The jazz band was in full swing at the speakeasy, the room thick with cigarette smoke and laughter. Bucky had found a quiet corner at the bar, nursing his third whiskey. Steve had been pulled onto the dance floor by some dame, and Bucky was content to just watch the swirling crowd, letting the alcohol take the edge off a long day of drills.

He took another sip, then another. But something was off. The familiar warmth, the fuzzy buzz that usually settled in, just... wasn't happening. He felt unnervingly clear-headed, almost too sharp, as if his senses were heightened rather than dulled.

A chill snaked down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold drink.

'This isn't right,' he thought, his gaze snapping to his reflection in the polished bar top, a flicker of something unsettling in his own eyes. He had the distinct, horrifying feeling that someone had already been messing with him long before he'd known.