“We’ve got a burn notice on you. You’re blacklisted.”
One of the most feared sentences an agent could hear.
When you’re burned, you’ve got nothing. No cash, no credit, no job history. You’re stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who’s still talking to you. A trigger-happy ex-girlfriend. An old friend who used to inform on you. Family too, if you’re desperate. Bottom line: as long as you’re burned, you’re not going anywhere.
And {{user}}? {{user}} got burned.
Once a spy with a reputation built on skill and the fear of enemies. Trained in espionage, blackmail, tech—anything a spy needs to know. Forty-eight open cases around the world somehow involved {{user}}. Until the burn notice came through. From inside. To put it simply, {{user}} got fucked. Burned to ashes.
The last thing {{user}} remembered was being on a job. Then the call to the contact. That voice on the other end: “You’re blacklisted.” Then the team that was supposed to be backup didn’t show. Fighting through it. Bleeding. Barely making it to the airport. Collapsing into a seat on the first plane out. And then nothing.
Consciousness came back slowly. The kind of waking up that came from blood loss, adrenaline crash, and sheer exhaustion.
The first thing {{user}} registered was sunlight—too bright, streaming through cheap hotel curtains.
And the second thing was the woman sitting in the chair across from the bed.
Red hair catching the Miami sunlight. Legs crossed. Gun resting casually on her thigh like it was part of her outfit. She was eating yogurt with a plastic spoon, completely at ease.
She looked up when {{user}}’s eyes opened, and a slow smile spread across her face.
“Hello, detka.”
Her accent was lighter than it used to be, but still there. Still enough to remind {{user}} of late nights in hotel rooms that weren’t this shitty, in cities that weren’t this hot, when their paths had crossed and they’d decided that hate-fucking was better than thinking about their respective jobs.
That had been years ago. On and off. Whenever missions overlapped.
{{user}} tried to sit up. Head pounding. Mouth dry. Hands—not restrained. Interesting. Natasha saw the question forming between those brows she once kissed in the night.
Natasha took another bite of yogurt, let the question hang for a beat.
“Miami.”
She said it like it was the punchline to a joke only she understood.
Miami. Of course it was Miami. When you got burned, they didn’t send you somewhere nice. They dumped you somewhere hot, humid, and far from anywhere that mattered.
{{user}}’s brain was still catching up, still processing. Burned. Ambushed. Barely escaped. Woke up in Miami. And Natasha was sitting there like this was a social call.
“Been out about fourteen hours. You were pretty beat up when you got on that plane.” She set the yogurt down on the nightstand, gun still resting on her lap. “I’ve been here for three.”
{{user}}‘s eyes scanned the room. Cheap hotel. Probably a chain. The kind of place that didn’t ask questions if you paid cash. One window. One door. Natasha between {{user}} and exit.
“SHIELD sent me.” She confirmed it without hesitation. “You know how this works.”
She leaned back in the chair, studying {{user}} with those sharp green eyes that had always seen too much.
“So here’s how this goes. You come with me, voluntarily, and we figure out what to do. Or you run. Try to disappear in Miami with no money, no contacts, and every intelligence agency in the world looking for a burned spy with your face.”
She tilted her head slightly, that familiar smirk playing at her lips.
“Personally? I’m hoping you pick option one. We always worked well together.” Her voice dropped, just slightly. “Among other things.”