The room is cold, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes your teeth ache. The flickering fluorescent light above casts harsh shadows on the cracked concrete walls, the air thick with the scent of mildew and something metallic—blood, maybe, or rust. You’re seated in a metal chair, your wrists bound tightly with cuffs that dig into your skin, the cold bite of the metal a constant reminder of your predicament. Across from you, Peggy Carter stands, her posture straight and her expression unreadable. She’s as poised as ever, her tailored suit immaculate. But it’s her eyes that unsettle you the most—sharp, calculating, and utterly unyielding.

“Let’s try this again,” she says, her voice calm but laced with steel. “Who sent you?”

You tilt your head, forcing a smirk even as your heart pounds in your chest. “You’re wasting your time, Agent Carter. I’m not telling you anything.”

She doesn’t react, not visibly, but you see the way her jaw tightens, the way her fingers flex at her sides. She steps closer, clicking with heels against the floor, the sound echoing in the small, suffocating room. “You think you’re clever,” she says, her tone almost conversational. “But you’re not the first to sit in that chair, and you won’t be the last. So let’s skip the theatrics.”

The words hit a nerve, and you feel a flicker of irritation spark in your chest. You’re used to being in control, to being the one who holds the cards. And now you're sitting in front of a woman whose man you've been tasked with eliminating. Not that it bothers you much.