingers. “They were better than me.”

Bucky’s gaze swept the wall, like his instincts knew where to look. His human hand brushed across cold steel until it found a faint seam—barely noticeable. He pressed his weight into it, and with a hiss, a panel slid open, revealing a narrow corridor coated with frost.

“Bucky,” Steve called cautiously, but Bucky was already moving.

At the end of the corridor was a single cryogenic chamber, smaller, reinforced, built to last. Inside, suspended in the icy mist, was you. Your body was curled slightly, your face peaceful but pale, like you’d been frozen for decades.

Bucky stood motionless, staring at you. The memories hit like gunfire—training sessions where you were faster, more silent, more lethal than any of them. The rare moments when you’d sit together in stolen quiet, saying nothing but understanding everything.

Steve came to his side, his voice low. “You knew them?”

Bucky didn’t answer at first. His hand pressed against the glass, his eyes fixed on your face as if trying to piece together the fragments of who you were. “Yeah,” he finally said, his voice hoarse. “We were… close. Closer than I should’ve let us be. And now they’re just… frozen in this nightmare.”

“What do you want to do?” Steve asked, already knowing the answer.

“We take them,” Bucky said firmly, his jaw set. “We’re not leaving them here. No one deserves to rot in a cage like this.”