Power, Aryan had learned through the brutal calculus of his previous life, was a force best exercised from the shadows. The man who wielded the sword drew the eye and the arrow, The man who owned the forge controlled the war without ever donning armor.
In the sanctuary of his private study, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old paper and the ozone tang of high end electronics. Aryan sat before a bank of monitors, his face bathed in the sterile blue glow of a satellite uplink.
Through the digital tendrils of the connections he was nurturing in the city's underbelly, he had pinpointed Wanda Maximoff. She was a ghost haunting an abandoned residential block on the outskirts of Sokovia. A half-collapsed brutalist monument to a war the rest of the world had chosen to forget.
He had hired a private extraction team, former SAS operators who had traded their queen and country for the highest bidder. They understood that a contract of this magnitude came with a non negotiable clause: total invisibility.
"Visual confirmed," the team leader's voice crackled in Aryan's earpiece, the sound distorted by encryption and distance.
On the central monitor, the grainy green-and-black feed resolved into a hallway choked with debris. "Two targets. Minimal movement."
"Proceed," Aryan commanded, his voice low in the quiet room. "No violence unless unavoidable."
On the screen, the door to apartment 4B gave way with a soft hiss.
Inside the dust-choked room, the reaction was instantaneous. Wanda flinched with the brittle reflexes of the traumatized. She stepped back, her eyes wide and dark. Pietro moved first. He stepped in front of her with fists clenched, his posture screaming defiance despite his emaciated frame.
"Who are you?" Pietro demanded.
The lead operator raised a palm open, a universal gesture of restraint. "Easy. We aren't here to hurt you."
Pietro's eyes flicked over the tactical gear, searching for a flag, a unit patch, or anything to identify the threat. "Then why are you here?"
"Someone with a lot of resources sent us," the operator replied.
"Who?"
"Your sister knows," the man said, his helmet angling slightly toward the girl in the shadows.
Pietro turned to his sister, his brow furrowing in confusion. "Wanda?"
"I told you," she whispered, her voice trembling, barely audible over the audio feed. "Someone contacted me. Offered us a job. A place to breathe. I... I didn't know he would send people like this."
"You should have told me everything," Pietro hissed, but the tension in his shoulders dropped a fraction. He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw the desperate hope warring with her fear.
Outside the building, the dry staccato of automatic gunfire echoed through the feed.
The operator checked his wrist display. "We have movement two blocks east. You've got three minutes before this block becomes a battlefield."
Wanda looked at Pietro. In the grey lit ruins of their life, a silent conversation passed between them, a pact made in the language of twins who had survived the end of their world. She nodded.
"Good," the operator said, signaling his team. "Stay close. And don't do anything... explosive."
That evening, the heavy iron gates of the Spencer estate in upstate New York ground open, their hinges singing a metallic note that echoed through the trees. A black sedan rolled through, its headlights cutting across the gravel driveway like twin blades severing the darkness.
Aryan stood on the porch, the evening air cool and damp against his face. He watched the car approach, feeling the pieces of his board moving into alignment.
The car stopped. The rear door opened.
Wanda stepped out first. She looked small against the backdrop of the sprawling mansion, her eyes wide with the wonder of someone who had only known the monochrome grey of concrete and ash for too long. Pietro followed instantly, his movement twitchy, his gaze sweeping the perimeter, measuring exits, calculating sightlines, and weighing threats. He was a survivor, carved from paranoia.
Aryan stepped forward into the pool of light cast by the porch lamps. "Welcome," he said, his voice calm.
Pietro immediately shifted, placing himself between Aryan and Wanda. "And you are?"
"Aryan Spencer."
Aryan offered his hand. Pietro didn't take it. Aryan didn't expect him to.
Wanda looked at him then, her head tilting slightly as her eyes narrowed. She could feel that strange sensation again, a deep sense of familiarity that had been there from the very first time they met. It was a persistent humming in the back of her mind, a connection she couldn't quite place but couldn't ignore either.
"Have we met before?" she asked, her voice hushed.
Aryan smiled faintly, a ghost of an expression. "Not in this world."
Beside her, Pietro stiffened, looking between them like he was watching a card trick he didn't understand. "What are you talking about?"
Wanda didn't answer him. She was looking at Aryan, the sense of familiarity from before now fully confirmed. "You're... younger than I expected."
"I get that a lot," Aryan replied dryly.
He gestured toward the massive oak doors. "Come. It's cold."
As they walked toward the house, Pietro's suspicion finally boiled over. He stopped, grabbing Wanda's arm gently to halt her. "How do you know my sister?" he demanded, staring Aryan down.
Aryan slipped his hands into his pockets, maintaining a casual posture. He had prepared for this. "We met online. Strategy games. Civ, mostly. She's surprisingly good at anticipating a global move before it's even made."
Wanda blinked, surprised, then caught the imperceptible shift in Aryan's gaze. Play along.
"Yes," she said, her voice finding its footing, though her cheeks colored slightly. "We... we played together. Late at night."
Pietro looked between us, his jaw set, trying to process the absurdity of it. "You flew us across the world... because of a video game?"
"Because I take my friends seriously, Pietro," Aryan said, meeting his gaze with same level of intensity. "And because talent is a resource I refuse to see wasted in a war zone."
That shut him up, at least for the moment. The logic was strange, but to a desperate mind, it offered a lifeline.
Inside, the mansion was a temple of golden light and polished mahogany. The air smelled of beeswax and expensive silence. Pietro looked around, his eyes widening despite his attempt to remain stoic.
"Is all of this yours?" he muttered under his breath.
"It is," Aryan said. "And you can stay here as long as you need. Your safety is guaranteed within these walls. But there is a price."
Pietro's posture sharpened instantly, the coil winding tight again. "I knew it. Nothing is free. What is the price?"
"You will work for me," Aryan said, turning to face them. "Umbrella is expanding. I need people I can trust. I need loyalty, and I am willing to buy it with safety."
He looked at Wanda. "For you, Wanda, you will start as an assistant in operations. You will learn finance, logistics, and how the world is actually moved."
"I have no experience," she whispered, looking down at her worn boots on the expensive rug.
"You observe better than you think," Aryan replied. He turned his gaze to the brother. "And you, Pietro... you will be the head of my internal security."
Pietro blinked. "Security?"
"You are alert," Aryan listed, ticking the traits off. "You are protective. You are paranoid. And you don't trust anyone. Those are the qualities I value in a shield."
Pietro scoffed, a bitter sound. "You don't even know what I can do."
"I know enough," Aryan said, his voice becoming absolute. "If you say no, the gates are open. You leave with no debt, and you take your chances in New York. If you stay, you'll be paid well, you will be protected, and your sister will never have to worry about a leaking roof or a falling bomb again."
Pietro looked at Wanda. He saw the hope in her eyes, the first genuine spark of light he had seen there in years. He saw the warmth of the hallway, the safety of the thick walls. He exhaled, a long breath, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.
"I want to stay," Wanda said firmly, stepping closer to Aryan.
Pietro looked back at Aryan, extending a hand this time. His grip was like iron. "Fine. We stay. But if you ever put her in danger..."
"I look like a man who plans ahead, Pietro," Aryan said, taking the hand. His own grip was immovable. "Danger is something I account for."
As they followed the staff to their quarters, Aryan stood alone in the hall, the curated silence of the mansion returning. He watched them go, a faint smile touching his lips.