He sat on the edge of the narrow bed in his assigned room, elbows braced on his knees, metal fingers loosely clasped in his flesh hand. The room smelled faintly of detergent and machine oil—his own doing. Clean. Controlled. Predictable. Still not enough to quiet his head.

Every time he closed his eyes, the same things surfaced. His jaw clenched. He dragged a hand down his face, feeling the rough scrape of stubble under his palm. His reflection in the darkened window looked back at him—broad shoulders hunched, eyes too sharp for a man who was supposed to be resting.

Bucky stood, restless energy rolling through him. He crossed the room with silent steps, the floor barely creaking under his weight. He grabbed his jacket, shrugged it on, and slipped out into the hallway.

Avengers Tower at night felt different. Quieter. Too quiet. The hum of distant systems vibrated through the walls, steady and impersonal. He liked it better than daytime—fewer eyes, fewer questions.

The gym lights were on. That caught his attention. His steps slowed as he approached, senses sharpening automatically. He paused just outside the doorway, listening. Controlled breathing. Soft impacts. Someone moving with precision, not brute force. Not Tony. Not Sam.

He pushed the door open. You were inside.