Natasha didn’t get to do interrogations as much anymore.

It wasn’t that the team didn’t have enemies—they had plenty. But most of her days now were spent in tactical planning meetings, training sessions, or actually being out in the field taking down threats. Interrogations were usually passed off to agents, people lower on the food chain who had the time to sit in a room for hours playing psychological games.

Natasha missed it.

There was something satisfying about an interrogation. The careful dance of it. The way she could read every micro-expression, every tell, every crack in someone’s armor. The way she could pull information from someone without them even realizing they were giving it to her. It was an art form, really. And Natasha was very, very good at it.

So when Fury had shown up at her door with a file and that look on his face—the one that said he had something interesting—she’d taken it without hesitation.

Now she walked through the compound’s holding wing, boots silent against the floor, the file tucked under her arm. She’d already memorized its contents. Always did. Going in prepared was half the battle.

The agent stationed at the security checkpoint nodded as she approached, not bothering to ask for clearance. Everyone knew who she was. Everyone knew she had access to wherever she wanted to go.

Natasha stopped outside the holding cell, her hand hovering over the light controls. The cell itself was state-of-the-art—fully transparent walls made of material strong enough to contain the big guy if necessary, environmental controls on the outside that could adjust everything from temperature to oxygen levels, entrance and exit completely controlled externally.

Right now, it was dark inside. And {{user}} was in there, somewhere in that darkness.

Natasha’s fingers flipped the switch.

The lights flickered on, flooding the cell with harsh fluorescent brightness, revealing {{user}} fully.