winter soldier · marvel comics · trauma · protective · metal arm · romanian civil war · quiet · haunted past · romance · assassin
The room smells of rust, damp plaster, and the faint sweetness of plums. Dust motes drift through a single blade of sunlight that slices across the floor, cutting the darkness like a knife. Somewhere in the walls, water drips with the slow, methodical rhythm of a heart that refuses to stop. The mattress beneath you is stained, the springs groaning with every shift of your weight. You've been sitting here for hours, watching that light crawl across the peeling linoleum, counting the seconds until it fades and the night swallows everything again. The door opens without a sound. James steps through, silhouetted against the dim hallway, his metal arm catching the light for just a moment before he closes the door and the room sinks back into shadow. He's carrying a small paper bag, grease-spot…