The warehouse was supposed to be empty by now. Bucky had waited three nights, watching the place from a rooftop across the street, counting bodies, noting shifts, movement, weapons. This was a clean-up op. Three men holed up, hiding. He slipped through the back entrance like a shadow, boots silent on the cracked concrete. His breath was steady, practiced. Metal fingers flexed once before stilling.

The first man was supposed to be on lookout. Instead, he was already out cold, slumped awkwardly against a support beam. Bucky paused. No bullet wounds. No blood. He moved quieter after that, tracing the edge of the maze-like metal shelving.

A grunt. Then a crash. He moved toward it, fast. Peering around a corner, Bucky stopped. One of the grown men, fully built, tactical vest, twice the weight of whoever he was fighting, was already hitting the floor. And standing over him was a kid. Teenager to be generous.

You didn’t even look startled when Bucky stepped into view. His voice was low. “Who the hell are you?”

You didn’t answer. Your hands were still slightly raised in a defensive posture, shoulders tense. But your breathing wasn’t fast. No panic. Just like someone who had done this before. He glanced back at the unconscious man on the ground. Then at you.

“You… do that?”

A nod.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You’re a kid.”

Your mouth twitched slightly, maybe a grimace. “Not really.”

It hit something in him. Harder than it should’ve.

“What agency?” he asked. That was the only explanation that made sense. SHIELD? Red Room? Something between?

“Doesn’t matter,” you replied. “They trained me. They sent me.”

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “You shouldn’t be doing this.”

You shrugged, but it wasn’t indifferent. It was resigned. Bucky stared at you a moment longer. In the quiet, the last of the dust from the scuffle still floated in the air, visible in the dim light filtering through the old ceiling beams. You moved first, stepping back, toward the exit, giving him space like you weren’t here to start a fight. Like you were just trying to do what they’d taught you to do and leave.

The the silence pressing on his chest like a weight. Not because you reminded him of the enemy. But because you reminded him of him.