Timeline: One week before Tony Stark's "Jericho" missile demonstration in Afghanistan
The world was moving fast. Too fast.
Weapons, contracts, conflicts beneath speeches of peace.
And at the top of it all: Stark Industries — arrogant and radiant, lighting up the world with missiles and holograms.
But in the shadows, just a few blocks from one of their New York labs,
a boy from another world slept in a bed too small for his soul.
Naruto had rooted himself into this world like a sprout breaking through concrete.
Silently.
He observed. He adapted. And in that narrow room where two broken souls tried to relearn trust, something began to grow.
Something gentle.
Something slow.
Something real.
It was a Tuesday.
Tony Stark was expected at HQ. She'd gotten a quick call from Coulson.
— "Romanoff, remain on surveillance. No contact with Stark, but track Raza's movements in California. We suspect a subcontracted arms deal."
She'd hung up without replying. Routine.
And yet, that day, when she returned to the apartment…
Naruto was waiting with two bowls of soup he'd improvised — and a look she could no longer ignore.
— "Rough day?" he asked simply.
— "Standard. Stark sells war. The world cheers. And I make shadows on the walls."
He smiled faintly.
— "You don't like the man?"
— "He's brilliant. But empty."
— "I know another guy like that."
She raised an eyebrow.
— "You?"
— "Maybe."
They ate in silence for a while.
Then she set down her chopsticks.
— "You know Stark's leaving for Afghanistan in a few days?"
Naruto shrugged.
— "So what?"
— "So… this world's unstable. And you — you appeared out of nowhere. And I'm starting to think it wasn't random."
A pause.
Then Naruto slowly looked up at her.
— "You think I'm a threat?"
— "I think you're… a catalyst."
He leaned forward.
— "And you? What do you want me to become?"
She held his gaze.
— "Me? I want you to stay."
That night, she finally told him about the Red Room.
The program.
The cold. The screaming. The surgical steel. The loss.
And what they had stolen: her choice.
Naruto listened without a word.
Then, slowly, he knelt.
And placed his hand on her lower abdomen.
His chakra rose — soft, slow, luminous.
The delicate roots of Mokuton danced beneath the skin.
And a spark awakened where nothing had stirred in years.
— "Your body remembers," he whispered.
— "Do you really think… it's possible?"
— "I think if anyone in this world can restore that… it's us."
In that room, there was no longer a ninja. No longer a spy.
Just two people the world had broken.
And who were now holding on to each other.