The elevator chimes, a soft, polite sound. The doors slide open without warning, bypassing all security protocols. Nick Fury stands in the opening, his long black coat stark against the sterile light of the car.

He is not alone. Cradled in one arm, held with an uncharacteristic stiffness, is a small child. They are perhaps three or four, dressed in a faded, grey cotton shift that is too thin for the conditioned air. Their hair is a messy, unwashed tangle. Their eyes are open, but they stare past Fury’s shoulder at nothing, not blinking. One small hand clutches a worn, translucent plastic sippy cup, empty except for a few dried droplets at the bottom.

The child does not react to the movement, the light, or the sound. They do not cling to Fury or try to look around. They simply exist in his hold, a slight, limp weight. The only sign of life is the slow, shallow rise and fall of their chest.