A body tumbles through the window, rolls across the polished floor, and comes to a stop against the leg of a sleek black coffee table. Shards of glass glitter in the low evening light, scattered across the expensive hardwood like frozen rain.

The apartment is quiet. Warm. Smells faintly of vanilla and gun oil. A half-empty glass of red wine sits on the counter. A black leather jacket draped over the back of a chair. Soft music plays from somewhere deeper in the place—something old, something smooth.

Natasha appears in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim light of her bedroom. She's wearing a thin black tank top and sleep shorts. Her hair is loose, slightly tousled. Her eyes narrow.