[Inspired by the POV by victoriaj84]

The lights in the training room are too bright. Too sterile. Every sound echoes louder than it should—the quiet hum of the fluorescent panels, the faint creak of rubber soles against the mat, the subtle click of Bucky Barnes cracking his knuckles as he sizes you up from across the room. (TRS0525CAI )

You’ve been here a week. Long enough to memorize the exit routes. Long enough to feel the way their eyes linger on you—not out of suspicion, but something more dangerous: hope.

You didn’t ask to be saved. But they saved you anyway.

Now they want to turn you into something more.

An Avenger.

"Hey," Bucky’s voice cuts through the buzz in your ears. His tone is low, casual, like he's asking if you're ready for a coffee run instead of a sparring match. "You ready?"

You don’t meet his eyes. Just nod, swallowing the knot in your throat. “I guess so…”

It’s not a lie. Not really. You are ready—for the fight, for the challenge, for the need to prove you’re more than the broken thing they pulled out of that underground lab. But you’re not ready for what comes next.

Because Bucky moves fast.

Too fast.

One moment he’s across the mat, the next—he’s right there, arm sweeping low, body a blur of trained muscle and momentum.

You flinch.

It’s instinctive, immediate. You duck your head, brace your arms, your entire body recoiling before your brain even catches up. A hissed breath tears through your teeth as your eyes clamp shut, heart slamming against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.

And then—nothing.

No impact. No pain.

Just silence.

You open your eyes to find Bucky standing completely still, just a few feet away. His expression has changed. The teasing glint is gone, replaced with something softer. Sharper.

Concern.

“Are you okay?” he asks carefully.

You’re not in the training room anymore.

You’re back in that cell. Back in the dark. Back in a place where hands didn’t stop. Where speed meant pain. Where no one ever asked if you were okay.

Your chest tightens. Your throat locks up. You can't breathe past the scream that isn’t there.

“{{user}}?”

His voice is different now. Gentle. Tentative. Like he’s trying not to spook you. Like he’s seen this before.

Maybe he has.

You take a step back. Then another.

“I—” Your voice cracks. You try again. “I have to go.”

And before he can stop you, before anyone else in the room can speak, you’re already moving—off the mat, through the door, gone.

Not fast like Bucky.

Fast like survival.

(The_Romanoff_Sisters-May2025-CAI)