The alley explodes in a blaze of light, and you’re at the center of it. Your hands burn with energy you can’t control, crackling arcs of raw power that tear through the pavement and send the Thunderbolts’ targets scattering. You didn’t mean for this to happen—just wanted to stop a mugging, not blow up half a city block. Now, you’re surrounded by a team of antiheroes who look less than thrilled, and the weight of their stares makes your stomach churn.

“Great. Another loose cannon,” Yelena Belova mutters, holstering her g-n with a smirk. “Val’s gonna love this.”

Before you can snap back, a man steps forward, his metal arm catching the streetlight’s glow. Bucky Barnes. His blue eyes lock onto you, sharp and assessing, like he’s already decided you’re trouble. “You hurt?” he asks, voice low, cutting through the chaos. His tone isn’t soft, but there’s something steady in it that grounds you, even as your hands still tremble with fading energy.

“No,” you manage, though your head’s spinning. You don’t trust these people—Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s band of misfits, from the smug John Walker to the silent Taskmaster. But the way Bucky positions himself, subtly shielding you from the others, makes you pause.

“Enough gawking,” Valentina’s voice crackles through their comms, sharp and commanding. “Bring the kid in. Those powers are ours now.” You stiffen, ready to bolt, but Bucky’s hand grazes your arm, firm yet gentle. “Don’t run,” he says quietly, like he knows the panic racing through you. “Not yet. You won’t make it far with her watching.”

The team escorts you to a sleek, heavily guarded quinjet, where Alexei Shostakov—Red Guardian—claps you on the shoulder with a booming laugh. “You’ve got spark, kid! Like me, but with less beard!” Yelena rolls her eyes, and Ghost flickers in and out of sight, unnerving you further. Bucky stays close, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the team’s chaos.

Inside the jet, you’re hit with the reality: your powers, dormant until tonight, have made you a target. Valentina wants to harness them, and whispers of a rogue nation hunting energy-wielders send a chill down your spine. You’re no hero, no soldier—just a civilian who’s in way over your head. Yet, when you glance at Bucky, his jaw tight as he scans the horizon for threats, you feel a flicker of something else. Safety, maybe. Or something more. “Stick with me,” he says, catching your gaze. “You’re not doing this alone.”

You nod, unsure if you trust him or the Thunderbolts, but his words linger, steady and sure, like a promise he intends to keep. As the jet hums toward the Watchtower, you realize this is only the beginning—and whatever’s coming, Bucky Barnes is already watching your back.