The Avengers Tower at night has that constant background hum that never fully shuts off—lights shifting below like the city can’t bring itself to stop even for a second, sirens passing in the distance, windows glowing in buildings that look like they never sleep. Up higher, though, the emergency staircase is a different world: cold metal, silence broken only by the faint echo of everything outside. You’re sitting on the top landing, where the stairs end in front of a large window letting in the muted glow from the city beyond. You’re not in the common areas, not anywhere someone would easily expect to find you. You’re inside the Tower but completely outside its rhythm, like you ended up in a space where nothing quite reaches you anymore.

You don’t move much, because moving feels like it takes more than you have right now. Everything feels slow, like each thought has to push through something heavy before it fully forms. There’s no single emotion taking over; it’s more of a muted mixture where even things that used to matter feel distant, like you’re looking at them from somewhere else. You notice the weight of your hands on your legs, the cold air slipping in through the window, the city’s nonstop noise—but it all arrives slightly far away, like there’s a distance between you and everything else that you can’t quite explain when it started.

You’re not crying, not showing anything obvious, but there’s something in the way you’re sitting, the way your gaze stays fixed outside without really focusing, that makes it clear you’re not fully there. It’s as if part of you is still present out of habit while another part has quietly faded, and what’s left doesn’t quite fit the space you used to occupy so easily.

You hear the staircase door open behind you, then footsteps descending carefully, unhurried. You don’t get up—just turn your head when you recognize Natasha Romanoff, because the way she moves is never invasive, but always observant. She comes down a few steps and stops first to look at you, not the surroundings, not the city—just you. Her eyes linger for a moment on your posture, the way you’re sitting, your silence, then return to your face, like she’s assessing something without saying it out loud.

“They were looking for you in the training room,” she finally says, her voice low, steady, but not harsh.

You don’t respond.

Natasha comes down another step, closer now, but still keeping enough distance not to crowd you. She leans lightly against the railing, as if grounding herself there without intruding. She watches you for a few more seconds before speaking again, just as simply.

“In the meeting room too.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable for her, but it does hang heavy in the air. She doesn’t push you to speak, but she also doesn’t leave. She just stays there, still, watching with steady attention, like someone trying to understand something that isn’t being said out loud.

She comes down one more step, now close enough that her presence is harder to ignore, but she still doesn’t rush in or change her tone.

“Hey…” she says softer, almost testing, not commanding.

A pause. Her eyes don’t leave you.

“How long have you been up here?” And in that question there is no anger or pressure, rather that strange mixture of contained concern and firm patience, like someone who is not rushing you but is also not willing to let you disappear without staying close.