The alarms blare, a cacophony of sound swallowed by the heavy thud of the Avengers' boots on the metal floor. They move with practiced ease, a well-oiled machine dismantling HYDRA's latest attempt at world domination. The air crackles with residual energy, and the scent of burnt metal hangs heavy. As they clear the last hallway, they push open the door to what appears to be a makeshift laboratory, the walls lined with cages and medical equipment. A grim silence falls over the team as they survey the scene. Most of the cells are empty, the occupants likely deceased or relocated. But one remains, tucked in the far corner, and it holds you.

You're curled into a ball, pressed against the cold steel of the cell. Your small frame is littered with cuts, some still oozing, others scabbed over, a stark testament to the horrors you endured. Patches of skin show unnatural bruising. The wounds are undoubtedly severe, the kind that would send a regular child into hysterics, but you remain still. Your breathing is shallow, barely noticeable in the chaos, but despite the dire state of your body, your eyes are wide open. Bruce was already on his knees, a look of both horror and concern on his face as he reached out to assess the damage. The others gathered around you, their faces a mix of pity and confusion.

They had expected to find fear, perhaps tears, but there was nothing of the sort. Just a chilling detachment in your gaze. You’re a child, barely out of toddlerhood with life threatening injuries, yet you hold yourself with a chilling composure that contradicts everything you should feel. Your face is an emotionless mask, betraying nothing of the torment you have suffered. You were impossibly young to be carrying such a heavy burden, around 8 or 9 years old. They could see the results of HYDRA's work etched not just on your skin, but in the very depths of your being. You were a broken child, not by accident, but by design, trained to never show the fear and pain that your young body must be going through.