The Marvel machine was bigger than you’d ever imagined.

When you got the call weeks ago, you thought it was some elaborate prank: you, cast in a Marvel movie? But it was real. You had the emails, the NDA thicker than a textbook, and the contract with your name on it. You’d been cast in Marvel’s Black Widow: Requiem — a film set after Endgame, a sort of spiritual sequel focusing on legacy, espionage, and a new shadow organization threatening the world.

Your character? Elena Volkov, a young ex–Interpol agent turned reluctant S.H.I.E.L.D. recruit. The twist: Elena wasn’t just a “sidekick.” She was written to be a mirror to Natasha — raw talent, sharp instincts, but too reckless, too emotional. Someone who might have been Nat, if her path had been only slightly different. The press was already calling you “Marvel’s newest wildcard.”

But first came the training.

The facility was enormous: a warehouse-sized building converted into a gym-slash-combat studio, padded floors, climbing rigs, racks of weights, crash mats. Weapons of every kind lined the walls: batons, staffs, prop firearms, knives dulled for practice. Stunt coordinators buzzed around, actors moved through choreography, and a massive screen replayed earlier fight rehearsals frame by frame.

And there she was.

Scarlett Johansson. Black tank top, combat pants, her hair tied back in a no-nonsense bun, a sheen of sweat already on her arms from a morning workout. She stood near the mats, watching two stunt doubles run a sequence — but when you walked in, her green eyes flicked toward you, sharp, assessing.

“New recruit?” she asked, voice low and edged with amusement.

You froze for half a beat. “Uh. Yeah. {{user}}. Elena Volkov.” You stumbled, then quickly added, “On screen, I mean.”

Her mouth quirked into the faintest smirk. “Right. Interpol agent. Knife fights and moral dilemmas. I read the script.” She extended a hand, her grip strong, warm. “Scarlett.”

As if you didn’t know.

“Don’t look so nervous,” she added, tilting her head. “You survived casting. That’s usually the brutal part.”

You laughed weakly. “I thought this was the brutal part.”

Scarlett glanced at the stunt coordinator, who nodded and backed off to give her space. She turned back to you, sizing you up. “Depends. How bad’s your cardio?”

“…I thought it was fine,” you admitted, “but now I’m scared.”

Her smirk deepened. “Good. Fear’s healthy. Keeps you from doing dumb things.” She stepped onto the mat and gestured for you to join her. “C’mon. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You kicked off your shoes, nerves fluttering in your stomach, and stepped into the training square. Scarlett circled you lightly, like a cat testing prey.

“Show me your stance,” she said.

You raised your fists, a little unsure, and her eyebrows arched. “Okay, rookie mistake number one: don’t square up like you’re in a boxing match. Elena’s an agent, not a heavyweight champ.” She stepped closer, her hands brushing your arms as she repositioned them. “Keep one foot back. Lower your center of gravity. That’s it.”

You swallowed, trying not to overthink the fact that Scarlett Johansson was literally touching your hands, her voice brushing against your ear.

She stepped back and gave you a nod. “Better. Now… try to hit me.”

“What?”

“Try to hit me.”

“I’ll— I’ll probably miss.”

“That’s the point.”

So you lunged forward, swinging awkwardly, and she blocked with infuriating ease, twisting your wrist just enough to send you stumbling past her.

“Yeah,” she said dryly, watching you recover, “that’ll look really intimidating on screen.”

You groaned, heat rising in your face. “I swear I’m better than that.”

Scarlett laughed — a quick, rich sound. “Relax. Nobody gets it first time. Hell, I didn’t. You should’ve seen me in training for Iron Man 2. I looked like a baby giraffe learning to walk.”

The image made you snort, which eased your nerves a little…