That night, Natasha moved alone.
The warehouse sat on the outskirts of New York, close enough to Stark Tower to feel connected, yet distant enough to avoid casual attention. On the surface, it was nothing special—just another logistics node tied to Stark Industries' recent surge in consumer tech exports.
But Natasha knew better.
She had been with James long enough to recognize patterns—and more importantly, absences. A man like him did not leave loose ends. If something looked ordinary, it was because he wanted it to.
Originally, this mission was supposed to be quick.
Infiltrate. Confirm the presence of restricted technology. Extract proof. Leave.
Instead, it dragged on far longer than she expected.
James looked like a playboy—acted like one too. His indulgence rivaled Tony Stark, and in some ways even surpassed it. Women, parties, arrogance, jokes that crossed lines on purpose—he carried himself like a man overflowing with weaknesses.
Yet none of those weaknesses led anywhere.
In Natasha's entire career, she had never encountered someone so exposed on the surface and yet so perfectly sealed underneath.
She couldn't seduce him into mistakes.
She couldn't intimidate him.
She couldn't outmaneuver him through authority or leverage.
And now, here she was, breaking into a warehouse alone.
That alone told her something was wrong.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s current position was… fragile.
Before the alien invasion, before the Avengers, S.H.I.E.L.D. was still a shadow organization—defensive by nature, not proactive. It relied on cooperation with national intelligence agencies, not dominance over them.
Acting alone meant crossing legal and political lines.
But James was becoming a variable they couldn't ignore.
If Stark Industries had truly buried war-grade technology beneath consumer logistics, it wasn't just a corporate issue anymore.
It was a global one.
The warehouse lights went dark as the last worker clocked out, rolling a pallet stacked with smart toilets into place. The echo of his footsteps faded.
Only then did Natasha descend silently from the ceiling.
She wore her catsuit now—tight, matte black, built for movement. Gone was the polished secretary. What landed on the concrete floor was the Black Widow, sharp and lethal.
She activated the chest-mounted flashlight and began searching.
The numbers didn't add up.
Based on shipping manifests alone, this warehouse should have been overflowing. But it wasn't.
That meant hidden capacity.
Using the building blueprints she had memorized earlier, Natasha cross-referenced wall spacing, support pillars, and floor load distribution.
Within minutes, she found it.
A door that should not exist.
She cracked the lock and slipped inside.
Below, the underground warehouse revealed itself.
Rows upon rows of drones—neatly arranged, identical, silent.
Natasha frowned.
This wasn't a weapons cache.
Not yet.
Then a voice echoed calmly from above.
"You've fallen into a trap."
Her pulse spiked.
She rolled and raised her pistol instantly—but the lights exploded on at once, flooding the underground space with blinding white.
Before she could recover, a figure surged forward, slammed into her, and twisted the weapon from her hand in one fluid motion.
She hit the ground hard.
When she looked up, she recognized the man instantly.
"Emil?"
He stood over her in a combat suit, posture relaxed but predatory. His presence alone pressed down on her senses—not larger, but heavier, like gravity itself favored him.
Behind him, James leaned casually against the wall, a microphone dangling from his hand.
It had all been staged.
She really had walked straight into it.
"Can you tell me where I went wrong?" Natasha asked calmly, rolling her neck once to steady herself.
James set the microphone down and shrugged.
"You weren't proactive enough."
"…What?"
James smirked.
"A self-made billionaire, good-looking, talented—and my secretary doesn't even try to get into my bed? That's suspicious."
He said it half-jokingly, half-seriously.
Natasha blinked.
Then—against all reason—she actually considered it.
Based on the profile she'd been given…
Based on his history…
Based on his behavior…
Yes.
That was odd.
James possessed an almost unnatural charisma. It wasn't just appearance—it was something deeper, an instinctive pull. Status, confidence, intellect, danger.
Many women would have made a move.
She hadn't.
"…So that was my mistake," Natasha said quietly.
James nodded. "Glad you understand."
Then he asked, already knowing the answer:
"Care to tell me who you really work for?"
Natasha raised an eyebrow, lips curving slightly.
"Want to know?"
Before James could respond, she threw a flashbang and lunged straight toward him.
If she could grab James, she could escape.
Emil was dangerous—but James was the prize.
What Natasha didn't know was that Emil's eyes were cybernetic.
The flash meant nothing.
Emil pivoted instantly and delivered a brutal roundhouse kick that sent Natasha crashing into the wall.
She blocked in time—but the force rattled her bones.
"I am your opponent," Emil said coldly.
To attack James in front of him was unforgivable.
Natasha rolled to her feet, shaking numbness from her arms. She knew the truth now—she was completely outmatched.
Her enhancements were optimization, not augmentation. Emil's body had crossed into something else entirely.
James watched quietly, stroking his chin.
"You're not alone tonight, are you?"
Natasha's eyes flickered—just slightly.
James noticed.
Before he could warn Emil, an arrow sliced through the air toward Emil's back.
Emil reacted instantly.
Thanks to his spinal cybernetic implant, time seemed to stretch—he caught the arrow mid-air.
Then electricity surged through his body.
The arrow wasn't lethal—it was an electroshock round.
Emil dropped to one knee, muscles locking.
James looked up toward the ceiling.
"…Seriously?"
A familiar silhouette stood above.
Clint Barton had arrived.
Natasha exhaled. "Congratulations. You guessed it."
James sighed. "What did I do to deserve two top-tier agents tonight?"
He clapped his hands twice.
The drones activated.
Red optical sensors ignited across the warehouse—hundreds of them. The air filled with a rising mechanical hum as drones poured from hidden bays.
Natasha's stomach dropped.
James smiled mildly.
"Relax. They're delivery drones."
"…Delivery?"
"Yep. Logistics subsidiary. Smart drone delivery." He shrugged. "Packages. Food. Toilets. Whatever."
The drones opened fire.
Tranquilizer darts.
In seconds, Clint was overwhelmed. He fought like hell—three full seconds—before falling from the roof, unconscious, his back bristling with darts.
Emil recovered quickly. The shock had only angered him.
What followed wasn't a fight—it was a chase with no exit.
Pinned against the wall, Natasha made one last attempt.
"I wasn't the one who shocked you."
"I know," Emil said calmly.
Kerenzikov activated.
In a blur, Natasha was slammed to the ground, immobilized.
James walked over, phone in hand, crouched beside her.
"So," he asked lightly, "which number should I call to bail you two out?"
Natasha closed her eyes.
For the first time in years…
She wished she had passed out like Clint.
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