𝑾𝑰𝑪𝑲𝑬𝑫 𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑴𝑺 ━━ 𝚂𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎 𝚁𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜

30 Calm before the Storm

The market buzzed with life, a patchwork of bright colors and lively chatter that almost made Bucharest feel like any other city in the world. Bucky Barnes, clad in a dark cap and casual jacket, moved through the stalls with an easy, practiced calm. To the untrained eye, he looked like just another local, blending seamlessly into the crowd. He had become good at this—disappearing into normalcy, even if normalcy still felt foreign to him.

At a small fruit stand, he paused, his eyes scanning the plump, purple plums piled high in a wooden crate. The vendor, a stocky man with weathered hands and a warm smile, greeted him.

"Cum sunt? Sunt bune?" Bucky asked in halting Romanian. His voice was soft, almost hesitant, but his accent was passable. "Dați-mi șase. Mulțumesc."

The vendor chuckled and nodded, carefully selecting six of the best plums and placing them into a paper bag. "Sunt perfecte, domnule," he said, handing them over with a grin.

Bucky paid with a small nod, slipping the bag into his jacket pocket. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to appreciate the simplicity of the exchange—the warmth of the vendor's smile, the hum of life all around him. It was a rare thing, this kind of peace, and he clung to it like a lifeline.

As he walked down the cobblestone street, the sun dappled the pavement in patches of light and shadow. Bucky's eyes flicked over the bustling crowds, his senses sharp. It was a habit he couldn't shake, this constant vigilance. His body moved on autopilot, navigating the streets with the quiet confidence of someone who had memorized every twist and turn, every alley and exit. Across the street, a young man stood at a newsstand, arranging newspapers and magazines with quick, efficient movements. Bucky's gaze passed over him casually at first, but something about the man's posture made him stop.

The vendor wasn't just working—he was watching.

Bucky's jaw tightened as their eyes met. The man froze for a fraction of a second, then turned abruptly, abandoning his kiosk and disappearing into the crowd.

Damn it.

Bucky crossed the street, his steps measured but purposeful. The familiar weight of tension settled in his chest as he approached the newsstand. He picked up the nearest newspaper, pretending to browse, but his focus was razor-sharp.

On the front page, bold black letters screamed: "Winter Soldier and Ghost Căutat pentru Bombardamentul din Viena"—"Winter Soldier and Ghost Wanted for the Vienna Bombing."

Below the headline were two grainy surveillance photos. The first was unmistakably him—his long hair disheveled, his face hard and haunted. The image clawed at him like a physical weight, a stark reminder of the life he was desperate to leave behind. Every scar on his soul seemed to flare at the sight of his own reflection in the paper, the alias Winter Soldier branded like a curse.

But it wasn't just his photo.

Next to it was another image—less clear but equally damning. A woman, caught mid-run, her expression blurred in motion. The headline referred to her as "Ghost," an ominous label that made his stomach twist. He stared at the photo, at the shadow of a figure he almost recognized.

Something about her haunted him.

He couldn't place her fully, couldn't pull her from the fog of his fractured memories, but there was a connection. He felt it. It tugged at him like a half-remembered dream, the kind that lingered long after waking but slipped through your fingers the harder you tried to hold onto it.