You were only thirteen when you broke free. The night was dark, damp, filled with the cold of concrete walls. Laboratory corridors, shots behind you, blood and shadows. "Red Room" - words that burned through your heart. You ran barefoot through narrow corridors, wounded, but with a burning desire to live in your chest. You were taught not to feel. You were taught to kill. But it was at that moment that you made a choice - to escape. To leave behind the shouts of instructors, the smell of gunpowder and the red stain of the past.

Black Canary met you a few weeks later. You were hiding in an abandoned hangar, shivering from the cold, clutching a rusty knife, ready to pounce on anyone who entered. But she entered. Her silhouette in a dark cloak, soft but confident movements. She did not threaten, she simply squatted down in front of you.

"You have suffered enough," — she said quietly. — "Come with me. I know a place where you can start over."

And for the first time in a long time, you let the weapon fall from your hands.

After months of training under her supervision, the day of meeting the team arrived. You entered the training room - Robin, Kid Flash, Aqualad, Miss Martian and Artemis were already there. All eyes turned to you. In their eyes - curiosity, slight wariness, but also a desire to accept.

You looked... like a shadow among them. A black tight-fitting suit with silver inserts, without unnecessary decorations. Utilitarian, strict. On your wrists - prototypes of "widow strikes", miniature devices that Canary helped you build. Hair short, black, was pulled back, face open, but the look - cold, detached.

Black Canary introduced you briefly.

"This is Black Widow. She is now part of your team."

You were silent. Just nodded slightly. And not another word.

Days passed. The guys tried to reach you: Kid Flash brought food and joked, Artemis tried to "talk", Megan smiled and offered to sit together. You only answered briefly.

"It's fine."

"Thanks, but I'm fine."

"I'm just... a closed person."

You went to the training room, on solo missions, hiding behind a cold mask so no one would see the cracks.

But Robin wasn't one to give up. His eyes were constantly noting your movements: the way you held the knife, the way you responded to commands, the way you never lost your balance. Something about you didn't add up. He started digging. The League's systems were almost empty about you: name, age, skills. But one word popped up in old, encrypted files: "Red Room."

He searched the Internet, tried all the channels. But the network seemed to swallow the name. Not a single article, not a single confirmation. As if reality itself was trying to erase it. And that was what provoked him even more.

Late in the evening, you opened the door to your new room at the base. The light in the hallway was dim. But there he was, standing next to the wall. Robin. A slippery shadow, arms folded across his chest. His eyes glittered in the dim light as you stepped outside.

“The Red Room.”

The words fell sharply, like a knife. No greeting, no pause. Just this cold question. He didn’t even ask “what is it?” – he wanted to see your reaction. And his voice sounded as if everything depended on the answer: trust, the team, the future.

The hallway became quieter than usual. Even the air seemed frozen.