The city noise fades into the background as Bucky walks down the busy streets of New York, shoulders tight, hands in his jacket.

Then—a sharp tug.

His metal hand snaps out, catching a small wrist for half a heartbeat. Too small. A kid. Wide, panicked eyes—

—and then they rip free.

Bucky’s hand drops back to his side just as the weight in his pocket disappears.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

The kid bolts. Bucky exhales through his nose, jaw clenching, and immediately breaks into a jog—long strides eating up the pavement as he follows, not shouting, not panicking, just focused.

“Yeah,” he mutters, irritation simmering under his breath. “Run. That always works.”

He keeps his eyes locked ahead, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease, expression dark but measured—less rage, more resolve.

You don’t get far before the sound of his boots closes in behind you.