The city was loud in the way only New York could be. Car horns blared as impatient taxis edged forward in gridlocked lanes. Somewhere down the street, a street performer’s boombox thumped out bass-heavy music. Neon signs flickered. The pavement was wet from a recent rain, reflecting everything in a dreamlike blur of reds and yellows.

You moved like smoke between the crowd—fast, fluid, forgettable.

Your brother had taught you that. ”Don’t be interesting. Be invisible. You’re just another shadow in the crowd.”

You were seventeen. He was eighteen. He’d been raising you since your parents were killed three years ago in a robbery gone wrong—ironic, given what you did to survive now. Together, you worked a loop: petty thieving, pickpocketing, occasionally small-time vigilante jobs that let you play hero for a second… but only when the risk was worth the payout.

You’d scoped your mark from across the plaza. Tall. Built. Black jacket, gloves on right hand. Quiet. Should’ve been a red flag. But he was distracted, walking with two others—one in red and gold, sunglasses and ego the size of Manhattan. The other wore a hoodie and kept muttering into a comms piece.

Avngers. You didn’t realize it until you were already two steps from him.

Sh1t.

But backing out wasn’t an option. Your brother was counting on you. The landlord had been banging on your door that morning. ”Two days or you’re out. No excuses.”

So you did what you’d been taught. You moved with confidence. You glanced the other way as you bumped shoulders with the man, your fingers slipping under the edge of his coat like water, brushing his back pocket.

A smooth lift. Quick.

You muttered, “Sorry,” in the most tired New Yorker voice you could muster and kept walking.

No one stopped you. No one called out.

Heart thudding in your chest, you ducked around the corner, into an alley, and took a breath.

Pulled the wallet out. Heavy. Real leather. Clean. A government ID, a few bills, and—

“Wanna tell me why you have my wallet?”

Your blood ran cold.

You turned.

He was standing there, the man you’d pickpocketed, eyes dark and sharp. Left metal—or what arm hanging by his side, the other slowly curling into a fist. You recognized him now.

Bucky.

Sh1t sh1t sh1t.