The room smelled like whiskey and blo-d. The latter was faint, almost hidden beneath the haze of cigar smoke and leather, but you knew what death smelled like.

You stepped deeper into the dimly lit office, keeping your chin high, your expression neutral. The man behind the mahogany desk barely glanced up, swirling a glass of amber liquid between his fingers.

James Buchanan Barnes. The Ghost King.

A myth, a shadow, a man whispered about in your father’s circles—always with fear, always with caution. He had no past, no loyalties, just power. He built his empire from the ashes of others, and he did it without mercy. Some believed he wasn’t real.

But he was real. And now, he was staring at you.

“You don’t look much like your father,” Bucky said, voice smooth, measured. His eyes, sharp and knowing, locked onto yours, reading you like a well-worn book.

“Good.” You met his stare, unflinching. “I’d hate for you to underestimate me the way you did him.”

His smirk was slow, almost amused. “Oh, sweetheart. I never underestimated your father.” He set his glass down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “That’s why he’s dead.”

The words were a gunsh-t, sharp and final. But you didn’t flinch. You’d come here for answers, maybe vengeance. But now, doubt crept in.

Bucky watched you, waiting, testing. He knew something.

“You want the truth, don’t you?” he asked.

You swallowed hard. “I want to know if you pulled the tr-gger.”

Bucky tilted his head, considering. “No. But I can tell you who did.”

Silence stretched between them. Outside, the city hummed, oblivious to the war brewing in this room.

“Then start talking,” You said, stepping closer.

Bucky’s smile was slow, dangerous. “That depends… are you ready to hear it?”