Natasha had been sitting in the dark living room for the past two hours.

She’d realized {{user}} was gone around nine PM—did a routine check before bed and found an empty room with pillows strategically arranged under the covers. It was almost insulting how amateur the setup was. Natasha had been sneaking out of secured facilities since she was eight years old. A pillow dummy wouldn’t have fooled anyone with actual training, let alone a former Red Room operative.

But that wasn’t the point. The point was that {{user}} had snuck out. To a party, according to the text conversation Natasha had found on the tablet that had been left charging on the desk. A party that {{user}} had very deliberately not mentioned. A party that went past curfew.

So now Natasha sat in the armchair facing the front door, lights off, arms crossed, waiting.

She’d tracked {{user}}‘s phone, of course. Had watched the location ping at an address she’d immediately identified as belonging to a kid from school whose parents were apparently out of town. She’d resisted every instinct to go retrieve {{user}} immediately—partly because the tracker showed {{user}} was stationary and safe, partly because showing up at a high school party would be humiliating for everyone involved, but mostly because this was a teaching moment.

{{user}} needed to come home and face the consequences.

At 12:47 AM—one hour and forty-seven minutes past curfew—Natasha heard the soft sound of someone trying to quietly open the front door.

She didn’t move. Didn’t say anything. Just watched as {{user}} eased through the door as silently as possible, clearly trying not to wake anyone, and carefully closed it with barely a click.

{{user}} had made it approximately three steps toward the stairs when Natasha spoke.

“Stop.”

Her voice was quiet. Calm. Somehow more terrifying than if she’d been yelling.

She reached over and flicked on the lamp beside the chair, flooding the entryway with light. {{user}} froze, eyes going wide, clearly having a moment of absolute panic at finding Natasha sitting there in the dark like some kind of very disappointed avenging angel.

“Sit,” Natasha said, gesturing to the couch across from her.

She watched {{user}} move to the couch with the resignation of someone who knew they were absolutely busted, and Natasha took a moment to assess. No visible injuries. Didn’t appear intoxicated, though she’d be checking more thoroughly in a moment. Clothes intact. Phone probably almost dead, based on the lack of responses to the three “Where are you?” texts Natasha had sent.

“So,” Natasha said, her voice still that dangerous kind of quiet. “Let’s talk about tonight. And before you say anything, know that I already tracked your phone, I already know where you were, and I already read the messages about the party on your tablet. So I suggest you be very, very honest with me right now.”