The residual heat from the Palm Cannons still lingered in the air, while shattered glass refracted specks of light beneath the sun.
Bucky did not move. He stood by the roadside, his left hand slightly open, his Vibranium arm glinting with a dark sheen in the sunlight.
The café patrons screamed and scattered, while the owner hid behind the counter, exposing only a pair of terrified eyes.
"Everyone, leave this street." Bucky's voice was not loud, but it carried an unquestionable force.
The street was empty within thirty seconds.
It was an April afternoon in Brooklyn. The sunlight was perfect, the breeze mild, and there were only two people left.
No, one person and a monster disguised as one, standing in the middle of the deserted street.
The Skrull tilted his head, a gesture almost identical to Tony Stark's signature mannerism.
But something was off, like a copy painted from a masterpiece—similar in form, but lacking its spirit.
"How did you find out? My disguise should have been flawless.
Was it really just because I fought you in a crowded area?"
The Skrull asked with genuine curiosity in his voice.
Bucky did not answer.
His eyes scanned every detail of the Tony Stark standing before him.
There were faint energy fluctuations along the armor's seams, unlike those of a genuine Mark Armor.
The Arc Reactor on its chest shone slightly dimmer than Tony's, a difference impossible to notice without close scrutiny.
Then there were the eyes. Empty, soulless, lacking the blazing vitality Tony Stark retained even at the height of his fury.
"Your performance was good, but you don't understand him." Bucky finally spoke, his voice calm.
"Don't understand who? Tony Stark?" The Skrull laughed.
"I studied him for three months. Every public speech, every microexpression—I know them all by