Agent Romanoff drew her pistol from behind her back and rolled into position beside the door, crouching low. Before the enemy who burst into the room could react, she launched into a high kick with stunning flexibility, knocking the handgun from his grip, and followed up with a vicious heel strike to his jaw. In the blink of an eye, she coiled around him like a venomous serpent, slamming him to the floor.
She drove the base of her palm into his neck, inflicting a wave of sharp pain, then pinned him with a grappling hold, attempting to choke him unconscious. But even after the crushing blow to his windpipe, the man refused to give in. His face flushed red as he hissed shallow breaths, his free hand slapping the floor wildly. Out of the corner of her eye, Romanoff spotted a small knife sliding from his sleeve—he was reaching for it.
"Don't move if you want to live," she growled, aiming her gun at the man pinned beneath her.
But he wasn't giving up. He kept reaching for the blade strapped to his wrist. With her left leg still pinning his right arm, Romanoff stomped down on his other wrist with her boot and smashed her magazine into his forehead. As expected, she found no ID or personal effects—this was a black operation. Someone wanted this man silenced.
"This place is even more crowded than I thought," she muttered through clenched teeth.
Wasting no time, she climbed off the unconscious assassin and risked peeking out the window, fully aware she might be exposing herself to another sniper.
The smoke in the Winter Soldier's apartment corridor had dissipated, but neither he nor the fake couple posing as assassins were anywhere in sight. Even the "mover" who had been shot had disappeared. The building across the street, where the sniper had taken the shot, showed only shattered glass and a white curtain fluttering in the breeze—no signs of activity or clues. After quickly scouting, she retreated and moved through the hallway toward the stairs.
As she approached the motel's front entrance, she slowed her pace, holstered her pistol, and blended seamlessly with the panicked guests pouring out of the building—disappearing into the crowd like a drop of water vanishing into the sea.
"You're late, Natasha," Steve Rogers said, holding a cup of coffee and looking exasperated. "You were supposed to be here before any of us."
"Women need time to do their makeup," Natasha Romanoff replied dismissively, offering a lazy excuse.
She had changed clothes at the safehouse. By the time she boarded a plane to Romania, not a soul could tell she'd been in a firefight three hours earlier. Not a scratch. She said nothing about the Winter Soldier. She knew perfectly well that was what Steve truly wanted to know—this had been her only lead in two weeks. Claiming she had no resentment over the mission's failure would've been a lie, but she also understood something else: someone else was hunting the Winter Soldier, someone even more secretive, more powerful. If the information he held fell into the wrong hands, the Avengers would face civil war.
She had no choice but to handle it herself.
After giving the standard pre-mission debrief, she shot a glance at the Maximoff twins sitting on the Quinjet's loading ramp and then raised an eyebrow at Rogers in silent inquiry.
"They had a little... disagreement," Rogers replied, rubbing his temples. "I was waiting for you to help smooth things over."
Romanoff rolled her eyes. "The Avengers should be renamed 'Natasha Romanoff and Her Useless Boys.'" She patted his shoulder. "Step aside, big guy—Mom's here."
A small black kitten gently batted at the silver threads inside the magic mirror with its tiny claws. A moment later, instinct overpowered duty, and the kitten's paw flicked wildly as it tried to shake off imaginary water droplets, then began licking itself. Solomon moved the mirror aside to keep Bast's feline avatar from messing up the spell. One minute earlier, this small, deceptively cute kitten—who had the strength of a full-grown cat—had knocked an ink bottle, a glass cup, and a fountain pen off the desk. Glass shattered on the floor, but Solomon didn't flinch; he remained focused, guiding the assassins through the mirror's display. His blood pressure was through the roof.
"I'm working," he growled.
"I can't help it! I'm just a cat!" Bast replied in a muffled voice. "Cats do this stuff! I didn't mean anything by it!"
"If you break one more glass, I'm locking you in a cage." Solomon grabbed the kitten by the scruff of its neck, lifting the fluffy black ball of chaos until their eyes met—his cold and furious, hers a divine golden not found in ordinary felines. "I've already passed the documents to the Winter Soldier through a believable channel. I don't want your so-called protection for the Wakandan King interfering with his mission. Remember our agreement: I'll give you more faith energy—an entire tribal nation's worth—but you have to help me swallow Wakanda's industrial base."
"I knooow\~" the kitten whined, pawing at the air in protest, clearly displeased by the sorcerer's threat.
It was hard to believe such a warm, fluffy scene concealed such bloodstained conspiracy. To manipulate the Winter Soldier into the right position without making him suspicious, Solomon had forcibly taken control of several assassins' minds. Sacrificing most of them, he had eliminated the rival team hunting Bucky and planted a confidential file among their "spoils," allowing the Winter Soldier to discover it himself. It was Solomon's first time using mind control to execute a plan. The novelty was… interesting. Although these mercenaries were expendable pawns, he valued every piece on the board. If Bast failed him, she wouldn't get off so easily next time.
Besides, he was still holding another contender for the Wakandan throne—one who required careful grooming.
Solomon let out a cold chuckle as he pulled a pair of LED-lit clippers from his drawer. Despite Bast's protests and yowls of pain, Solomon trimmed her claws down to blunt stubs, just like he did with the Cheshire Cat. Even when her sharp teeth bit into the skin of his hand, he didn't let go.
After the impromptu grooming session, he casually tossed the little black kitten onto the office couch as if nothing had happened.
The kitten pouted, sulking as she scratched her dulled claws against the fabric like a traumatized diva. But a moment later, she seemed to forget all about Solomon's disciplinary measures—lying lazily on her side as though nothing had occurred.
"I can give you something extra," she offered, her golden eyes gleaming. "You know I have magic that improves… romantic harmony. It's not part of our agreement, but I can give it to you. After all, you have two lovers—you could probably use the help."
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