Chapter 1
1999 - Somewhere in Russia
The little girl lay in her bed, her small body curled under the warmth of the covers. Her mother tucked her in gently, brushing the dark brown hair behind her ear. Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.
"Goodnight, malen'kiy odin," she whispered, her voice soft, a smile at the corners of her lips. (Little one)
The little girl closed her eyes, her arms clutching her stuffed monkey tightly as she turned her head, snuggling deeper into the blankets.
For a moment, the room was quiet, the only sound the hum of the city outside. A rumble of distant vehicles echoed through the empty streets, breaking the stillness. Her mother's smile faltered. She turned sharply toward the door, her expression hardening.
The sound of a gunshot shattered the silence, cutting through the night air. The girl shot up in bed, her hands clamped over her ears as the loud noise rang in her mind.
Her small feet hit the floor with a soft thud, panic seizing her as she rushed toward her mother. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw her mother lying motionless on the floor, blood staining beneath her. Tears blurred the girls vision as she shook her mother's body, desperate for any sign of life.
"Mama?" she whispered, her voice barely a breath. But there was no response, only the stillness of the room, and the sound of the little girls sobs.
A man's large figure stepped into view, his presence towering over the small girl. His unfeeling eyes looked down at her as he adjusted his glasses.
"Kak tebya zovut, ditya?" he asked, his voice cold, detached. (What is your name, child?)
Her voice trembled, the words barely escaping her lips. "Anya... Anya Rostova."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile flickered across his face. He nodded and extended a hand toward her.
Anya hesitated. She glanced back at her mother, still hoping for some sign, a movement of one finger. But there was nothing. Her small hand reached up, trembling, wiping away the blood that clung to her body, before she took the man's hand.
The man led her toward a row of vehicles parked just outside. She stumbled on the uneven ground, her feet unsteady as the chaos of the moment clouded her mind. She had no idea where she was going, or what she had agreed to. All she knew was that she had lost everything, and in the silence that followed, she was left with only the man's cold grip and the scared emotions filling her mind.
—
When Anya arrived at the Red Room, it didn't take long for her to realize the mistake she had made. She had been so naive, believing that her situation could be different. But it was already too late. She was trapped.
The first two weeks were a blur of confusion, pain, and terror. She was thrown into a small, cold cell, her only clothing a thin, threadbare undergarment. The days felt like an eternity as she was starved and left in the dark, her bladder painfully full, yet no one came to offer her relief. Her body ached from hunger, from the strain of her mind and body being pushed to their limits.
When she wasn't locked in the cell, she was dragged to the, clinical training rooms. There, she was forced to sit with the other girls, none of them older than herself, all of them terrified. They sat in silence, eyes downcast, as they were drilled in six different languages—languages that meant nothing to a young girl who had just lost everything.
On the fifth night, the worst of the nightmares began to take shape. As Anya huddled in the corner of her cell, her back against the cold stone, she overheard a conversation from outside the door. Two men, speaking in hushed tones, too low for her to fully understand.
A moment later, the door to her cell opened. The same man who had brought her here, the one with the cold eyes and sharp voice, stood in the doorway. He looked at her for a moment, his eyes scanning her trembling, half-naked body as she shrank away from him. Without a word, he gestured to another man standing behind him.
"Ona podoydet." He spoke, his voice flat and emotionless. (She will do.)
Two guards entered the room without hesitation, their hands rough and unyielding as they seized her small body. She kicked and thrashed, desperate to escape, but their grip was like iron. They dragged her down the hall, her heart racing, panic rising in her throat. She didn't know where they were taking her, but the fear in her chest told her it wouldn't be good.
Hours later, she was thrust into another facility, cold and unfamiliar. They strapped her into a heavy, thick concrete chair, her arms and legs immobilized. The restraints cut into her skin, the cold metal pressing into her muscles, making it harder to breathe. She fought against the straps, her body shaking uncontrollably as she screamed for help that would never come.
The man who entered next looked like a scientist, his lab coat stark white against the grayness of the room. He held two vials of glowing blue liquid in his hand, his gaze calculating and indifferent. Anya's heart raced as she saw the syringe, her body instinctively recoiling in fear. She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound, the guard beside her slapped her hard across the face. The sting was sharp, but the terror was worse.
The scientist stepped closer, his gaze fixed on her with an unsettling intensity. He didn't flinch as she trembled, her eyes wide with fear. The syringe hovered over her arm, and despite her desperate attempts to pull away, the needle sank into her skin.
The moment the liquid entered her veins, Anya felt a rush of cold, followed by an intense wave of warmth that seemed to spread like fire through her body. The pressure built quickly, unbearably, until it became excruciating. Pain exploded across her senses—like nothing she had ever felt before. She screamed, her voice hoarse and raw, but before she could utter another word, she was struck again, the force of the punch rattling her skull.
Her vision blurred, darkness creeping in around the edges. She could feel her consciousness slipping away, but her mind was still wide awake, full of terror. In those final moments before everything went black, she heard the scientist's voice, distant but clear.
"She isn't dead yet... interesting."
And then, everything went dark.
—
The next few years of Anya's life were nothing short of brutal. Torn between the grasp of the Red Room and of HYDRA, she was caught in a relentless cycle of manipulation, training, and control. HYDRA, intrigued by her potential, saw Anya as the perfect candidate for their Super Soldier program. Her enhanced physical abilities, combined with the mental conditioning she'd undergone, made her an ideal subject to further their ambitions of global domination. The Red Room, however, was equally determined to shape her into one of their elite Widows, believing she could be their ultimate weapon. They saw her as a tool to be honed, both for assassination and for their greater cause.
The two organizations, struck an agreement—where Anya would be traded back and forth between them. Every two years, the Red Room would release her into HYDRA's custody, and HYDRA would return her when the time came. This alternating custody was intended to maximize her potential as both a weapon and a living experiment.
By the time Anya turned eighteen, she was in the world of HYDRA, her mind and body battered and broken. Her first year in their hands was grueling. Every moment was spent enduring tests, training, and brutal conditioning. They pushed her to her limits and beyond, subjecting her to the cruelest forms of torture in order to break her spirit. But in the midst of this darkness, she met Wanda Maximoff.
Wanda, too, was a victim of the horrors around them. Wanda explained how she volunteered at first but didn't realize what she was getting herself into and Anya explained that she took his hand the night her mother died and it was the worst mistake she had ever made.
Despite their shared trauma, there was a connection between them that neither of them could quite explain. It was subtle at first—an unspoken understanding, a brief glance that spoke volumes. But over time, it grew into something deeper. They found solace in each other's presence, a fleeting sense of warmth in the cold, calculated world they inhabited. Anya had never known love—not truly but with Wanda, she began to feel something she had long thought impossible. Wanda made her feel safe, something Anya hadn't felt in years, and for the first time, she thought maybe there could be something more than the life she was being forced into.
One night, the dim light from the single bulb above flickered slightly, casting long shadows across the cold walls of their shared cell. Anya sat cross-legged on the concrete floor, her back against the wall, her arms wrapped around her knees. Across from her, Wanda sat on the narrow cot, her hands folded in her lap as she stared at the ground, lost in her thoughts. The air between them was thick with silence, but it wasn't the oppressive kind that made their breaths feel too heavy, it was the kind that only seemed to deepen when they were together.
Wanda broke it first, her Sokovian accent thick and soft as she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever think about what life would be like... if we weren't here?"
Anya's gaze flicked to her, but she didn't answer immediately. The thought of what life could be like outside this place felt so distant, almost impossible to grasp. But she couldn't say that to Wanda—not when the girl's voice was so filled with longing, with something that felt like hope. Instead, Anya gave a slight nod, her Russian accent more subdued than usual. "Maybe," she said quietly. "But it's hard to think about things like that here."
Wanda looked up, her eyes meeting Anya's for a brief moment. There was something gentle in her expression, something that made Anya's chest tighten without explanation. Wanda always had a way of making things feel less lonely, even when the world was at its darkest. "I know," she replied, her voice softening, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "But I like talking to you. Even if it's just small things."
Anya didn't reply right away, her gaze returning to the floor. She wasn't sure what to say. Small talk had never come easily to her, especially in a place like this. But Wanda needed it. And for once, Anya didn't mind indulging her.
She let the silence stretch for a moment, allowing Wanda to fill it. "Do you remember the last time we were outside? Before... everything?" Wanda's voice was distant now, like she was trying to grasp at something long gone.
Anya nodded slowly, her thoughts flickering to memories she didn't want to dwell on. "I remember," she said softly. "The sky was clear. The air was warm." Which was all she said, she remembers being transferred between facilities—she remembers the clear sky and the warm air, and that's all she wants to remember.
Wanda smiled at that, a real, genuine smile. "I miss that. Maybe one day we'll find a place like that again." Her voice was hopeful, and Anya, despite herself, couldn't help but soften at the sound of it. She didn't answer, but she didn't need to. Wanda knew she was listening.
"Maybe," Anya said after a while, her voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe one day."
A year later, during a mission, Wanda was called away and left Anya behind. It was then that the Red Room took full control. They informed Anya, coldly and without remorse, that Wanda had died on the mission. Their words were a lie, one that Anya believed without question. Her heart shattered in an instant, the pain of losing Wanda cutting deeper than anything she had experienced before. The grief left her raw, a wound that wouldn't heal, but instead, festered into something darker.
With Wanda gone, Anya's resolve hardened. The loss made her more dangerous, more ruthless. The Red Room capitalized on her pain, using it to further mold her into the perfect assassin. They subjected her to brutal mind control experiments, stripping away her memories and reprogramming her mind until all that remained was her obedience, her training, and her orders. The person she once was, Anya, the girl who had found love in Wanda—became nothing more than a distant memory, erased by the cruel hands of those who controlled her.
For years later, she was nothing but a weapon, emotionless, cold, and obedient. Her every action was driven by commands she could not question. She fought with an unfeeling precision that had been drilled into her, a flawless machine of destruction, incapable of empathy or mercy. She became the embodiment of everything the Red Room wanted, a Widow who was untouchable, unstoppable.