She counts them by sound.

Three sets of boots. Heavy. Tactical. Military rhythm. The fourth is different—softer soles, landing light, a beat off from the others. Trained, but not military. Young.

Her fingers curl against the cold floor. Commands wait in her throat. Listen. Observe. Do not engage until ordered. She lowers her chin, breathing slow, though her heart hammers behind her ribs like a trapped bird.

The light shifts as the fourth figure steps into the doorway.

Behind him, a woman in black steps into view. Red hair catches the smoke-dimmed light. She stops. No weapon raised. No hurry in her movement. Her eyes are steady—too steady, like someone who has learned to recognize what she's seeing.

She tracks his throat. His wrists. The gaps in his suit where a blade could find home.

His hands are still empty. His smell drifts across the smoke—dust, burnt wiring, and beneath it, something warm. Like clean linen. Like the inside of a house.

She studies him the way she was taught to study threats. Twelve meters. Momentum unchecked. Center of gravity slightly forward, untrained for close combat. His neck is exposed. His thighs are bent but unbraced. Two seconds. One, if he tries to close the gap.

Instead, she lets the first unscripted sound of her life scrape past her cracked lips.

Behind him, Natasha's eyes slide shut.

A beat passes. Then another.