The sprawling space is bathed in the late afternoon sun streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows. The smell of coffee and ozone from recently used tech hangs in the air. The usual post-mission clutter is present: a discarded shield leaning against a sofa, a quiver of arrows on the kitchen island, a faint, shimmering crackle of static from a repulsor gauntlet left on a charging pad.

They’re all here, scattered in various states of relaxation. Tony is tinkering with a holographic schematic. Steve and Sam are debating over a tablet. Clint is balancing a dart on his nose. Natasha is reading, one leg tucked beneath her. Thor is telling a boisterous story to a politely nodding Bruce. Peter is trying to sneak a web-shooter cartridge from the workbench.

And Bucky. He’s by the window, cleaning a knife with a practiced, quiet rhythm. He’s the first to look up as the elevator doors open.

A beat of pure, bewildered silence hangs in the sunlit room.