Project Hellhound

The hours pass in fragmented sleep. My dreams are a kaleidoscope of shifting forms—neither fully wolf nor human but trapped in an agonizing in-between state where hunters close in from all sides. I jolt awake as morning light slices through the blinds, my claws instinctively extending into the mattress before conscious thought allows me to retract them.

Bucky sits in the same chair, the book that had occupied him now lies abandoned on his lap, spine cracked and pages splayed. Despite the obvious fatigue etched into the shadows beneath his eyes, his gaze snaps to mine with immediate vigilance.

"Bad dreams?" he asks quietly, his voice rough with his own sleeplessness.

I stretch deliberately, feigning the languid movements of a wolf awakening rather than a soldier startled from nightmares. The stitches in my side pull only slightly now—a testament to the enhanced healing. I shake slightly, setting my fur in order, and a quiet rattle from my neck reminds me of the collar. My muscles twitch with the urge to tear it off, but I force myself to ignore it, just as I've learned to ignore dozens of other indignities.

"It's almost half six," he continues, glancing at the digital clock on the nightstand. "Steve'll be here soon." His metal fingers card through his hair, the sound like brushed steel against silk.

I yawn widely, before getting off the bed and padding to the water bowl by the window. As I drink, I consider my strategy for the evening ahead. Limited responses. Maintain animal behaviors.

From his chair, Bucky watches me drink, his eyes following my movements with a mixture of curiosity and concern. The leather creaks softly as he leans forward.

"You seem better after a nap," he observes, leaning forward slightly. "How's the side feeling?"

I glance at him briefly before returning to my water, lapping slowly as if I hadn't understood the question. Of course, I can't answer him—not in any way that wouldn't immediately reveal what I am. Instead, I finish drinking and sit down facing the window, my gaze fixed on the world outside.

Bucky chuckles softly. "Right. Talking to a wolf. Not weird at all, Barnes." He rises from his chair with a soft grunt, his joints cracking slightly as he stretches—a reminder that despite his enhancements, his body still carries the weight of decades.

"Seven days," he murmurs, almost to himself. "Seven days to convince Fury you're not a Hydra sleeper agent." He looks at me directly. "No pressure or anything."

My ears prick forward at Fury's name, a reaction I can't entirely suppress. The Director's ultimatum hangs over us both—a week to prove I'm not a threat, that I'm not controlled by hidden Hydra programming. One day has almost passed. Six days remain before Fury will insist on more invasive measures, or worse, classification as a hostile asset.

Bucky sighs, running his hand through his hair again as he glances toward the bathroom. "I'm going to clean up," he says, moving toward the small adjoining door. He pauses at the threshold, turning back to me with a half-smile. "You should be fine for a few minutes. Just... don't destroy anything while I'm gone."

The bathroom door closes with a solid click, followed by the hiss of the shower starting. I count thirty seconds, ears swiveling to track his movements behind the door, before approaching the desk where his phone lies. My approach is soundless, paws navigating instinctively around the creaking floorboard near the desk's corner.

Using my nose, I delicately tap the screen, bringing it to life with a soft blue glow that illuminates my muzzle. The lock screen—a generic nature scene, revealing nothing personal—stares back with its numeric keypad. My enhanced memory catalogs potential combinations: his birthdate, significant historical dates, common patterns like 1-2-3-4 that even trained operatives sometimes use. The temptation to attempt access wars with operational caution.