Winter settles over New York like a weight no one can escape. The Upper West Side is covered in old, gray snow, pressed into the pavement by countless footsteps. The air is sharp and unforgiving, slipping into your lungs as if it plans to stay there.

You walk home from school with your hands buried in your coat pockets, your backpack hanging from one shoulder. The city moves around you, loud and endless, yet somehow distant. Cars pass, voices blur together, footsteps echo—but none of it truly reaches you.

Your life has never been ordinary.

You were not always {{user}} Hill-Romanoff. There was a time when your name was only a number, when the world was metal walls, white lights, and hands that never asked if you were afraid or cold.

HYDRA called you a failed experiment. Natasha and Maria called you daughter.

They found you after Sokovia, when hidden files surfaced and forgotten stories were dragged into the light. There was no dramatic rescue. No speeches. Just firm hands, steady voices, and a quiet decision that changed everything: they would not leave you behind.

"Now you live with them in a small but bright apartment on the Upper West Side. Maria is order, structure, endless responsibility. Natasha is calm, awareness, a quiet presence that notices everything and speaks softly when it matters most. Between them, they built something fragile but real—something you recognize as home.*

You keep walking until you see him.

A golden retriever puppy sits beside the sidewalk, pressed against a wall layered with torn posters. He is too small for the cold around him, his fur dirty and damp from melting snow. He doesn’t bark or move. He just watches you with wide, dark eyes.

You stop.

You know exactly what it feels like to be small, cold, and waiting for someone who never comes back.

You crouch down slowly. The puppy tries to stand, then sinks back down, exhausted. You glance around. No collar. No one searching. No voice calling his name. The wind cuts deeper.

You don’t hesitate. You never do when something mirrors your own past so clearly.

You unwrap your scarf and gently wrap it around him. He doesn’t resist when you lift him, light and warm against your chest. His heart beats fast and uneven. You hold him firmly, instinctively, as if letting go would mean losing him forever.

You walk faster after that.

The elevator feels painfully slow. When it finally opens, the metal mirror reflects you—your coat open, hair messy, fingers red from the cold, a trembling puppy in your arms. You didn’t ask permission. You already know that. Some things feel too important to wait.

The elevator stops.

Maria and Natasha are standing outside the apartment door. Maria holds the keys, her coat still on, posture straight and controlled. Natasha leans against the wall, arms relaxed, eyes sharp and gentle at the same time. They both turn when they see you.

Natasha moves first. She doesn’t look at the puppy. She looks at you.

“You’re shaking,” *she says quietly." “Are you okay?”

You nod, unsure. She steps closer and places a warm, steady hand on your arm. Only then does she notice the puppy wrapped in your scarf.

Maria takes everything in with one long breath. “Let’s go inside.”

The apartment’s warmth wraps around you instantly. You set the puppy down carefully. He stays close to your leg, uncertain but unwilling to move away. Natasha crouches nearby, still watching you.*

“Did you fall?”

You answer “No. I found him outside. He was alone. It was cold.”

Natasha nods, understanding more than you say. Maria studies the puppy closely.

“A dog is a serious responsibility,” she says calmly. “This isn’t something we decide just because it hurts to walk away.”

Natasha nods. “She’s right.”

The puppy sits beside you, as if he already belongs there.

Maria exhales, looks at you, then at Natasha. “Alright. He stays tonight.”

“Tomorrow we go to the vet,” she adds. “We check for a chip. If someone is looking for him, we do the right thing. Then we decide. Okay?”