By evening, the Hudson River had turned into a sheet of burning gold.
Natasha Romanoff sat alone on a quiet bench by the water, her posture relaxed but her eyes constantly moving. She glanced at the sinking sun, then at the watch on her wrist, measuring time down to the second. The rippling surface of the river reflected the crimson sky onto her face, masking her expression behind shifting light.
Footsteps approached from behind.
"Hey," a casual voice called out, light and teasing. "Is this red-haired beauty waiting for someone? Oh, wait—must be me. Sorry I'm late. Rush hour traffic, you know how it is."
Natasha didn't turn immediately. Her tone was flat, precise. "It's fine. You're only one hour, forty-eight minutes, and twenty-six seconds late."
"Wow, that bad?" Locke said as he dropped onto the bench beside her. He stretched his arms slightly, as if settling into a casual evening chat. "Can't be helped. There were dozens of agents surrounding me. I had to plan a few escape routes just in case things went sideways."
He tilted his head slightly, glancing into the distance. "Took some time. You don't mind, right? Like how I don't mind that guy with the bow aiming at me the whole time. Though… are you sure he won't slip or something?"
Natasha inhaled slowly. The moment they met, he had already issued multiple warnings, all wrapped in jokes.
"…He won't," she said. "Barton is a professional."
"Good," Locke replied lightly.
He leaned back against the bench, watching the sunset like he didn't have a care in the world. A faint tune escaped him under his breath, almost out of place in the tension-filled air.
Natasha studied him carefully.
This man was stronger than she had anticipated—not just physically, but mentally. He had taken control of the conversation before it even properly began.
"Mr. Iron Man," she said slowly, "you seem very familiar with us."
Locke turned his head and looked at her. Under the golden-red light of the setting sun, Natasha's features were striking—sharp, elegant, and dangerously beautiful. For a brief second, it was easy to understand why people underestimated her.
Then he looked away.
"What's the awkward name of your organization again?" he asked casually.
Natasha frowned slightly but answered anyway. "Strategic Homeland Defense, Attack, and Logistics Support Agency."
Locke nodded thoughtfully. "Let me simplify that for you. How about… SHIELD?"
"…What?"
The answer caught her completely off guard.
Her brows knit together as she stared at him. Changing the name of an entire organization so casually—it made no sense. Yet somehow, she felt like she had just lost control of the conversation entirely.
She was about to push back—
But Locke spoke again.
"By the way," he said, his tone shifting just enough to carry weight, "do you want to kill Dreykov and destroy the Red Room?"
Her heart jolted.
"He's dead," Natasha said immediately.
"Where did he die?"
"Budapest."
"Bullshit."
Locke's eyes locked onto hers, unblinking. "That bomb didn't kill him. What it did do was 'successfully' kill his sweet little daughter in your mind."
Natasha froze.
Her entire body went rigid as the words hit her like a hammer.
"When she was dying," Locke continued, his voice calm and merciless, "Dreykov implanted a control chip into her. Turned her into a living weapon."
Silence fell.
The world around them seemed to dim, the noise of the river fading into the background. Natasha's thoughts spiraled, memories clawing their way back to the surface.
Locke watched her.
In his system's evaluation, she was the first gold-tier target he had ever encountered. A woman with blood on her hands and redemption in her future. Someone who had killed the innocent—and saved the innocent.
So what was she?
Should she die?
The system didn't decide that.
He did.
Killing evil prevented future harm. That was the logic he followed. But Natasha wasn't simple. If she died here, the people she was meant to save in the future… would die instead.
He wasn't a puppet.
The final decision was always his.
And besides…
It would be a waste.
"Natasha," he said suddenly, his tone shifting again. "If someone has committed unforgivable sins… how do they earn redemption?"
She looked up at him, caught off guard. "I…"
"Let me answer that for you," Locke cut in. "By killing. Kill the wicked, and you earn your redemption."
"Bullshit!"
A sharp voice cut through the air.
Locke didn't even flinch. Instead, he smiled slightly and spoke without turning around.
"Clint Barton. First time meeting you. I've always been curious about your aim. Shame you didn't take the shot—I was looking forward to trying to dodge it."
Hawkeye ignored him completely.
He stepped forward, eyes fixed on Natasha, concern and anger battling in his expression. "What proof do you have?" he demanded. "What kind of game are you playing?"
Locke raised his hands in a harmless gesture. "Game? What game? Wasn't it your organization that invited me here?"
"We are the Strategic Homeland Defense, Attack, and Logistics Support Agency," Barton snapped. "Not whatever nonsense name you just made up."
Locke chuckled. "Doesn't really matter what you call it, does it?"
Barton's jaw tightened. "If Fury ever changes it to that garbage name, I'm quitting on the spot."
Locke raised an eyebrow. "With that level of confidence, why call yourself Hawkeye? I'll give you a better name—Confidence Man."
Barton shot him a glare before turning back to Natasha. He stepped closer, gripping her shoulders firmly.
"This isn't your fault," he said. "We made that call together. Even if what he's saying is true, I share the responsibility."
Natasha shook her head slowly, her expression filled with something heavier than guilt.
"No," she said. "I made the plan. I planted the bomb. You were just there." Her voice softened. "This is on me."
"He's lying," Barton insisted.
But Natasha didn't respond.
She had been close enough to Locke to feel his breath, to look directly into his eyes. There had been no hesitation, no deception.
He wasn't lying.
She turned back toward him.
Locke met her gaze steadily. "Natasha," he said, "I hope you'll let Barton share that burden with you."
She took a slow breath. "How bad is it?"
Locke didn't hesitate.
"Dreykov has trained… thousands of Black Widows."
The words landed like a death sentence.
Natasha's lips parted slightly, her voice barely audible when it came out. "If I had killed him back then… none of this would have happened, right?"
Locke shook his head.
It wasn't entirely her fault. But SHIELD had believed her report. They had closed the case. And because of that, the Red Room had grown stronger in the shadows.
She carried part of that responsibility.
"How many bodies do you think it takes to create thousands of assassins?" Locke asked quietly. "How much blood is on their hands?"
He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering.
"This is what I meant. Only killing can bring redemption."
Natasha fell silent again, her thoughts clearly spiraling.
Barton grew more anxious by the second. He knew her history. He knew how she thought. And that terrified him.
So he turned back to Locke.
"You've said all this," he said sharply. "What's your goal?"
Locke smiled faintly.
"Goal?" he repeated. "Does there have to be one? Isn't this what a righteous hero does?"
Barton stared at him, disbelief written all over his face.
"You?" he said coldly. "A righteous hero? You slaughtered people in Hell's Kitchen. You're a poisoner, a killer, and a sadist."
He took a step forward, his voice hardening.
"Hey. Buffalo Bill."
Locke tilted his head slightly, amused.
"Tell me," he said, "does anyone actually know who the Confidence Man is?"
....
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