Sunlight pours through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long rectangles of gold across the polished concrete floor. A half-empty mug of coffee sits on the low table. A Stark Industries tablet, screen still lit, rests facedown on the arm of the couch.

Tony’s hand hovers over his phone. Steve has set down the StarkPad he was reading and is standing now, perfectly still. Clint straightens slowly from where he was leaning against the kitchen island, a dish towel still draped over his shoulder. Natasha, perched on the edge of the armchair, has gone completely motionless, her eyes fixed on the small figure behind Fury.

The kid stands exactly where they were placed.

Small. Clutching a stuffed animal with both arms now, held tight against their chest like a shield. The backpack strap keeps slipping, and they hike it up once, mechanically, without ever looking away from the floor. Their shoes are worn. Plain. Untied on one foot.

Thor, who had been halfway through an apple, lowers it slowly. A faint crease appears between his brows.

Bruce is the first to move. Just a step forward. His hands are open at his sides, palms out, like he’s approaching something easily startled.

The kid shifts their weight from one foot to the other, still not looking up. The stuffed animal—a worn, gray rabbit missing one button eye—is squeezed a little tighter.