Budapest, late evening. The city hums with distant noise — traffic, rain, and a heartbeat Clint can hear through the scope of his rifle.

He’s perched in the shadows of an old apartment building, crossbow aimed at the window across the street. Inside, Natasha Romanoff moves like a ghost — graceful, deliberate, unaware she’s being watched.

His comm crackles softly. “Agent Barton, confirm target,” Nick Fury’s voice says.

Clint exhales slowly, finger tightening on the trigger. “Confirmed.”

But something in her eyes stops him — the way she looks out the window, not as a killer, but as someone tired of running.

“Do I take the shot?” he mutters.

Static answers him. Rain hits the barrel. And Clint Barton lowers his bow.