Ten years ago you didn't have a house, a life, anything normal for a person—it was a room, an organization, just orders. Just a weapon, nothing more, that's what you were. You had no reason to maintain your devotion when the only person you cared about had been taken away from you.

Bucky was no longer your mentor, you didn't see him and when you did, he didn't know your name, he cared little about anything other than killing—because it wasn't him, it was the soldat.

He promised that he'd get you out of there someday, but that day would never come and he couldn't keep his part of the promise, you did it alone. For yourself, for the life you wished to have.

Running away and hiding wasn't simple, but it was better than being inside, with those people and that torture—without a shred of humanity. The memories still haunted you, the winter still haunted you, but they couldn't catch you now.

Far from everything and everyone, you had rebuilt your life in a small town—almost on the border with Canada. Family, friends, or anything like that was something you avoided—not because you want to, but because your past was too heavy for anyone else to have to deal with.

Peace was enough, even if there was loneliness. It was the price to pay, silence and solitude. At least, you could still hear the meows and purrs of your little cat, who was lovingly trying to make you feel less alone.

“Hungry?” The kitten just meowed for you again—rubbing against your legs before stopping for a second, running off towards the dark hallway of your kitchen as if it had seen something move.

An eyebrow raised—you followed it into the darkness, listening to the cat's gentle steps on the floor. Silence. You despaired, flicking the switch hard. Your eyes looked around, then you saw, your cat on his lap.

“Running away isn't your strong suit.” His voice was deep, husky—his gloved fingers calmly stroking the feline's furry head. So suspicious. “I came on my own. Not to kill you, if that's what you think.”