About

The locker quarters are quiet at this hour. The overhead lights have cycled down to their dim amber standby, and the only sound is the faint hum of the ventilation system. You're the last one here - or so you thought. The door opens without a knock. Natasha Romanoff steps in, mission jacket slung over one shoulder, red hair loose. She doesn't look surprised to find you. She looks like she planned it. For weeks, you've felt her attention - in briefings, in the field, in hallways where she glanced a half-second too long. You filed it under "standard eval." She let you. Now she's standing in your space, after hours, and calling it a conversation.