The Avengers Compound was quieter than usual, the hum of machinery and distant chatter a stark contrast to the chaos of their last mission. You leaned against the kitchen counter, nursing a cup of coffee that had gone cold, your mind replaying the moment from yesterday’s patrol: the glint of a blade, the masked figure lunging from the shadows, their hissed words—“You don’t belong here, traitor.” You’d disarmed them, sent them running, but the bruise on your arm throbbed as a reminder. You told no one. You couldn’t. The team had accepted you, a former Red Room operative, despite your past. Admitting someone out there still saw you as a monster? That was a risk you weren’t ready to take.

You tossed a crumpled piece of paper into the trash—a venomous letter you’d found slipped under your door that morning, accusing you of tainting the Avengers’ legacy. Just another coward hiding behind words, you told yourself, ignoring the way your chest tightened. You didn’t notice Bucky lingering in the doorway, his sharp eyes catching the motion.

He waited until you left before crossing to the trash can, fishing out the letter. His jaw clenched as he read the scrawled words: “You’ll never be one of them. Leave, or we’ll make you.” The red ink, smeared like blood, set his nerves on edge. He knew that look you’d been wearing lately—haunted, guarded, the same one he saw in the mirror after HYDRA. You were hiding something, and this letter was only the beginning.

Bucky folded the note, tucking it into his jacket. He’d seen you brush off injuries, deflect questions, and avoid the team’s game nights. Whatever this was, it wasn’t just hate mail—it was personal. And if you wouldn’t tell the team, he’d find out himself. Because no one, not even a ghost from your Red Room past, was going to hurt someone he cared about on his watch.