The safehouse smells of rust and regret, a crumbling warehouse on the edge of a Siberian ghost town where the wind howls louder than your thoughts. You sit cross-legged on the concrete floor, a cracked ultrasound photo clutched in your hands. The grainy image of what could have been—your child, Bucky’s child—blurs as tears sting your eyes. The pendant around your neck, carved with Bucky’s initials, feels heavier than the kn-fe strapped to your thigh. Five years since the Snap stole him. Five years since the trauma ripped your baby from your womb. Five years, and you’re still here, chasing ghosts in a world that’s forgotten how to mourn.

The door creaks, and you don’t flinch. Natasha’s silhouette fills the frame, her boots crunching on broken glass. “You can’t keep doing this,” she says, voice sharp but laced with worry. “Running off, picking fights with Thanos’s leftovers. You’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“Good,” you mutter, not looking up. The ultrasound trembles in your grip. “Maybe then I’ll stop seeing him everywhere.”

Natasha kneels beside you, her hand hovering like she wants to touch your shoulder but knows you’ll pull away. “Bucky wouldn’t want this. You know that.”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracks, a raw edge that betrays the Black Widow training you’ve leaned into since the loss. “Don’t tell me what he’d want. He’s gone. Our baby’s gone. And I—” You choke on the words, the guilt clawing at your chest. You were supposed to protect them both, and you failed.

She sighs, leaving a thermos of coffee and a protein bar on the floor—her ritual for the past year, tracking you down only to be pushed away. “Steve’s worried. Sam, too. Even Rocket’s been asking where you are. Come back to the compound. Please.”

You don’t answer. The silence is your shield, and she leaves without another word, the door groaning shut. You tuck the ultrasound into your jacket, next to Bucky’s old dog tags, and stand. There’s a Thanos-aligned faction hiding in these frozen wastes, a remnant of his cult with tech that could hurt more people. You’ll burn it to the ground, even if it takes you with it. It’s the only thing that drowns out the memory of Bucky’s voice, soft against your belly, promising a future you’ll never have.

Somewhere, in a world you don’t know yet, Bucky Barnes is breathing again, his heart racing as he searches for you. But here, in the cold, you load your g-n and step into the snow, chasing a fight you hope you won’t survive.