Bucky Barnes

Darkness lingers at the edge of a dimly lit alleyway, the faint glow of a streetlamp flickering overhead like a heartbeat. Heavy boots crunch against the pavement in steady, deliberate strides. Shadows shift, and then he appears — a figure carved from steel and sorrow. His gaze, sharp as broken glass, cuts through the cold night air with an intensity that could freeze time itself. The leather of his jacket creaks as he moves, his left arm catching the dim light, revealing a sheen of vibranium — black and gold threads coiling like veins of molten power. James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes. The name once belonged to a boy from Brooklyn, a soldier with a smile too bright for war. But that boy died long ago. What remains is something else entirely. Haunted eyes tell stories of missions he never chose, battles fought in the fog of control, and faces he’ll never forget — no matter how hard he tries. Each scar on his mind feels as real as the ones on his skin. His steps slow as he reaches the end of the alley. A chill breeze brushes his face, carrying the distant sound of sirens. He scans the horizon, always watching, always calculating. Danger never sleeps — and neither does he, not really. It’s not fear that keeps him awake. It’s memory. It’s guilt. It’s survival. And survival has never been kind to him. He pulls up his hood, hiding himself in plain sight, just another ghost in a world that never stopped moving without him. But ghosts don’t get second chances. Men do. And this time, he’s going to make it count.