Outside Moscow, snow fell in sheets against the iron-grey sky, blanketing the forest where the training facility sat—a brutalist monument to pain and precision.
You sat alone in the narrow bunkroom, the last of the evening's light bleeding through the frosted window.
Across your lap lay a folder. Black. Unmarked. Inside, a single photograph stared back at you.
Two women. Young. Laughing. One with blonde hair braided tight. The other with red hair falling loose over her shoulders.
Your sisters.
???
They're with the Avengers now. Happy. Free.
The voice came from the doorway. A handler you'd never bothered to learn the name of. They always blurred together.
???
It's a shame, really. They never once asked about you.
