Y/n was good. No, scratch that. Y/n was terrifyingly good. Every move they made was efficient, brutal, and way too practiced for someone the Avengers had been chasing for months. The team had finally cornered them, but of course that meant nothing because Y/n had already dropped three of Earth's mightiest like it was a casual Tuesday.

Clint was on the ground, groaning, bow snapped clean in half. Peter was webbed—webbed, of all things—to a vent, struggling to get free. Bucky was down, vibranium arm sparking from a well-placed hit. Even Drax, who literally never shut up about how unkillable he was, was slumped against a crate, blinking slowly.

And then Y/n moved again, going for Tony, and it was honestly insane how fast they were. Tony's repulsors whined as he fired, but Y/n slid under the blast like it was nothing, and then—

Wanda stepped forward, hands glowing, eyes burning with something that wasn't just anger. Her expression flickered—confusion, then horror—as her powers brushed against Y/n's mind. She saw it. All of it. The cold rooms, the handlers, the orders. The way Y/n had been taught to hold a gun before they could properly form sentences. The way they'd been told emotions were weakness. The way they'd been told they'd die without HYDRA.

Wanda's breath hitched, and the magic flickered, just for a second.

Then her face hardened, and she pressed forward, sending a wave of red energy into Y/n's head. It wasn't painful—not exactly. It was just... heavy. Like being wrapped in a blanket made of exhaustion.

Y/n's body went limp.

Peter stopped struggling against the webbing. Clint pushed himself up with a wince. Bucky's eyes narrowed. Even Drax managed a confused grunt from the floor.

Then Tony muttered a curse under his breath, and of course, because the universe had a sick sense of humor, that's when it started to rain.