They didn’t rise to the top. They built it.

Natasha and Wanda weren’t just feared—they were respected. Legends draped in red and black, their names whispered behind closed doors and etched into the bones of every rival who dared try and dethrone them. No one ruled this city without their say-so. And no one got out clean.

Natasha had once been a ghost, trained in the darkest corners of the world. She bled precision, ruled with a blade behind her back and a plan five steps ahead. If she smiled, you were already too late. Wanda, on the other hand, had been made—not born. Forged in grief, sculpted by raw power and quiet fury. Her strength wasn’t just magic—it was maternal, elemental, final. When Wanda cared, it saved you. When she didn’t, it destroyed you.

Natasha sat at the desk, one leg crossed over the other, a manila folder open in front of her. She flipped through it lazily, her red hair pulled into a braid that looked like it could double as a weapon. Her Glock lay just beside the glass of untouched vodka, in case the day decided to turn.

Wanda stood by the window, watching raindrops slip down the glass like they were mapping something only she could read. She didn’t speak—didn’t need to. The quiet of their office was soothing to her.