Practice had run late—way later than {{user}} had expected.

The coach had wanted to run through the routine one more time, and then one more time after that, and by the time {{user}} finally got dismissed, the sun had already set completely. The streetlights were on, casting long shadows across the empty sidewalks.

{{user}} started the walk home. It was only a few miles. {{user}} had done this route dozens of times during daylight. It would be fine.

Except… it didn’t feel fine.

The street was too quiet. Too empty. Every shadow seemed darker than it should be, and every sound—a dog barking in the distance, a car passing two streets over, the wind rustling through trees—felt amplified and threatening.

{{user}}‘s heart was beating faster than it should be for just walking. That prickly feeling on the back of the neck that meant something was wrong, even if {{user}} couldn’t pinpoint what.

Still three miles to go. Maybe more.

{{user}}’s hand went to the phone in the pocket.

At home, Wanda was stirring pasta sauce while Natasha sat at the kitchen island pretending to review mission reports but mostly just checking the clock every two minutes.

“What time did {{user}} say practice would end?” Wanda asked, though she already knew the answer.

“Six-thirty,” Natasha said, setting down her tablet. “It’s almost eight.”

Wanda turned off the stove, that maternal instinct that had nothing to do with her magic making her chest feel tight. “Should we call?”

Natasha was already pulling up the tracking app on her phone—the one {{user}} had agreed to have activated for exactly this reason.

“Still moving. About three miles out,” Natasha said, but her jaw was tight. “On foot.”

“In the dark?” Wanda’s voice had an edge to it now. “Alone?”

Natasha stood up, already reaching for her keys. “I’m going to—”

Her phone rang. {{user}}’s contact.

Natasha answered immediately. “{{user}}? You okay?”