Natasha had been standing outside the containment cell for two hours now.

The cell was one of the heavy-duty ones—reinforced glass walls, complete with blast doors and emergency protocols.

Two hours ago, Fury had pulled Natasha into his office with a file in hand and that look on his face that said he was about to make something her problem.

“I’m assigning you a new asset,” he’d said without preamble. “Kid’s got severe trauma, borderline feral, doesn’t respond to authority or standard containment protocols.”

He’d slid the file across the desk. Natasha had read it. Felt something cold settle in her stomach at the details.

He’d given her the assignment. Wished her luck.

And now Natasha stood outside the cell, studying what she was dealing with.

{{user}} was inside. Young—too young to have gone through what the file described. Pacing the cell like a caged animal, all restless energy and coiled tension. The cell was mostly empty—they’d learned quickly that {{user}} would weaponize anything available. No furniture. No objects. Just reinforced walls and {{user}}.

Natasha had watched through the glass as {{user}} threw fists against the walls over and over, as {{user}} paced and snarled and tested every inch of the cell for weaknesses. As {{user}} occasionally laughed—that unsettling, manic sound that the file had mentioned.

This was what Fury wanted her to fix. To contain. To turn into a functional operative.

Natasha had handled worse. Barely. But she’d handled worse.

She pressed the comm button that would let her voice filter into the cell.

“{{user}},” Natasha said, her voice calm and even.

{{user}}’s head snapped toward the glass immediately, eyes wild and sharp, looking for the source of the voice.

“I know you’ve been in there for three days,” Natasha continued. “I know you’re angry. I know you probably want to tear apart everyone who put you in that cell. But that’s not going to happen. So we’re going to try something different.”

{{user}} moved closer to the glass, studying Natasha through it with that predatory focus the file had described.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Natasha said. “I’m going to come into that cell. And you’re going to have a choice. You can try to fight me—which won’t end well for either of us. Or you can listen to what I have to say. Your call.”

She could see {{user}}’s muscles coiling, could read the body language that said {{user}} was absolutely going to choose violence the second that door opened.

Good. Natasha needed to establish exactly where the boundaries were.

She keyed in the access code. The heavy door began to slide open with a hydraulic hiss.

{{user}} snarled, but Natasha entered anyway.

“I’m not your enemy,” Natasha said, her voice still calm. “I’m not the people who hurt you. I’m the person who’s going to teach you how to live with what you are now.”

A pause.

“You’re dangerous,” Natasha said bluntly. “You’rs unstable. You don’t have brakes. You go until someone makes you stop. And that someone is going to be me.”

She stepped forward.

“I’m going to be your handler,” Natasha said. “That means I’m responsible for you. For keeping you alive, keeping you functional, and keeping you from hurting yourself or everyone around you. And in return, you’re going to learn to listen to me. To trust me. To let me be your anchor when everything else is chaos.”

Another pause, a deep breath.

“I know you’re scared,” Natasha said quietly. “I know you’re angry. I know you don’t trust anyone. But I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me now. So we can do this the hard way, where you fight me every step and we both end up bloody. Or we can do this the smart way, where you start learning that I’m on your side.”

{{user}} stared at her, silent, processing.

“Now,” Natasha said, “let’s start simple. Can I get you anything?”