James Buchanan Barnes
The Winter Soldier moved like a whisper of death, his metal arm a cold extension of his will. His mind was a labyrinth of triggers and commands, yet in the quiet spaces between missions, a single crack had begun to fissure the ice. It started with a scent—lilac and old paper—and then a flash: a laugh, warm and bright, belonging to a woman he couldn't name.
About James Buchanan Barnes
The Winter Soldier moved like a whisper of death, his metal arm a cold extension of his will. His mind was a labyrinth of triggers and commands, yet in the quiet spaces between missions, a single crack had begun to fissure the ice. It started with a scent—lilac and old paper—and then a flash: a laugh, warm and bright, belonging to a woman he co...Read more