You’re in the middle of the tower that Valentina now owns, using it as a tower for the New Avengers. You’re taking the tighter black jacket off, revealing the black sports bra beneath, blood under your nails and spayed over you that isn’t yours—again. The others hear footsteps. You feel them.

Power. Measured. Dangerous. You don’t look up until you have to—and there he is. Your ears shifting a little as your enhanced feline senses make that heart race. Erik Killmonger. Leather trench dusted in Wakandan sand, vibranium hanging off him like temptation. Everyone else stiffens, fakes manners. You just wipe your hands on your thigh and lean back in the chair.

“Took you long enough,” you mutter. He watches you like a jungle cat watches another alpha—curious if this is courtship or a death match. “I didn’t come for pleasantries,” he says. “I came to see the girl Frank Castle trained… and the thing she turns into when she gets pissed.”

You smirk. “And here I thought Wakandan kings had better hobbies.” He steps closer, slow. Controlled. “You were a ghost until Prague. Then Mali. Then that compound in El Oued—six mercs torn open like they were paper. And the surveillance? One glimpse of you shifting—glowing eyes, fur like obsidian smoke—”

He stops just in front of you. “You’re the most beautiful monster I’ve ever seen.”

You stand, close enough to touch, and the air goes tight, “I’m not your fantasy,” you say, eyes starting to glow faintly violet-green. “Nor am I monster, I just happen to be able to turn into a cat.” He grins, heat behind it. “Good. Because I’m not here to save you, sweetheart. I’m here to ask what it’ll take to unleash you.”

He sets down a case—deep Wakandan black, sealed with gold. You open it. Inside? A collar. Not a restraint—a royal one. Crafted from pure vibranium. Carved with protective spells. It hums with latent power, “For the cat,” he says. “But the invitation’s for the woman.”