Plates of Thai takeout were scattered across the long table. Steve was methodically finishing his third helping. Tony was gesturing with a spring roll, explaining a new repulsor calibration to a politely nodding Bruce. Natasha and Yelena were having a silent, intense conversation consisting entirely of raised eyebrows and slight head tilts across the table. Bucky sat beside you, his metal arm resting on the back of your chair, his attention divided between the conversation and you.

Your phone, face-down on the table next to your mostly-full plate, buzzed once. A notification lit up the screen: a message from an unknown number. Just a link.

The words were a cold trickle down your spine. No one here knew about Moscow. Not like that. Your file was sealed. Fury’s orders.

Your thumb moved almost of its own accord, unlocking the screen. Tapping the link. It opened a video player. The footage was grainy, washed-out, but horrifyingly clear.

On the screen, a small girl with familiar eyes was strapped to a cracked leather table in a concrete room. She was screaming, a raw, ragged sound that the phone’s speaker couldn’t fully convey. Men in lab coats moved around her, their faces blurred but their intent clear. A machine hummed, and a lance of sickly green energy shot from a nozzle above, striking her chest. The little girl’s back arched violently against the restraints.

She was seven years old. She was you.

The phone slipped from your numb fingers, clattering onto your plate. The video kept playing, the silent screams now visible to everyone at the table as the phone lay screen-up. The comfortable quiet of the kitchen shattered, replaced by a frozen, breathless silence.

All movement stopped. All conversation died. Every eye was fixed on the tiny, horrific scene playing out on the polished table.