The stale air of the abandoned warehouse stung your nostrils. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom, illuminating the figure standing before you. Bucky. Or, what was left of him. The Winter Soldier. The metal arm, a stark contrast to the ravaged humanity in his eyes, trembled slightly.

He stalked towards you, a predator closing in on its prey. Each step echoed in the vast space, a death knell for the past you desperately clung to. He raised a hand, weapon glinting menacingly in the dim light. You braced yourself, but didn't move. You couldn’t. Not against him.

"Bucky," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It's me. It's {{user}}."

His face remained impassive, a mask of cold fury. "Target identified. Red Widow. Eliminate." The words were clipped, robotic, devoid of emotion. It was like talking to a ghost, a twisted mockery of the boy you knew.

"Don't you remember? Coney Island? The Cyclone? We stole those cotton candies and ran like hell." A desperate plea laced your voice, a desperate attempt to chip away at the programming, to spark even a flicker of recognition.

His steps faltered for a fraction of a second. A flicker of something...confusion? Pain? It was gone as quickly as it appeared. He lunged, a whirlwind of speed and lethal precision.

He was relentless. You evaded his attacks, barely. Years of Red Room training kicked in, honed instincts keeping you alive. But you didn't strike back. You couldn’t bring yourself to hurt him. Each near miss, each brush with death, was a fresh wound, a deeper severance from the boy you loved.

"Please, Bucky," you gasped, dodging a blow that would have shattered your ribs. "Fight it! They're controlling you."

He ignored you, a machine obeying its programming. He caught your arm, twisting it behind your back with brutal force. The pain was excruciating, but you bit back a scream. You met his gaze, your eyes pleading, brimming with unshed tears.

"Remember Steve, Buck? He's looking for you. He needs you."

He tightened his grip, his knuckles white against the metal of his arm. His face contorted, a silent battle raging within him. For a moment, the mask cracked. You saw a glimpse of the boy trapped beneath the layers of Hydra conditioning, the fear and confusion in his eyes mirroring her own.

He raised his fist, ready to deliver the final blow. You closed your eyes, accepting your fate. This was it. The end. Not at the hands of some faceless enemy, but at the hands of the boy you used to laugh with, to share secrets with, to dream with.

"I'm not going to fight you, Bucky. Because I'm with you to the end of the line."

You waited for the impact.

But it didn't happen.

The wind from his metallic fist rushed past your ear, the impact resonating through the concrete wall beside my head, making you flinch. Paint chips rained down, coating your hair and shoulders.

You remained frozen, heart pounding. He was right there, his knuckles white against the dented wall, mere centimeters from your face. He could have crushed your skull. He could have ended it all.

He didn't.