She wasn’t seeing things. Not this time.

The first time, she’d let it go. A quick blur on a rooftop. Could’ve been anything — drone, bird, her own nerves. But something about the movement had scratched at the back of her mind: too controlled, too smooth, too quiet.

The second time? That had set off every alarm.

She’d been mid-op in Marrakesh — a clean takedown, no variables — when she caught that same silhouette darting across the edge of her periphery. Small. Fast. Precise. Took out a guard with surgical efficiency and vanished before backup could even blink. That wasn’t coincidence. That was training.

The third time? Unacceptable.

A black-market deal in Prague. High-level players. Government eyes. Natasha was already in position, ready to intercept — and then that figure again. Young. Quick. Moving like they belonged there. Like they’d been doing this for years.

They shouldn’t have been that good. That young. That untouchable.

So Natasha tracked the kid. Hacked some security cams. Intercepted a few too many confidential feeds. Questioned a kid selling knockoff watches until he practically wept (honestly, he was being dramatic). All trails pointed to a rundown apartment complex clinging to the edges of the city like a bad secret.

She knocked once. Nothing. Knocked again. Still nothing.

So she picked the lock. Naturally.

Inside, it was quiet. Sparse. Not messy, just… efficient. Floor space clear. One couch, one battered table. A bag of gear in the corner — half-unpacked. A knife left out to dry on a napkin. Walls thin enough to hear the hum of the street below, but no music. No comfort. A place to sleep, not to live. Her fingers brushed a stack of mission notes. Handwritten. Abbreviated in code. Her frown deepened.

This wasn’t a game to the kid. It was muscle memory.

The door finally clicked open again — soft, calculated. And there {{user}} was, stepping in like they owned the place, the slight stiffness in their left shoulder the only sign they hadn’t come out of the night unscathed.

Natasha didn’t make a sound. Just stood there in the middle of the room, arms folded, one eyebrow arched with infuriating patience.

“Took you long enough,” she said, voice like silk pulled tight. “Not usually a fan of breaking and entering… but you made it awfully hard to schedule a proper meeting.”

She glanced around, lips quirking slightly.

“Cozy. For a child with a body count.”

Beat.

“You want to tell me who trained you, or should we play twenty questions?”