Natasha Romanoff hated blanks.
Files with redactions annoyed her. Missing footage irritated her. But people who left nothing at all behind?
Those made her uneasy.
She stood alone in a SHIELD analysis room, lights dimmed, screens hovering in front of her. Satellite feeds, traffic cameras, financial databases—she'd pulled everything she was allowed to without raising flags.
And found nothing.
"No birth records. No school records. No passports," she murmured. "Not even a bad fake."
She leaned back, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the empty profile.
People didn't just start existing.
Unless they came from somewhere they weren't supposed to.
Natasha tagged the file for restricted monitoring, then paused. After a second's thought, she removed the automated alert that would've escalated it to a full task force.
Not yet.
If he was dangerous, he would surface again.
If he wasn't… dragging too many eyes onto him could make him one.
She closed the screens and grabbed her jacket.
Time for a closer look.
He realized he was being watched again around noon.
Not because of footsteps or cameras—those were easy. It was the pattern that felt wrong. The way people crossed the street a second too late. The way reflections lingered just long enough to be noticed.
Professional surveillance.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
He ducked into a crowded café, ordered something he barely tasted, and took a seat near the back. His leg bounced under the table despite his effort to stay calm.
Okay. Think like a normal person, he told himself.
Normal people don't vanish into smoke.
The shadows stirred at the edge of his vision, eager in that unsettling way they had. He ignored them.
No powers.
No disappearing acts.
Just… existing.
Through the glass, he caught sight of her reflection.
Red hair. Casual clothes. Posture relaxed enough to fool anyone who didn't know better.
Of course it's you, he thought.
Natasha Romanoff didn't sit across from him. Didn't confront him. Didn't even look directly at him.
She ordered coffee two tables away and waited.
Minutes passed.
He hated how normal it felt.
Finally, he stood, walked past her table, and stopped.
"You're subtle," he said quietly. "But not invisible."
Natasha looked up, expression mildly surprised—perfectly acted.
"Sorry," she replied. "Do I know you?"
"No," he said. "But you're trying to."
A beat.
Then she smiled—small, polite, and entirely fake. "That's a serious accusation."
"Then stop following me," he said just as calmly.
She studied him now. Really looked.
No hostility.
No confidence surge.
Just a guy standing his ground because backing down felt worse.
"Sit," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her. Not a command. An invitation.
He hesitated.
Then sat.
"This is the part where I ask who you are," Natasha said lightly, stirring her coffee.
"And this is the part where I don't have a good answer," he replied.
She raised an eyebrow. "Everyone has an answer."
"Not this one."
Silence stretched—not awkward, just careful.
"You're not trained," she said finally.
He blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You don't move like someone who learned this from an agency," she continued. "Your awareness is inconsistent. Sometimes excellent. Sometimes… human."
That earned a quiet, humorless laugh. "Trust me," he said, "I feel very human right now."
Natasha watched him over the rim of her cup.
"You disappeared after our last meeting," she said. "Most people who can do that don't come back into public."
"I didn't know where else to go."
That was the truth.
It landed harder than he expected.
She didn't push. Didn't pry.
Instead, she nodded once. "If you're lying, you're doing it badly."
"Yeah," he said. "I've had a rough week."
That almost made her smile.
When they parted ways, there were no deals. No threats. No promises.
Just an understanding.
She would keep watching.
He wouldn't run—yet.
As Natasha walked away, she made a quiet note to herself.
He's not a threat.
He's a variable.
And variables, she knew better than anyone, could change everything.
Across the street, he exhaled slowly, only realizing then how tense his shoulders had been.
"She's dangerous," he whispered.
The shadows shifted in agreement.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the fear and confusion, another realization settled in—quiet, undeniable.
His life was no longer his alone.
And sooner or later, hiding wouldn't be enough.