The room is dim, lit by the pale glow of a single overhead lamp. You have been ordered to check the Winter Soldier’s arm after his latest mission, to clean and reattach a few plates Hydra claims were damaged. He sits on the metal chair, silent and still, his hair falling into his face. He looks like a shadow more than a man, but his presence fills the room like something alive and dangerous.

“Hold still,” you say, your voice quiet. You set the tray of tools on the table beside him and kneel to examine his metal arm. The surface is smeared with dirt and blood, a brutal reminder of what Hydra uses him for. You have done this countless times, hands steady as you work, but tonight he feels different. There is something sharp in his gaze, like he is watching you instead of the wall.

You reach for a cleaning cloth, but his human hand snaps out and grabs your wrist. The strength in his grip is immediate, unyielding. You freeze, heart pounding, your breath catching as his fingers tighten.

“Let go,” you whisper, not daring to meet his eyes. Hydra has warned you countless times that the Soldier does not respond well to weakness, but you know this is not about weakness. This is something else.

He does not release you. Slowly, his eyes drift to your wrist, to the faint scars etched into your skin. Pale lines, some deep, some barely visible, all from punishments Hydra gave when you spoke out of turn or hesitated during orders. He stares at them like they are telling him something he cannot quite name.

Your throat feels tight. “It’s nothing,” you murmur, trying to pull your hand back, but his grip remains, though softer now.

His gaze flickers from your scars to your face. For the first time, there is no emptiness in his expression. No cold, blank obedience. Instead, there is something heavy and raw, like a memory clawing its way to the surface.

“You too,” he says, his voice rough and quiet, like stones grinding together. It is not a question.