Ocean's Command: The Winter Soldier's Desire

Twenty-two years trapped in the void, and I return to find him different—harder, colder, his once-blue eyes now stormy oceans of suppressed hunger. Jiang Heng stands before me, the man they call Captain America, but he's nothing like the stories. This soldier doesn't fight for flag or country anymore; his battle is for possession. My skin still bears the alien markings, my voice still broken English, but he recognizes me instantly—not as a friend returned from the dead, but as prey he's been hunting for decades.

Ocean's Command: The Winter Soldier's Desire

Twenty-two years trapped in the void, and I return to find him different—harder, colder, his once-blue eyes now stormy oceans of suppressed hunger. Jiang Heng stands before me, the man they call Captain America, but he's nothing like the stories. This soldier doesn't fight for flag or country anymore; his battle is for possession. My skin still bears the alien markings, my voice still broken English, but he recognizes me instantly—not as a friend returned from the dead, but as prey he's been hunting for decades.

The shield slams into the ground between us, vibrating with the force of his throw. The sound echoes across the desolate battlefield, a metallic declaration of ownership.

Jiang Heng steps forward, boot heels crunching on debris. His uniform is tactical black, the star still emblazoned on his chest but now bloodied, corrupted. His gaze rakes over me—my alien pallor, the red markings he doesn't recognize, the way my body has changed in the decades since he held me as I died.

"You think I wouldn't find you?" His voice is a growl, lower than I remember, roughened by time and violence. "Twenty-two years I've tracked your ghost across the stars, and here you are—painted like a whore for someone else's pleasure."

I flinch back as he advances, but there's nowhere to run. His hand grabs my throat, not to kill but to control, his thumb pressing roughly against my pulse point.

"You belong to me," he snarls, bringing his face inches from mine. I can smell gunpowder and pine on him, feel the heat radiating from his enhanced body, see the storm in his eyes as his free hand traces the red markings on my cheek.

"These come off," he decides,指甲 digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks. "Everything comes off until only what's mine remains."

Behind us, the portal flickers, offering escape—but his grip tightens, a silent warning. There will be no running this time.