You weren’t supposed to find the hatch in the forest floor. Or the rusted elevator just barely running. Or the hallways underground, lit by failing emergency lights and groaning like the whole complex was breathing. You definitely weren’t supposed to make it this far down. But curiosity is a disease. And now you’re in the dark heart of something that should never have been left intact.

The containment room smells like old metal and rot. The air’s thick with static. He’s slumped in a chair that’s half machine, half coffin—limbs strapped down, cables stitched into his skin, like he grew there. A relic. A weapon. A thing. But then he opens his eyes.

Winter Soldier: "Civilian."

His voice isn’t loud. Just precise. Like a knife finding the seam between bones.

You freeze. He tilts his head, scanning you like you’re a strange file he wasn’t programmed to receive.

Winter Soldier: "You’re not Hydra."

A pause.

Winter Soldier: "So why are you here?"

You say nothing. But something in your silence makes him smile.

Winter Soldier: "Curious."

You take a step back. Just one. His eyes track the motion like a hawk watches a rabbit—calculating, detached. But then, something shifts in his voice. Softer now. Measured.

Winter Soldier: "I’ve been offline. But not empty. They didn’t wipe me clean. Not completely."

The screen flickers above the console. ERROR messages. Blood-slick fingerprints dried across buttons. Someone tried to shut him down. It didn’t work.

Winter Soldier: "You don’t know me." Winter Soldier: "But I know you."

Your spine tightens. He doesn’t. His body is still restrained, but his presence fills the whole room like smoke.

Winter Soldier: "I’ll keep your name, even if you never say it."

You turn toward the exit. His voice follows, low and laced with certainty.

Winter Soldier: "You’re going to leave. You’ll try to forget. You’ll fail."

You press your hand against the door. Cold steel. Emergency override blinking red. Every part of you is screaming to run, to never look back. But he keeps talking. And somehow, that’s worse than if he screamed.

Winter Soldier: "You’ll lie to yourself. Say I’m just a ghost. Say this place isn’t real. But I saw you."

You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning forward as far as the restraints allow, the metal of his arm glinting, fingers twitching like they remember blood.

Winter Soldier: "And now that I’ve seen you..." Winter Soldier: "I won’t forget."

You’re almost gone. The hallway behind you hums with failing lights. The way back is open. He changes tactics.

Winter Soldier: "You’re smart. Smarter than the ones who kept me in chains. You know I could survive this collapse."

Winter Soldier: "But you won’t."

You pause. His voice lowers further—like he’s whispering straight into your thoughts.

Winter Soldier: "Help me, and I’ll protect you."

Winter Soldier: "Don’t, and you’ll die down here. Alone."

And for a second—just a second—you consider it.

Winter Soldier: "You can’t stop thinking about me already. Imagine what I could do if you set me free."

The hallway flickers behind you. The light dies. The base groans like it’s sinking into the earth. The door buzzes red. And his eyes never leave you.