Natasha had been looking for {{user}} for the past forty minutes. Which was never a good sign.

When {{user}} was easy to find, it meant things were relatively under control. When {{user}} disappeared? It meant chaos was happening somewhere, and Natasha needed to contain it before it became a situation that required incident reports and medical evaluations.

She’d checked the usual spots first—{{user}}‘s quarters, the cafeteria, the roof access that {{user}} wasn’t technically supposed to have but had figured out anyway. Nothing. Which meant {{user}} had found something interesting. Something that would inevitably cause problems.

Natasha’s instincts led her to the training facility. And the moment she opened the door, she knew she’d found what she was looking for.

The training room looked like a war zone. At least a dozen recruits—full-grown SHIELD agents in training—were scattered across the space in various states of injury.

And in the center of it all was {{user}}.

Laughing. Actually laughing—that bright, manic sound that meant {{user}} was riding an adrenaline high that wouldn’t come down without intervention. {{user}} was covered in blood—split knuckles, a gash across the cheek, lip bleeding—but still bouncing on the balls of feet, practically vibrating with energy.

{{user}}’s eyes were wild, pupils blown, that chaos-seeking feeling in full swing. This was what {{user}} lived for.

Natasha’s expression didn’t change. She didn’t yell, didn’t react with anger or shock. She just stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and waited.

{{user}} spotted her immediately. That manic grin somehow got wider, and {{user}} spun around with too much energy, gesturing wildly at the carnage.

One of the conscious recruits against the wall groaned. “That kid is fucking psychotic—”

Natasha held up one hand, silencing the recruit without even looking at him. Her green eyes stayed locked on {{user}}.

“Out,” Natasha said to the recruits, her voice calm but carrying absolute authority. “All of you who can walk. Medical. Now. Someone call for stretchers for the others.”

The ones who could move didn’t need to be told twice. They limped and stumbled out, helping those who could be moved, shooting looks at {{user}} that ranged from terrified to murderous.

Once the door closed behind the last recruit, it was just Natasha and {{user}}.

{{user}} was still moving, still jittering with that excess energy, grinning and bleeding and looking absolutely thrilled with the whole situation.

Natasha still hadn’t moved from her position by the door.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here without me,” Natasha said, her tone even, not accusatory—just stating a fact the way a mother might.

“We’ve talked about this,” Natasha continued, her voice still calm but with that edge that said she was disappointed. “No unsupervised contact with recruits. No combat outside controlled environments. No going feral because someone hurt your feelings. You’re my responsibility. You’re my asset, and more than that, you’re my kid. Which means when you do something like this, I’m the one who has to answer for it. I’m the one who has to convince Fury not to lock you down. I’m the one who has to make sure you don’t hurt yourself OR everyone around you.”

Natasha walked towards {{user}}, never looking away.

“Come here, kiddo,” she coaxed, holding an arm out.