He touched you. He humiliated you. He recorded you without your consent. And now the world —cruel, morbid, sick— had decided to point its fingers at you, as if you weren’t the only victim in this entire story. Bucky wanted to beat him. No— quietly kill him. Break his jaw and every finger if necessary, crush his arrogance, erase that predator’s smirk.

It was the very least that bastard deserved. Because there was something Bucky knew with absolute certainty: you had been drunk that night. Vulnerable, disoriented. And still, you would never have done something that dark. You weren’t that kind of person.

You were light. You were good. You were one of the few pure things he had found in this broken world. And that idiot had taken that light to stain it, to use it, to brag about his cruelty disguised as “intelligence.”

Now you were the one carrying everything: The weight of the mockery. The yellow press circling you like vultures. The criticism from people who had never even seen you smile. The government investigating you as if you were a problem instead of a victim. And worst of all… That unfair rumor staining even the Avengers. Your friends. As if protecting you made them weak. As if your pain was somehow their fault. And even so, many women stood with you. They defended you, believed you, held you without ever having met you.

Yelena wanted to knock his teeth out. Wanda’s eyes glowed red with fury. Sam said there wasn’t a punishment harsh enough. Pepper even sent you a long, warm message and offered you the mansion—her home, her calm.

But Bucky… Bucky was different. Bucky wanted to break him. No— make him disappear with a bullet. No— kill him without leaving a trace. He wanted to find him. Look him in the eyes. And force him to kneel. To apologize to you. To acknowledge what he did. And then, only then, decide how merciful —or not— he felt that day.