My heart was still racing from the fight. The two guards at my feet weren't dead—just unconscious—but I could still feel the phantom crack of bones in my fists. The way my body moved without asking for permission. Muscle memory that belonged to a killer, not a movie nerd from Earth.
"This isn't real," I muttered, but the cold sting of adrenaline told me otherwise. My hands shook. My breath fogged in the chill of the metal room. The blood on my knuckles wasn't mine.
The door loomed open before me, still ajar from the guards' entrance. A hallway stretched beyond it—gray, sterile, humming with hidden life. I hesitated for a second, then stepped through.
And that's when the alarms went off.
Blinding red lights flared in sync with a pulsing siren that rattled my brain. Metal shutters slammed down over the windows I hadn't even noticed before. Somewhere overhead, a voice barked in a language I didn't understand.
But I got the message loud and clear: I wasn't supposed to be awake. And I sure as hell wasn't supposed to be free.
I ran.
Boots slamming against the floor, the clang of metal echoing down endless corridors. Every turn looked the same—steel walls, concrete corners, flickering lights that gave me a headache. I could hear boots behind me. Shouting. The click of safeties coming off.
I turned a corner—and slammed into a reinforced gym door marked "Training Wing 04".
No time to think. I shoved it open and slipped inside.
The gym was massive—like a military training facility built into the heart of a bunker. Weight racks. Punching bags. Sparring dummies. And, unfortunately, about a dozen Hydra operatives mid-training.
Every single one turned to look at me.
One guy blinked. "Is that—?"
"Winter Soldier!" another shouted.
And just like that, everything exploded into chaos.
I charged before they could grab their weapons. My metal arm slammed into the first guy like a freight train, sending him flying into a treadmill that snapped in half. The next swung a barbell at me—I ducked, grabbed the pole mid-swing, and whipped him off his feet with it.
Two more came at me with combat knives. Big mistake.
I parried the first with my metal arm and caught the second's wrist mid-swing. My other fist drove into his gut, folding him like paper. Then I yanked his blade from his grip and threw it at the guy behind him—it landed hilt-deep in his thigh. He dropped screaming.
My body moved like a symphony of violence. Brutal, efficient, and terrifying. I was a machine—and I hated how right it felt.
Within minutes, the gym was a graveyard of groaning bodies and broken pride. I stood among them, chest heaving, blood spattered across my shirt. None of it was mine.
I looked down at my hands.
"What the hell did they turn you into, Barnes?" I whispered to myself.
The door behind me burst open—reinforcements. I grabbed two pistols off the floor and didn't wait for them to speak.
I wasn't Shredder anymore.
And I wasn't Bucky either.
I was something new.
Something dangerous.
And I was breaking the hell out of this place.