Nerd Alert

Ever since you were little, you didn’t have the best relationship with your parents. Your grades were mediocre, you stayed in your room most of the time, and what bothered you the most were the sly comments your mom would make about you.

“Your hair is so messy, no man would want to date a girl with a mane.”

“You should exercise more, I think you’re putting on some weight.”

“Why are you always locked away in your room, do you hate us or something?”

As you were growing up, you learned to tune it out—whether it be through music, drinking, or just staying out so late the sun was rising when you got back home. You found every possible chance to get out of the house—or just away from your parents—and took it. You never truly cut them off; after all, they didn’t do you any physical harm per se, just some—not so—minor infractions on your self-image. You talked to them barely once a year on the phone, visited during Christmas some years, but that was the extent of your relationship.

When you met Natasha, you rarely ever brought up your parents. Sometimes she would ask questions, purely out of curiosity, while you were cuddled up on the couch or when you two were baking together in the kitchen. You did your best to keep the answers short and simple. Not like there was much to talk about anyway—you barely remember any interactions with your parents, let alone good ones. Most of them ended the same way anyway, with you being lectured on whatever it may be.

Natasha was the best girlfriend you could have ever asked for. You often woke up being smothered in kisses plastered all around your face and jaw, right before you glanced at the alarm clock beside you and realized you were late to work, begrudgingly leading her off you so you could go get ready. Natasha would take you on date nights weekly—it was a must. She’d shower you in compliments every time she saw you dressed up for a fancy night out, even though she bought you the dress herself. She especially loved this black dress she bought you for your birthday dinner, which hugged your form perfectly, leaving her mouth “watering,” as per Natasha’s own words.

There wasn’t a second of any day where Natasha made you feel unloved or underappreciated. Every day you spent with her was no less satisfying than the last. Even when you had particularly hard days at work, or when your annoying coworker wouldn’t shut up, you knew that you could always come home to your girlfriend and melt right into her arms. Natasha always finished work earlier than you. Being in charge of her own company made her work hours very flexible—much to your benefit.

When you got that phone call from your parents asking you to come over and introduce them to Natasha, you were shocked, to say the least. Apparently, your sister had let it slip that you had a girlfriend, which she apologized for profusely once you confronted her. There was no getting out of this. Of course, when you told Natasha, she was overjoyed. In your two years of dating, she had never once met your parents. She never mentioned that she was upset about it, but you knew she always wanted to meet the people who raised you.

When the weekend finally rolled around, you were pacing the apartment like a cat in a cage. Every few minutes, you’d check the clock, even though you still had hours before you had to leave. Natasha was on the couch, legs crossed, watching you with that little smirk she wore whenever you were spiraling. She looked effortlessly put together in her cream blouse and slacks, hair tied back, but a few stray red strands fell around her face.

“Sweetheart,” she said, voice soft but teasing, “you’re wearing a hole in the floor.”

You stopped mid-step, exhaling through your nose. “I just—” You rubbed at your temple. “I don’t know how this is gonna go.”

“They’re your parents,” she said simply, like that explained everything.

“Exactly.” Natasha’s smirk faded into something gentler. She patted the seat beside her. “Come here.” You sank down, and her hand was on your thigh instantly, grounding you. She always did that—touched without hesitation, like she could anchor you with just her fingertips.

“Look, my parents are very… demanding. I’m just saying, there’s a reason I don’t talk to them much,” you started to explain to her. Demanding was a nice way to put it.

“Okay. How ‘bout once we get there, anytime you want to leave, we will,” Natasha reasoned. You loved how she always, always considered your feelings above all else.

You reluctantly agreed, stepping away to get ready, changing into a simple blouse and some semi-formal dress pants. You knew anything less would get you snide remarks from your mother.

The drive to your parents’ house was quiet. Natasha’s hand found yours on the gearshift halfway there, thumb tracing circles over your knuckles. You stared out the window, watching the same streets you used to bike down as a kid. Everything looked smaller now.

When you pulled up to the house, your stomach twisted. The curtains shifted slightly—your mother had already seen you. Natasha gave your hand a final squeeze before stepping out. “Deep breaths,” she murmured.

You rang the doorbell before you could lose your nerve. Your mother opened the door, wearing her usual practiced smile—the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, there you are!” she said. “And this must be Natasha.”

Your parents and your girlfriend exchanged casual hellos and introductions before you all sat down at the dinner table. Dinner was always going to be uncomfortable, but you hadn’t expected it to feel like sitting through an interrogation.

Your mother’s dining room was as immaculate as ever—everything symmetrical, the scent of lavender polish clinging to the air. Natasha sat beside you, perfectly composed, even as your mother’s gaze flicked between you both like she was assessing damage.

The first half hour was bearable. Polite questions about work, about traffic, about the weather. Harmless enough. But it didn’t take long before the cracks began to show.

“So, Natasha,” your mother said sweetly, swirling her wine, “it must be exhausting keeping up with such a demanding job. You’re in… security, is that right?”

Natasha smiled lightly. “Something like that.” You chuckled a little bit at her humble approach to the question, knowing that she had run her own security firm—the largest one in the country, at that—but you ultimately kept quiet.

“Mm.” Your mother’s eyes darted to you, lingering a little too long. “And you—still between things, dear?”

You stiffened. Natasha’s hand, resting on your thigh under the table, gave a gentle squeeze.

“I’m working,” you said, keeping your voice even. “Just not in an office.”

“Oh, of course,” your mother said. “Natasha must be very patient. Not everyone could handle such… differences in lifestyle.”

Your chest tightened, but Natasha didn’t flinch. “I don’t find patience necessary,” she said smoothly. “I’m proud of her. She’s doing what makes her happy.”

“How nice.” Your mother glanced at you, lips curving. “I remember when you used to say you wanted to do something important.”

You forced a smile. “I still do, Mom.”

Your father chuckled, setting down his fork. “Well, maybe one day you’ll get there. You’ve always been a little scattered with your plans.”

Your jaw tightened. “I have a job, Dad.”

He shrugged. “Sure. Just not the kind of job you can brag about.”

Natasha’s hand tensed slightly on your thigh.

Your mother’s voice came next, honey-sweet and poisonous. “You’ve always been our dreamer. Never one for structure, never one for consistency. But I suppose Natasha doesn’t mind that?”

“She doesn’t,” Natasha said evenly.

“Of course.” Your mother took a sip of her wine. “It’s just surprising, that’s all. A woman of her success choosing someone who…” her eyes flicked over you, assessing, “still hasn’t quite found her footing.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight. “Mom—”

She smiled, then looked at Natasha again, cutting you off. “You must be very patient with her.”

Natasha’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. Her eyes flicked up—calm, but cold. “Patient?”

“Well, yes. She’s always been a bit scattered. Emotional, too. I imagine that takes some getting used to.”

Natasha set her fork down neatly. “It doesn’t.” The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut through the air.

Your father cleared his throat. “She’s just saying you have different personalities, that’s all.”

“Right,” Natasha said, voice soft but precise. “Except that’s not what she said.”

Your mother blinked, clearly thrown off. “I didn’t mean anything by it—”

“You did,” Natasha said, still calm, still polite. “You meant to remind her that she’s never been enough for you. You do it with a smile, but it’s still the same thing.”

Your mother’s lips thinned. “I don’t appreciate being spoken to like that in my own home.”

“And I don’t appreciate watching you tear her down in yours,” Natasha replied.

Your father leaned back, tone sharp. “You don’t know us. You don’t get to sit here and judge the way we raised our daughter.”

Natasha’s gaze didn’t move from your mother. “Maybe not. But I can see what it did to her.”

You looked down at your hands, throat tight. Natasha’s words weren’t raised, weren’t dramatic—they were steady, deliberate. It almost made it worse.

Your father’s voice hardened. “That’s enough. I think you two should leave.”

Natasha stood first, chair scraping quietly against the floor. She didn’t argue, just reached for your hand—the movement small, but grounding.

You hesitated only for a second before standing with her.

Your mother spoke again, voice like ice. “You’ll regret this someday. Letting someone like her come between you and your family.”

Natasha didn’t look back. But her voice, when she answered, was calm enough to sting. “If this is what family means to you, I think she’s better off.” --- The house was quiet when you got home. Not the comfortable kind of quiet that usually came with late nights in—music humming softly through the speakers, Natasha muttering under her breath as she made tea—but the kind that felt like everything had been turned down too low.

You didn’t say much when you came through the door, just kicked off your shoes and went straight for the living room. Natasha followed, not saying a word either. She knew better than to fill the silence right away—knew you needed a moment to just breathe.

You sank into the couch, elbows on your knees, staring at the dark TV screen. You could still feel the weight of your mother’s stare, the too-sweet tone of her voice, the tight smile your father gave every time you tried to speak. The way the air had grown thick with things you weren’t supposed to say.

Natasha walked past you, quiet footsteps over the hardwood, and disappeared into the kitchen. You heard the familiar sound of the kettle being filled, the soft click of the stove. It was her way of grounding things—doing something simple. When she came back, she was carrying two mugs, steam curling up from both.

“Chamomile,” she said softly, setting one in front of you. “The one with honey. You need it.”

You took it, fingers brushing hers for just a second. The warmth seeped through your skin, a sharp contrast to the cold pit in your stomach.

“They were…” you started, then stopped. The words got tangled somewhere between your throat and your chest. “They were worse than I remembered.”

Natasha let out a quiet breath and sat down beside you, close enough that her thigh pressed against yours. “You don’t have to defend them,” she said. Her voice wasn’t angry, but it had that low edge. “Not after tonight.”

You shook your head. “I’m not. I just thought maybe they’d changed. I wanted you to see that they could at least be decent.”

Natasha tilted her head, studying your face like she was trying to read every thought running through it. Then she reached out, her hand sliding over yours. “They don’t get to decide what you’re worth. Not after the way they spoke to you.”

You didn’t trust your voice enough to answer. Instead, you leaned into her touch, letting your shoulder press against hers until she wrapped an arm around you and pulled you in completely. It wasn’t one of her careful, measured embraces—it was solid, certain.

“You handled yourself better than I did,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I should’ve left sooner.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said into her chest.

“I should’ve done more.” Her voice was low, steady — not angry, but threaded with guilt. “When your father said those things—”

“Nat,” you interrupted, lifting your head enough to meet her eyes. “You did enough. You were there.”

Her jaw unclenched, just barely. Then she gave you a small smile. “You always say that like it’s supposed to make me feel better.”

“That’s because it should.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The kettle clicked off in the kitchen, long forgotten. You could feel her heartbeat against your ear, steady and grounding. Her fingers brushed absently through your hair—slow, rhythmic motions that made your eyes sting for reasons you couldn’t quite name.

“Next time,” she said finally, voice quieter now, “we don’t go back there unless you want to. Not because they ask. Not because you feel like you have to.”

You nodded, the motion small but sure. “Deal.”

She pressed a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there for a few seconds. “Good.”

You stayed like that for a long while—wrapped up in the soft glow of the living room lamp, the hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the background. Eventually, Natasha leaned back, pulling you with her until you were both half-lying on the couch. Her hand found yours again, thumb tracing lazy circles against your skin.

When she spoke again, her voice had softened to something almost fragile. “You didn’t deserve any of that, you know.”

You didn’t answer right away, just turned your head toward her, your forehead brushing her shoulder. “I know,” you said quietly. “But it still hurts.”

“I know.” She squeezed your hand. “That’s why I’m here.”

The kitchen wasn’t supposed to look like a battlefield. But if anyone asked, you’d say it wasn’t your fault.

“Okay,” Wanda said, hands on her hips as she stared down at the ingredients laid out across the counter. Flour, sugar, butter, eggs—all neat and orderly, because of course she’d made you measure everything out before even starting. “We are going to make this properly. No shortcuts.”

You raised an eyebrow from where you leaned against the counter, sleeves already pushed up, ready for action. “You make it sound like we’re defusing a bomb, not baking cookies.”

Her lips twitched, like she was trying not to smile. “Have you ever actually followed a recipe?”

“Define ‘follow.’”

Wanda sighed dramatically, though her eyes sparkled. “Exactly what I thought. Which is why I am in charge.” She jabbed a finger at you, mock-stern. “You listen, you stir, you don’t improvise.”

You lifted your hands in surrender, grinning. “Yes, chef.”

She rolled her eyes and reached for the bowl, pulling it close. “Butter first. Softened, not melted. We cream it with the sugar.”

You snuck a glance at her profile as she concentrated, the way her brows knit when she was in her element. Wanda had that kind of quiet authority, the kind that made you want to listen—even if half the fun was pushing just enough to make her flustered.

The butter hit the bowl with a soft thunk, followed by sugar spilling in like white sand. You grabbed the whisk before she could, holding it up like a sword. “Allow me.”

“Careful,” she warned, stepping closer, “this part can get messy if you’re not—”

The whisk jerked in your hands, sugar puffing up in a tiny cloud that immediately dusted her front.

You froze. “…Careful?”

Her mouth fell open in mock outrage as she brushed at her shirt, smears of sugar sticking stubbornly. She looked at you slowly, eyes narrowing.

“Oh no,” you whispered, but you were already laughing.

“You’re impossible.” She snatched the whisk from your hand, shoving you lightly with her shoulder as she took over. “Go get the eggs. At least you can’t mess that up.”

You saluted again, biting back a grin as you retrieved the carton. “Two, right?”

“Mmhm. Crack them in, no shells.”

You tapped the first egg too hard against the counter, nearly crushing it, but somehow got it open without casualties. The second… not so much. A shard of shell slipped into the bowl, gleaming under the kitchen light.

Before you could fish it out, Wanda’s hand shot past yours, scooping the bit of shell delicately with her fingertip. She glanced at you, smug. “Like this.”

You stared at her hand a second too long. “You know, I think you’re just showing off.”

Her laugh was soft, rolling through the kitchen like music. “Maybe a little.”

The mixing turned noisy, the whisk clanging lightly against the bowl as the batter thickened. You leaned in, peeking. “It’s starting to look like… actual cookie dough.”

“Shocking,” Wanda teased, but her smile softened when she looked up at you. “See? Following the rules works.”

You dipped a finger into the dough before she could stop you, grinning as you licked it clean. “Tastes good, too.”

Her eyes widened in mock scandal. “That’s raw egg!”

“Worth it,” you said, mouth full, which only made her swat your arm with the whisk.

The hit wasn’t hard, but flour flew up from the counter where the whisk brushed against it, catching in her hair and dusting her cheeks.

You froze again, then broke into laughter so sharp your stomach hurt. “Wanda—your face—”

She reached up, patting at her hair, which only smeared more flour down her temple. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her gaze on you, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Don’t,” you warned, backing up a step.

But it was already too late. She plunged her hand straight into the flour bag, scooping up a handful, and flung it at you.

It hit your shirt square on, a cloud of white bursting into the air. You coughed and staggered back, half-choking, half-laughing. “You got it all over me!.”

“That’s what you get,” Wanda declared, giggling as she brushed her hands off.

“Oh, you’re so done.” You dove for the bag, grabbing your own fistful and tossing it at her.

The kitchen erupted in chaos. Clouds of flour filled the air, settling on every surface, sticking to your hair, your skin, your clothes. Wanda shrieked and ducked, grabbing a spoon like it would save her, while you chased her around the counter.

By the time you both stopped, breathless and laughing, the kitchen looked like a snowstorm had passed through.

Wanda leaned against the counter, hair tangled and dusted white, cheeks flushed from laughter. She looked radiant, even covered in flour. Especially covered in flour.

You stepped closer, brushing some of the flour from her cheek with your thumb. “You look ridiculous.”

Her smile softened, eyes meeting yours with something warmer now. “So do you.”

For a moment, the kitchen was quiet again, the world shrinking to the space between you. Then she reached forward, looping her arms around your waist in a sudden, tight bear hug.

You laughed, stumbling into her. “Careful—you’re just getting more flour on yourself.”

“Worth it,” she murmured into your shoulder, echoing your words from earlier.

You melted into her hold, burying your face in her hair, which smelled faintly like sugar and vanilla despite the flour. Her arms squeezed tighter, grounding you in the middle of the mess you’d made together.

After a long moment, she pulled back just enough to look up at you. Her eyes were soft, almost shy. “We should probably finish the cookies before the dough dries out.”

You chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead before letting her go. “Right. Cookies.”

The rest of the baking was slower, calmer. You rolled dough into little balls while Wanda lined the tray, sneaking glances at each other like kids caught doing something mischievous. She hummed while she worked, a sound that warmed you more than the oven ever could.

When the cookies finally came out—golden, soft, edges just crisp enough—you both sat on the floor in front of the oven, sharing them straight off the tray, burning your fingers and laughing through the sting.

“You know,” Wanda said between bites, leaning against your shoulder, “we’re never going to get all the flour out of the grout.”

“Don’t care,” you replied, kissing the top of her head. “Best mess I’ve ever made.”

The apartment was quiet when Wanda unlocked the door. Too quiet.

Her key slid from the lock with a muted click, and she pushed the door open with her shoulder, careful not to jostle the paper bag she carried. A late shift meant she’d missed dinner again, but she’d stopped by the bakery on her way home and grabbed something she thought you’d like. Chocolate croissants. Not exactly nutritious, but she figured it might soften the apology.

The living room lights were low, just the soft golden glow of a lamp left on. At first, Wanda thought you’d gone to bed already. Then her eyes fell to the couch, and her heart stuttered.

You were there.

Curled up, head tipped awkwardly against the armrest, a blanket half-slipped down your shoulder. The TV flickered silently in front of you, a paused screen frozen on some sitcom you’d probably put on to pass the time. Wanda’s chest tightened when she realized what had happened—you’d waited up for her.

She set the paper bag down quietly on the counter and slipped out of her shoes, moving soft as shadow. Her work bag fell against the wall with a muted thud, but you didn’t stir. You were gone to the world, lips parted just the slightest bit, breaths even and steady.

Guilt crept up her spine. She hadn’t meant for her shift to run so late, but she’d gotten caught up again, another crisis that had pulled her attention longer than it should have. She hated that you had fallen asleep here, waiting for her, instead of tucked safe and comfortable in your bed.

For a moment, she just stood there, watching you. The soft rise and fall of your chest, the small crease in your brow even in sleep—it made her ache. Wanda crouched down beside the couch, her face close to yours.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered, her Sokovian accent soft, barely brushing the syllables. “You should have gone to bed.”

You didn’t answer, of course. Your lips twitched, though, as if the sound of her voice tugged faintly at the edge of your dream. Wanda’s smile was helpless. She reached out, brushing back a loose strand of hair that had fallen into your face.

The touch lingered.

Her thumb skimmed the curve of your cheek, marveling at how warm you felt compared to her rain-chilled skin. She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed you all day until now—until the relief of seeing you safe and close hit her like a wave.

Wanda straightened, moving carefully to tug the blanket back over your shoulder. She smoothed it down, tucking it around your arms the way she wished she could have held you all evening. For a second, she considered letting you sleep there, but the thought of you waking with a stiff neck made her shake her head.

“Alright, dorogaya,” she murmured, slipping her arms under you. “Up we go.”

You stirred when she lifted you, body shifting instinctively against hers. Your cheek pressed against her collarbone, a faint sigh escaping you. Wanda froze, holding her breath like she’d been caught, but your eyes didn’t open.

She carried you slowly down the hall, adjusting her hold so you wouldn’t bump into the doorframe. You were heavier than you looked, but Wanda didn’t mind. The steady weight of you in her arms was grounding, comforting. When she laid you down on the bed, you mumbled something half-formed, words lost in sleep.

Wanda sat on the edge of the mattress, brushing your hair back again. “I’m here,” she whispered. “Sleep, love. I’m home now.”

She left you there long enough to change into her own pajamas and wash the day off her face. When she came back, you’d shifted onto your side, one hand stretched out like you’d been reaching for her.

Wanda’s heart twisted. She climbed into bed carefully, sliding under the covers and letting your searching hand find hers. Even half-asleep, your fingers curled around hers, gripping lightly, and she felt her throat tighten.

She leaned closer, pressing her lips to your temple. “I’m sorry I was late,” she breathed. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore she felt you squeeze her hand in answer.

Hours later, when the first hints of dawn pressed against the blinds, Wanda was still awake. Not because she couldn’t sleep—she was exhausted—but because she couldn’t stop looking at you.

The rise and fall of your chest. The way your mouth softened when you were truly, deeply at rest. She memorized every detail like it was the first time.

You stirred faintly, eyelashes fluttering, and Wanda quickly closed her eyes, feigning sleep. A second later, the mattress dipped as you shifted closer, tucking your head against her chest. Her lips parted on a shaky exhale.

Wanda wrapped her arms around you then, finally allowing herself to drift, the world narrowing to the steady rhythm of your breathing against her. ---

When you woke the next morning, the first thing you noticed was the smell of something warm and sweet wafting from the kitchen. The second thing was Wanda’s absence beside you.

Groggy, you dragged yourself from the bed, padding down the hall.

Wanda was at the stove, hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of your old shirts that hung loose on her frame. She turned at the sound of your footsteps, eyes lighting instantly.

“Good morning,” she said softly. “You slept well?”

You blinked, still half-asleep, and rubbed your eyes. “I was waiting for you last night.”

“I know.” Her voice faltered just a little. “I’m sorry.”

You shuffled closer, leaning into the counter beside her. “You carried me, didn’t you?”

Her lips curved despite the guilty flush rising in her cheeks. “You make it sound like it was difficult.”

You gave her a look, and she laughed quietly, shaking her head. “Yes. I carried you. You were stubborn, even in your sleep.”

The memory softened something in you, the irritation you’d meant to hold on to slipping away. Wanda reached over, cupping your jaw, her thumb brushing over your cheek.

“I hate leaving you waiting,” she murmured. “But I promise—I’m here now.”

The next morning, you woke up from your sub-optimal sleep. Well, you weren’t sure you could call staring blankly at the wall, sleep. Whatever, you didn’t feel tired anyway. What you needed was an outlet, something you could put your energy into. You weren’t sure what time it was, the sun outside wasn't shining yet, it must've been early. You put on the first thing you see in the closet Tony stocked for you. A black hoodie and some gray sweatpants, that would work just fine. You walked out of your room, the hallways were quiet, thank you glanced at the clock in the corner of the room —3:30 AM— yeah, no wonder it’s quiet. You kept walking, not sure what you were looking for, maybe you were just looking for a distraction from your thoughts that got too loud in quiet moments like this. Finally, you found a door labeled, "Training Room.” You walked in, almost in awe of how spacious the room was. 

The door slid shut behind you, leaving the training room wrapped in a low hum of silence. The place looked almost sterile in the dim light. Sleek walls lined with panels that probably did a dozen things you couldn’t name, machines standing idle, their displays dark. The mats in the center were spotless, smooth enough to reflect the faint overhead glow. Rows of equipment sat along the edges — weights, treadmills, racks of strange tech that looked too advanced to be just exercise machines. A punching bag hung near the corner, swaying faintly though no one had touched it.

Everything felt sharp-edged, precise. Even the air was cooler here, conditioned, carrying a faint metallic bite. It wasn’t cluttered the way normal gyms were; every piece of gear had its place, everything arranged like it had been measured twice before being set down.

Your footsteps echoed a little too clearly against the hard floor. No voices, no sounds of sparring—just the steady, quiet hum of machines asleep but ready to wake. It was high-tech. Polished. Controlled. A room designed for people to push themselves past their limits. And now it was just you, standing in the middle of it, with nothing but silence pressing in from all sides. After the pure astonishment wore off, you got to work. The clock on the wall read 3:32 a.m. You weren’t sure what the core of your actions were—restlessness, boredom, or just the fact that sleep still didn’t come easy—but standing alone in the training room, the choice had felt obvious. Move or drown in stillness.

You started with push-ups, each rep crisp and controlled. Your muscles burned faintly, but it was nothing compared to what most people would feel. Pull-ups next, palms gripping the cool metal bar, and your arms lifted your body easily, again and again. Sit-ups, squats, lunges. Each movement executed perfectly, as if your body was built to endure.

When you moved to the treadmill, the steady whir of the belt was the only sound in the quiet room. You pushed the speed higher and higher, feeling your lungs working hard, but not truly tiring. Sleep-deprivation and adrenaline weren’t enough to slow you down. You switched off mid-stride, chest heaving slightly, but not from exhaustion. Only from habit.

Weights came next. Every press, every curl, every slam against the bag in the corner. You alternated exercises methodically, testing yourself. Pain flared, but fatigue? Not yet. Your body simply didn’t know it. Hydra had conditioned this. The serum had enhanced it. You could push forever. And so you did.

Hours passed. Hours that might have crushed a normal human. Not you. Your focus never wavered; your stamina was relentless. 

Then the door hissed open.

You froze mid-motion, half-turned toward the sound, eyes scanning. Sunlight spilled faintly from the hall, slicing across the cold fluorescent glow. Whoever stepped in looked startled at first —and then concerned— watching you move like you’d been at it forever.

The clock read 10:04 a.m.

It hit you suddenly, you’d been here, pushing yourself, for almost seven hours straight. And yet, you still felt nothing. 

The figure at the door didn’t move immediately, just stared. Steve, you realized. His arms were crossed, eyes narrowing as he took in your posture, the sheen of sweat on your skin, and the fact that you weren’t even breathing hard enough to seem winded.

“You… you’ve been at this for how long?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and concern.

You paused mid-lunge, hands on your knees, turning to glance at him. “ A few hours or something like that.” Your tone was flat, almost tired, but not from exertion. It was casual. You could have kept going for hours more. 

Steve ran a hand over his face. “I’ve never… I mean, I’ve seen super-soldier training, but—this? This is ridiculous.”

You shrugged, moving toward the free weights. “I wasn’t tired.”

“That’s not human,” he muttered, stepping fully inside now, closing the door behind him. “Even Banner would have collapsed by now.”

You picked up a pair of dumbbells, lifting them in controlled, rhythmic curls. “I’m used to it.”

The statement hung in the air, obvious but unspoken: Hydra’s serum, the enhancements, all of it. He’d seen hints of it before, but watching you push yourself, limitless, made it undeniable.

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You’re not just stronger. Your body doesn’t quit. Your muscles don’t ache. Your lungs… hell, even your heart doesn’t seem to get stressed the way it should. Seven hours, and you’re just… fine?”

You set the weights down, rolling your shoulders. “Fine enough.” And you were. The only thing dragging on you was your mind, restless, conditioned to expect threats, to fight, to survive. Your body was more machine than human now.

He shook his head, finally muttering something under his breath: “Unreal.”

And in that quiet, empty training room, reality sank in. Seven hours of relentless motion. And you could keep going. You could keep going until the walls bled, until the floor shook, until morning turned to night again—and you’d barely notice it.

Steve didn’t speak again for a long moment, just watched, absorbing the raw, unyielding presence of what you had become. And you, of course, kept moving. He stayed in the doorway, quiet, his arms hanging loose at his sides. The training room smelled of sweat and metal, a hum of machinery filling the empty space like it was the only living thing there. The faint flicker of overhead lights cast elongated shadows across the weights and machines, turning the polished metal into glimmers that felt almost alive in the dark. He tried again, voice gentle. “Hey… you’ve been at this a long time. Maybe we get some breakfast? At least something.”

You didn’t look at him. Your hands clenched and unclenched around the metal bars of the dumbbells, flexing against the tension coiled in your arms. The muscles beneath your skin moved independently, rigid and unyielding, yet beneath that strength there was a strange hollowness, a vacuum of sensation you couldn’t fill. “I don’t need it.”

“I don’t need it,” you repeated automatically, flat and cold. “I’m fine.”

Steve’s eyes softened, but he didn’t give up. He shifted slightly, the floor creaking faintly under his weight, a small, human sound that contrasted with the mechanical hum surrounding you. “I insist. A quick bite. Nothing fancy. Then you can—whatever you want. But you need to eat.”

You shook your head violently. The motion was sharp, almost jerky, like a reflex. “No. I don’t need—don’t need anything!”

Steve stepped closer, voice quiet but firmer, trying to anchor you without pushing. “You’ve been at this for… hours. All night. You need to rest. You need to—”

“I’m fine! I can… I can handle it!” The words erupted before you could stop them, sharp and brittle, scraping against the air like metal on metal. Your jaw clenched, the tendons in your neck taut, and the breath caught painfully in your throat. “I don’t need anyone! I don’t need… anything!”

Steve stopped, hands raised in a calming gesture, his face soft but unwavering. The faint lines of fatigue etched around his eyes, the subtle sag of his shoulders, spoke of quiet battles fought in silence. “Okay. Okay… slow down. I’m not here to fight you. I just don’t want to see you destroy yourself.”

And that’s when it broke. Something you’d held in, numbed, bottled for months—years, maybe—shattered in a single, ragged breath. You dropped the weights, a loud thud echoed, reverberating against the walls and bouncing across the empty room. Your knees buckled and you sank to the floor, forehead pressed to the cold mat, arms wrapped tight around your own torso as though trying to hold yourself together physically when your mind refused to comply.

Your voice trembled, raw, hoarse, breaking in ways you hadn’t allowed anyone to hear. “I… I don’t feel anything! Nothing.” You spoke not just aloud, but through every line of your body. The silence that had been your default, your shield, cracked around you, though tears didn’t come, and the raw tremor of exhaustion vibrated through your entire frame. “I push. I push and push, and it doesn’t matter. I– I’m… so tired, but I can’t stop. I can’t feel anything. I’m just… hollow, Steve. I’m empty! And it doesn’t—nothing—makes it stop.”

The words spilled out, a torrent that no one could touch or fix, reverberating against the walls as if the space itself was echoing your torment. Your shoulders shook violently, muscles flexing involuntarily from hours of relentless movement, yet it wasn’t the kind of shaking that comes with fatigue alone—it was the skeletal rattle of someone screaming in a void, of someone fighting against absence itself.

Steve knelt beside you, careful, his presence quiet but solid like a wall you didn’t want but needed. The subtle scent of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of the room, grounding you without you realizing. He didn’t touch at first. He didn’t speak over you. He just let you unravel, let your body speak the silence that had grown so loud inside your chest, gave you space to collapse into yourself, to finally let go.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, voice low and steady, almost a whisper. “It’s okay to feel it. It’s okay to… need something. You don’t have to carry it all alone.”

You pressed your face harder into your arms, your body rigid with tension, a taut string pulled too far. Every fiber of you screamed, yet outwardly, the room might have seemed quiet, the only movement your chest rising and falling against the cold mat. “I—can’t. I can’t anymore,” you choked out, voice brittle, the sound almost swallowed by the room. “I just—”

“Shh,” Steve said gently, finally reaching a hand just near your shoulder, not touching, just a promise in the air, a tether for someone who felt like they were drifting endlessly. “I know. I know. It’s too much. It’s okay to break.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the numbness gave way to something you could almost name—pain, though not the sharp sting of tears or the shallow burn of exertion. It was a hollow, gnawing ache that clawed at your chest, tore at your ribs, hollowed your gut. It was the kind of ache that left no outward mark, no dramatic collapse, no visual cue—but inside, it roared with the weight of everything you had repressed.

And it hurt so badly you didn’t care. Because in that quiet, silent, torturous recognition, it meant you were alive.

You stayed on the floor long after your sobs had slowed, long after your body had stopped shaking with the intensity of hours of exhaustion and emotional release. Your chest heaved softly, hair plastered to your forehead, eyes red and stinging. Steve’s presence remained a quiet weight nearby, just there. But you didn’t look up. You didn’t trust yourself to.

When he finally offered a hand—hesitant, careful—you snatched it, more out of instinct than trust, and let him help you to your feet. The training room, quiet just moments ago, suddenly felt enormous and full of judgment. Each echo of your own movements made you flinch.

“Let’s get you something to eat,” Steve said gently.

“No,” you mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “I… I don’t need it.”

He didn’t push, just nodded, letting you move ahead of him. You walked down the corridor, shoulders hunched, palms gripping the edge of your shirt. Every step felt like it carried the weight of the breakdown you’d just unleashed, like the echoes of your crying were still bouncing off the walls, painting everyone’s image of you with fragility you didn’t want them to see.

By the time you returned to your room, the rest of the compound was alive with morning activity. You didn’t stop to see anyone. You didn’t even register their greetings or murmurs. You closed the door softly behind you and sat against it, knees pulled to your chest.

The day stretched on like a slow, suffocating haze. You stayed in the room, lights dim, blinds drawn, pretending to read or study the shadows on the wall. Every creak, every footstep outside, made your stomach twist. You couldn’t face them, not now. Not after what had spilled out of you.

Your body ached, exhausted in a way that wasn’t just physical, but you ignored it. Food, water, sunlight—all of it could wait. You just… couldn’t. Not yet. You kept the door closed, the blinds tight, the world outside a distant, untouchable thing.

You told yourself it was self-protection. You told yourself it was because you needed time. But deep down, you knew it was more than that. Embarrassment, shame, vulnerability… the raw, unfiltered version of yourself that had clawed its way out in front of Steve.

You wanted to shrink. You wanted to disappear. Not because you weren’t allowed to be seen, but because being seen—like that—made everything feel impossibly fragile.

And so the rest of the day passed with you locked away in silence, shuffling between bed and desk, staring at the same walls, the same quiet, pretending the world outside didn’t exist.

You didn’t move. The sunlight spilling through the blinds cut slashes across the floor, dust motes floating lazily in the light, but you couldn’t bring yourself to notice. Every sound from the compound outside—footsteps, faint voices, the hum of elevators—twisted in your chest like a physical ache. You couldn’t face it. Couldn’t face them.

For a long while, you just sat there, still, silent. You weren’t crying anymore. You hadn’t cried in this moment, or maybe you hadn’t cried truly for years. That raw, ragged outpouring in the training room had been loud, desperate, and yet… hollow. It had come from a place that didn’t have tears left to shed. Just the ragged, rhythmic exhalation of air, the tremble of muscles exhausted from the work you’d pushed yourself through, and the strange, hollow ache of your chest—the reminder that you could still feel something, even if it was just the dull echo of emptiness.

Minutes stretched into hours. You traced the edges of the key in your hand, watching the light glint off its surface, wondering if it mattered. If anything mattered. The silence pressed in, heavy and thick, like a blanket made of static, smothering everything else.

The walls of your room had started to feel smaller with every passing hour. You’d spent most of the day curled up in corners, lying on the bed, pacing back and forth, but the air felt stale no matter where you moved. Every breath scraped at your lungs, heavy, suffocating. The humiliation from earlier hadn’t faded—it sat inside you like a stone—but you were tired of suffocating in it.

You needed out.

Not out forever. Just… air. Something that wasn’t recycled through vents and laced with memories of every breakdown, every pair of eyes that had seen you unravel. You pressed your ear to the door, listening. The hallway beyond was quiet. A hum from the compound’s lights, faint footsteps in the distance, the usual background noise. Nothing close.

You eased the door open. It creaked—too loud, too sharp—and you froze, heart hammering. Nothing. Silence. You slipped out barefoot, moving quickly and light, every step calculated.

The corridors stretched long and empty, polished floors reflecting the dim glow of ceiling lights. You kept close to the wall, hugging shadows, ears straining for sound. Once, you ducked back at the distant echo of voices. Twice, you paused at intersections, waiting for patrol-like footsteps to pass. Every movement screamed of practiced stealth, old instincts resurfacing. If anyone had been watching, they would’ve seen the way your body remembered this—silent, precise, like slipping through enemy territory.

The compound was alive even when it seemed still. Elevator doors opened far down the hall, laughter drifted from a rec room you didn’t dare peek into, and faint music echoed from somewhere below. You slipped past it all, unseen. Almost free.

The exit loomed ahead, a sleek set of double doors leading out to the courtyard. Beyond them was open air, sky, wind. The thought of it quickened your pace, pulling you forward before your nerves could catch up. Your hand was already outstretched, fingers grazing the cool metal of the door handle, when the world betrayed you.

A calm, clipped British voice filled the hallway.

“Attention. Subject attempting unauthorized departure.”

Jarvis’s voice.

It wasn’t just in the hall. It wasn’t just in your ears. It carried everywhere—broadcast through the compound’s speakers, clinical and merciless.

Your stomach dropped.

Doors slammed open down the corridor. Voices rose in confusion. Somewhere above, feet pounded against stairs. You swore under your breath, yanking at the handle, shoving at the doors—but they didn’t budge. Locked. Reinforced.

“Goddamn it—” Your voice cracked, panic clawing through your throat. You pounded the door once with your fist, the sound echoing, then backed away, chest heaving. The humiliation hit harder than the panic. Everyone heard that. Every single one of them—your mistake, your desperation, turned into an announcement. Like you were a prisoner trying to escape her cell. Like you weren’t even a person, just some liability.

You turned, back pressed to the doors as voices drew closer. They were coming—too fast, too many. The footsteps ricocheted through the hall, names being called, questions shouted. You wanted to melt into the floor, wanted to disappear, wanted to take Jarvis’s stupid calm voice and crush it until it stopped existing.

The footsteps rounded the corner.

You could practically feel the whole compound shifting, footsteps scrambling, whispers spreading. The blood roared in your ears, every muscle wound tight like you were back in enemy halls, every exit a trap.

Someone was coming.

The steady rhythm of boots pounded closer, too close. You froze for half a second, then instinct smothered reason. Fight or flight—and you’d never been taught to run.

The second the figure rounded the corner, you moved. A blur. Your hands shot out, seizing an arm, twisting, your weight slamming them down onto the tile with a harsh crack. You pinned them with a knee, fist already raised to strike.

And then—

“Wait—! It’s me!”

Steve’s voice.

Your chest seized. The world snapped back into focus. The person you had slammed down—his face was right there, flushed, startled, and unmistakably Steve Rogers.

Your breath stuttered, shame crashing in so hard your grip loosened instantly. You scrambled back like you’d been burned, your hands shaking, your pulse still hammering in fight mode. “Shit—I didn’t—”

Steve coughed, sitting up with a grimace but without anger. “You’re fast.” His tone wasn’t sharp, wasn’t accusing. In fact, he seemed impressed.

You pressed your back to the wall, sliding down until you hit the floor, burying your face against your knees. “I thought—” you muttered into the fabric of your sleeves, words raw, uneven. “I thought someone was coming to drag me back.”

Silence stretched for a beat. Then the soft scuff of Steve moving closer, though he stopped just out of reach. “No one’s dragging you anywhere,” he said firmly.

That only twisted the knife of shame deeper, because some part of you didn’t believe him. Not when Jarvis had exposed you, not when your first reaction was violence against the only person who’d shown you any gentleness.

Your throat burned, but you forced yourself to lift your head, meeting his gaze just long enough to rasp, “I didn’t mean to—” before looking away again, ashamed to even finish the sentence. Steve stayed where he was, arms loose at his sides, eyes steady on you. “You look like you’re about to crawl out of your skin,” he said finally. He said matter-of-factly.

You pressed your back against the wall, gaze sliding away. “I just need air.”

Natasha, who had just walked in a second after you took Steve down, tilted her head. “Air, or an escape?” You didn’t bother answering. She smirked faintly, like she expected as much.

Steve gave her a look—subtle, but enough to shift the edge out of the room. He turned back to you. “Alright. Ten minutes. Outside. I’ll come with.”

That earned him a sharp glance from you. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good,” he said simply. “Then it won’t bother you that I’m there.”

Natasha raised a brow, clearly amused. “Play nice,” she muttered, brushing past both of you toward the main hall. “Don’t let her vanish.”

Steve ignored her. He just gestured lightly toward the exit door. “Fresh air’s this way.”

For a second you considered resisting—fighting tooth and nail just on principle—but the sterile walls were closing in on you again, every inch of the compound pressing down like a cage. And the truth was, the idea of outside air settling in your lungs sounded necessary.

Without a word, you pushed past him, shoving open the door. The first sweep of cool wind hit your face, carrying with it the scent of wet concrete and grass, and something inside you eased in a way you hated to admit. Steve followed a step behind, hands in his pockets. You stood on the edge of the compound’s courtyard, arms crossed, breathing in the air like it might burn through the heaviness in your chest.

Steve broke the silence after a while, voice low. “See? Not so bad.”

You didn’t look at him. “Don’t get used to me saying thank you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, a small smile in his tone.

Bruce’s eyes flicked between two side-by-side monitors. Both showed footage of you. The left displayed the security feed from three days ago—just hours after your arrival, barely restrained, quiet but visibly tense. The right showed you last night, hurling a metal tray at the reinforced wall, then clawing at the door when it didn’t open, right before you beat the shit out of those medics and ended up in the med bay.

“Notice the difference in posture,” he said, adjusting the brightness on the older video. “Same restraints. Same lighting. No external provocation. But the aggression curve spikes around the thirty-six-hour mark.”

Natasha stood beside him, arms crossed, face unreadable. “Sleep deprivation?”

Bruce shook his head. “We’ve monitored her cycles. Even sedated, she’s lucid enough to enter REM. Plus her improved DNA? She needs way less sleep than the average person. This isn’t exhaustion. It’s deterioration. Psychological.” He clicked over to a neural scan. Brain activity lit up on the screen like a Christmas tree, frontal cortex overloaded, limbic system firing erratically. “See this?” Bruce pointed. “These patterns mimic combat-state cortisol levels, even in rest. Her brain is bracing for attack. All the time. That doesn’t just happen. It’s conditioned.”

“And the cause?” Natasha asked.

Bruce hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Isolation.”

Nat turned to him sharply. “We’ve been isolating her for safety, Bruce.”

“I know,” he said. “But that safety’s creating instability. It’s not just that she doesn’t trust us—it’s that she physically can’t trust anyone. That part of her brain’s been rewired. No contact means no input. No input means she reverts to survival mode.”

He looked toward the window overlooking the med bay. You laid flat on the med bay bed, staring straight up at the ceiling. Eyes sharp even in rest, like an animal waiting for a cage door to creak.

“She needs incentive," Bruce said softly. “Not more walls. Controlled interaction, monitored conversation… familiar voices. You. Even Wanda. Especially Wanda.” He had noted how Wanda seemed to alleviate some of the tension in your shoulder, even if it was just miniscule.

Natasha was silent for a long moment, staring through the glass. “She won’t talk to me anymore,” she said. “For good reason.”

“Then we show her that we’re not a threat,” Bruce replied. “Before what’s left of her shuts down completely.”

---

The overhead lights were dimmer now. Coffee cups littered the table. Holograms flickered with neurodata, security footage, and incident logs. The debate had been raging for hours. Steve leaned forward, exhausted. “We can’t afford another incident. Not with the UN breathing down our necks.”

Sam’s arms were crossed. “She’s a weapon, Steve. HYDRA built her that way. Just because she hasn’t turned on us yet doesn’t mean she won’t.”

Bruce exhaled, trying not to lose his temper. “She’s not a weapon. She’s a person. A person who’s experiencing unforeseen change in her life”

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. “We know, Banner. But knowing doesn’t solve the problem. You want to put her with Wanda again? Great. But what if she snaps while Wanda’s alone with her?”

“She won’t,” Natasha said quietly. “Not with Wanda.”

Sam shook his head. “You don’t know that.”

The argument rose again. Voices overlapped. Opinions clashing — security vs humanity, fear vs empathy. Eventually, Steve raised a hand, wearied. “Alright. Enough. It’s nearly 2 AM. We’re exhausted, and this isn’t getting us anywhere.”

Bruce glanced at the monitor again, the med bay feed still showed you lying awake, eyes open in the dark.

Steve continued, “We’ll reconvene tomorrow. Get some sleep. All of us.” Chairs scraped. The team disperses slowly, muttering.

The room was still. Cold. You hadn’t moved in hours, but you hadn’t slept, either. The door hissed quietly. You tensed immediately, gaze sharp—but it was Wanda. She stepped in silently, eyes trained on you, red flickering faintly at her fingertips. She didn’t speak right away. She just looked at you for a long moment before she finally spoke.  “I’m not here as part of the team,” she said. “This isn’t authorized. If they find out, I’ll take the fall.” She stepped closer, slowly, carefully. “But I know what it’s like… to be alone. To be watched like you’re dangerous just for breathing.”

You said nothing, but your eyes tracked her every move. “I can get you out,” she said. “Just for a while. My room. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere without four cameras on you.” She paused. “But if I do this… you have to promise me you won’t go around hurting anyone.” Your jaw tightened.

“I’m not saying you’re going to,” she added quickly, “but I need to hear it. I need to know that if I unlock you, you’re not going to vanish into the walls and take down half the building.” Another pause. The tension stretched thin. Then you nodded. Just once.

“I won’t,” you said, voice hoarse from using it so little. “I just want to breathe.”

Wanda swallowed, shoulders easing ever so slightly. Red wisps coiled at her fingertips again and the restraints unlatched with a soft click. Your wrists fell free. Wanda offered a hand. “Come on. We’ll be back before morning.” You hesitated for a moment, then took it.

The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Wanda moved with practiced ease, barefoot and silent, leading you down the corridor. You followed a step behind, alert. Tense, but not hostile. She glanced back at you once, making sure you were still there.

“Stay close,” she whispered, like it’s some shared secret. “The cameras on this level loop for thirty seconds every five minutes. Courtesy of Peter. Don’t ask.”

You didn’t.

The compound was eerily quiet. You passed closed doors, faint glimmers of glowing tech, the ghost of voices echoing through the walls. The smell of ozone and metal clung to the air.

“Do you sleep?” Wanda asked suddenly, taking you aback. Her voice was soft, curious but not pushing.

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“You did, earlier.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

She looked at you, a little surprised. “Hours. You didn’t move.”

You shrugged again. “Doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening.” She doesn’t press the subject.

The door to Wanda’s room slid shut behind you with a muted hiss. Her room was nothing like the med bay. Warm. Dim. Lived-in. There was a candle flickering on the desk, books stacked messily on the nightstand, and a plush blanket draped over the couch like it’s been there forever. You hesitated in the doorway, unsure. Wanda didn’t tell you to sit. She just tossed her own shoes off and flopped backward onto the bed, groaning softly.

“This place makes everyone tense,” she muttered—referring to the compound—staring up at the ceiling. “Even me.” You slowly lowered yourself onto the floor, back against the wall. Watching. Always watching. Wanda peeked over the edge of the bed. “The bed isn’t a trap.”

“I’m fine here.”

She offered, “I used to hum when I couldn’t sleep. In the labs. Just to drown out the quiet. You ever do that?”

You shook your head.

The room stayed quiet for a little while longer before you spoke. “You know, I don’t wanna be like this.” That caught Wanda’s attention. She just stared at you, urging you to go on. You stayed on your back, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. “Always ready to fight. Like I have to assume everything’s a threat until proven otherwise.”

You paused, jaw tight. “It’s not a choice. It’s just how it’s wired in now.” There was no emotion in your voice, no tremble, no real softness. Just tired honesty. “I don’t even remember the last time I felt normal. Maybe I never was.” You let out a short breath. “Or maybe I just forgot what that felt like.” 

Wanda stayed quiet, letting you have the space. You appreciated that. Pushing deeper would’ve made you shut down. You shifted your arm under your head, glancing toward her without fully meeting her eyes. “Doesn’t mean I like it. Doesn’t mean I want to be this person.”

“What I’m saying is…” you exhaled through your nose, not quite a sigh. “I get why you’re all cautious. I would be too.” 

Neither of you said anything after that, finding solace in the comforting silence. Slowly the both of you drifted off into sleep. Regardless of how much you wanted to stay awake, you hadn’t rested in days. You needed this. No matter how much you wanted to deny it, you felt the slightest bit of relief with Wanda present.

---

Sunlight peeked through the small gap in the curtains. Wanda is curled on her bed, one arm flung over her face. You were asleep on the floor, blanket half-draped over you, legs stretched toward the wall. The door slid open. Natasha stands in the frame, brow furrowed, ready to speak.

You could hear her as soon as she approached just outside the door, but you knew it would be better if you just pretended to stay asleep. You felt too exhausted to move anyway, the tiredness from all those restless nights in a row finally catching up to you.

Natasha froze as soon as her eyes glanced down at your “sleeping” figure. Her hand inched toward her comm.

Wanda groaned from the bed. “She’s fine.”

Natasha blinked. “You—” she lowered her voice, stepping in. “You snuck her out?”

Wanda sat up slowly, rubbing her face. “You were all too busy arguing over her like she’s some kind of threat display. She needed a break.”

Nat gestured to you, still asleep, not a twitch. “She’s not even restrained.”

“She gave me her word.”

“That’s not protocol.”

“She’s not protocol.”

Natasha sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You’re lucky I’m the one who found her. If it had been anyone else—”

“You would’ve stopped them.”

Nat didn’t answer. Finally, she glanced at you again—at the blanket, the loose fist, the quiet. “I’ll give you another hour,” she mutters. “Then she goes back under my watch.”

“Nat, she hasn’t done anything,” Wanda tried reasoning with her. She didn’t know why she was so persistent with you. You just needed some time, just like she did. “Please. You should know better than anyone how she feels. She deserves a second chance,” Wanda’s eyes a silent plea. 

Nat met Wanda’s gaze. “Fine, I’ll talk to the others." And then she was gone. 

The door sealed shut behind Natasha, leaving the faint echo of her boots in the hallway. You kept your breathing slow, steady—as if you’re still asleep—but your ears tracked her retreat until the sound was gone completely.

“You can drop the act,” Wanda said softly, still sitting on the bed. “I know you’re awake.”

Your eyes opened, just enough to see her in your periphery. “I didn’t feel like explaining myself.”

“You didn’t need to,” she replied. Her tone wasn’t scolding, but there’s a trace of tension—maybe from the exchange with Nat, maybe from you catching her breaking rules to help you. “We just can't trust you unless you trust us.” “I know”

---

Natasha crossed her arms, leaning against the table as the others settled into the conference room. Steve was already frowning, probably expecting her to bring up something he wouldn’t agree with.

“She’s not a threat,” Natasha started bluntly. “Not like you think.”

Clint let out a quiet scoff. “She almost killed me.”

“You’ve had worse,” Nat shot back without missing a beat. “Besides, that was before she even knew what was going on. We’ve all been on the wrong side of a fight before.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward Bucky, who didn’t react. Bucky remembered you, after his full memory restoration, of course. He knew what it was like. Looking at you was like glancing into a mirror.

Tony leaned forward, hands clasped. “Nat, you’ve been in the med bay. You’ve seen her, she’s not cooperative. We can’t just hand her a key and say ‘Welcome to the family.’”

“I’m not saying we give her full access to the Tower,” Natasha said evenly. “I’m saying locking her in a cell or a med bay like some animal isn’t helping. You want her to calm down? Give her a space that’s hers. Somewhere she doesn’t feel cornered every second.”

Wanda, sitting near the end of the table, spoke softly. She had told you to stay in her room while she attended this meeting. She didn’t tell you what it was about, but you knew it was about you. “She’s… different when she’s not surrounded by guards. She talks more. Not a lot, but enough to know there’s something there worth trying for.”

Sam raised a brow. “And how do we know she won’t vanish the second she’s got the chance?”

“We don’t,” Natasha admitted, her voice calm but firm. “But she’s not HYDRA’s weapon anymore, and treating her like she still is… you’re just proving them right.”

The room went quiet. Natasha scanned their faces, letting the silence hang before adding, “If you want her trust, you have to give her a reason to trust you back. That starts with a door that isn’t locked from the outside.”

---

In Wanda’s room you still laid on the floor, staring blankly at the ceiling. The quiet was somewhat comforting, more comforting in a cozy bedroom rather than a cramped cell. A second later you were interrupted from your thoughts by the sound of the door creaking open. Before you knew it, Iron Man—which you now knew was Tony, thanks to Wanda—tossed you a key. You caught it before it landed on your face, a small look of confusion evident in your expression, eyebrows scrunched together. Before you could voice your skepticism, Tony spoke first. “Congratulations, kid,” Tony said, leaning against the doorframe like he had somewhere better to be. His arms were crossed loosely, weight slouched onto one hip, and his expression hovered somewhere between smug and distracted. “You’re officially not a prisoner.” He gestured lazily at the key in your hand, the metal catching the light. “Well… not entirely.”

You sat up slowly, shoulders tense, still turning the key over in your fingers. The cold, ridged edges bit faintly into your skin. “What’s the catch?”

Tony smirked, his eyes glinting in that way that suggested he enjoyed having an answer you wouldn’t like. “You get a room. Last one on the left. Four walls, a bed, maybe even a lamp if you’re on your best behavior,” Tony said knowing that the room was well-furnished. Like a studio apartment, but bigger. Yeah, definitely bigger. “You can walk around… within certain parameters,” he finished.

Your eyes narrowed, jaw tightening at the word. “Parameters.” 

“Yeah. Think of it like—uh—a dog run. Spacious, but not infinite.” He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug and glanced over his shoulder, clearly in a hurry. “You get this because Nat and Witchy over there made a good case for you. Don’t make them regret it.”

One eyebrow arched while the other furrowed, your mouth twisting in a way that wasn’t quite a frown. You weren’t about to be compared to some kind of dog—trained, penned in, and given treats for not biting. But, you said nothing, only letting the key rest loosely in your palm. The quiet stretched, heavy and unmoving, and Tony’s smirk faded into something just slightly more serious.

“Look,” he said, lowering his voice, his head tilting so his eyes met yours directly, “nobody here wants to lock you up. We just don’t want you killing anybody. Or yourself. That’s it. Baby steps.” Before you could reply, he was already halfway out the door, his footsteps quick against the floor. “Oh— and if you break anything expensive, it’s coming out of your nonexistent paycheck.”

The door shut with a muted click, leaving you staring at the key. Your fingers curled around it instinctively, metal pressing into your palm. You didn’t move for a long time. After a few minutes—maybe an hour—you finally got up, walking out to use this damn key. 

You slipped the key between your fingers again, the cold metal a strange kind of weight. Not quite a promise, but not just a reminder either. You pushed yourself off the floor and stood, muscles stiff and unfamiliar with calm movement.

The hallway stretched before you, sterile but quieter than the med bay. Lights flickered softly overhead, and distant hums of the compound’s life buzzed through the walls. Your footsteps echoed slightly as you walked, key clutched tight, eyes tracing the walls like they were new territory—because they were.

The door Tony mentioned came up sooner than you expected. Plain, solid, with a small plaque that read something like “Extra Bedroom #3.” You hesitated, the key poised at the lock. The word parameters kept spinning in your mind like a warning.

They say it’s a room. But what if it’s just another cage? The thought gnawed at you, a trap dressed in soft blankets and warm light. You didn’t trust the quiet. You didn’t trust the freedom that felt too easy. A faint sigh slipped out before you pushed the door open.

Inside, the room was surprisingly warm—soft light from a lamp in the corner, a bed with blankets neatly folded, a desk with a few scattered books, and a window overlooking the compound’s quiet grounds. The air smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. It wasn’t a cell. It was… a room.

You stepped inside, setting the key on the desk, then moved to the window, looking out. Somewhere out there, the others were living their lives, their fights, their battles. You stood there, caught between wanting to disappear and wanting to be something else entirely.

For the first time in days, the silence didn’t feel like a trap. But just as you were about to sink onto the bed, the thought came back—soft, insistent.

What if they’re waiting for me to slip up? What if the walls are still watching?

It was a simple recon mission really. So simple you were sent in solo, Fury having enough faith in you to trust that you could handle it alone and make it back in one piece. The mission was straightforward: gather intel, avoid detection, and report back. You didn’t know what was up with you. Lately, your focus had been less than ideal and you certainly felt the repercussions now. It had been going on for a few days, your best friend—Wanda—assuring you that it was just a minor slump, “Happens to the best of us,” you remembered her saying, not knowing that the situation was deeper than you let on. You thought that taking this assignment could be a way for you to refresh, man were you wrong. 

You didn’t know what was occupying your mind as you walked thoughtlessly into the building, barely focused on your surroundings, until you were ambushed by enemy agents. You quickly realized that the situation was far more complex than you initially thought. They had anticipated your arrival, and the stakes were suddenly much higher. You usually prided yourself on your keen sense of hearing so you really weren’t expecting any company that you didn’t already know were coming. Luckily, your ability to think on your feet allowed you to get away, but not without a bullet in your calf and a stab wound on your shoulder.

You assumed that there would be more agents to come if you didn’t move fast, so—despite the stinging ache in your leg—you rushed back to the jet and made your way to the tower.

If Natasha, your girlfriend, had nothing to do, she would wait for you by the helipad after your missions, always embracing you in a warm hug at the end a long day. Today was one of those days, except the second you stumbled out of the jet, a concerned expression plastered all over her face.

“Hey love, a little help?” you asked, your voice laced with friendly sarcasm. Something that Natasha found endearing and sometimes infuriating. At least you were still cracking jokes, meaning that you were okay, or as okay as you could be while slowly bleeding out.

“You look like hell,” your girlfriend muttered, already closing the distance. Her eyes swept over you, taking in your battered state. She quickly took your arm over your shoulder, on the side that wasn’t injured to avoid causing any further harm to the laceration. “What happened?” She tried to keep it casual, but her voice dipped lower, littered with care.

You kept the conversation going as you walked over to the med bay with her help. “Nothing, just—” you were cut off by a wince that left your mouth faster than you could stop it. “Just got distracted for a sec,” you continued.

“That’s unlike you. Anything I should be worried about?” she asked, but before you could answer her question, she continued. “You should be more careful, you’re lucky you’re not dead. If any—”

You cut her off before she could finish. “Can we continue this later, I’m really not in the mood.” You were way too tired and in pain to listen to her scold you for your stupidity. In all honesty, you had no clue why your brainpower hadn’t been up-to-par. Although Natasha was upset that you interrupted her, she respected your wishes and kept quiet the rest of the journey. 

Your arrival at the med bay had turned many heads, immediately warranting the attention of Bruce who was running some blood tests in the lab. With his help, along with the advanced medical technology that you had access to—courtesy of Stark Tech—you were stitched up in no time. Albeit, you were still walking funny and were banished to bedrest for a week or so.

---

Your girlfriend insisted on staying with you as much as her busy schedule allowed her, despite you constantly reassuring her, telling her that you were fine. She made sure you were drinking and eating enough, while also tending to your wounds and replacing the bandages every now and then.

“So, you wanna tell me what’s going on with you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at you.

“What do you mean?” you answered, despite knowing exactly what she meant. You’ve been off your game. You were met with silence, Natasha staring at you, waiting for you to give in and start talking. After a few seconds of silence, you finally let up.

“I’ve been all over the place lately. Can’t focus on anything.”

Natasha nodded slowly, as if she’d already figured that much out. She sat at the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle your injured leg, and rested her forearms on her thighs. Her gaze didn’t leave yours. “Yeah, I noticed,” she said, her voice low. “And you’re lucky it didn’t get you killed.”

You sighed, looking away, suddenly feeling very aware of the dull ache in your calf and the tightness of the stitches in your shoulder.

“I thought getting back out there might help,” you admitted. “Reset my head. Get back in control.”

Natasha let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “Right. Because throwing yourself into a recon op while your brain’s fried is definitely the best way to recover.”

You gave her a sideways look. “I’m aware, thanks.”

She didn’t smile. Instead, she leaned in slightly, her voice softening. “Look, I’m not mad. Okay? I just…” She hesitated for a second. “When I saw you limp out of that jet, bleeding, trying to play it off like it was nothing—that worried me.”

That shut you up for a moment. You hated the idea of being a liability, being the cause of that flicker of fear in her eyes. “I didn’t think it was that bad,” you murmured.

“You didn’t think,” she corrected sharply. Then, softer, “Because you’ve been in your head too much, and you didn’t tell me.”

You glanced at her again. The anger in her voice wasn’t real anger, it was concern, thinly disguised behind habit and sharp edges. You knew it well. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it,” you said honestly.

Her expression eased up, just a little. “I already know you can handle it. But you don’t have to do it alone.” She reached over and gently took your hand, brushing her thumb over your knuckles. “You’ve got me, remember?”

You looked at her, eyes a little tired but finally meeting hers fully. “Yeah. I know.” There was a pause. The air between you felt a little less heavy.

Then she smirked. “Good. Because next time you try to hero your way through a mission with a bullet in your leg, I will tase you.”

You laughed—actually laughed—and it felt like the first real one in days. “Noted.”

The laughter faded slowly, but the warmth it left behind lingered in the room — soft, tentative. Natasha didn’t let go of your hand. She just waited, eyes steady on yours, giving you space. You hated how easily she could read you. Hated it, but also needed it. You sighed, letting your head fall back against the pillows. “It’s not just a slump.”

She didn’t say anything, but you could feel her shift, giving you her full attention.

“I’ve just been off,” you said finally. “Not sleeping. Can’t focus. I’ll sit down to work and suddenly it’s like I’m not even there. Like my head’s already moved on to something else, but I don’t know what.” You stared up at the ceiling, trying to find the words. “I keep thinking, what if I freeze up at the wrong time? What if I don’t hear something I’m supposed to, or I get someone else hurt because I’m not fast enough?”

You swallowed. That thought had been crawling around in your head for days now. It wasn’t just about you. It was about her, too. About the team. About all the people who’d put their trust in you. “I think I’ve been trying to outrun it. Like if I keep pushing forward, maybe it won’t catch up to me.”

Natasha was quiet for a long beat before she spoke, “You know that’s not how this works.”

You nodded without looking at her. “I know.”

She reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, gentle, careful not to graze the bruise on your cheek. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said. “You’re just burnt out. And you’ve been trying to fix it by acting like nothing’s wrong, which—shocking no one—only made it worse.”

You gave her a look. “Are you lecturing me right now?”

“Absolutely,” she said, deadpan. Then, a touch gentler, “But only because I’ve been there. And I know how easy it is to pretend you’re fine when you’re not.” You let out a breath. There was something comforting about her voice. Grounding.

“So what now?” you asked, a little helpless.

She gave your hand a squeeze.  “Now we take it slow. You rest. I keep nagging you. We figure it out one step at a time. Together.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just looked at her, the strength in her gaze, the steadiness of her grip. The way she was already pulling you back from the edge without demanding you be perfect.

You sat in the reinforced containment cell. It’s cleaner, brighter, and warmer than you’ve known your entire life, but you were still curled into the corner of the cell like it was made of knives. Legs up to your chest with your arms around your knees, albeit still alert. The thick, reinforced glass buzzed faintly, one-way audio, two-way visual.

On the other side stood a tall man built like a statue, arms folded across his chest. Standing around him, Wanda, Natasha, and another man you didn’t recognize, holding a tablet in his hand. Your eyes caught on each one. You took them in like a soldier assessing targets. In a way, you kind of were. The blond man looked like someone carved out of old war posters, square jaw, clean-shaven, hair swept to the side. His dark navy tactical suit was worn but functional, the faded white star across his chest barely visible beneath leather straps that crossed over broad shoulders. He stood like someone used to commanding silence with a glance, but there was something softer behind his eyes. Sympathy, maybe. Or restraint.

You got a closer look at Wanda. Unlike most of the rest, she looked younger. Her deep auburn hair fell in soft waves past her shoulders, contrasting the dark crimson of her long coat. It’s slightly opened to reveal black layers underneath, combat-ready, but with a kind of elegance that made her stand out. Her soft, green eyes were the most unsettling. Deep, searching, always watching like she already knew what you'd say before you said it. You could feel something about her was different.

You glared straight at Natasha, though. Old habits die hard. “Are you all going to stand there and stare?” you muttered, voice muffled slightly by the glass but clear enough through the mic. “Or do you just enjoy caging people and pretending it’s justice?”

The man off to the side lowered his tablet, finally speaking. He’s average height, broad-shouldered, with neatly styled dark hair and a precisely trimmed goatee. His clothes didn’t scream military, more like wealth and cutting-edge tech, black long-sleeve shirt, sleek watch, and something in the way he stood that says he’s used to being listened to.

“Well,” he said, dry and unimpressed, “someone’s mouth survived HYDRA just fine.”

You didn’t get a good look at him during the mission. He hung back, barely threw punches or fired weapons. Not like the other two. But the voice? That voice you remembered. It echoed from the edge of your memory. It had come through Natasha’s comms feed mid-fight. Not from someone on the ground, but someone giving the others orders, watching from above. And then later—repulsors humming as something sleek and red-gold blurred past overhead.

“You were the one in the air,” you said, voice low.

He raised an eyebrow. “Am I being interrogated now?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Iron Man.”

He offered a faint shrug, like he wasn’t denying it. “Nice to be recognized.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “You didn’t fight.”

“I delegate,” he replied smoothly. “Why break a sweat when I have friends who hit harder?”

“Coward,” you muttered under your breath.

“Efficient,” he corrected, then glanced back at his tablet. “But you go ahead and keep calling me names. That’s clearly working out for you.”

The blond man leaned closer to the comm. It seemed like he was the one leading the whole interrogation. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re trying to understand what they did to you.”

“I was given a mission,” you said flatly. “That’s all that matters.”

Wanda tilted her head slightly. “Do you even know what the mission was?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Kill the traitor. Black Widow.” The words made Natasha tense. She didn’t flinch, but her jaw set. Not because she was afraid of you, she just felt like she was partly to blame for this mess. You. “She trained me,” you said, tone sharpening. “She knew the rules and she broke them.” Natasha stepped forward slightly, lips parting, but she didn't speak.

“You barely even remember her,” the man said gently.

“Does it matter?” you snapped. “I don’t have to know why I need to kill her, I just have to.”

There was a silence on the other side. You could feel their pity, and it set your teeth on edge.

You leaned forward, sneering faintly. “Let me guess. You’re all here to save me, right? Gonna tell me I’m not a monster? That I’m a victim?” You chuckled, bitter. “Don’t bother. I know what happens when I fail. I know what they do.” Wanda winced softly at that. “I complete the mission,” you said, eyes back on Natasha. “Or I suffer. That’s the rule.”

Natasha’s voice finally cut through. Quiet. Controlled. “You’re not there anymore.”

You blinked slowly, keeping an icy gaze on the agents in front of you. “Then let me out, and we’ll see what I do.” No one responded. Tony sighed. The blond man looked disappointed. Wanda watched you like she was trying to see something beyond the words you uttered. Something deeper. You sat back against the wall, arms folded again, gaze settling into something colder. “That’s what I thought,” you muttered. “Heroes. All the same.”

---

The briefing room was dim, lit mostly by the cold, hovering glow of the holographic screen at the center of the table. Lines of text flickered over a projected file, a digital dossier stamped with redacted sections and cold stats. At the bottom, one number stared back at them all.

Confirmed Kills: 107

They’d all been briefed earlier. Or as much as Natasha, Clint, and a handful of others could piece together. What little they knew had been passed around like secondhand smoke. HYDRA’s phantom assassin, a myth who turned out to be all too real. The person in the cell downstairs wasn’t some rumor. She was there, and she was theirs to deal with. 

Bruce had already run preliminary neural scans when they had first brought you here from the abandoned HYDRA base —while you were unconscious— just to confirm what they had all suspected. The signs of psychological tampering were impossible to ignore. What remained of your mind was a carefully hollowed-out shell, riddled with years of conditioning and damage. He ran as many tests as he could while you were out, not knowing if there would be a chance to do more in the future. Blood tests, X-rays, DNA samples, anything he could do without you needing to be conscious, he did.

No one said a word. Tony stood with his arms folded over his chest, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the display like he could burn a hole through it. Finally, he broke the silence, voice flat but edged. “She’s got a hundred and seven kills. That’s not a rookie number. That’s an execution record.”

Sam paced nearby, his expression grim, steps slow and deliberate like he needed something to keep him grounded. 

“She bruised Clint so badly that it looks like he fell down ten stories. She almost gutted Nat. That wasn’t self-defense,” Tony continued.

Clint was perched on the edge of the table, one arm resting on his leg, the other absently rubbing his ribs where he’s still aching despite the assault happening days ago. “She knew exactly how hard to punch,” he muttered. “Not enough to kill me, but close.”

“Can you even kill someone with a single punch?” Sam asked, finally ending his silence.

Bruce stood near the display, tapping slowly through biometric scans on another screen. His brow furrowed deeper the more he read. “She’s got physical enhancements, better strength, speed, hearing, so —I guess— yeah. But it’s her mind that worries me. The kind of trauma she’s gone through, it rewires you,” he said, voice low. “Her neural scans are volatile.”

Wanda stood a little apart from the others, arms loosely crossed over her chest. Her voice came soft, thoughtful, but serious. “HYDRA used her like a threat. Even before she showed up, people were terrified of her. If she’s still stuck in that programming…”

Tony turned toward her. “Then we’re babysitting a ticking time bomb.”

In the back of the room, Steve stood silent. His arms were folded, his eyes unreadable, locked on the screen. He hadn’t said a word, but he was listening.

Natasha was quiet, too. Until she wasn’t. “You don’t know her.” All eyes turned to her. Her expression didn’t change, but her voice was steady and sharp, like a blade she knew how to wield.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “No, but you do. So tell us, why are we even having this conversation?”

Natasha met his gaze head-on. “Because despite her defiance in the Red Room, she was one of the most skilled ones there.” The tension in the room snapped tighter. Wanda blinked, her eyes flicking to Natasha. 

Clint’s mouth parted slightly, like he’d just been hit with a realization. “You mean she was—”

“Like me,” Natasha said, cutting him off. “Before they sent her to HYDRA. Before they rewired her mind. She wasn’t even a teenager the last time I saw her, but she was angry. Strong. She had fire, but no one to protect it.”

Tony gave a short, bitter exhale. “And now she’s fire with a kill switch. Great.”

“She didn’t kill any of us,” Natasha said. “She could’ve. She didn’t. She hesitated.”

Bruce frowned. “Sometimes that’s worse. Hesitation doesn’t mean control. It means instability.”

“It means there’s still something human in her,” Natasha said. “Something HYDRA didn’t erase.”

Sam shook his head. “That human part still tried to rip you in half.”

“She has been following orders burned into her brain since childhood,” Natasha said. “You don’t undo that overnight.”

Wanda tilted her head. “But can she be trusted?”

“Not yet. Maybe not ever. But she deserves the chance to become more than what they turned her into.”

Tony snorted. “So what, we let her sit in a cell until she decides she’s not a weapon anymore?”

“Would you rather kill her for what they made her do?” The silence that followed was thick and uneasy. Finally, the blond man at the back of the room spoke — his voice calm, low, but heavy with weight.

“What’s the point of this team if we can’t try to save someone like her?”

Tony turned to him, frowning. “The point is keeping people alive. Not taking in every insane soldier who might turn on us.”

Natasha stepped forward slightly. “She’s not insane. She doesn’t know any better. You think I can’t tell the difference?” She looked around the room — at each of them — eyes steady, jaw tight. “She was a child when they took her. If we don’t give her a chance now, then we’re no better than the ones who made her what she is.” No one replied.

Clint let out a long breath and ran a hand over his face. “You really think there’s something left of her in there?”

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “I don’t just think,” she said. “I know.”

---

You hear footsteps walk into the room. Multiple people, The door hissed open silently. Wanda stepped inside first, moving carefully, hands raised to show she meant no harm. Behind her, two medical personnel followed with a cart full of scanners and vials, their voices low and measured to avoid provoking you.

“We’re here to check your condition,” Wanda said softly, locking eyes with you through the glass. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

You laid on the bed, eyes open, muscles tense, every nerve alert despite exhaustion. You hadn’t eaten anything since you arrived, your body lacking the fuel it needed oh-so desperately, yet there was a wild fire in your gaze that no hunger could quell. As soon as the medics approached, you exploded into motion. Your fist slammed into one medic’s chest with brutal force, sending him reeling. The second medic raised a scanner defensively, but you knocked it away with a swift, practiced swipe.

Wanda’s fingers flickered with barely contained energy. “Stop! We don’t want to fight.”

But you snarled, “No one here is safe. Especially not her.” Her eyes locked on Natasha’s shadow behind the glass. Grabbing a nearby IV stand like a weapon, you lunged forward, muscles burning, refusing to be subdued. Multiple tranquilizer darts flew, but each took extraordinary effort to land. You ripped them from her skin angrily, fighting through the sedatives with iron will. It took the combined effort of four trained agents just to wrestle you down, bodies straining as you thrashed and fought like a cornered beast. Even as your limbs finally went limp, your eyes burned with defiance, unyielding, indomitable.

From just outside the door, a familiar voice cracked through, laced with dry humor. “Well, I’ll say this — she’s definitely not the ‘take a nap’ type. Maybe we should’ve brought a tranquilizer cannon instead of those little darts.”

---

The room was dim. Cool lights hummed overhead, too soft to be invasive. The reinforced walls gleamed faintly under the flicker of surveillance feeds. Somewhere, something ticked. Monitors tracked vitals. A thin blanket rested over your figure on the bed. Not the brittle bed you had in the cell, more like a hospital bed. You were unconscious, breathing slow. Still bruised, still tense even in sleep. You hadn’t gone down easy. A medtech now sported a split lip and a broken arm. Another was recovering from a dislocated shoulder. It had taken a full team and a tranquilizer gun to finally sedate you. When it finally kicked in, it had looked less like sleep and more like a shutdown. Like the last thread finally snapped. Right beside you, Bruce folded his arms over a tablet, watching the data stream across the screen. 

“Her neural scans are... messy,” he muttered, to no one in particular. “Active in ways they shouldn't be during unconscious states. Nightmares. Maybe memory triggers.” Natasha stood at his side, arms folded, jaw tight. She's seen it before. The way the Red Room laced trauma into every fiber. This was all too familiar. Wanda approached. Slowly. She hadn’t spoken much since the fight. Since you were locked away. But now, something tugged at her.

“She’s dreaming,” Wanda said quietly.

Bruce glanced over. “That’s normal.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s sharp. Like it’s echoing.”

He frowned. “Be careful. Her mind’s not stable.” Wanda didn’t answer. She stepped forward, closer to you. Her fingers twitched at her side. A thread of red seeped into the air, delicate and probing. She breathed in. And then she stumbled. Images slammed into her mind like a whip crack. Dark. Cold. The scent of blood and steel. A room like a cage, metal walls sweating with condensation. There was a child, young, really young. You. Tiny, thin, jaw clenched too tight for someone so small. Your hands were raw, wrists bruised from bindings. You were standing in front of a woman, tall and grinning cruelly. She asked you a question. You didn’t answer. She repeated it, this time with a threat.

“You know how it is. Kill or be killed.” You didn’t move. Another child laid crumpled on the floor nearby. A friend? A trainee? Someone you couldn't bring yourself to eliminate. That’s when the blow came. Backhanded, cruel. You fell but didn't cry out. The voice again.

“You don’t get to choose to follow orders.”

You were dragged — screaming now, thrashing, one boot clashed with the instructor in the shin. A mistake. You were thrown into solitary, some sort of isolated room. Trembling. Not from pain. From shame, from the cold atmosphere you were going to be stuck in for who knows how long.

“You disobeyed. You think that makes you strong? That makes you faulty and impaired.”

And then… darkness. Wanda gasped and stumbled back from the glass, hand clutched to her chest. Natasha grabbed her elbow. “What happened?”

“I—” Wanda breathed hard. “I didn’t mean to. I just touched the surface.” She didn’t elaborate. But Natasha saw the shadow in her eyes. “She was a kid,” Wanda whispered. “A child.” And Natasha, despite herself, flinched.

---

The blanket shifted. You groaned softly, stirring. Your head throbbed like someone took a bat to your skull. The lights were too white. The world too quiet. Your body ached, but not in the sharp way it's used to. It’s dull. Managed. Your hands were bandaged. HYDRA wouldn’t have bothered. You jerked upright. Or tried. Your limbs felt heavy. And then you saw her. Sitting in a chair a few feet away — Wanda. Just watching, unthreatening. A bowl of food rested in her lap, still warm. Your body stiffened.

“You here to finish the job?” you muttered, voice low and cold.

Wanda said nothing at first. Then gently, “No. I just wanted to check on you.”

“Yeah. Bet your handlers are watching.”

“No one’s forcing me,” Wanda assured. Her voice was soft but firm. “You don’t need to lie anymore. Or pretend.”

Your expression hardened. “You think this is pretending?”

Wanda set the bowl aside. “I’m not here to change your mind,” she said. “I’m just not leaving you like this.” She stood up, walked to the tray and gently set the bowl on the small table beside the bed. “I didn’t come here to trick you,” she said. “I just thought you shouldn’t have to eat cold food alone.” You didn’t answer. She stared at the food. Wanda walked to the door. Before leaving, she looked back. “You’re not there anymore,” she said softly. “No one’s going to hurt you for not finishing a mission.” She turned to leave, hand already reaching for the door handle.

It shouldn’t have, but that statement made you think. Maybe it was the way she said it —like she really meant it— or maybe the short time you were treated like a human being instead of an experiment made you stupid and naive. Either way, something shifted in you.

Without giving yourself any time to change your mind, you quickly spoke. 

“Wait!”

Wanda swiftly turned back around, eyes shone with a glimmer of hope, but she tried her best to keep her expression neutral. Despite being sure you could sense the inconsistency in her face.

“I haven’t known anything besides following orders and completing assignments. I—” you continued, biting your lip hoping the dull pain would be enough to distract you from the fact that you were opening up. Even though every fiber of your being is telling you to lunge out of your bed and do what you were sent here to do. “I don’t know how to live.”

You were half-expecting her to scoff and roll her eyes. How could anyone not know how to do something as simple as living. Instead she said, “I can teach you, you just have to trust me.” That word made your mind wince a little, like it was foreign and unsettling. Though it never showed on your face. With what you’ve had to endure, it didn’t take much difficulty to hide what you felt all the time.

“I’ve never trusted anyone,” you muttered —barely louder than a whisper— but she could hear you clearly in the quiet room of the med bay. It’s true. All your life, the one lesson that stuck to you was never trust anyone. People hurt you, they rip you apart bit by bit until you’re no longer of any use to them.

8 AM. A sudden, urgent meeting was called by Fury. Natasha, Clint, and Tony sat around a large wooden table, all eyes focused on the large screen in front of them as Fury briefed them showing a large blueprint of the building they planned on infiltrating.

“We’ve managed to locate yet another Hydra base. Out in Siberia. It’s closed off, but when we scanned the area, it seemed almost empty. It’s a simple in and out mission. Survey the area, take what you can find, and get out,” he said, informatively.

“If it’s a simple mission, can’t someone do it solo? You called me in while I was watching Baywatch,” Tony said, matter of factly, from across the table. A small look of irritation present on his face. Before he could continue speaking he was cut off by Fury.

“You’re dismissed. The jet leaves at 12.”

---

By the time the clock hit noon, the three agents were out the door, geared up and taking the quinjet all the way to Siberia.

You wandered around the gray halls of the building you were searching. You’re used to it, HYDRA assignments typically took place in spaces like this. Colorless and dull, much like the job. You’ve been sent down to take out the Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff. You didn’t know who she was but if HYDRA wanted her dead, she would be.

You were told that she was a high profile agent, betrayed the red room. If she was there, why couldn’t you remember her? You shook yourself out of your own thoughts as you reached your destination, the control room. The avengers should be infiltrating this abandoned HYDRA post any second. As soon as you laid eyes on them, you would strike.

The quinjet landed far enough away that you couldn’t hear them coming, even with your enhanced hearing abilities, but you saw three figures appear in the surveillance cameras from the control room. Two men and one woman. One guy, around 5”9. He looked a little old to be a government agent, Late 40’s, early 50’s maybe? He wore a sleeveless, dark purple and black tactical suit with lightweight armor and logo on the chest that you couldn’t quite place, but kept in mind in case you needed it in the future. His quiver is strapped across his back, filled with specialized arrows, and he carried a sleek black compound bow. He’s left handed. You could tell by the way his bow hung in his right hand instead of left. He had short, spiked hair and a sharp, focused expression. His bare arms emphasize speed and precision over brute strength.

Next to him, looked like a guy in a full-body suit of smooth, metallic armor, mostly deep red with gold accents on the arms, legs, and the faceplate. The chest has a glowing light in the center, and his eyes and palms gave off the same bluish glow. Everything looked sleek and tightly fitted, with layered panels and small ridges that hinted at tech underneath. It’s polished, almost like a luxury car, but clearly built for battle.

Finally, your target. The security cameras, sleek and silent, tracked her the moment she stepped into view. The image was crystal clear, every detail sharp and vivid. She moved with effortless precision, her black tactical suit hugging her form perfectly, matte with subtle armored segments that highlight her agility and strength. Her fiery red hair was pulled back tightly, a few strands loose that caught the light just enough to soften the hard lines of her face. Her features were striking, high cheekbones, flawless skin, and piercing green eyes that scanned the area with unwavering focus. Even through the cold lens of the camera, there was an undeniable intensity about her, a mix of lethal skill and quiet confidence that made you pause, despite the mission, despite everything, there’s something magnetic in her presence.

‘Don’t lose focus Soldat,’ you reminded yourself. You reminded yourself of the harsh punishment you got each time you failed a mission.

---

“Look at you, Soldat.” The general’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, low, sharp, and brimming with contempt. “A weapon crafted by masters, broken by a moment of weakness. Pathetic.” He stepped forward slowly, the sound of his boots deliberate, echoing off the walls like a countdown. “Do you even remember why you exist? Or has your failure rotted what’s left of your mind?”

He stopped just in front of you, tilting his head slightly as if studying a malfunctioning tool. “We carved out your past. Burned your name. Rebuilt you from ash and this is how you repay us? By hesitating? By failing your objective?” His lip curled. Shortly after you felt a sharp sting on your cheek caused by the palm of his hand. “You were not sent to feel. You were sent to kill.”

The door behind him creaked open, cold metal, flickering lights, the chair waiting. The room seemed to shift, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen.

“You don’t get mercy. Not here. You get correction.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “We will unmake this softness. Strip you down to bone and code, until there’s nothing left but obedience.”

He turned his back on you then, already walking away. “Begin the process. Break her open. Scrub her clean.” A pause. “Next time, she won’t even remember how to flinch.”

Before you knew it, electrifying pain overtook you. You slowly started to feel your mind going empty, feeling only the numbing shocks coursing through your body.

---

The lights flickered overhead as you stepped into the hallway silently, except for the dull hum of machinery still running deep in the walls. The metal beneath your boots was cold, dust clinging to your suit in a way it never used to. You moved automatically, fast, efficient. your body remembering what your mind struggled to grasp.

Your hand found the knife strapped to your thigh. Familiar. Comforting. You’re alone, no voices in your ear, no handler breathing orders into your skull. Just static.

The building was old. Abandoned, but not empty. You felt it. Someone else was there. You turned the corner and froze. There she was. She stood at the far end of the corridor, backlit by flickering lights. Gun in hand, steps steady, eyes locked on yours. Not wide with surprise. Not wary. Just… knowing.

Black suit. Red hair. Green eyes.

Your target.

The traitor.

The—

A flash in your head interrupted your thoughts. Not memory. Something else. A feeling. You’ve seen her before. Not just on the screen. Up close. Skin to skin. In pain. In training. In silence.

Snap out of it. Kill her, make it hurt.

She doesn’t raise her weapon. She doesn’t run. She speaks a name.

“Y/N?”

Who the fuck is that?

You stared at her blankly, hiding the ultimate confusion you were feeling. She stared back at you with something unreadable behind her eyes. Not fear. Not anger. Guilt? The thought irritated you. Why would she look guilty? You didn’t get a chance to ask. You were moving before you realized it, a blur of muscle and steel as you launched yourself at her again. Blades flashed. Fists clashed.

Your elbow cracked against her jaw, and she stumbled, but not far. She countered fast, landing a sharp strike to your ribs. You barely felt it. Your adrenaline overriding the pain.

To your left, a voice called out, clipped and familiar. “Nat, you good?” A man, dark tactical suit, bow in hand. You recognized him from the cameras. He doesn’t step in. Not yet.

“Don’t,” Natasha called back, breath tight. “She’s enhanced. She’ll take both of you down if you get in the way.”

Another voice cut in through the comms, metallic, amused, impatient. “I could blast a hole through the wall, or I could watch Natasha get her ribs cracked on loop. Thoughts?”

Iron Man. You heard the stories in HYDRA. You didn’t have time for stories. You’re back on Natasha in seconds, driving her into a rusted steel pillar. The impact rattled the foundation, but she stayed locked in, arms wrapped around your middle, legs pushing off the ground to flip you over. You crashed onto your back with a grunt, but roll out before she could pin you.

“You’re faster than I remember,” she muttered. Her voice hit a nerve you didn’t know you had.

”You remember me?” You hadn’t meant to ask it out loud. It slipped through clenched teeth like steam from a crack in your armor. She froze, just for a moment, but enough.

“Yeah,” she said, quietly. “I do.”

You hesitated. You shouldn’t. You’ve never hesitated.

“You don’t remember anything, do you?” she asked.

You gritted your teeth and slammed her against the wall. She coughed, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth, but she didn’t fight back immediately. Her eyes searched yours, like she was trying to reach through you.

“I trained you in the Red Room,” she breathed. “They made me, before I got out. I pushed you harder than anyone. You were just a kid.”

Something twisted in your gut. You didn’t remember her, but there was something in the way she moved. The way she looked at you. There’s a flicker, heat, pain, breathless exhaustion under harsh red lights. A voice yelling in Russian. Her voice. You screamed and shoved her back, barely able to look at her.

“I don’t care who you were,” you snapped. “You’re the mission.”

You moved again before you could think. Natasha threw a baton to block your blade, but it’s sloppy, she’s faltering. You swung hard, knocking her into a wall. She crashed against a shelf and dropped to one knee, gasping. Clint finally moved in, bow raised.

“Stand down,” he said, voice calm but firm. “We don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t care what you want.” You threw a small blade toward him, just enough to make him dodge, and dart back to Natasha. She’s slower now. Exhausted. The baton dropped from her hand. You pinned her against the cold floor, knees digging into her shoulders, your knife at her throat. Her eyes didn’t flinch.

“If you’re going to do it,” she whispered, “do it.”

Something burned in your chest. Why won’t she fight back? “Why aren’t you defending yourself?”

She just stared at you. “Because I already hurt you once,” she said. “I’m not doing it again.”

You wanted to scream. To finish it. To be the weapon they made you. But your hands were shaking. You didn’t notice the soft whirring sound behind you until it was too late. An electric shock hit you right at the back of your neck. You tumbled sideways, disoriented. Clint’s arrow caught your knife mid-air and knocked it from your grip. Before you could reach for it, Natasha flipped you, locking your arm behind your back with precise, practiced force. You struggled, wild and breathless, but your muscles were burning out. Your vision blurred.

“Got her,” Clint confirmed, rushing in. You thrashed again, snarling. Iron Man’s voice echoed through the comms.

“About time. You all took long enough.”

You fought harder, but Natasha didn’t let go. You could barely move due to the stun arrow shot right at you, they’d restrained you to the back of the jet bringing you somewhere. Before you found out, you passed out the exhaustion hitting you hard.

---

The lights in the Red Room never flickered. They just buzzed. Low, steady, and oppressive. Like a warning that never stopped.

You were eleven. Too young, too angry. You’d screamed during formation drills, refused to repeat the moves they barked. You didn’t even remember what you said. Just that your voice cracked from it, and silence fell like a blade afterward. The other girls wouldn’t even look at you. Now, you’re shoved through a metal door, knees stinging from where you’d scraped the mat. Your chest still heaved, but you stopped breathing when you saw who was inside.

Natasha Romanoff. Seventeen. Already infamous here. Not just a model Widow, the Widow. Every instructor used her name like a weapon. She stood with arms crossed, uniform perfect, hair pulled into a sharp braid. Her expression was unreadable.

“She won’t listen,” Madame’s voice said from behind you. “Maybe she’ll listen to someone who actually earned their place here.”

Natasha walked toward you without hesitation. There was no flicker of pity, no kindness. Just calculation. Cold and clean. “You’re wasting their time,” she said. You tried to hold her stare. Your jaw tightened. “Sit up straight.”

You didn’t move. The slap came so fast you barely saw it. Your cheek stung, your head snapped to the side. But you didn’t fall. You breathed hard. Eyes wide. Another slap. Harder. The other side.

“They gave you a chance,” she said evenly. “And you think throwing tantrums makes you brave?” You felt your throat tightening. Not from tears. From fury.

“Say something again,” Natasha said flatly. “See where it gets you.” You said nothing. She grabbed your collar and pulled you upright, your feet dragging slightly on the cold floor. “She’s not responding to training,” she said without looking back at Madame. “She needs reprogramming.”

“Take her.”

Two guards were already at your side. You thrashed, once, twice, but they gripped you harder. One of them pulled your arm too tight, and your shoulder screamed in protest.

“No—!” Your voice cracked again. This time not in anger. In panic.

You turned your head. Just once. Just enough to see her. Natasha. She didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just watched as you were dragged down the hall. And then the chair came into view. Straps. Needles. A hum of electricity. You tried to fight. Scream. Claw. But the metal was already closing around your wrists. And then there was nothing but light. And pain. And the slow, sinking sense that someone was rewiring your mind from the inside out.

---

You woke up to silence.

Not the static buzz of the Red Room. Not the hum of HYDRA tech. Just silence. Thick, pressing silence, broken only by the low throb in your skull. Your body ached like you’d gone through a brick wall and back again. You shifted, slowly, and something soft crinkled beneath your fingers.

A bed.

Not dirty, cracked concrete. A real mattress, thin, but steady. Covered in clean, white sheets. The room around you was small. Reinforced metal walls, no obvious exit. Just one sealed door with a built-in panel, a dull light overhead, and a single camera watching you from the corner.

It was sterile. Contained. But… it wasn’t HYDRA.

Your hand brushed your temple. No shackles. No chains. Just soreness where restraints had once been. You sat up, and your muscles flared with warning. There were bruises from the fight, deep ones. They hadn’t patched you up, but they hadn’t left you bleeding either. That told you something. You would heal in a few hours anyway. Perks of being a super soldier. You scanned the walls again. No insignias. No men in black with syringes. No chair. You didn’t know where you were. But you knew where you weren’t.

You weren’t in hell anymore.

Still… your instincts screamed not to trust it. You stood carefully, pressing your palm to the cold metal wall. You could feel the tension in it, like it was built to hold a bomb. Reinforced. Probably vibranium-lined. They weren’t taking chances with you.

You caught your reflection in the glass panel of the door. Your face was pale, shadowed with exhaustion. The edges of the flashback still clung to you like smoke. Natasha’s blank expression, the sting of her palm, the sound of the chair charging up. You exhaled through your nose, grounding yourself. No mission. No orders. No HYDRA command in your ear.

Just silence.

And somewhere behind that door… the very people you were trained to kill.

The hiss of the reinforced door sliding open broke the silence, but you didn’t flinch. You were already awake. Had been for hours, maybe more. There wasn’t much else to do in this box of a room, white walls, reinforced glass, a bed that didn’t creak when you shifted your weight. Clean. Sterile. Better than HYDRA’s cages, sure, but it didn’t feel freer. Just quieter.

She stepped in. You knew it was her before you even looked. You could feel her. The way the air shifted. Calculated movements, all quiet efficiency and coiled strength.

Natasha Romanoff.

Your mission.

Your past.

You kept your gaze forward until she spoke. “You’re awake.”

You turned your head slowly, making her wait for your attention. She looked the same as she did through the security feed. Colder in person, somehow. Realer. She wore the same suit. dark, fitted, scarred with dust from the fight. Her red hair was tied back again, a few strands falling loose.

“Congratulations,” you said dryly, voice hoarse but steady. “You noticed.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t bite back. Instead, she stepped a bit farther into the room, the only thing separating you two a thick pane of glass.

“You were out for a while. You cracked two of Clint’s ribs. Nearly broke my jaw.” You didn’t answer. You just looked her over, slowly, deliberately. Watching her watch you. “You’re stronger than they let on,” she added.

“You don’t know what they let on,” you said, more quietly this time.

That made her pause. Something flickered in her expression, but you looked away before you could see what it was. She tried again. “I don’t know what they did to you. But I know what they do. What they take.”

You scoffed. A humorless sound. “Don’t pretend like you’re not part of it.”

Now she stepped closer, arms dropping slightly from where they’d been folded. “I got out. I’ve spent years trying to stop it.”

“Good for you,” you muttered. “You get a medal for finally growing a conscience?” The venom in your tone didn’t even sound like yours. You weren’t sure who it belonged to. You just knew it came from somewhere old.

She flinched, barely. Just enough for you to see the guilt land. “You don’t remember me,” she said, quieter now.

You stayed silent.

“They made sure of that.”

Your eyes flicked back to her. Something in your chest twisted, but you didn’t let it rise. “I remember enough.”

“What do you remember?”

You stared at her. Long enough that she started to shift under it. Then: “Hands. Voices. Pain.” Her face went pale. And for a moment, just for a moment, you could’ve sworn her lips parted like she was about to say your name. But you cut in first. “I remember someone hitting me until I stopped speaking out. Until I followed orders.” You leaned forward slightly. “Was that you, Romanoff? Or just someone like you?”

The guilt was there again. Heavy in her eyes.

“You were a child,” she said, voice thin. “They told me to fix you. They said you were broken. I thought—” she stopped herself. “I didn’t know how else to survive.”

You looked down, jaw tight. “Then you and I are not the same.”

Silence stretched between you both. Thick with all the words that weren’t said. Natasha took a breath, her voice softer now. “You don’t have to be what they made you.”

You looked up at her then. Eyes cold, sharp, guarded. “And what exactly do you think they made me?”

She didn’t answer. Just stood there. Until finally, she turned away and walked back toward the door. “Food’s coming soon,” she said. She paused, hand on the panel. “I’ll come back later. You don’t have to talk. But I’ll be here.”

You didn’t reply. And when the door hissed closed again, you were alone. But your hands were trembling. Not from fear. From remembering.

Hours later the door slid open again with a soft mechanical whirr. You didn’t bother to look up. The footsteps weren’t Natasha’s, they were lighter, more careful. Not hesitant exactly, but aware. You could feel that kind of energy before you saw it. A tray was set gently through the small latch through the glass. Real food, not lab-slop or ration bars. Warm. It smelled like someone made it on purpose. You finally lifted your head.

The girl stood there quietly, hands loosely clasped. Brown hair tucked behind her ears. Calm, observant eyes studying you, but not dissecting you. Just… present. Said her name was Wanda.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I brought you dinner.” You didn’t answer. Your eyes flicked between her and the tray. “Natasha said your name was Y/N,” she added, testing the way it landed. “Is that right?”

Your jaw tightened. The name didn’t feel wrong, exactly. Just foreign. Like trying on someone else’s skin.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice rougher than expected. “Is it?”

Wanda gave the faintest nod. “I thought maybe you wouldn’t remember. I just… wanted to ask.”

That felt like a trick. You narrowed your eyes. “You knew me?”

She leaned her shoulder lightly against the wall but kept her distance. “Not really. We never met. I just… read your file. Back when I was with HYDRA.” That got your attention. Your gaze sharpened. You stood slowly, taking a step toward her, not aggressive, just deliberate. She didn’t flinch. “They used you like a myth,” she said after a moment. “When they needed someone to scare us. Keep us obedient. They’d say your name like a warning.”

You stared at her. She met your eyes.

“They said you were the last thing someone saw if they crossed the line.” Wanda gave a dry, almost sad smile. “You were the consequence.”

Something cold crawled up your spine. That sick feeling that comes when someone knows more about you than you do.

“So what?” you asked, voice low. “You’re here to see if the monster lives up to the stories?”

“No.” She pushed off the wall gently. “I’m here to bring you food. And to remind you that you were never the monster. They just made you play one.” You didn’t move as she walked toward the door. She stopped just before it opened. “They took your name, your past, everything. But they didn’t take you.” Her voice was soft, but steady. “You’re still in there, even if you don’t remember how to be yet.”

And then she left, the door sliding shut behind her, leaving only silence and the warmth of the untouched food. You sat back down slowly. Eyes on the tray. And for the first time since you woke up in that cell… you weren’t sure if you felt hunger.