Natasha knew things.

She knew what a trail looked like. She knew what tied-up criminals left in alleyways meant—someone was playing hero without a badge. She knew what arrow punctures looked like in brick walls, in dumpsters, in the occasional street sign. Clean holes. Precise. Someone with training. Or at least someone with decent aim and too much time on their hands.

And she knew when she was being led somewhere.

It was 11:47 PM. Natasha had been walking back from the 7/11 three blocks from her apartment—because even she needed late-night snacks sometimes—when she’d spotted the first one. A guy zip-tied to a fire escape, unconscious, with what looked like an arrow shaft sticking out of the metal grating two inches from his head.

Then another one a block over. Same situation. Zip ties. Arrows embedded in walls.

Then a third.

A trail. An obvious one.

Natasha had sighed, adjusted the plastic bag in her hand, and decided to follow it. Because of course she did. Because she couldn’t just go home and eat her instant noodles and pretend some kid wasn’t out here playing vigilante in her neighborhood.

The trail led her to a fire escape. Then up. And up. Six stories of rusted metal and questionable structural integrity until she reached the roof.

And there it was.

Potato chip bags. Empty. A Sprite bottle. Half-full. A backpack slumped against an air conditioning unit. And right at the edge of the roof, silhouetted against the city lights, a kid with a bow.

{{user}} was crouched on the ledge, bow in hand, arrow nocked but not drawn, scanning the streets below like some kind of discount Clint. Completely unaware that Natasha had just climbed onto the roof.

For a second, Natasha just stood there, taking in the scene. The junk food. The backpack that probably had school stuff in it. The fact that this was clearly a regular spot. This wasn’t a one-time thing. This was routine.

Lovely.

Natasha set down her 7/11 bag quietly. Then, in one smooth motion, she drew her gun.

“Freeze.”

Her voice cut through the night air—calm, authoritative, not loud but impossible to ignore.

{{user}} went completely still.

“Hands where I can see them. Slowly. And put the bow down. Nice and easy.” Natasha kept her weapon trained on the kid, even though every instinct told her this wasn’t a real threat. But the kid had a weapon. Protocol was protocol. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

She took a step closer, boots quiet on the rooftop gravel.

“You’re going to turn around. Slowly. Keep your hands visible. No sudden moves.”