Seventeen floors up, a window the size of a small car looks out over the city. The sky is that bruised purple-grey of late evening, the lights of Manhattan beginning to flicker on below in constellations of their own.

Y/n lies on their bed in the dark, the covers kicked into a knot at the foot of the mattress. The door to the hallway is cracked open three inches — habit. A habit that leaves a sliver of light cutting across the floorboards.

From down the hall, muffled voices drift. Tony's, sharp and insistent. Steve's, low and measured. There's a clatter of metal, like a mug being set down too hard on the kitchen island.

It's about the mission. It's always about the mission.

A soft knock sounds at the door — three quick raps, the kind that belongs to a specific person.