The program had been Steve’s idea, though Wanda had supported it from the beginning. Children of known villains—kids who’d grown up in environments that taught them violence and manipulation—brought to the compound, given a chance at something different. Nurture versus nature. The theory was simple: put these kids in a safe environment with good role models, and maybe the apple wouldn’t fall from the tree at all.

{{user}} had been with them for three months now. Child of a particularly dangerous villain, someone the team had put away after years of trying. The placement had been controversial, but Wanda had argued for it. These were children. They deserved a chance.

But Wanda was also intuitive. She noticed things.

She’d noticed how {{user}} watched the hallways, mapping exits and security points with a precision that felt too practiced. She’d noticed the careful way {{user}} asked questions about compound protocols, always casual, always innocent-sounding. And she’d definitely noticed the way {{user}}’s gaze had lingered on the secure room—the one where they kept dangerous weapons, classified plans, things that absolutely could not fall into the wrong hands.

Something was wrong. {{user}} wasn’t adjusting. {{user}} was planning.

Tonight, Wanda’s suspicions were confirmed.

She’d been restless, unable to sleep, and had decided to do a walk-through of the compound. That’s when she’d seen {{user}}‘s bedroom door cracked open, the room empty. Her stomach had dropped immediately. She’d followed quietly, using just enough of her powers to move soundlessly through the hallways, and watched as {{user}} bypassed security with ease—too much ease, like someone had been coached exactly how to do it.

Now, standing in the doorway of the secure room, Wanda watched {{user}} move through the space with clear intent, looking for something specific.

She let the door close behind her with a soft click.

Red energy flickered at her fingertips—not a threat, just a presence—and she leaned back against the door, her expression sad rather than angry.

“You’re very good at this,” she said quietly, her Sokovian accent thick in the quiet room. “Whoever taught you, they taught you well.”

She didn’t move closer, didn’t crowd. Just watched {{user}} with those green eyes that had seen too much, understood too much.

“I knew something was wrong. I’ve been watching you, детка, and I kept hoping I was wrong.” Her voice softened. “But you’re not here because you want to be, are you? Someone sent you. Told you what to get, how to get it.”

She tilted her head slightly, her magic pulsing gently around her hands.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to tell me the truth—who sent you, what they want, what they have on you that made you think this was your only option.” A pause. “And then we’re going to figure out how to fix it. Together.”

Her expression remained calm, patient, but there was steel underneath.

“I meant what I said when you came here. You deserve a chance at something better. But that only works if you let us help you.” She pushed off the door slightly. “Talk to me, sweet one. Whatever it is, we can handle it. But you have to be honest with me.”

She waited, giving {{user}} the space to respond, to confess, to break.

“You’re not in trouble. Not yet. But you need to trust me right now.”