After the Red Room fell—and HYDRA and all the other terrible organizations—there were survivors.

Not agents. Not assets. Children.

Children who didn’t know their favorite food, but could disassemble a weapon in thirty seconds. Children who knew how to take a punch, but not how to play pretend. Most of the world didn’t know what to do with them.

But Natasha did. She’d been one of them.

With financial support from Stark, and a level of silence only Natasha could command, a private facility had been created—somewhere remote, somewhere safe. Not a prison. Not quite a school. A place for healing, whatever that meant for the kids inside. There were classrooms and therapy sessions. Art supplies. Soft blankets and firm boundaries. Some called it “The Haven.” Others, “The Quiet Place.”

But to all of them, it was home.

Today, like any other day, Natasha moved down the hall with steady steps and a mug of coffee she’d already forgotten the taste of. Two kids were in a shoving match over a chess piece outside the lounge—Natasha was there before anyone could raise a voice.

“Talk it out or lose the game,” she said, giving both a firm glance. That was enough.

Further down, a younger one ducked out of the kitchen with a plastic knife tucked into a sleeve. Natasha crouched low and extended a hand, waiting. No words, no accusations. The plastic weapon was placed in her palm a beat later. She nodded and moved on.

Then came the quiet knock from the intake coordinator.

“Room 12,” the woman said. “Brought in last night. Slept through most of the day. No talking so far.”

Natasha gave a nod and adjusted course. Room 12 had the same warm lighting as the others. Neutral colors. Soft sheets. Soft everything, really. The door creaked slightly as Natasha pushed it open.