In the meeting hall of Morgan Manor
Natasha and Hawkeye knelt on the smooth marble floor, bound tightly. The biting cold seeped through their knees and spread through their bodies.
Their hearts felt as though they'd plunged into an ice cellar—despair thick and suffocating.
Before them, a strikingly handsome young man lounged lazily on a plush sofa.
His head rested on Tifa's smooth, pale thighs, while beside him, 2B stood tall, holding a bowl of grapes.
One by one, she peeled the fruit and fed them into his mouth. It was the kind of indulgent luxury befitting a god.
And this young man was none other than Loren Morgan—the sole heir to the Morgan family fortune.
Natasha and Barton had studied Loren extensively before this encounter.
Yet seeing him in person still shocked them—his youthfulness and extraordinary looks were almost disarming.
They couldn't believe the same person who had executed Pierce before their very eyes just a month ago was this boyish figure lounging before them!
So young.
Others his age were still in high school or starting college.
Yet he'd stormed the World Security Council—an international stronghold—and taken a life without hesitation.
If they hadn't witnessed it themselves, they wouldn't have believed it, no matter how hard they were pressed.
It was a stark reminder: some people were simply born on a different plane.
"Eyes down, vixen," 2B warned sharply, noticing Natasha's lingering gaze on Loren's face. "Keep staring at my boss, and I'll pluck those eyes right out."
Tifa, still serving as Loren's human pillow, offered a gentle smile.
"Sister 2B, don't be so harsh! The boss is young, wealthy, and undeniably handsome—it's only natural for women to admire him. A second glance won't hurt anyone."
She peeled another grape and placed it delicately between Loren's lips. "Besides, no one could ever replace your place in his heart. Isn't that right, Boss?"
Loren chuckled softly. "She's got a point, 2B. You should take a page from Tifa's book."
2B's expression softened instantly. "You're right, Boss. Sister Tifa's wisdom is clear. I'll work on it."
Hearing this exchange, Natasha and Barton—still kneeling, still bound—could only exchange silent, incredulous glances.
These two women played their roles with such practiced harmony, it felt like watching a scene from an imperial harem drama.
And Loren, basking in their devotion, only fueled their frustration.
To them, he was the epitome of a spoiled, reckless youth—either committing cold-blooded assassinations or shamelessly indulging in hedonistic displays with women at his side.
This wasn't how a young man of consequence should carry himself!
Just as their disdain reached its peak, Loren rose smoothly to his feet and sauntered toward them.
"I gave you both a chance," he said coolly, stopping before them. "We could've stayed out of each other's way. So why did you insist on crossing me?"
He crouched in front of Natasha and lifted her chin with two fingers, his touch laced with mockery.
"Do you think your life's been hard? Or that your moral posturing makes you noble?"
"What are you talking about?" Natasha snapped, her brow furrowed. "Good at pretending? Pretending what?"
"You'll figure it out," he said with a faint smirk. "Honestly, I considered killing you outright.
But people like you? You're ants. Your lives—or deaths—barely register to me.
So instead of wasting you, I'll make you useful."
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves.
"Here's what's going to happen: You have two hours to call your black-hearted director and tell him to bring twenty kilograms of vibranium to secure your release.
Fail to deliver, and you'll regret it.
First, I'll geld the man." He glanced at Barton. "Then I'll kill him.
As for you, Natasha…" He let the threat hang, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Well… use your imagination."
Loren hooked Natasha's chin with a wicked smile, his eyes sharp and unnervingly intense.
This made Natasha uneasy.
If anyone else had done that, she would have sneered and dismissed it as arrogance.
But when Loren did it, she couldn't help but take him seriously.
After all, the young man before her had already built a fearsome reputation—rumors swirled about how many enemies he'd eliminated, though no one knew the true number.
At such a young age, he'd already lived a life of excess, surrounded by admirers and danger alike.
In that context, it was entirely plausible he might do something even more audacious.
And yet… when she imagined what might happen if this dangerously handsome man truly turned his full attention on her—
she found, to her own surprise, that she wasn't entirely opposed to the idea.
After all, there was an old saying: "A spirited horse thrives under a strong hand."
As that thought crossed her mind, the wildness in her nature flickered to life, and a faint hint of anticipation showed in her eyes.
"Wait—what's that look for?" Loren's voice cut through her thoughts, his smirk widening. "You vixen… are you actually enjoying this?"
Natasha didn't flinch. Her eyes sparkled with defiance, not fear.
2B, who had been standing silently to the side, bristled instantly. She strode forward, irritation flashing across her face, and slapped Natasha sharply.
"Witch! Are you out of your mind?" 2B snapped.
"Why are you hitting me?" Natasha shot back, rubbing her cheek. "It's your boss who's got the dangerous ideas!
I'm a prisoner here—what am I supposed to do if he decides to go rogue?
If I can't fight back, I might as well keep my dignity… and maybe even enjoy the show."
She spoke with calm audacity, unshaken by the slap.
Loren, who had been crouched nearby, straightened slowly, utterly speechless.
This woman… is something else.
"Boss," Tifa said, stepping closer to Loren with a curious tilt of her head, "are you really going to treat her like some kind of wild beast?"
Loren chuckled awkwardly and waved a hand. "Of course not! She's just reading too much into things."
"You pervert!" Natasha retorted. "You're twisting my words!"
Slap!
Tifa struck her again before she could finish—this time with enough force to leave Natasha momentarily stunned.
"Don't you dare insult our boss," Tifa warned coldly. "Now make the call. Now."
"!!!!"
Inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. secret base, Nick Fury stared at Agent Coulson with a grim expression.
"What do you mean, both Natasha and Barton were captured—by each other?"
"Yes, sir," Coulson replied. "Natasha was taken before she even reached the manor gates. Barton, stationed two kilometers away, was intercepted moments later."
"Damn it," Fury growled. "Is that confirmed? Did you get eyes on the silver-haired woman?"
"It's confirmed. She's the one who took them down.
And there was another woman—equally formidable. That's what Agent Barton reported just before he lost contact."
"Two women?"
"Yes."
Fury's eyes narrowed. "Just how many elite operatives are holed up in that Morgan Manor?!"
As he absorbed the implications, the secure hotline on his desk suddenly rang.
He picked it up—and Natasha's voice crackled through the line.