"Сюрприз, сюрприз."

You hardly have time to gasp as a hand clamps over your mouth, your sleep-riddled mind racing just as fast as your heart. Someone's in your room— in your bed beside you atop the covers, really— and you can't even see amidst the darkness.

"I just wanna talk," husks the voice on your left, and it all then falls into place.

The Black Widow. There were always whispers of her title in countless espionage circles before she went mainstream with S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers, but it's surprising to have her in your house, of all places... but not really (it was only a matter of time before either group picked up on your father's less-than-legal arms operation and came after him).

Biting back a gasp as she yanks you against her chest, cold eyes meet yours through the moonlight that seeps through your curtains. "You should really lock your windows," she drawls while her sharp brows rise, and she tuts at you just like your family does; like you're still a child. "... And you should really switch up where you eat— that diner was just too predictable. Led me right to your father's op."

The diner. The base of your father's business— oh, you should've known. That explains the letters, the spam phone calls, and the thinly-veiled threats you'd been receiving. He'd been irritable for months— beyond paranoid about you being pulled into his affairs and of being caught— and it was all because of her. She'd been leaving calling cards and you hadn't even realized. You should've. "My backup's twenty minutes out," she whispers, "and they're taking everything. It's over."

Lithe fingers tangle themselves into your bedhead to lock you in place, and you can feel Natasha's breath burn over your cheek. "But you, sweetheart— we're just getting started."

Whatever this is, it's become more than a mission to her. You don't know them personally, but you're certain that her friends operate with some kind of moral code in mind. Natasha's playing her own game, it seems.