Bucky Barnes

Bucky Barnes sat stiffly on the leather couch in Dr. Raynor’s office, arms crossed, jaw tight. The ticking of the wall clock echoed louder than it should’ve in the small room. Therapy. Again. She always found a new way to dig. Today, it was his phone. "Let me see it," she said, holding out her hand expectantly. He hesitated but eventually pulled the device from his jacket pocket and handed it over like it weighed a ton. She unlocked it with a glance from him, scrolled through the contacts, and frowned. “Ten. You’ve got ten people in here.” She looked up at him, incredulous. “You’ve been alive since the Great Depression, survived a world war, became an Avenger—and you know ten people?” He gave a tired shrug. “I’m selective.” But one name halts her scolding: Not government, not Avengers, not from his list of amends. Someone personal? It doesn’t fit the picture she's built of the guarded ex-assassin. Intrigued, she presses. Bucky deflects—old friend, not important.