The safehouse was a crumbling apartment block tucked behind a train station — unremarkable, half-forgotten, and hidden from most eyes.
But not from his.
Max had tracked them here an hour ago. He had waited. Waited through the clatter of gear unpacked, hushed voices, the soft scrape of a blade being sharpened. Watched them settle. Two shadows laying low after a war that never stopped chasing them.
Now it was time.
He stood outside the third-floor balcony, sticking to the wall like a lizard. His body pressed flat against the rough concrete. The breeze was cold against his suit — green and yellow, hand-stitched from scrap cloth in Ivan's shop. It didn't look like much. Hell, he still wasn't sure it was even cool. But it was his.
He took a breath.
"No running this time."
With a faint burst of speed, he vanished from the ledge and reappeared on the inside of the safehouse, just behind the curtains.
He moved like smoke.
The lights were low. A few lamps. No overheads.
Natasha Romanoff stood near the kitchen sink, rolling her shoulder, tense from battle. She wore a gray tactical shirt and black pants, hair tied back. There was a pistol on the table and a knife on her belt.
He didn't speak yet. Not until he knew she wasn't going to put a bullet in his face.
Max stepped lightly, almost hovering across the old hardwood floor. Then he coughed.
Not loud.
Just enough.
Her hand was on the pistol in a blink, pointed directly at his chest.
Max raised his hands. "Hey. Relax. Not a threat."
She didn't lower the gun.
"Then start talking."
He stepped forward into the light.
"I'm the guy in green. The one who's been cleaning up your messes."
Natasha's eyes narrowed. She scanned his outfit — ridiculous, patchwork, a joke at first glance. But her gaze lingered. Recognition flickered.
"You've been following us."
"Helping you," Max corrected. "You've seen it. You just didn't know where to look."
"Who are you?"
Max paused.
That question had always rattled him. But now, he knew the answer.
"I'm Max. Used to be someone else, somewhere else. Doesn't matter now. What matters is I'm fast. Faster than anything you've seen. And I know what's coming."
Natasha lowered the gun — slightly.
"You're enhanced?"
"Yeah," he said, stepping forward. "But not by accident. Not by a lab. Not by Hydra. I don't even belong in this world."
Her expression didn't change.
"You expect me to believe that?"
Max gave a half-shrug. "You've fought aliens, gods, killer robots. Is it that hard to believe a guy dropped into your world with someone else's powers?"
Silence stretched between them.
Then, Max stepped to the table, sat down, and unzipped a small pouch he'd sewn into his suit. He pulled out a folded piece of paper.
He slid it across to her.
She opened it — a map, hastily drawn but marked in key places. Widow safehouses. Red Room fallback zones. Escape routes.
"You've been gathering intel."
"Yeah. And Taskmaster's not the end of it. Dreykov's still moving pieces. You need someone fast. Someone expendable."
Natasha studied him.
"And you think that's you?"
"I think," Max said, leaning back, "I'm tired of hiding. Tired of running. I've done enough watching from the shadows. I'm ready to fight."
She looked at the suit again. A smirk tugged at her lips — faint, but there.
"You look like you stepped out of a comic book."
"Kick-Ass, actually," he said. "It's... a thing."
She didn't laugh. But she didn't shoot him either.
And in Natasha Romanoff's world — that was progress.
(Author's Note wanted keep this chapter short but next chapter will be longer)