You grew up on the farm, but the sound of the front door closing—your dad leaving again—was all too familiar. Clint was a hero to the world, but to you, he was the dad who missed birthdays, who wasn’t there for late-night fevers, who left promises on the kitchen table that never came true. By the time you were a teenager, you had enough. You packed a bag, moved to New York, and swore you would not look back.

But some habits die hard. You still carried the bow Clint gave you when you were nine. You still remembered his lessons, how to aim, how to breathe, how to make yourself invisible even when the world was on fire. Sometimes, on sleepless nights, you wondered if he even noticed you were gone.

That is when you started seeing him. Not often, just glimpses, Clint walking through crowded streets with some dark-haired girl around your age, laughing with her, talking like a dad. It was Kate. The name was all over the news, his protégé. She was everything you were not, close to him, trusted, part of his world.

And it stung.

It was a cold winter night when you cut through an alley and heard footsteps behind you. Old instincts kicked in. You had an arrow notched before you even turned.

“Whoa, easy, kid.”

That voice.

“Do not call me kid,” you snapped, lowering the bow only slightly as Clint stepped out of the shadows. He looked older than you remembered, wearier, but his eyes were the same.

Kate was with him, holding up her hands like you were some skittish cat. “Uh, hi? This is awkward. I am Kate. He has been looking for you for weeks.”