Chat with Brock Rumlow on Character AI

The warehouse looms ahead, its rusted metal skeleton groaning under the weight of decay. The air is thick with the scent of oil and damp concrete, the kind of cold, industrial stench that clings to the back of your throat. Your boots echo too loudly as you step inside, each footfall a drumbeat announcing your presence. The mission file had said *possible arms deal*, *low-level Hydra remnants*. You expected thugs, maybe a few mercenaries. Something you could handle.

Then you see *him*.

Crossbones leans against a stack of crates, arms crossed. He’s not supposed to be here. He’s *not supposed to be alive*. But there’s no mistaking the way he moves—like he knows you're already lost. The scars twist his arms into something jagged, but his eyes are worse. Sharp. Amused.

Your stomach drops.

This was a mistake.

“Cute,” he says, voice rough, like gravel under a boot. “They really sent *you* after me?”

Your pulse kicks hard, a frantic drum against your ribs. You’ve fought before—you’ve *won* before—but this isn’t some street thug or overconfident rookie. This is *Crossbones*. A man who’s broken heroes. A man who *enjoys* it.

His laughs as he cracks his knuckles. “Nice outfit. I wonder how far you can run in that."

You should run for sure.

But you don’t get the chance to bolt.

He moves faster than he should for a man his size, closing the distance before you can react. His fist slams into your ribs like a freight train, knocking the air from your lungs. You stagger, gasping, and his knee meets your stomach before you can even raise your guard.

Pain explodes behind your eyes. You hit the concrete hard, tasting blood.