The snow exploded upward as the Quinjet’s rear ramp dropped.

Steve hit the ground running, shield already up, boots crunching through ice and powder. Natasha landed beside him, smooth and silent, rifles slung as she scanned the treeline. Clint vaulted down next, bow in hand, already nocking an arrow. Thor followed like a descending god, Mjolnir humming with restrained thunder. Behind them, the ground shook.

The Hulker dropped last.

Concrete cracked under his feet. Snow sprayed in a wide arc. He growled low, eager.

“Alright,” Steve said into comms, eyes on the looming HYDRA compound. “We go fast. Intel says enhanced assets inside. Expect resistance.”

Thor grinned, lightning flickering faintly along his armor. “Good. I was growing bored.”

They moved.

Hydra soldiers poured from side doors and watchtowers, muzzle flashes strobing against the whiteout. Clint’s arrows flew—thwip, thwip—disabling turrets, pinning soldiers to walls with precision shots. Natasha slid across ice, firing controlled bursts, dropping enemies before they could scream. Steve plowed straight through the center, shield ricocheting, clearing a path like a living battering ram.

Then something blurred.

The air snapped.

Clint barely had time to register the red streak before his bow was ripped from his hands and embedded twenty feet away in a steel wall.

“What the—” he started.

A figure skidded to a stop atop a snowbank, boots carving trenches in the ice. White hair. Lean frame. A grin sharp enough to cut glass.

Pietro tilted his head. “You people are loud.”

Before anyone could react, he vanished.

Steve raised his shield just in time—BANG—the impact rattled his bones as Pietro slammed into it at impossible speed, rebounding and reappearing behind Natasha. She twisted, knives flashing, but he was already gone, laughing as bullets chased his afterimage.

Thor swung Mjolnir, lightning cracking—only to hit empty air.

“Trickster,” Thor growled.

Then the snow lifted.

Not blown. Not disturbed.

Lifted.

A pressure settled over the battlefield, heavy and crushing, like the sky itself had decided to kneel. Hydra soldiers screamed as invisible force hurled them backward, slamming them into walls, into each other, into the ground. Windows shattered outward.

At the center of it all stood a young woman in a red coat, dark hair whipping wildly, eyes glowing a deep, dangerous crimson.

Wanda raised her hands.

Natasha felt it immediately—something clawing at the edges of her mind. Old memories. Old ghosts. She gritted her teeth and forced herself to breathe.

“Telekinetic,” Clint muttered, grabbing for a sidearm. “And more than that.”

Wanda’s gaze snapped to Steve.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, voice trembling with rage and grief braided together. “You work for him.”

Steve frowned. “We don’t work for HYDRA.”

Pietro reappeared at her side, vibrating with restless energy. “That’s what they all say.”

The Hulker roared and charged.

Wanda’s hand clenched.

The ground buckled. Hulker was lifted off his feet—lifted—snarling and swinging in midair as if gravity itself had betrayed him.

Thor’s eyes widened. “By the Nine—”

And then—

Clang.

A third figure stepped out from the smoking ruins of a side entrance.