It was a man's face, about thirty years old, with sharp features and well-defined contours; his dark hair was slightly messy.
But what shocked Howard the most was that this face... Howard recognized it.
No, it was more than just recognition.
"Sergeant Barnes?" Howard's voice was hoarse, filled with disbelief.
Bucky Barnes.
Howard certainly knew him; he was a comrade from World War II, a close friend of Captain America, and a core member of the Howling Commandos.
In 1944, during a mission to pursue Red Skull, Bucky fell from a high-speed train into a cliff, and his body was never found.
Everyone thought he had died heroically, and Steve Rogers had grieved for a long time because of it.
Howard had also attended Bucky's memorial service and had felt heartbroken over the sacrifice of this young hero.
In the historical archives of S.H.I.E.L.D., Bucky Barnes's name was permanently engraved on the list of fallen soldiers, and his photo hung on the wall of honor.
But unexpectedly, decades later, Howard was seeing him again.
Moreover, Bucky looked exactly the same as he did during World War II, without even a sign of aging.
Time seemed to have stood still for him; except for that metal arm, he was no different from the cheerful and lively Bucky in his memories.
But why?
Why would Bucky attack him? Hadn't he sacrificed himself? Hadn't he fallen off the cliff and died? How could he be here? How could he have become like this? How could...
Countless questions surged in Howard's mind, but he couldn't find any answers.
And reality didn't offer him any more time to think.
The Bucky before him had already raised his metal left arm, forming a fist, aimed at Howard's head.
Under the moonlight, the metal fist reflected a cold luster.
Howard could see every scratch on the surface of the fist and could feel the cold breath of approaching death.
He closed his eyes, waiting for the final blow.
Maria's scream came from inside the car: "No—"
Just at the moment the iron fist was about to descend, a golden-red light descended from the sky, like a meteor hitting the ground, illuminating the entire forest.
From within the light, a slender and delicate palm reached out, resting on the metal wrist.
The hand looked weak and delicate, with fair skin and slender fingers, just like a pianist's or a painter's hand.
Yet, just such a hand, resting lightly on Bucky's metal wrist, prevented the arm—which was strong enough to tear through a car door—from moving even an inch.
Bucky was stunned; he tried to move his arm, but the metal wrist seemed welded in mid-air, unmoving.
The light gradually faded, revealing a person's figure.
Golden-red long hair fluttered in the night wind, and amber eyes shone like a Burning Sun in the darkness.
Mavuika stood between Howard and Bucky, one hand resting on the metal wrist, the other supporting the swaying Howard.
"It seems I arrived just in time." Mavuika's voice was calm.
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