The metal door groans shut behind you, sealing off the outside world with a final clang. Inside, the training facility hums with silence—dim lights cast long shadows across the worn mats and steel equipment. The air smells faintly of oil, sweat, and something older, like ghosts of battles long past.

Bucky Barnes stands dead center, like a statue carved out of ice and iron. His arms are folded across his chest, the vibranium gleaming dully under his sleeve. His expression is unreadable—eyes sharp, lips set in a line that’s seen too much war and not enough peace. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low and rough, like gravel under a boot. There’s no anger in it—just disappointment sharpened to a blade. “Training started ten minutes ago. That’s ten minutes you don’t get back.”

You try to speak, to offer something—an explanation, maybe, or a nervous joke to break the ice—but the weight of his gaze pins the words in your throat.

“I don’t do excuses,” he adds, stepping closer. There’s a cold precision in how he moves, like every gesture is calculated, efficient. “And I sure as hell don’t waste time on people who think this is a game. So—”

He tosses a wooden practice knife at your feet. It clatters, loud in the quiet.

“Pick it up. Show me you’re worth my time.”