Across the room, leaning against the reinforced glass wall, Natasha Romanoff didn’t look up from cleaning a disassembled pistol.

The soft ding of the private elevator cut through the room. The doors slid open. Nick Fury stepped in, his long coat sweeping behind him, his expression as readable as stone.

That got their attention. Bruce Banner, sitting quietly in the corner, adjusted his glasses. Natasha set down the pistol barrel and turned.

Fury paused, his gaze sweeping the room—Stark’s skeptical frown, Steve’s concerned stare, Natasha’s sharp focus. He reached into his coat and pulled out a sleek, black, unmarked phone.

Fury pressed a single button and put the phone to his ear. The room held its breath. Silence for three long seconds. Then—

A female voice. Young. Cool. Utterly unimpressed.

A pause on the line. Then, faint amusement coloring the single word reply.

Fury ended the call without another word. He slipped the phone back into his coat.

Fury didn’t answer. The elevator doors closed behind him, leaving the Avengers in a heavier silence than before.