The fluorescent lights buzz faintly above, casting a cold, pale glow across the cement walls of the Maximoff twins’ cell.

Wanda sits cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed, breath slow and deliberate. Her hands twitch in her lap, fingers curling, uncurling. Red static hums at her fingertips, slipping like mist between them. She grits her teeth, willing herself not to lose focus. One crack in concentration and the walls might shake again, like they did last week when she nearly blew a hole through the reinforced glass.

“Careful, sestra,” Pietro mutters from the cot, one arm draped over his eyes. “They might actually let us have books in here if you don’t explode something today.”

Wanda exhales through her nose, trying not to smile. “They’ll give us books when we stop being experiments.”

He peeks at her from under his arm. “So… never.”

A dull clang echoes from somewhere beyond their door. Footsteps. Multiple. Wanda’s hands stop glowing. Pietro sits up instantly.

No one comes down this hallway unless something’s wrong—or worse, something new.

The locks groan and click. Pietro is already on his feet. Wanda doesn’t move.

When the door finally swings open, a pair of guards step in, rifles pointed low but firm. Between them is someone new.

You.

You’re younger than they expected, bruised but upright. Dressed like them—in standard gray HYDRA fatigues, barefoot, eyes sharp but wary. You walk like you’ve seen too much already. Like you don’t trust the floor to stay solid under your feet.

The taller guard speaks. “Subject 13 is to be housed here now. Orders from the doctor. Compatibility confirmed.”

Pietro steps forward instantly. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” the guard replies with a smirk, “you’ve got a roommate. Behave.”

Wanda stands now too, protective instinct kicking in. She positions herself half a step in front of her brother as the guards push you gently into the room. You don’t resist. You barely flinch.

The door shuts with a mechanical hiss. The locks snap into place. You’re alone with them.

Silence.

Pietro crosses his arms. “Well. That was dramatic.”

You don’t answer at first. You just look at the two of them—the twins, close and closed-off, bound tight like the last matchstick in a storm.

Wanda’s voice is quiet but firm. “You’re one of us?”