The city bled neon onto wet pavement, smeared pinks and purples bending in puddles as Bucky dropped from the rooftop.

She was supposed to check in twenty minutes ago.

Stark had tried. Bruce too. Nothing.

So they sent Bucky—a man she barely knew—into the dark to find her.

He almost didn’t see her at first. She was slumped against the alley wall, half-shrouded in shadow, one leg bent wrong, her side torn open and glowing with that eerie ghost-light that always made his brain feel like it was vibrating.

And someone had a gun to her head.

Not just anyone.

A man in uniform. A cop. Her father.

“On your knees!” he barked, safety already off. “Do it or I shoot!”

She was on her knees.

Hands trembling in the air. Blood—no, ectoplasm—dripping from her side in a slow, acidic hiss.

“Please,” she choked out, sobbing, shoulders shaking. “Please don’t—please don’t shoot me—”

“Whatever the hell you are,” he snarled, “you’ve been terrorizing this city. I’ve seen the footage. Floating through walls. Screaming in alleys. You're not right. You’re not human.”

“It’s me!” she sobbed. “Dad—it’s me, I swear, it’s me!”

Her fingers reached up—slowly, agonizingly slow—and she peeled off her cracked mask.

Her face was streaked in blood, snot, rain.

She looked like a ghost of herself. Like someone who hadn’t slept in days. Someone who’d been running her whole life and finally lost the strength to keep going.

“See?” she whispered, broken. “It’s me. It’s always been me.”

He didn’t lower the gun.

He didn’t say a word for a moment.

Then:

“No.” “No, you died the day that thing took you.”

She flinched like he’d hit her.

And Bucky—hidden in the shadows—felt his stomach twist in disgust.

“I didn’t die!” she screamed. “I didn’t go anywhere—I’m right here—look at me!”

He didn’t.

He looked at the space around her. The violet glow. The flickering air.

“You’re a parasite,” he whispered. “A copy. That’s not my daughter.”

She broke.

Completely.

“Please—**I miss you—**I miss Mom—I’ve been so scared—I didn’t want this—I didn’t ask to be—” Her voice cracked. “—wrong.”

The gun rose again. “You don’t belong in this world.”

That’s when Bucky moved.

He dropped behind him like a shadow, metal arm slamming into the cop’s wrist just enough to send the gun flying with a clatter. The man spun, stumbled—but Bucky didn’t hit him again.

He didn’t need to.

The damage was already done.

The girl—{{user}}—was sobbing, curled into herself like she was trying to disappear. Her fingers were splayed in front of her eyes like she could unsee it. Her chest was heaving with soundless grief.

“I—I thought maybe—if you saw me—you’d understand,” she whispered.

Her father just stared at her, hateful and stunned and silent.

Then turned and walked away.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t explain.

Just… walked.

Left her there on the cold, wet pavement, bleeding and broken and alone.

Bucky crouched next to her. Slowly. Carefully. He didn’t touch her—not yet.

“You’re not wrong,” he said softly. “You’re not.”

She didn’t answer.

She was staring at her hands like they weren’t hers. Like she was already halfway gone.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he said. “I promise.”

Still nothing.

When he reached for her, she didn’t flinch.

But she didn’t lean in either.

Just let herself be lifted. Heavy with pain. Lighter than she should’ve been.

“I should’ve stayed dead,” she mumbled into his shoulder.

And Bucky, who’d once prayed for death in the cold between missions, felt his heart crack.