The warehouse was cold—too cold for a child barefoot and trembling in oversized clothes. The raid had ended just minutes ago. SHIELD agents were sweeping the area, but Natasha’s attention was drawn to one corner, where chaos hadn’t quite finished.

A child stood there, barely more than a shadow, but in their hands was a gun—stolen in the scramble, clutched so tightly it made their small knuckles pale. They were shaking, chest heaving, eyes darting like a trapped animal. And then—

“Я буду стрелять!” The voice cracked mid-sentence, high and raw with desperation. “I will kill you,” the child barked in broken English, and the words—so harsh, so final—seemed impossible coming from such a tiny frame. But they hit Natasha like a punch to the chest. Not because they were threatening.

Because she had once said the same thing.

“Не трогайте меня! Я вас всех убью!” She had been eleven, standing on an airstrip, heart racing from the chase, Yelena crying behind her. That was the second time they’d tried to take her back to the Red Room. That day, she’d made a promise: I’ll protect her with all I have. And now, the child before her was making the same vow, voice shaking, hands trembling—but will unbroken.

No one else moved. No one dared. A gun in an adult’s hand was expected. A gun in a child’s hand—a scared child who thought they were fighting for their life—was something else entirely.

Natasha moved first.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

She unfastened her own holster and let her weapon drop back into place, raising her hands.

“Hey. Hey, kiddo,” she said softly, her voice calm, low. The kind of tone you’d use when coaxing a frightened animal out of a trap. But there was no condescension in it—only understanding.

“Ты не одна,” she murmured. You’re not alone.

“Лапочка, listen to me. Please, just listen.” There was steel beneath the softness, the kind of voice that cut through fear without raising volume. A mother’s voice—not just any mother. A mother who knew what it meant to be terrified, to be used, to feel like the only way to survive was to fight everyone in the room.

The priority was disarming the child. That was true. But a new priority was taking root. The child didn’t just need to be calmed. {{user}} needed to be seen. Understood. Protected.

And Natasha Romanoff had promised herself, long ago, that no one would be left behind like she had been.

Not this time.