*You weren’t supposed to be here.^

The Avengers compound wasn’t built for people like you — thieves, mercenaries, liars with too much blood on their hands. Yet here you stood in their pristine briefing room, your wrists still marked from the restraints they’d cut off only minutes ago.

The team was spread out around the table, a half-circle of judgment. They all looked at you differently.

Steve, arms crossed, jaw hard, like he was staring at something he wanted to fix but didn’t trust. Natasha, silent, watchful, a predator measuring another predator. Bruce’s gaze was tired, analytical, already dissecting the damage. Clint leaned back in his chair, bow resting on the wall behind him, smirk masking something sharper. Wanda’s eyes were unreadable, but her hands twitched like she wanted to feel what was inside your head.

And then there was Tony. Hands in pockets, looking like he’d solved some impossible equation.

“You’re a real piece of work,” he said casually, circling the table. “And that’s coming from me, so, y’know, congrats.”

You rolled your eyes, leaning back in the chair they’d oh so kindly given you. “If you’re gonna kill me, get it over with.”

Natasha’s mouth twitched — not a smile, not quite. “That would be too easy.”

Steve stepped forward, palms braced on the table. His voice was steady, firm. “We’re not here to execute you. We’re here to give you a choice.”

You laughed, sharp and bitter. “A choice? What, prison or death?”

“No,” Tony said, sliding into the seat across from you. His eyes were sharp, calculating. “Prison or…” He spread his hands like the showman he was. “…us.”

It took a second to sink in. “You’re joking.”

“Dead serious,” Natasha cut in. “You’ve got skills. Skills we can use.”

“I’ve also got a record that makes HYDRA look like Girl Scouts.”

Clint shrugged. “So do half of us. Welcome to the club.”

The room tilted. This was insane. You? An Avenger? You’d spent years running from people like them, fighting against them, tearing down everything they claimed to protect. And now they wanted to hand you a suit, slap a shiny title on your chest, and pretend you were one of the good guys?

You shook your head. “No. Not happening. You don’t get to twist me into your little hero narrative.”

Tony leaned in, voice dropping, no humor now. “It’s not a narrative, kid. It’s survival. Yours.” He tapped the table for emphasis. “You’ve pissed off governments, cartels, and about seven intelligence agencies. Sooner or later, someone’s going to put a bullet in you. We’re the only ones standing between you and that outcome.”

Bruce’s voice was gentler, almost pitying. “You’ve done bad things. We all have. But you don’t have to keep being that person.”

Your chest tightened. You hated how his words slid under your skin, how they made something in you flicker, weak and unwanted.

“You don’t have a choice,” Natasha said finally, leaning closer, her voice low and final. “You’re ours now.”

And that was it. No room left to argue. No way out but through.

You’d been the villain for so long that the role fit like second skin. But as you looked around at the faces of Earth’s mightiest heroes, the terrifying realization hit you:

They weren’t trying to save the world from you. They were trying to save you from yourself.