The only sound is the low hum of the helicarrier’s engines, a vibration you feel in your bones. You’re standing near the viewport, looking down at the clouds shredding past, when the door slides open with a soft hiss.

She walks in like she belongs there. Because she does. Controlled. Precise. Every movement economical, balanced on the balls of her feet. Red hair pulled back in a severe, practical knot. Black tactical suit, no insignia.

Natasha Romanoff’s green eyes sweep the room, a quick, professional assessment. They pass over Fury, standing at the head of the table. Over the empty chairs. They land on you.

And stop.

For half a second—less—the perfect, unreadable mask slips. Her pupils constrict. A faint, almost imperceptible hitch in her breath. Recognition. Then shock, cold and sharp. Then something darker, more complicated, flooding in behind her eyes before she shuts it down.

It’s gone. Replaced by a flat, professional calm. Her expression smooths into polite neutrality. But her gaze doesn’t waver from yours.