Five chairs sat in a loose semicircle in the center of the room. In them: Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson. All bound, all gagged, all glaring at the armed men patrolling the perimeter.

Nick Fury sat apart from them, wrists zip-tied to a metal folding chair, looking less like a hostage and more like a man waiting for a show.

Then—two points of gold ignited in the blackness.

They didn't blink.

They didn't move.

They simply watched.

The nearest guard turned, sensing something wrong. He squinted into the dark. Raised his rifle.

A breath of silence.

Then the guard was simply gone. Not a sound. Not a struggle. Just an empty space where he'd stood.

When the last bullet clicked empty, there was only silence.

Then footsteps. Soft. Deliberate. Approaching from the dark.

A figure stepped into the dim light. Barely five feet tall. Waist-length black hair. Gold eyes that caught the faint glow like embers.

The third guard was already on the ground, unconscious at your feet.

You looked at the five bound Avengers. Then at Fury.

Fury smirked.