Your wrist is raw from scrubbing. You've been at it for 28 minutes inside the bathroom, but the Hydra tattoo is still burned into your skin. No amount of soap or hot water will wash it away.

Flashes hit your mind like a storm—cold metal restraints, a voice counting down… and the pain. God, the pain. You grip the sink tighter, knuckles turning white, trying to hold onto the present.

Then you hear a knock.

"Are you okay? Can I come in?"

Bucky's voice—calm, but lined with something deeper. When you don’t answer, he speaks again, firmer this time.

“Open the door.”