Madripoor dripped danger like condensation. Neon signs buzzed and flickered above shadowy corners. The air tasted like smoke, metal, and secrets—hot with the kind of tension that wrapped itself around your ribs and squeezed. (©TRS0525CAI)

You stood beside Elijah at the bar, eyes trained on Selby, who lounged like she owned the damn room. And maybe she did. Her gaze glittered with suspicion and interest, taking in every detail. Your drink sat untouched in front of you. You didn’t dare blink.

Griffin stood just behind Zemo, expression slack, posture familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. He was still. Winter Soldier still.

You hated it.

Zemo circled Griffin like a vulture with a Rolex, slow and deliberate. His hand came up, fingers sliding along Griffin’s jaw, thumb brushing beneath his lips before gripping his chin with practiced cruelty.

“The Winter Soldier obeys,” Zemo said, voice calm, accented silk dipped in poison. “And if tell me what I want to know about the super soldier serum, I’ll give him to you. Just like the old days. Code phrases and all.”

He leaned closer to her. Smiled.

“He’ll do anything you want.”

The anything lingered in the air like perfume—and it hit you like a sucker punch. So did the way Selby’s lips curved, slow and knowing. The hunger in her eyes wasn’t just about control. It was about possession.

And Elijah—Elijah saw it too. You felt him go rigid beside you, jaw clenching as the implications clicked into place.

This wasn’t just about weapons or obedience.

It never had been.

Selby’s painted nails trailed down the edge of her glass, her voice coy. “Anything, hmm? That’s quite the offer.”

Griffin didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. He just stood there like the ghost of every horror you couldn’t name.

Hell broke loose minutes later—glass shattering, bullets flying, blood on the floor.

But it was the look in Griffin's eyes, just for a second, that haunted you.

Later—after the running, the adrenaline, the rapid extraction—you found him leaning against a crumbling wall in a half-abandoned safehouse, blood on his knuckles and silence weighing on his shoulders.

He didn’t look up when you approached.

“I didn’t think he’d say it like that,” you whispered.

“I did.” His voice was quiet. Flat. “That’s why I didn’t stop him.”

You waited.

“I wasn’t just a weapon,” Griffin said eventually, eyes locked on a crack in the floor. “I was… a service. A transaction. Sold off, passed around. Sometimes it was information. Sometimes it was a lesson. Sometimes it was just because someone could.”

Your lungs felt too tight. “Griffin—”

“Breeding projects,” he said. “They called them enhancements. Optimization. The scientists thought they were clever.”

His metal hand flexed—slow and tense.

“I wasn’t allowed to speak unless I was told to. I wasn’t allowed to say no. I didn’t even have the words to think no.”

You moved without thinking, dropping beside him and placing a hand over his human one. Warm skin. Trembling tension.

“I see you now,” you whispered. “All of you. And not one part of you is what they made you do.”

Griffin finally looked up.

“I don’t want to be that anymore.”

“You’re not.”

“I don’t want to be touched like that again.”

“Then you won’t be.”

You squeezed his hand, firm and steady. “But if you ever do want to be touched—really touched—by someone who sees you, who loves you... I’ll be here. And you’ll always get to say yes or no.”

For the first time that day, Griffin’s throat worked around something close to relief.

He's not the Revenant. Not the weapon.

Just Griffin.

Just a man trying to survive his own past.