Shadows of the Past

The ghost in black raised his head, revealing eyes full of cold, killing intent above a black mask.

"Brooklyn is my turf. What do you think you're doing here?"

Those eyes were terrifying, as if a never-ending blizzard raged within them.

The icy winds and chilling cold of Siberia seemed to blow straight from those eyes toward him.

One glance was enough to freeze the red bandana man in place.

His hand trembled, his legs turned to jelly, and the black gun in his palm shook uncontrollably, "W-Who are you?"

The ghost with the metal arm didn't answer.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the joints of his metal arm flexed.

He clenched his fist, crushing the gun in the red bandana man's hand into pieces.

The red bandana man screamed in fear at the inhuman strength.

Stumbling backward, he knocked over a display and crashed to the floor.

Propping himself up with his hands, he stared in terror as the black ghost slowly stepped toward him.

"P-Please... don't come closer... don't come closer..."

The red bandana man begged desperately, but in the reflection of his eyes, the black combat boot was raised high and about to come down on him—

Suddenly a golden staff blocked the boot from falling.

The golden staff glowed with a white light in the sign's illumination, flashing into the black figure's eyes.

"Sergeant Barnes, what are you doing?"

A light, distant voice rang out from above.

The black figure stopped his movement.

He looked up to the right, and his mid-length brown hair fell back, revealing half of Bucky Barnes' deep and striking face.

Above them, on the edge of a rooftop of a plain, flat-roofed store, a figure in pure white casually sat.

Behind him, six soft wings spread out, their tips glowing with a hint of moonlight.

Bucky Barnes looked at him coldly, "If you took off that ridiculous helmet of yours, you'd see what I'm doing."

Soren, following his cue, covered his metal helmet and adjusted it seriously.

It was impossible for him to take off the helmet because, without it, Soren was a faceless man!

"Do you always have to comment on my helmet, Sergeant Barnes?" Soren retorted.

He lightly jumped down from the rooftop, floating beside Bucky, chin in hand, bending over to look at the terrified young man who could barely speak, "Hmm... let me see, robbing with a gun in New York, you've got quite a nerve."

The red bandana man gaze fixed on the huge, intimidating figure in front of him, his muscles twitching as he held his breath.

Soren grinned at the red bandana man, revealing a row of gleaming teeth, "Luckily, you ran into me. Don't be afraid, I'll get you safely to the police station."

"If you have so much free time, you could volunteer in the community," Bucky said, moving his metal arm and glancing at the red bandana man, who was now too terrified to speak.

Soren straightened up, "Sergeant Barnes, you seem to have more free time than I do—skipping out on your old war buddies to play vigilante here."

Bucky Barnes, a seasoned ghost killer for over half a century, slightly widened his eyes at the comment but then stubbornly said, "That's my business."

He turned around and, using his metal arm, grabbed the red bandana man by the collar.

His dark, lifeless eyes cut through the red bandana man's face like a knife, "Who gave you the guts to cause trouble in Brooklyn?"

The red bandana man looked at him in terror, his eyes wide and mouth open in silence, unable to speak.

"It's not good to take your frustrations out on others," Soren commented from the side.

Bucky Barnes shot him a sharp glance, then suddenly threw the red bandana man aside and slammed his metal fist into the wall!

The iron fist shattered the bricks on the wall, which cracked like a spider's web and sent brick debris raining down.

Bucky's heavy eyes turned toward Soren.

"What do you know?" he asked breathlessly, his gaze showing a hint of pain.

"What do you know?"

He repeated the question again, but this time, he was asking his own bleeding, aching heart.

What could these people, living in happiness and peace, possibly understand?

The blood on his hands could never be washed away.

The dried blood stuck between his fingers was the heaviest burden he carried.

Every night, when he closed his eyes, he saw the faces of those he had killed and the desperate eyes that could never close in peace.

Sometimes, he saw flashes of artillery fire, broadleaf forests, armies, military transport trucks, old Brooklyn houses, snowy winters, freight trains, operating tables, and brainwashing devices.

He would wake up from one nightmare after another, struggling in layer after layer of hell.

When he fell from the train, the world had abandoned him.

He was immersed in a pool of burning blood, crawling out covered in filth and sin.

The man laughing in the old photos of Captain America wasn't him.

The sniper in the history books was not him either.

He knew what he was.

He was a dirty scavenger dog.

Controlled by Hydra, he committed countless crimes, yet he still lived in this world in a vile way.

He used working for S.H.I.E.L.D. as an excuse, foolishly hoping to cleanse his sins.

But he knew he could never repay his debt.

His remaining life would be filled with pain and guilt.

He could only use the rest of his time to atone his sin.

But Steve Rogers was still the hero.

He was Captain America, admired by thousands.

He was a legend printed in textbooks and history books, the embodiment of the American spirit—honest, great, and kind.

He was the one bathed in sunlight, while Bucky Barnes was a prisoner walking alone in the dark.

Creatures of darkness are scorched by the light of the sun.

He couldn't face Steve.

Steve's face was just as it had been seventy years ago—a sharp knife stabbing into his chest, a bloody reminder that he and Steve were on a train with no return.