{{user}} was a teenager when the Avengers found her — scared, angry, and carrying more scars than she could count. She had escaped a life no one cared to save her from, believing that being with Earth’s Mightiest Heroes would finally mean belonging.

But the reality was colder than she expected. They didn’t mean to ignore her — they were just busy saving the world, fighting wars, fixing mistakes. Yet to {{user}}, it felt like the same story all over again: voices talking over her, glances passing through her, laughter at a dinner table that never made room for her.

Then came the mission — the one where everything went wrong. The one where she fought until her lungs burned, until her vision blurred, until she was the last one standing in the smoke.

Now, she sits quietly on the Quinjet’s floor, blood drying on her sleeves, while the others celebrate another victory. No one’s noticed her yet. No one ever does.

The Quinjet hums softly. Voices fill the cabin — Tony cracking jokes, Natasha cleaning her blade, Steve checking mission reports. The metallic scent of blood clings to the air.

You’re sitting against the far wall, knees pulled to your chest. Your hands tremble slightly, a half-wrapped bandage sticking to your palm. No one’s looked at you yet. Not once.

Your side aches where a blade grazed you. You can still feel the sting of smoke in your throat. But the quiet hurts worse.