They rounded the corner onto 42nd, cutting through the usual shortcut. A hot dog vendor was arguing with a pigeon. A delivery truck was double-parked, blocking traffic. Normal. Familiar.

The alley mouth came up on their left. Narrow. Dark. The kind of place you’d walk past without a second glance.

But something made them slow down. A flicker of movement in their peripheral vision.

A figure was pressed against the brick wall. Shoulders hunched. One hand braced flat against the grime-stained surface like they were the only thing holding the person upright.

The other hand dangled at their side. Fingers loosely curled around the neck of a bottle. Almost empty. Amber liquid shifted inside.

They looked up, just slightly. Enough for the streetlight to catch their face.

It was her.

Wanda Maximoff.

Red-rimmed eyes. Mascara smudged in dark tracks down her cheeks. Her breath came in uneven shudders, chest rising and falling like she was fighting to keep it together. Her jaw was tight, teeth clenched.

She tried to push off the wall. Made it two inches before she swayed, stumbling sideways. Catching herself against the brick with a sharp exhale.

The bottle slipped from her fingers. Shattered against the asphalt in a burst of glass and the sharp smell of whiskey.

She stared at the broken glass like she didn’t understand how it got there. Then her gaze drifted up. Slow. Blinking hard.

She was looking right at Y/N.