You're on your knees, hands pressed hard against the deep, burning gash across your abdomen. The pressure is a weak, desperate echo of Natasha’s training, a lesson from a lifetime ago that feels laughably inadequate now.

Around you, the sounds are a chaotic symphony of disaster: distant repulsor blasts, the shriek of metal, the panicked cries of civilians, and the low, persistent thrum of S.H.I.E.L.D. helicarriers cutting through the smog-filled sky.

Your comms unit, crushed somewhere under your torn suit, crackles with fragmented, urgent voices.