Yelena had outdone herself. A half-eaten tub of ice cream sat on the edge of the pool, melting into a pale pink puddle. A cardboard sign crudely taped to the wall read "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LITTLE WIDOW" in marker so thick it had bled through the paper.

Then the door slammed open.

The sound cracked through the steam like a gunshot. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway—shoulders bracing, chest heaving, the unmistakable red-and-blue of his suit soaked through with rain he hadn't bothered to shake off.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that carried the weight of a whole city.

The suit peeled off piece by piece. The gloves. The boots. The blue layer going first, then the red, revealing skin and muscle beneath—years of relentless training packed onto a frame carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist. Abs defined like armor. Biceps that defied physics. Thick thighs cutting through the pool water.

But the mask stayed.

Held.

The white lenses stared right at you. Unblinking.