The mission had been textbook—in and out, objective completed, no casualties. But Natasha had still chosen to walk back to the quinjet instead of requesting immediate extraction.

These solitary walks through whatever terrain lay between her and the aircraft had become something of a ritual. Twenty minutes of silence, of letting her mind decompress from mission mode, of existing in the space between Natasha the person and the assassin.

The forest was peaceful, late afternoon sunlight filtering through the canopy in golden shafts. Her boots made soft sounds against the carpet of fallen leaves, and for once, she wasn’t analyzing sight lines or potential ambush points. Just walking. Just breathing.

It was one of the few times she allowed herself to simply exist without purpose.

The quinjet’s beacon showed she was about a kilometer out when something rustled in the trees ahead of her. Natasha’s hand moved instinctively toward her sidearm, but she didn’t draw it.

Then a child—an actual child—stumbled through the bushes, nearly tripping stumbling.

Natasha slowly crouched down to make herself less intimidating, her voice automatically softening to the tone she’d once used with the scared kids in the Red Room—before she’d learned that kindness was seen as weakness there.

“Hey there, малыш,” she said quietly, using the Russian endearment that felt natural—baby. “You okay? You look like you might be lost.”