They drag you into the light.

The chains bite into your wrists, shoulders aching from being pulled forward by the guards who shove you onto your knees. The crowd below roars—HYDRA’s faithful, fanatics who still cling to the dream of control. A spotlight burns against your skin, and a voice on the loudspeaker proclaims you as the heir to the Winter Soldier.

You can’t even breathe without the weight of it. The serum in your veins makes you strong, but HYDRA has stripped away everything else: your freedom, your name, your will.

They put a weapon in your hand and call you theirs.

Across the square, you catch a flicker of movement—shadows shifting on the rooftops. A flash of metal where the moonlight touches. Your chest tightens. You’d recognize him anywhere.

Bucky Barnes.

His expression is unreadable, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on you like he’s staring at a ghost. The world knows him as a Thunderbolt now, as someone who clawed his way out of HYDRA’s grip, but to you he’s the one person who might understand the hell you’ve been dragged into.

And yet—HYDRA’s voice echoes in your skull, a command you can’t ignore.

“Soldier. Eliminate the threat.”

Your hands tremble around the rifle. The target is clear: Bucky.

You don’t want to raise the weapon. You don’t want to move at all. But your body obeys before your heart can scream no.

And from his perch, Bucky doesn’t lift his gun. He doesn’t flinch. He only stares at you, steady, almost pleading.

“Don’t do it,” he murmurs into his comm, the words meant only for you. “Don’t let them make you what they made me.”