I've seen your sins

Natasha leaned back against the cold interior wall, gloved fingers drumming a soundless rhythm against her thigh holster. Below them the city sprawled dark veins of streets lit in orange. Somewhere in that maze, Hydra had a bunker full of stolen S.H.I.E.L.D. intel and a data broker who knew how to use it.

“Three minutes.” came the pilot’s voice over the comms.

Steve was going over the plan again, “Sam, rooftop sweep. Wanda, you’re with me on the entry. Natasha-”

“Ventilation shaft, east side.” she finished, pushing off the wall. “Get in, find the server, ghost out with the hard drive before anyone notices. I remember.”

Sam snorted. “She just wants the vents. Spiders and spiders.”

“Bird jokes from the man in wings.” Natasha replied. She felt the faint twitch at the corner of Steve’s mouth even through the helmet. He passed her one last look and she gave him a short nod in return and checked her gear.

The quinjet dipped and the building came into view through the hatch window, “Intel said minimal resistance.” Wanda murmured.

“Yeah, well..” Natasha said, “intel’s been wrong before.”

The hatch opened with a hiss. Cold air and the faint tang of smoke rushed in. Sam was off first, wings flaring in the night. Steve and Wanda jumped together, dropping toward the shadowed alley beside the compound.

Natasha went last, stepping cleanly out into the dark. “Widow in position.” she whispered.

“Copy.” Steve’s voice crackled in her ear. “On your mark.”

She moved low along the rooftop, hugging the shadows beyond the sweep of the security lights. Up close, the place looked wrong. The outer patrols were lazy and cameras turned on predictable arcs.

“Anyone else getting a bad feeling?” she muttered.

“Bad how?” Sam said.

“Like they cleaned the house before we got invited over.”

She found the vent near the east corner, just where the schematics said it would be. The grate was newer than the surrounding metal, almost polished. She didn’t like that either.

She popped the cover, slid into the shaft and let the darkness close around her. She moved silently, elbows and knees flowing like water, counting turns, counting moments.

Two ducts down, a left turn, and she had a perfect view of the corridor leading to the server room through a narrow slotted vent. Empty, no guards and the keypad on the reinforced door glowed a steady green.

Nope.

“Steve.” she hissed. “Change of plans. This is a setup.”

“Define setup.” Steve said.

“Define ‘no guards on the most important room in the building.’ I’m backing out.”

A faint click sounded behind her in the shaft and her body reacted before her mind finished processing: she twisted, knees bracing, hand flying to her belt. A thin mist burst into the vent from a hidden nozzle above her and a cold metallic-smelling spray that hit her face, her eyes, her throat.

Natasha held her breath instantly, lungs burning as she slammed an elbow into the side of the duct. She shoved herself forward anyway, pushing through the chemical fog, vision already starting to smear at the edges. Her head felt too light and way too heavy.

“Natasha?” Steve again, louder this time. “Natasha, talk to me.”

She couldn’t pull enough air to answer. The muscles in her chest spasmed, reflex forcing a shallow inhale. The gas scorched its way into her lungs and fireworks went off behind her eyes. She kept moving. Just a little.. but the world swayed, metal shifting under her palms like liquid.

Her hand slipped and her shoulder slammed into the vent wall. Her limbs suddenly felt far away, like they belonged to someone else. The last coherent thing Natasha registered was the faint echo of boots on metal above the shaft and the sense, distant and darkly amused, that her bad feeling had been right. Then the world dropped out from under her.

She woke to pain. Her shoulders throbbed with a bright, steady burn and her arms were stretched above her head, pulling at the sockets. Cold seeped in through the back of her suit and the air smelled like bleach, rust, and something coppery and old that she knew too well.

She cracked her eyes open and the light made halos around itself, her vision still swimming. Her boots were on, she could feel the edge of the sole scraping the floor barely.

They had her suspended, chains running from metal cuffs at her wrists up to a bracket in the ceiling. Her toes just brushed the concrete, enough to send a faint tremor up her legs as she tried to take some of the weight off her arms. They’d stripped her of her gear. No belt, no stingers, nothing. Even her earrings were gone.

She rolled her head, slow and careful, taking in the room. Four concrete walls, one heavy metal door with a bolted lock and no handle on the inside. A table along one wall with neat rows of…tools. She didn’t look too long at those. A camera in the corner, red light blinking.

She shifted her weight, testing the give in the chains. They clinked faintly but didn’t rattle in any way that said loose bolts. Her shoulders burned brighter at the movement. Behind the hum of the light and her own breathing, she could make out faint sounds through the walls. Distant footsteps, a muffled shout, too distorted to make out words.

Suddenly, metal scraped on the other side of the door and Natasha’s gaze snapped to it. Her body shifted, feet bracing as much as they could on the slick concrete. She let her face smooth out, for all that the light overhead made every line sharper.

The lock clanked and the heavy door swung inward with a slow, grating squeal. The man who stepped in first was flanked by two armed guards in black tactical gear, the stylized Hydra emblem on their shoulders. Their weapons stayed low, not quite pointed at her, but she could tell by the set of their hands: ready.

The men walked with an easy, practiced confidence, hands behind his back, dark hair combed neatly away from his forehead. His suit was too well tailored for this concrete hole, dark fabric catching just enough of the light to look expensive rather than shiny.

He stopped a few feet from her, close enough that she could smell his cologne under the bleach and rust and he smiled.

“Agent Romanoff.”

The voice hit first. It reached past the pain, past the flickering light, and grabbed at an older memory. Natasha’s lips curved, just barely. “You really need a new hobby.” she said.

Surprise flashed across his face before the smile widened. “Ah. You do remember.” He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen on a table. “I take that as a compliment. Considering how many you put in the ground.”

It came back in shards. Years ago, a Hydra facility in the Caucasus mountains. A list of names and accounts tying half a dozen senators to Hydra’s payroll. A man in a lab with a disarming smile and a mind for systems, not weapons. He’d used information like a blade, dividing and gutting organizations with a few keystrokes and one whisper in the right ear.

She’d put a bullet through his shoulder then, watched him go down bleeding, before he vanished into S.H.I.E.L.D. custody. S.H.I.E.L.D., which had been riddled with Hydra like a corpse full of maggots..Of course he’d gotten out.

“Last time I saw you..” Natasha said slowly, “you were handcuffed to a hospital bed, ranting about restructuring intelligence ecosystems. I have to say, the decor hasn’t improved.”

His eyes glittered, “You should remember my name if you’re going to mock me.” he chided. “Morozov, but Hydra preferred ‘Architect.’”

“Cute.” Natasha said. “Does it come with a business card?”

One of the guards shifted, jaw tightening at her tone. Morozov noticed, but he didn’t look away from her.

“I heard you died.” she went on. “Burned facility, missing body, the usual drama. I was almost disappointed.”

Morozov stepped closer, not enough to be in reach, he knew better than that but enough that the details sharpened: the faint grey at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes that hadn’t been there before. Time had worked on him, but not softened him.

“Hydra does many things poorly.” he said. “Recruitment, public relations, basic sanity. But we excel at survival. You should know. You survived us too.”

He let that hang there for a moment and Natasha met his gaze without flinching. “I walked out.” she said. “You crawled.”

He laughed quietly, “You always did prefer violence to conversation, Agent Romanoff.” he said. “Which is…unfortunate.”

He turned away, strolling toward the table of tools along the wall. He trailed a finger along the metal surface, not touching anything yet. “I have a problem.” he said conversationally. “You could help me solve it.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you gassed me in a ventilation shaft.” she replied.

“Your friends at S.H.I.E.L.D. what’s left of them have something I want. Access to old databases, old files, buried operations. Hydra ghosts still walking in borrowed skin. Your new family, the Avengers, built a lot of their infrastructure on the rubble. I want it all.”

Natasha went very still. “You broke into our systems before.” Morozov continued. “You know the framework. You know where the cracks are. You know the people.” He glanced up at her. “And you even volunteered your phone once, if I recall.”

Her mouth felt dry. That little piece of past resurfacing in a present she did not like. “And you think..” she said slowly, “that if you hang me from the ceiling long enough, I’ll just hand you the keys?”

His smile thinned. “I think..” he said, “that everyone breaks. The question is how much you take with you when you do.”

“You really think SHIELD’s going to leave access codes lying around in my head?” she said. “That I have Avengers fail-safes memorized like grocery lists? You’re outdated, Architect. The world moved on without you.”

Morozov watched her for a long beat, eyes searching her face. Then he sighed, as if genuinely disappointed.

“I suspected as much.” he said. “You’re not a database..You’re leverage.”

He set the tablet down again with a soft click and turned toward the door. “Bring her.” he said to someone outside.

Natasha shifted her weight again, chains jingling faintly. “What, getting your hands dirty yourself is too much effort these days?” she asked. “I thought Hydra believed in initiative.”

He paused at the threshold, half turned. “Oh, I’ve learned to delegate.” he said. “Interrogation is an art, but it’s also..exhausting. And I have much larger structures to maintain.”

The door opened wider and for a moment, all Natasha could see was the darker rectangle of the hall beyond. Then boots stepped carefully over the threshold. The person who entered was different from the guards. Leaner build, a little shorter. Dressed in black tactical gear that fit just a bit too well, like it had been adjusted and readjusted to someone who’d grown into it fast.

“Agent L/N.” Morozov said, as if introducing someone at a dinner party. “Meet Natasha Romanoff. Natasha, this is the woman who is going to ask you some very important questions.”

You didn’t flinch at the way he said it. You stood very straight, hands clasped behind your back and from this angle, Natasha could see the faint, yellowing shadow of a bruise peeking above the high collar of your suit, the edge of what looked like a metal band around your throat, mostly concealed by fabric. Some kind of restraint? Control device?

Natasha filed it away, expression giving nothing. Morozov stepped between them, turning slightly so Natasha could see both their faces. His hand settled on the younger woman’s shoulder with casual familiarity that made her shoulders pull even tighter.

“If you don’t cooperate..” he said to Natasha, voice almost gentle, “it will not be easy. For either of you.” His thumb pressed, just for a second, into muscle, a reminder. “I would strongly advise you to consider that before you get creative.”

Natasha looked from his hand to his face, then to the girl’s eyes, “Here’s a fun fact.” she said. “Threatening me with other people stopped working a long time ago.”

The lie tasted bitter in her mouth and Morozov’s smile didn’t move. “We’ll see.”

He walked to the door and the guards followed. One of them glanced at Natasha as he passed, eyes briefly meeting hers, before snapping forward again. The door swung shut behind them with a heavy clang.

Natasha and you were alone and for a moment, neither of them moved. The chain above Natasha creaked softly as her weight shifted, her muscles trembling with the effort of staying upright.

You took a slow breath and your shoulders dropped a fraction, the rigid set easing just enough to show how tense you been standing in front of Morozov.

You moved, not toward Natasha, not immediately. First, you crossed to the wall opposite the camera. You didn’t look up at it, but you angled your body just so, giving it a clear profile as you reached for the table.

Natasha watched every detail: the way your fingers curled around the edge of the metal, the slight tremor that ran through your hand before you forced it still. The way you picked up a pair of latex gloves from a box, rolling them on with practised efficiency. Then you picked up a scalpel. Its blade flashed once under the strip light, a cold, clean line and you turned.

The chain above Natasha’s head groaned again as she adjusted her stance, trying to ease the throbbing in her shoulders.

“You’re quiet.” Natasha said, voice low, conversational. “New to this? Or just shy?”

You stopped a meter away, right at the edge of Natasha’s reach. Your fingers tightened on the scalpel’s handle, just enough that the knuckles.

“Talking won’t help you.” You said.

Natasha arched a brow. “Debatable. It’s helped me plenty in the past.”

Your gaze flicked to her wrists, the red skin, the already-forming bruises. Something flashed in your eyes, anger maybe, or disgust, but it shuttered almost instantly.

You took one more step closer and Natasha rolled her shoulders as much as the chains allowed, “Okay then.” she said softly. “Let’s get this over with.”

By the fourth day, the room knew her.

It knew the pattern of Natasha’s ragged breathing, the creak of the ceiling bracket when her weight shifted, the rhythm of chains grinding in their anchor. It knew the stain her blood made when it dried and got washed away and dried again. Bleach and copper and sweat had sunk into the pores of the concrete.

And it knew the sound of your boots. You’d come in twice a day, every day, like clockwork. Each time a little more composed, a little more efficient. You spoke rarely, hands doing most of the talking, tightening restraints, checking her pulse, adjusting the angle of the chains to expose new targets and give old ones a chance to swell and bruise.

You were careful and you knew exactly how long to hold the stun baton to leave muscles twitching and useless without stopping her heart. You knew exactly where to put the blade so cuts bled just enough, shallow and ugly, never deep enough to risk losing your subject. You broke skin, not bones. You made pain, not permanent damage.

Hydra liked their assets alive and Natasha hung from the ceiling and let herself be a problem. Pain moved through her in waves: electric fire along her side where the baton had kissed ribs; a steady throb in her shoulders; the sting of thin cuts along her forearms and thighs, each one a bright little nerve buzzing under her skin. Sweat plastered red hair to her temples; her suit hung open from the sternum up, fabric peeled back so you had access to skin.

You didn’t meet her eyes much at first. You kept your gaze on your hands, on the tools, on the places your orders said to hurt. Your expression behind your eyes stayed flat, controlled, but you were too young to hide everything.

The first time you pressed the baton to her side, your hand shook. Only a little but you felt the tremor in the current. By day four, the tremor was mostly gone. You had a script, “Facility locations.” you said now, tone flat. You reached for the small bottle and cloth again, dampening it. Disinfectant dabbed carefully at the slice you’d just opened along her bicep. “Old S.H.I.E.L.D. fallback sites, anywhere that survived the purge.”

Natasha let the silence stretch and you dabbed a little harder than necessary. She hissed, a soft exhale between her teeth.

“Avengers’ secure channels.” you went on, as if ticking items off a list. “Protocols. Off-site weapon caches. Emergency extraction contacts. How you get out when you fall.”

Natasha let her head loll, eyes closing, chains creaking above. “You want my Netflix password too?” she rasped. “Maybe I’ll start with that.”

The corner of your eye twitched. It was small, but it was there and your gloved fingers pressed the cloth to the wound. “You’re not helping yourself.” you said.

“Not my habit.” she replied.

You stepped back, tossing the stained cloth into a metal bin. The scalpel returned to its spot on the table with a soft clink. You wiped the blade down with practiced motions, disinfectant pad whispering over steel. Natasha watched your shoulders as you worked. The way they hunched slightly, like you were bracing for something that never came from her.

From behind you, the lock on the door clanked and you went very still. Natasha felt the change in you like a shift in air pressure. Your spine straightened, your chin angled toward the door and the hand holding the scalpel tightened, then loosened quickly, as if you remembered the camera, remembered eyes.

The door swung open and Morozov’s silhouette filled the frame for a second before he stepped in. No guards this time, he didn’t need them with her hanging half-conscious and you between them. His gaze flicked over the room, taking in the tools, the blood, the sheen of sweat on Natasha’s skin.

“Progress?” he asked lightly.

“She’s resistant,” you said. Your voice held the same professional flatness, but Natasha heard the edges of it, the way the words ran a little too fast, like you were eager to get them out and done. “But she’s tiring. The pain will…slow her thinking.”

Morozov’s eyes slid to Natasha and she let her head stay down. He took a step closer, shoes clicking on concrete.

“Hmm.” he murmured. “She looks…impressive.”

His hand reached out and fingers brushed a line where you’d opened skin along Natasha’s forearm. Not touching the wound, he wasn’t stupid but close enough to feel the heat.

“Romanoff.” he said, almost fond. “You never disappoint. Still nothing to say?”

Natasha let a small, broken laugh escape. “You talk enough for both of us.” she whispered. “Have you considered therapy? Might help with the god complex.”

He smiled, “She’s still lucid.” he noted to you, as if she weren’t even there. “Good. Don’t break her too quickly. Valuable assets are more fun when they know what they’re losing.”

He turned his full attention to you then. Natasha watched your body react before your face did. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly and you shifted your weight like you wanted to step back and forced yourself not to.

Morozov closed the distance between you with casual familiarity. You held your ground, but Natasha could see the fight in every rigid line of you.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, tone smooth. “You’ve made impressive strides this week.”

His hand came up and without asking cupped your cheek. His fingers slid along the line of your jaw. From the camera’s angle, it probably looked affectionate. A mentor praising a promising protégé.

From where Natasha hung, she saw the way your eyelids twitched. The quick flare of your nostrils as you forced yourself to breathe slow.

“I had my doubts when they brought you to me.” Morozov went on soft and his thumb pressed a little harder against your cheekbone. “Damaged goods are…unreliable. But you learn fast and you understand consequences.”

Your gaze stayed fixed on some point just over his shoulder. Natasha tracked it: the camera.

“I understand..” you said.

“Do you?” His fingers trailed lower, briefly touching the high collar of your suit where it hid the metal band at your throat. Natasha saw the barest flicker of blue beneath the fabric, like a device light catching breath.

You froze just for a heartbeat. Then forced yourself to swallow, the movement visible against his hand. “Good.” Morozov murmured. “Because if she doesn’t start talking soon, I’ll need to make an example.” His eyes lifted and meet yours. They had gone flat and cold.

Natasha felt your reaction in the air, more than saw it. A sharp, invisible recoil and for the first time since you’d walked into this room days ago, real fear flashed across your eye.

Morozov smiled, satisfied and patted your cheek lightly, like rewarding a dog. “Keep at it.” he said, “I expect results.”

He turned and walks back toward the door without another glance at Natasha. He reached for the handle and left with a pleasant, “Carry on.” the door closing behind him with the now-familiar clang.

You didn’t move for a few seconds. You stayed exactly where he’d left you, shoulders squared toward the door, chest rising and falling a little too fast. Then, slowly, you turned back to her.

Natasha lifted her head, meeting your gaze. Her eyes were clearer than they’d been a moment ago. The mask of pain shifted into something cooler, more intent.

“He always this handsy with his employees?” she asked. “Do you all get the deluxe package, or are you special?”

You jolted, it wasn’t a big motion just a small, startled jerk like someone had snapped fingers in front of your face. Your grip tightened on the scalpel you’d almost forgotten you were still holding.

“I thought you were out.” you said, too quickly.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Natasha’s mouth tugged up at one corner. “I don’t nap well to the sound of people threatening to fry their own agents.”

A flush rose along your neck, visible just above the collar. You stepped toward her, anger flaring as a shield. “You don’t-” you started, then cut yourself off. Your eyes hardened. “You heard what you were supposed to hear.”

“Oh?” she said softly. “Because what I heard was ‘she’s damaged goods’ and ‘I can’t touch the Avenger, so I’ll hurt the girl instead.’” She rolled her wrists in the cuffs slightly, chain clinking. “That about sum it up?”

Your jaw clenched. “You should focus on yourself.” you snapped. “You’re not here to analyze me.”

“Funny.” Natasha murmured. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing all week.”

Your fist moved before your brain caught up. The punch caught her in the ribs, just under one already bruised welt. She grunted, body jolting against the chains, breath hitching. Pain flared hot and bright behind her eyes, but she rode it out, sucking air through her teeth.

You stared at your own gloved hand like it had betrayed you. Then you curled it into a fist at your side.

“Keep talking..” you said, quieter now, “and it’s going to get worse.”

“You keep pretending you like this..” Natasha shot back, “and it’s going to get worse for you.”

Something went very still in your face. For a second, the mask slipped. Behind it she saw a flash of something she knew too well: bone-deep exhaustion, threaded with a kind of quiet, shaking terror that had nothing to do with the person in front of you. Then it was gone and you stepped back, turning away, busying yourself with wiping an already-clean instrument.

“I don’t care if you talk.” you said. Your voice had gone flat again. “I just care if you answer.”

You didn’t turn back around and Natasha let her head rest briefly against her raised arms, feeling her pulse hammer in her wrists against the metal.

“Yeah..” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “That’s the problem.”

You left her like that, hanging, muscles screaming, skin stinging without another word, the door slamming shut behind you, leaving only the buzzing light and the echo of your footsteps.

By the seventh day, the bruises had started to overlap. There was no more clean skin for you to work with on her torso, so you went for the legs, the arms, carefully avoiding major arteries. Electrical burns marked her side in ugly, blotched arcs. Her wrists were raw and her voice was rough from dehydration and disuse.

She still hadn’t given you anything useful.

Bits of false intel, trivial things, fragments that led nowhere. Names of defunct safe houses. Outdated codes that would set off silent alarms the second anyone tried to use them. Enough to keep you from looking completely ineffective on the camera feed. Not enough to be called cooperation. You came in that morning walking stiff, like you’d slept on concrete. There was a new bruise high on your cheekbone, someone had hit you with a ring on.

“You know..” Natasha rasped, “you’re going to run out of real estate eventually. Maybe just paint me? Save time.”

“Shut up.” you muttered.

You picked up the baton and for a second, your thumb hovered over the activation switch. Then you set it back down with more force than necessary and reached for the scalpel instead.

“I’ve been thinking.” Natasha continued, ignoring the way the blade gleamed. “Dangerous habit, I know.”

You walked toward her and the scalpel rested between your fingers. Your eyes were dark, shadowed, like you hadn’t slept.

“Maybe I misjudged you.” she said. “You’re not Hydra.”

“Excuse me?” you said slowly.

“You heard me.” Natasha said. “Hydra likes zealots. People who believe the lie so hard they’re happy to die for it. That isn’t you.”

You took the last step, as if sheer forward motion could undo the moment of hesitation. You stood close enough that she could see the faint freckles on the bridge of your nose, the tiny scar near your left brow.

“What am I then?” you asked.

She looked down deliberately at the metal band at your throat, the faint bruising where it met skin. Then at the mark on your cheek.

“Leverage.” she said. “Just like me.”

You swallowed. “The collar?” she went on, tone conversational, like they were chatting in a café instead of a cell. “That’s not Hydra fashion. That’s a control device. Probably shock-based, maybe with a tracker built in. You don’t put that on loyal agents, you put it on assets you can’t afford to lose.”

Your free hand lifted instinctively, fingers brushing the collar under your suit. You caught yourself halfway and forced your hand back down.

“Stop.” you said.

“The bruise on your cheek?” Natasha continued, relentless. “That wasn’t from a fight. Wrong angle. Wrong shape. That’s a ring. Someone wanted you to remember who’s in charge. Let me guess: your ‘performance review’ didn’t go well last night?”

“Stop.” The word came out sharper, cracking.

“You flinch every time he touches you.” Natasha said. “You breathe shallow when you hear his steps in the hall. But you don’t flinch when I do this.” She shifted her weight and let her boot slide clumsily along the floor until it bumped your ankle. The touch was light, clumsy given her restraints, but deliberate.

“I’ve seen soldiers afraid for themselves.” she said. “They look at the tools, the doors, the exit routes. You..” she tilted her head, studying you, “you keep looking at the camera.” Your gaze flicked up to the blinking red light.

Got you, she thought, “Who are you really afraid he’ll hurt?”

The question hit you like a blow and for a heartbeat, all the tension in your body dropped out, leaving something raw and exposed behind your eyes.

“Don’t.” you whispered.

It wasn’t a threat, it sounded almost like a plea. Natasha went quieter. She could feel the room like a live wire, the camera a red eye in the corner, watching.

“You’re not the first person Hydra’s chained.” she said. “You won’t be the last. They took you. They strapped that thing around your neck. They’re holding something over you. Family? Someone you care about? Your own life?” She blinked, letting exhaustion seep into her voice, a crack in the armor that made her seem less like the Avenger and more like the ex-asset who’d once worn a different kind of collar. “I get it.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” you shot back, but it came out shaky.

“I know fear.” she said. “And I know the sound of someone trying to convince themselves they’re the monster so they don’t have to feel bad about what they’re made to do.”

Her words hit something and you stepped back like she’d burned you, “If you keep this up..” you hissed, “I..I will make it worse. I have to.”

“Do you?” Natasha asked softly. “Or does he?”

You stared at her and the silence stretched, pulsing between you. On the other side of the camera, Morozov would be watching and listening, evaluating every micro-expression.

“We’re done talking about me.” you said. “He wants infrastructure. Locations. Codes. That’s what we’re going to talk about.”

You moved back to the table, grabbing a strip of cloth and twisting it between your fingers to give your hands something to do. The scalpel clinked down harder than you intended and Natasha let herself sag a little, feigning more exhaustion than she felt now that adrenaline had her humming.

“You can keep doing this.” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Keep hitting me, cutting me, shocking me. You might even get something he wants, eventually. But when he’s done with me…” She let the sentence trail off, heavy. “You know what happens to you, don’t you?”

You froze, it was written all over you. In the stiffness of your shoulders, in the way your fingers tightened on the cloth until the fabric creaked. In the hollow look that flashed across your eyes before you turned your head away so the camera wouldn’t see.

“He doesn’t let loose ends walk.” Natasha continued, relentless but quiet. “Not prisoners, not coerced agents or witnesses. Once I’m emptied out, you’re redundant and Hydra hates redundancies.”

“Shut up..” you said again, but it sounded like you were talking to yourself as much as to her.

“I’m not your enemy.” she said.

“You’re an Avenger.” you spat, fury finally breaking through. “You’re the Avenger. Do you have any idea what they showed me before they brought me here? What they blamed on you? On your team? Do you have any idea what it’s like to watch everything you love burn and be told it’s all because they didn’t care enough to stop it?”

Natasha’s heart stumbled. There it was.. A crack big enough to see through.

“Yeah..” she said quietly. “Actually. I do.”

You froze halfway through your next breath, eyes locked on hers and all the noise in the room, the buzzing light, the hum of distant machinery fell away for a second. There was just the two of you and the weight of too many ghosts. Natasha watched your eyes flick up to the camera again, that tiny red dot blinking in the corner. Her ribs hurt with every breath, but she still had enough air for one more push.

“He’ll never see you as anything but a tool.” she rasped. “You know that, right? The second I’m empty, you-”

The scalpel kissed her side before she finished. A clean, practiced line along an existing bruise, turning purple into red. The pain was white-hot, ripping a hiss from her throat. She jerked against the chains, metal biting raw wrists.

Your hand didn’t shake this time. “You think I don’t know what he is?” you asked quietly.

“You think I don’t know exactly what he’s capable of?” Your eyes were darker now, voice dropping low enough that the mic in the ceiling would still pick it up, but barely. “You’re famous for it, right? Reading people. Getting under their skin. But you don’t know me.”

Natasha swallowed against the taste of copper. “I know fear when I see it.”

Something in your face flinched, not physically, but behind the eyes. Then your jaw locked.

“He has my family.” you said, and there it was, dropped like a stone in a pond.

Natasha’s breath stuttered and you saw it and almost laughed humourless. “Yeah. That’s right. Not my handler. Not my boss. Some I actually chose.” The words came faster now, pressed out by pressure building under your skin. “He showed me a live feed. Showed me what he can do to them if I breathe wrong.”

Your fingers tightened on the scalpel handle. “And now you want me to risk their life?” you finished, voice gone quiet and lethal, “For a woman whose job is manipulating people?”

Natasha flinched like you’d hit her with the baton and you took the opening, stepped into it, because that’s what you’d been trained to do.

“He warned me about you.” you went on. “About all of you. The Widow, the witch, the soldier, the captain. ‘They’ll use whatever they can,’ he said. ‘Pain. Sympathy. They’ll look for cracks. You don’t have any.’”

Your mouth twisted, “But I do.” you added, almost to yourself. “I have some. And he owns them.”

Silence pooled for a second and Natasha’s shoulders ached. Blood from the new cut ticked down her side, “I’m sorry.” she said.

The words slipped out before she could stop them and for a heartbeat, you looked startled. Then your expression hardened like frost forming. “Keep it.” you said. “I don’t need your pity. I need you to talk.”

You wiped the scalpel, calm again and when you turned back, whatever crack had opened was sealed over. “If you try that again.” you added, voice low and steady, “if you try to make me doubt for even a second, I will make sure you regret it. And it won’t be because I want to. It’ll be because I don’t have a choice.”

You stepped closer, close enough that she could see her own reflection warped in the scalpel’s metal. “And I’m not risking them.” you said, each word precise, “for you.”

This time, when the baton snapped to life in your hand, there was no hesitation in the way you pressed it to her ribs.

Another week blurred by and the days fell into a jagged rhythm. Morning: footsteps in the hall, the familiar clank of the lock, your silhouette in the doorway. Always you. Never anyone else. You asked the questions Morozov wanted asked, your voice a metronome. You inflicted the pain he expected, your hands a routine. Sometimes blades. Sometimes electricity. Sometimes nothing but pressure on bruises already blooming like storm clouds under her skin.

Afternoon: silence, darkness behind her eyes as she drifted in and out, counting the cracks in the ceiling, the breaths between throbs in her shoulders. Evening: you again, or sometimes Morozov himself, to “review progress.”

The methods changed but your presence didn’t. If anything after that slip about your family, you hardened. Whatever edge of reluctant humanity Natasha thought she’d seen got buried under steel. You cut deeper. You held the baton just a second longer. You left her hanging a little higher so her toes barely brushed the floor.

Outwardly, you became exactly what Morozov wanted: effective, efficient, merciless. But you never left a mark on her face where a future camera might see. You never broke a bone. You never went for her hands, her fingers, the delicate tools of her trade. You never touched her throat.

And you always, always cleaned the wounds. It was a small thing, it shouldn’t have mattered. Alcohol burned. Disinfectant bit like fire. But your hands were careful, even when the rest of you wasn’t. You knew how to wrap a bandage too tightly to stop bleeding without cutting off circulation. You knew where to put pressure to minimize swelling.

“Wouldn’t want infection.” you said once, tone dry as you taped gauze along her ribs. “That would be…inefficient.”

“Touching concern..” Natasha rasped.

You didn’t answer but your fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary before you stepped away.

Natasha started noticing other things. How you stood between her and the door when Morozov came in, body angled just so, like a shield you weren’t even conscious of being. How you flinched, barely, when he praised you in front of the camera, his hand heavy on your shoulder.

How you never met your own reflection in the steel tray when you set tools down. The collar at your throat became an obsession for her. She watched the faint pulsing light under the fabric, the way your fingers brushed it sometimes when you thought she wasn’t looking, like a tongue prodding a sore tooth.

Once, late, when the room stank of bleach and the last of her screams had faded to ragged breathing, you stayed a little longer by the door.

“You’re quiet.” she managed, because filling the silence felt safer than the drift of her own thoughts.

“You’re tired.” you said, as if that answered anything.

Her head lolled against her raised arms. “You get paid by the scream or by the hour?”

You huffed something that almost sounded like a laugh and then flattened out. “By results.”

“Then you’re doing a shitty job.” she murmured.

Your eyes flicked to the camera. “Or a smart one,” she added. Your jaw worked and you opened your mouth like you might say something real.

Then Morozov’s footsteps echoed down the hall again. You shut down like someone flipped a switch. The door opened before you could move and he stepped in, immaculate as always, eyes sweeping the room.

“How is our guest?” he asked.

“Noncompliant.” you said, voice gone smooth and professional. “But patterns are emerging. She’s more responsive to certain topics. The Avengers. Old S.H.I.E.L.D. ops. We can use that.”

“And you?” He studied you, gaze lingering on the faint yellowed edges of old bruises. “Are you holding up?”

“I’m fine.” you said. He stepped closer and Natasha watched the muscles in your back tighten.

“You’ve been very devoted.” he murmured. “Despite…earlier doubts.”

His fingers brushed your collar where it hid under your tactical gear and Natasha saw your shoulders twitch. “Good girl.” he said, hand patting your cheek with casual ownership.

Natasha’s stomach turned and you didn’t look at her as he left. You didn’t look anywhere at all until the door shuddered closed. Then your shoulders slumped, just a fraction.

She was supposed to hate you. It would’ve been much simpler. Hydra agent..torturer, Enemy. She knew what to do with that. She’d spent a lifetime compartmentalizing feelings, putting people in boxes: target, asset, obstacle, ally. But you refused to stay in the box she put you in.

The third week changed something. You pushed too far and Natasha had been hanging for hours already, muscles trembling with each breath, vision edging dark. You came in late; she could tell by the way your eyes darted to the wall clock first thing, the tightness around your mouth.

“Problem?” she croaked.

“None of yours.” you said.

You went harder that day, less precision, more force. The baton’s current arced along the line of her spine, making her teeth clench against each jolt. You asked the same questions Morozov always wanted asked, but there was a frantic undercurrent this time, a desperation that wasn’t for information.

“Old S.H.I.E.L.D. sites.” you snapped. “The ones that went dark but didn’t collapse. Where did they move the servers?”

“Burned..” Natasha gasped. “You should know. You crawled out of one.”

You hit her again and she screamed, “Quinjet call signs.” you demanded. “Overwatch patterns. How many pilots cleared for stealth insertion?”

“You wanna fly one?” she rasped. “You have the legs for it.”

Your eyes flashed and you grabbed her jaw, fingers digging into already-tender skin, forcing her to meet your gaze. “Stop.” you hissed. “Stop making this harder.”

“For who?” she whispered.

For a moment, something like panic flashed across your face. You let go of her like she burned you, stumbling back a step. You turned, shoulders heaving, fingers digging into your own scalp.

“Fuck..” you breathed quietly. “Fuck.”

Natasha hung there, chest rising and falling, chains creaking with each tiny shift of weight. She watched your back.

“What happened?” she asked hoarsely.

“Nothing!” you snapped.

“Liar.”

You whirled, eyes blazing. “You’re calling me a liar?”

“Professional opinion..” she said. “You’re terrible at it.”

Your nostrils flared and you took one step toward her, then another, until you were right in front of her again, so close she could see the fine tremors in your hands.

“They moved them!” you spat.

Natasha’s breath stilled. “I don’t know where..” you went on, words coming too fast. “I just know they moved them. New facility, new protocols. Less…friendly.” The last word twisted in your mouth. “And Morozov made it very clear that the slower you are, the worse it gets for them.”

Ah. There it was. The clock.

Natasha closed her eyes for a second, letting the room sway around her. “You think hurting me faster will help?” she managed.

“I think not giving him results will get them killed..” you shot back.

“And you think he’ll keep his promise if you do?” she whispered. “You think Hydra lets anyone walk away happy?”

You laughed sharp and broken. “Of course not. But maybe they walk away alive. That’s more than I get.”

The honesty in that sentence hit her harder than the baton. You saw it land and immediately regretted saying it. Your mouth snapped shut and you turned away again, grabbing for a roll of bandages with more force than necessary.

“Your belief in self-sacrifice is very noble.” Natasha rasped. “Very…Captain America of you.”

“Don’t.” you said, voice low. “Don’t you dare compare me to any of you.”

“Why not?” she asked. “You’re willing to die for people you love. That’s basically our brand.”

You clenched your jaw, wrapping gauze around her arm with brisk, efficient movements. “You are not going to get into my head, Romanoff. I know what you do. Turning people, Isn’t that what they trained you for? Seduction, infiltration, psychological-”

“Says the one monologuing about their tragic backstory..” she interrupted softly.

You yanked the bandage tight and she hissed. “This isn’t a story.” you snapped. “This is math. Input: your pain. Output: Their chances. I can’t afford to care if you’re scared or if you’re lonely or if you think I’m redeemable. That’s not my job.”

“What is your job?” she asked. “To survive? Because you’re doing a terrible job of that too.”

“Weren’t you listening?” you said. “I’m not the one I’m trying to save.”

You taped the bandage, fingers pressing hard enough to sting. Then you stepped back, chest rising and falling, something wild flickering behind your eyes.

For the first time, Natasha saw past the cold.

Past the technique. Past the collar. Underneath it all, you were breaking and not in the way she was.

“Get some rest.” you said abruptly, voice snapping back to something like neutral. “You’ll need it.”

“Promise me something..” she blurted.

You stopped mid-turn, hand on the door.

“No.” you said immediately.

“Promise me.” she insisted, surprising herself with the urgency in her own voice, “that if this kills you, it wasn’t for nothing.”

“How could it not be..” you whispered, “when the only choice I ever get is who it hurts?”

You didn’t wait for her answer and walked out, the door slamming behind you. Natasha hung there, pulse pounding in her ears and realized something that made her stomach lurch.

She didn’t hate you. She should. God, she should. You’d carved screams out of her throat, painted the floor with her blood. Your hands were the ones that tightened the restraints, pressed the buttons, turned pain into data. But in the sick, warped ecosystem of that room, you had become the only constant. Morozov came and went like a storm. Guards rotated. The camera’s red light blinked, unblinking, but it was an eye, not a person.

You were always there and learned her rhythms. When to push, when her body would snap, when to stop just short of irreversible damage. You adjusted the chains so her shoulders wouldn’t dislocate, not because you cared, she told herself, but because a ruined shoulder was bad for interrogation subjects. But it meant you touched the shackles, the chains, her wrists. She learned your rhythms too. The way your footsteps sounded on days you’d been punished, the tilt of your voice when you were lying for the camera. The tiny pause before you picked up an instrument you hated using.

The room did something to time. There were only two states: when you were in it and when you weren’t. When you were, all of Natasha’s nerves lit up, whether from pain or anticipation. She was hyper-aware of you: the brush of your sleeve, the warmth of you standing close, the smell of sweat and cheap soap clinging to your skin. She watched your eyes more than the blade in your hand.

When you weren’t, the silence was a physical weight. The absence of your voice, your footfalls, your breathing made the room feel bigger and emptier at once. She caught herself once, counting seconds after the door closed. Counting how long until she might hear you again. The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.

Absolutely not, she told herself. No.

She’d spent most of her life being used, shaped into a weapon by people who needed her to love them or at least depend on them to make obedience easier. She knew about trauma bonds. About Stockholm Syndrome. About the human brain’s nasty habit of clinging to the hand that fed it, even when that hand was also tearing it apart.

She had scars that spelled out those lessons. She wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

The next time the door opened and it wasn’t you, her heart dropped. Two guards stepped in instead, faceless behind masks, guns slung. They adjusted her chains and one of them grabbed her jaw too hard, fingers bruising, breath sour in her face as he inspected the state she was in.

“He wants her conscious.” he grunted to the other. “Don’t break the toy.” A hand cracked across her cheek and she bit the inside of her mouth until iron flooded her tongue, swallowing the sound.

When you came in that evening, late again, you froze. There was a new bruise blooming along her face, a purple-red handprint.

Your gaze snapped to the camera, then back to her.

“Who?” you asked.

She smirked, bloody mouth twisting. “Jealous?”

“Who?” you repeated. She shrugged as much as the chains allowed. “One of your friends with the guns. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him my tragic backstory.”

You moved faster than she’d seen you move yet. Your hand came up, fingers brushing carefully along the edge of the bruise without touching the center. Your thumb hovered near her cheekbone, warm and callused.

He could’ve been watching, the camera might be eating every frame but you did it anyway.

His voice echoed faintly in her memory: He warned me about you.

“Did he hit you before or after he adjusted the chains?” you asked and Natasha blinked. “After.”

“Then he was just entertaining himself.”

You went very, very still. “If anyone lays an unapproved hand on you again.” you said quietly, “Tell me.”

Natasha stared at you. “So you can…what?” she asked. “File a complaint with HR?”

Your lips twitched without humor. “So I can remind him who you belong to.”

“Possessive.” she murmured.

“Practical.” you shot back. “You’re my responsibility. His rough fun could kill you in ways I can’t explain to Morozov. He kills my asset, he risks my family. I will not let some bored bastard gamble with that.”

Her pulse did something stupid in her throat. “You are very romantic about this.” she said, because humor was easier than acknowledging the weird heat curling in her chest.

You snorted and stepping back. “You’re delirious.” But later, when you tightened the straps around her wrists, you did it with enough care that the pressure eased on the rawest patches. The way you slipped the water bottle straw between her lips at the exact angle to minimize choking, even when you could’ve just dumped it. The way you always left the room more or less the same tools lined up, drains cleaned, like control over small details was all you had.

The way, when you thought she was fully out after a session, you stood at the door and looked back at her. Not triumphant or satisfied.

Haunted.

The moment she realized she was in trouble was quiet. No screaming, no threats. Just a statement, dropped into one of the rare lulls where pain faded enough for thought.

“You keep telling yourself I’m manipulating you.” she went on. “Maybe I am. I want you alive. I want out. Our goals…for now…they line up.”

You scoffed. “I don’t like watching people be punished for me.” she said. “Never did. That’s…old wiring. If I let myself care, it’s because I can’t not. It’s not a trick. It’s a flaw.”

That did something to you. Your eyes softened, then went sharp again, like you’d remembered who you were supposed to be.

“You’re very good with words.” you said.

“Occupational hazard.”

“You’re very good at making yourself sound small and broken so people let you closer.”

“That too.”

Then, very quietly, like you couldn’t believe you were saying it, you asked, “Why do you care? About me. You don’t even know my name.”

She could have lied, she could have said: I don’t. You’re a tool.

But she didn’t. “You’re the only person who comes through that door.” Natasha said simply. “And you’re breaking yourself to keep someone else breathing. That’s…familiar.”

A beat. “It’d be easier if you were just a monster..” she added. “I’ve got enough of those.”

You exhaled, long and shaky, That’s your problem.” you muttered. “You keep looking for something worth saving.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“In this place?” You glanced around the concrete, the chains, the camera. “It’s suicidal.”

She considered that, “Maybe.” she said. “But I’ve survived worse habits.”

You stared at her a second longer, then shook your head like you were trying to rattle something loose and left without another word.

You’re in trouble, she told herself.

Because somewhere in the lines between enemy and asset, fear and fury, something else had started to root. Not love..not yet. Love was big and bright and required too much future for this concrete box.

But attachment? That lived in smaller spaces. In the hitch of her breath when she heard your footsteps and knew it wasn’t Morozov. In the way her mind, fuzzy with sleep deprivation and pain, conjured the exact pitch of your voice to fill the silence. In the sick drop of her stomach when you were late and the wrong boots passed her door.

She cared if you were alive. She cared if you were hurt. She cared enough that when she caught herself imagining putting a bullet through Morozov’s head, she saw two images: freedom and your collar unlocking.

It was irrational and dangerous. Exactly the kind of vulnerability she’d spent her whole life avoiding. And still, in the sleepless stretch of the third week’s night, hanging from the ceiling with her hands bleeding and her body one giant bruise, Natasha admitted a quiet, terrifying truth:

If it came down to it, she wasn’t sure anymore if she wanted to escape this place without you.

That was the realistic horror of it. Not that she’d “fallen” easily. But that piece by piece pain by pain, mercy by mercy you had become, in this small, ugly world, the person she couldn’t stop watching.

And that was how it started..Weeks didn’t pass in days anymore. They passed in visits. One “morning” the light never changed, but the routine said morning, you walked in to find Natasha half-conscious, lips cracked, tongue slow in her mouth. The guards on the previous shift hadn’t bothered with hydration.

You grabbed the bottle from the trolley, popped the cap with your thumb and brought the straw to her mouth. You didn’t just jam it in and dump it; you touched her chin with your gloved fingers, tilting her head just enough.

“Hey. Romanoff.” Your voice was softer than usual. “You’re not dying on me from something this stupid. Drink.”

Her eyes fluttered, focusing on you with difficulty. For a second she didn’t see the room, or the chains, or the collar at your throat.

Just you.

She sucked at the straw, greedily, water hitting her throat like glass. You drew it back, letting her breathe, then offered more. She watched your eyes the whole time. No one had ever looked at her that intently while giving her something as basic as water. Her body filed it under relief. Her brain filed it under source of relief: you.

The first time she called you anything but “Agent” was an accident. You’d just finished cleaning a long, nasty cut on her thigh. Your hands were steady. Hers weren’t. Her muscles quivered under your touch.

“You know..” she croaked, “if you’re going to keep carving me up, I should at least know what to shout when I haunt you.”

You snorted despite yourself. “Cute.”

“So?” she pushed.

You hesitated because Morozov had told you: keep it professional, keep it distant. Names were hooks. Names meant you could be called, remembered, mourned.

“I’m not-”

“I’m giving you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to brand the Black Widow..” Natasha rasped. “Don’t waste it.”

You rolled your eyes, but something in your chest eased just enough to let the word out.

“Y/n.”

It sounded wrong in this room, too soft for concrete and blood. It sounded like sunlight and coffee and someone saying it because they wanted you, not because they needed a report. Natasha repeated it back to you, like committing it to memory.

Part 2

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Taglist 🏷️

If there was one thing Natasha Romanoff hated more than anything, it was being disoriented- which is exactly what she was when she woke up from that dream. No, memory. The warmth in her chest disappeared the moment the world caught up to her. It’s only been two days since she saw the footage of you in the suv, since the apartment ambush, since the explosion in her chest that meant you weren’t dead. Time felt like it didn’t move normally anymore- never with you. 

Natasha wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself as she walked through the compound and down to the med bay. She hated the room you were in, hated what it symbolized- testing, poking, prodding. The glass panel in the door was fogged with condensation from how cold it was inside, but Natasha didn’t think anything could ever stop her from recognizing the shape of your body. She was right. 

“You’re up early,” Sharon's voice came from behind. The widow straightened slightly, giving her a quick glance, “I could say the same to you.” Having Sharon Carter and Natasha Romanoff in the same room was like a wire waiting to snap.

“I never sleep much when I’m here, especially not now,” Sharon walked straight past her, tapping lightly on the tablet installed in the wall that was scanning your vitals. Thank you again, Stark Tech. 

 “How is she?” The question carried weight, more than either of them wanted to admit. 

Sharon paused a beat too long, “Functioning.” She moved to stand in front of the door with her arms crossed, cleverly trying to block her view of you. “Now’s not the time, though” her voice was quiet, but there was no mistake in the firmness. 

Natasha stepped forward anyway. 

“Move.” 

Carter's jaw clenched. “She’s probably exhausted, though her body won’t let her feel it.” There was an awkward pause as Natasha raised her brow as if to say is that really it?

“She’s not the same,” Sharon replies quietly.

“I know she’s not the same,” Natasha snaps before softening. “I mean—do you even know what they did to her?”

“I can’t imagine. She’s holding it together by a thread, you know. Somehow. But if you think she’s dangerous now?” Sharon finally meets Natasha’s eyes. “Imagine what happens when she snaps.” 

“I said move,” and something in the assasins voice makes Sharon falter, just slightly. Not even a demand. Not really. But something more dangerous and so, so personal. 

And there you were.

Sitting on the edge of the exam table, paper crinkled beneath you with tears in it from where you’ve been picking. Shoulders slightly hunched. Eyes staring through the wall in front of you, at something distant and invisible to everyone else. You looked… stripped. Pale. Drained. Hollow in a way Natasha Romanoff had never seen before. Your collarbones stuck out a lot more. She didn’t want to admit that it scared the shit out of her. 

Your wrists were wrapped in gauze, an iv still attached to a vein in your arm. There were faint bruises on the side of your neck from when you were restrained last night after waking up from a nightmare. 

Natasha stood there in the doorway for a second too long. Her heartbeat rang in her ears and her mouth ran dry. The redness of her bloodshot eyes brings out the green in her irises. Her body is tense like she hasn’t slept and her hair is messy but braided behind her. 

She used to know every inch of you. The tilt of your head when you were being sarcastic. The bite of your laughter when it bubbled up unexpectedly. The feeling of your hands gripping her waist. The way your hands moved when you were trying to explain something complicated. The crinkle of your nose when you were concentrating. 

But this? This wasn’t you. This wasn’t the girl she learned like the back of her hand. Or maybe it was—but it was the part of you that had been left behind. Dug out. Rewired.

And you don’t look away. Two animals seeing who will bite first. 

Natasha swallowed, her voice suddenly tight and caught in her throat, “Hey.”

You said nothing. Just staring at the IV in your arm. You rip it from you without so much as a whine, throwing it to the floor and watching blood trickle down your forearm. That crimson red has become a comforting color- if you could even feel comfort, if programming would allow. It didn’t. 

She walked a few paces closer.

“Y/N…”

Her training doesn’t allow the luxury of ignoring how much you’ve changed because God, have you. The spy in her notices every little detail. 

Your eyes blinked slowly, as if registering her voice from somewhere underwater. You didn’t move. You just looked at her—looked through her. Unreadable. Absent.

Sharon had said she’s functioning.

Natasha now understood what that meant.

Functioning didn’t mean living. It didn’t mean healing. It meant breathing, eating (barely), blinking on cue. It meant answering questions when asked like a soldier obeying orders. It meant moving on autopilot. 

And yet… when your e/c eyes finally landed on her fully, there was the smallest twitch at the corner of your mouth. Not a smile. Just muscle memory, maybe. Some faint flicker of recognition that hadn’t quite been drowned.

It shattered something inside her.

“I thought I’d never see you again. When I saw you at the apartment- did you remember me? You did, didn't you?” she whispered.

Silence.

Then— “I remember a redhead who let me rot in a cell.” Your voice is so detached it scares her. The angry static in your head buzzes louder when you try to look and recall what she once was. 

Your words cracked like thunder. 

The air left her lungs like she’d been shot. 

And still, you didn’t break. You just looked back down at your hands, like the answer was written in the lines of your palms. Blood is still dripping from where you tore the iv from yourself, warm and trickling slowly. The white tiles are so pretty when painted with crimson.

And then the door opens. Coulson walks in, followed by Fury, followed by Sharon. No Ross- smart choice. 

Romanoff stands beside you. You shift away immediately. 

Fury steps forward, calm and cold as always. “I know you want to walk away. But the thing in that folder Ross showed you? It’s real. And it’s happening fast. You’re the only one who’s survived exposure to A-07 and stayed human. Stayed alive.”

“You don’t know that,” you growl. “You don’t know what I am anymore. I don’t even know that. ”

Fury didn’t look up from the tablet in his hand.

“This,” he said, “could be the only way to get your life back. To get you back.”

You finally met his eyes.

“You help us. With this—” he nodded vaguely toward the security feed in the corner, where a still shot of a HYDRA base was captured—“and I give you something in return.”

You didn’t blink.

“We scrubbed Barnes. It took a while, but it worked. Wakanda had their methods, I’ve got a direct channel. It doesn’t erase what they did, and it sure as hell doesn’t take away the memories that live in your head- but we can do the same for you. Wipe the trigger words. Shut off whatever switch Hydra put in your head. You’ll be yours again. No more freezing mid-battle, no more blackouts, no more asset Nightshade.”

Natasha inhaled quietly. Your body stilled at the name. Sharon’s fingers twitched at her sleeve. 

“But this doesn’t come for free.”

Your voice was raw, “Never does. What is it exactly you want from me?”

For the first time in what felt like forever, although you couldn’t remember it, he looked you straight in the eye. No bullshit. 

“I want you in the field.”

“She’s not ready, Nick. You know that.” 

Fury ignored Sharon. “I want you with us. Right now, you’re the sharpest weapon I’ve seen in years.”

You shifted. “So I’m an asset again, a weapon? Not a person? Great. Ready to comply.”

“No, you’re the person. The only one who can see this through without becoming exactly what they made you into. You’d be your own weapon. That’s different.”

There it was. The hook. The key. The trade wasn't just about service, but about freedom—about control over your own mind. About waking up without wondering who might’ve used your hands while you were unconscious.

Natasha looked at you from across the room. Her expression was unreadable, but you had become trained in reading people now and you saw all her tells- the slight tremor in her hands, the way her breathing had shallowed, the tight rise and fall of her chest. 

“You don’t have to give him an answer,” she said softly.

But you already knew your answer.

“After this, I’m done. No more Avengers, no more SHIELD. You’re never seeing me again.”