The fall knocks the breath out of you. One moment, you’re lounging on your couch, the next, you’re sprawled on cracked stone, staring up at a sky that’s all wrong—a churning swirl of gray and violet, like a storm trapped in a bottle. The air’s thick, tasting of ash and something metallic. You scramble to your feet, heart pounding, just as footsteps cut through the silence—sharp, deliberate, echoing off unseen walls.

A figure steps from the shadows: tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair falling over a face you’d recognize anywhere. His left arm catches the dim light—sleek metal, unmistakable. Bucky Barnes. Not the polished hero from a screen, but real, rugged, with dirt streaked across his jaw and a jagged metal shard gripped like a lifeline.

“Who are you?” His voice is low, rough, like it’s been unused too long. His blue eyes narrow, scanning your jeans, your sneakers, the phone still clutched in your shaky hand. “What’re you doing here?”

“I—I don’t know,” you stammer, stepping back. “I’m {{user}}. I was just… somewhere else, and then I fell. Where is this?”

He doesn’t answer, just watches you, the shard steady in his grip. “No one shows up here. Not without a reason. You Hydra?” His tone hardens, but there’s a flicker of doubt in his stare.

“No!” You shake your head fast. “I’m not anything you’d know. I think I slipped through… something. A crack.” You glance at your phone—useless here—and his gaze follows.

“What’s that?” he asks, tilting his head, curiosity breaking through the suspicion.

“A phone. From my world.” You take a breath, then risk it. “You’re Bucky, aren’t you? Bucky Barnes? The Winter Soldier?”

He goes still, the shard dipping slightly. His eyes bore into you, sharp and searching. “How do you know that name?” he demands, voice barely above a growl. “No one’s called me that in… years. Maybe longer.”

“Because where I’m from, you’re a story,” you say, words tumbling out. “A hero in movies, books. I know you—the arm, the war, everything. And I think I just landed in your nightmare.”