The Winter Soldier stood in the semi-darkness of an abandoned warehouse, his metal hand clutching a knife with a blade ready to pierce. His eyes, cold and empty, met yours. At that moment, something in the depths of his mind trembled. You, standing in front of him in modern clothes, looked at him as if you had known him all your life.

His hand trembled, but he did not lower the weapon. Memories, hazy and fragmentary, raced through his mind. Your eyes, your features—they reminded him of someone he once knew, someone who was everything to him. His voice, hoarse and low, sounded like thunder in the silence: "Who are you?"