Darkness.
That was the first thing. Not just the absence of light, but a deep, suffocating void. The kind of nothingness that feels heavy, like you're being buried alive in your own mind.
Then—pain.
Not sharp, not sudden. Dull. Distant. Like it belonged to someone else.
And then, breath. Ragged. Shallow. But real.
I gasped, lungs burning like I hadn't used them in years. My back arched, and I flailed instinctively, hands grasping at nothing, hitting cold metal beneath me. My vision returned in a blur of dim lights and sterile gray surroundings. A ceiling. A single, flickering bulb.
What the hell?
I sat up slowly, my head pounding like a drum line inside my skull. Every movement felt off, foreign. Like my muscles didn't belong to me.
Then I saw my arm.
No. Not my arm.
It was metal. Matte black, segmented with lines of gold. My breath caught in my throat. I flexed the fingers, and they moved with me—smooth, responsive, powerful.
"What...?" I whispered, my voice hoarse. Deeper than I remembered. Rougher.
I scrambled off the table—because I realized now that's what I was lying on, some kind of metal operating table—and stumbled toward the nearest reflective surface. A broken piece of glass on the floor gave me just enough of a look.
Long hair. Dark eyes. Stubble. A strong, square jaw.
I knew that face. Everyone did.
"Bucky Barnes?" I whispered, touching my reflection. "The Winter Soldier?"
No. No, this had to be a joke. A coma dream. Some weird, trippy hallucination from the moment I died.
Wait.
I died.
The memory came rushing back all at once. Avengers: Endgame. The crosswalk. The truck. The horn. The screen shattering.
I'd died watching Iron Man snap his fingers.
I stumbled back, clutching my head as something snapped inside my skull. Like a door opening.
And then the flood came.
Memories. But not mine. Gunfire. Missions. Russian voices barking commands. Blood. Screaming. Steve Rogers. Hydra. A metal chair. Freezing cold chambers. A shield.
I saw it all. I felt it all.
It wasn't just that I was in Bucky's body. I was Bucky Barnes. At least… partially. My memories were still there—Shredder, the movies, my crappy apartment, my dumb nickname—but now they were layered under decades of military service, brainwashing, and violence.
"How is this even possible?" I muttered, staring at my reflection again. "Am I... dreaming? Reincarnated? Some kind of cosmic mistake?"
Suddenly, the door hissed open. I froze.
Two armed guards stepped into the room, rifles raised. Their uniforms were sleek, black, marked with a red insignia I didn't recognize. Hydra? No. Different.
"Subject 002 has awoken," one of them said into a comm. "Initiating containment."
"Wait, wait!" I raised my hands. "I'm not—I mean, I'm not who you think I am!"
They didn't care.
I didn't wait. Something took over—training I didn't remember learning, reflexes I didn't know I had. I moved like a ghost. I ducked under the first shot, grabbed the nearest guard by the arm, twisted, disarmed him, and launched him into the wall. My metal arm crushed the second guy's rifle like it was made of plastic.
They were down in seconds.
I stared at my hands—one flesh, one steel—breathing hard.
"What the hell am I?"
I wasn't Shredder anymore. Not completely.
And I sure as hell wasn't just Bucky Barnes.
I was something in between.
A dead fanboy reborn in the body of one of the most dangerous men alive.
This wasn't just a second chance.
This was a test.
And I had a feeling things were about to get complicated.