Chapter 3
Anya woke up quickly, her breath coming in fast, shallow bursts. The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting a soft, golden light that only made the tension in her body more palpable. She lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to gather her thoughts. But her mind was a whirlwind of confusion, panic, and regret. Every time she closed her eyes, the image of Dreykov's men came to her, and the realization that she was still being hunted gnawed at her. There was no escape. Dreykov would find her, eventually. He always did.
With a quiet groan, Anya swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet hitting the cold floor with a sharp thud. She rubbed her face, her hand shaking slightly, and exhaled slowly. There was nothing to do but wait. She was stuck here for now, and leaving wasn't an option. At least here, in this unfamiliar place, she could breathe for a while. She wasn't sure how much longer that would last, but she had to make the most of it.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Before she could react, it creaked open, and Natasha stepped inside, her eyes scanning the room quickly. Anya froze for a moment, but she quickly composed herself, yanking the makeshift tie from her wrist and sitting up straighter, her body rigid with tension. She wasn't about to show weakness, especially not to Natasha.
The knot fell to the floor, forgotten, as Anya gave Natasha a brief, unreadable glance. She kept her gaze focused on the door, avoiding Natasha's eyes.
"You're up," Natasha said, her voice calm, but there was an edge to it that made Anya wary. She stepped fully into the room, her eyes briefly flicking to the shirt on the floor before returning to Anya.
Anya clenched her jaw, her breath steady. She wasn't in the mood for any games. "I'm not running," she said softly, her voice sharp despite the calm tone she tried to maintain. "I know what Dreykov's capable of."
Natasha didn't miss a beat. "Good," she said, her eyes narrowing slightly as she walked further into the room. She surveyed the space, her gaze flicking over everything as if cataloging each detail. It was as if she was trying to read Anya, to understand her. "I just wanted to make sure you know you're not alone here."
Anya didn't respond. The words hung in the air, but they didn't reach her. She wasn't ready for that kind of connection. Her mind recoiled at the thought of being vulnerable, of letting someone in.
Natasha's voice broke through her thoughts again. "You don't have to talk about it. But I think it's important for you to know that you don't have to do this alone." She paused, studying Anya carefully. "I know what it's like to be in your shoes."
Anya clenched her fists, her jaw tightening as her chest tightened with emotions she refused to acknowledge. For a moment, Anya felt the pressure building in her chest, the walls closing in around her. But she refused to let herself crumble. She wouldn't.
"I know," Anya said, her voice a low growl, thick with the remnants of her Russian accent. She turned her face slightly, not meeting Natasha's eyes. "You don't have to say it."
Natasha's expression softened just the tiniest bit, but her gaze didn't waver. She wasn't going to let Anya off the hook so easily. "I've been there. I've fought my way out. You can, too."
Anya's hands gripped the edge of the bed, her fingers digging into the fabric as she forced herself to speak. "I know." Her voice was sharper than she intended, the frustration building again. She had no interest in sharing her pain, not with anyone, especially not with Natasha.
A long silence stretched between them, and Natasha watched her with a mixture of patience and quiet understanding. She didn't push, but there was something in the air, a pressure that made Anya's skin itch.
"You don't have to tell me everything," Natasha said finally, her voice soft but firm. "But at some point, you'll need to let it out. This... all of this, it can't be buried forever. You'll snap. Trust me."
Anya didn't respond to that, the words hanging in the air between them.
After a moment, Natasha sighed and moved toward the door. "Look, I'm not asking for you to spill your guts right now. But I think it's time to get moving. There's a training room downstairs. I can show you a few moves. You can teach me some, if you feel like it."
Anya raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "You want me to teach you?" she asked, her tone flat.
Natasha gave a small smirk, "I could use some new moves myself. Plus it could be a good way to pass the time."
Anya could use the distraction. The tension in her body, the knots in her muscles, were begging for some release.
"Fine," Anya muttered, her voice still cold but resigned. "Let's go."
She stood up slowly, brushing her shirt off the bed, and walked past Natasha without another word. She didn't look at Natasha's face, but she could feel her eyes on her, still studying, still probing. Anya didn't care. She had bigger things to focus on.
The hallways of the Avengers Campus stretched long and quiet, with the muted hum of distant machinery and the occasional flicker of fluorescent light above. Anya's boots barely made a sound against the tiled floor, a habit from years of training, while Natasha's softer footfalls followed behind her. The silence between them was thick. Natasha didn't push, though. She'd been around enough broken people to know when to hold her tongue. But that didn't stop her from studying Anya with those sharp, assessing eyes.
Anya felt Natasha's gaze boring into her back, but she didn't turn around. She didn't need to see it to know what Natasha was thinking. She was analyzing her, trying to figure her out—dissecting every movement, every slight tension in her shoulders, every pause in her step. Anya bit the inside of her cheek to keep from snapping. Let her look, she thought. It wouldn't do her any good.
When they reached the training room, Natasha flicked on the lights, revealing a spacious area lined with mats, weapons racks, and reinforced walls that had seen their share of impacts. Anya glanced around briefly, noting the setup. It was functional, efficient, nothing she hadn't seen before in Hydra or the Red Room. Just another box meant to sharpen tools like her.
"There are spare suits in the lockers," Natasha said, gesturing toward a small room off to the side. "Pick one that fits. I'll wait."
Anya didn't reply. She strode toward the locker room without hesitation, letting the door swing shut behind her. Inside, she found rows of neatly folded training suits, all in shades of black and dark gray, each marked with a size. She grabbed one that looked close enough and quickly changed, stripping down with practiced efficiency. The suit was snug but flexible, designed to allow maximum movement.
When she stepped back in the training room, Natasha was already stretching, rolling her shoulders and twisting her neck to loosen up. She glanced at Anya and gave an approving nod. "Ready?"
Anya stepped onto the mat, rolling her wrists and shaking out her arms. "Let's get this over with."
Natasha chuckled softly. "You've got such a way with enthusiasm."
They squared off, standing a few feet apart. Natasha adopted a relaxed stance, hands loose but ready, her weight balanced evenly between her feet. Anya, in contrast, stood still, almost unnervingly so. Her arms hung at her sides, her posture deceptively casual, but there was a sharpness in her eyes—a predator's focus.
"Rules?" Natasha asked, tilting her head.
"Don't hold back," Anya replied flatly.
Natasha's smirk widened. "Your funeral."
She moved first, closing the distance in a blur of motion. Anya barely flinched. Natasha feinted with a jab, then twisted into a low kick aimed at Anya's knee. It was a solid opening move, one designed to test an opponent's reactions. But Anya didn't react the way Natasha expected. Instead of dodging or blocking, she stepped into the attack, catching Natasha's leg with one hand and shoving her off balance. Natasha stumbled but recovered quickly, spinning away to reset her stance.
"Not bad," Natasha admitted, circling her. "Let's see what else you've got."
Anya didn't respond. She waited, her body eerily still, her eyes tracking Natasha's every movement. When Natasha darted in again, aiming a flurry of punches at her torso, Anya moved like water, weaving through the strikes with minimal effort. She countered with a lightning-fast jab of her own, aiming for Natasha's ribs. Natasha twisted away just in time.
"Okay," Natasha said, her tone shifting to something more serious. "You're good."
Anya's lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk. "I know."
Natasha pressed harder after that, testing Anya with a series of unpredictable attacks—kicks, elbows, grapples—but Anya adapted effortlessly. Her movements were sharp, efficient, and precise, honed by years of brutal training. She didn't waste a single motion, didn't give Natasha an inch more than she needed to.
The fight escalated, the sound of their strikes echoing through the room. Natasha aimed a high kick at Anya's head, only for Anya to duck and sweep her legs out from under her. Natasha hit the mat but rolled back to her feet in one fluid motion, launching herself at Anya again. They clashed, grappling briefly before breaking apart, both breathing harder now but still focused.
"You're holding back," Natasha said, wiping a bead of sweat from her brow.
Anya shrugged. "Maybe."
Natasha narrowed her eyes, her smirk returning. "Don't."
Something in Anya's expression shifted at that. Fine, she thought. If that's what you want. She moved first this time, closing the distance with a speed that caught Natasha off guard. Her enhanced reflexes and strength came into play now, her strikes faster and harder, her movements more aggressive. Natasha struggled to keep up, blocking and dodging as best she could, but Anya didn't stop.
She grabbed Natasha by the arm and twisted, forcing her to the ground in a painful joint lock. Natasha gritted her teeth, using her free hand to grab Anya's wrist and break the hold. She rolled away and sprang back to her feet, but Anya was already there, her fist coming down in a vicious arc. Natasha barely managed to deflect it, stumbling back a step.
"Damn," Natasha muttered, shaking out her stinging arm. "You really don't pull punches, do you?"
Anya didn't answer. She was breathing heavily now, her chest rising and falling, but her eyes were still cold, unreadable. Natasha straightened, raising her hands again.
"You're not just a Widow," Natasha said, her tone probing. "You're something more. Hydra?"
The question was casual, almost offhand, but Anya's expression darkened. She didn't reply, instead lunging at Natasha with renewed intensity. Natasha blocked the first strike but couldn't stop the follow-up—a brutal kick to the stomach that sent her staggering back. Anya pressed the advantage, her fists flying, her movements almost too fast to follow.
Natasha managed to catch one of Anya's punches, twisting her arm and using the momentum to throw her off balance. They went down together, grappling on the mat, each trying to gain the upper hand. Anya's strength gave her an edge, but Natasha's experience evened the playing field. They rolled, legs tangling, until Natasha managed to pin Anya's wrist to the mat.
"Hydra," Natasha said again, her voice softer now but insistent. "Red Room. Something else? You don't have to carry it alone."
Anya stared up at her, her breathing harsh, her eyes blazing with something that wasn't quite anger. For a moment, Natasha thought she might say something, but then Anya twisted her body and broke the hold, flipping Natasha onto her back. She stood up quickly, backing away and putting distance between them.
Eventually, Natasha stepped back, raising her hand in a gesture of pause. "Water break," she said, her voice a little breathless but steady. Beads of sweat clung to her brow, though her expression remained calm, composed. She wasn't out of practice—not by a long shot—but sparring with someone like Anya was no joke.
Anya gave a small nod but said nothing, her gaze shifting briefly to the punching bag in the corner of the room. Natasha walked over to the bench where she'd left her water bottle, uncapping it and taking a long drink. When she glanced back, she noticed Anya had moved to the punching bag, her focus now entirely on the inanimate target.
The bag swayed under the force of Anya's punches, each blow precise and powerful. She didn't hesitate, didn't falter, her rhythm relentless. Left. Right. A sharp knee to the center. Left again. Her movements were fluid yet calculated, as if each strike was meant to exorcise some demon clawing at her from the inside. Natasha watched her for a moment, her brow furrowing slightly.
"Take a break," Natasha offered lightly, though her tone carried an edge of concern. "You'll burn yourself out."
"I'm fine," Anya replied curtly, not pausing her assault on the bag. Her voice was clipped, almost mechanical, and it was clear she wasn't interested in continuing the conversation.
Natasha stayed in the training room longer than she'd planned, leaning against the wall as she sipped her water. She watched Anya methodically pummel the punching bag, the dull thwack of each hit echoing off the walls. There was a ferocity in Anya's movements. Natasha recognized it all too well—it was like watching her younger self, channeling pain and anger into something physical because words didn't come easily.
She let out a soft sigh, unsure if this was progress or just another layer of walls Anya had built around herself. Natasha wiped her brow and moved toward the exit, but paused as she heard faint footsteps approaching. She glanced toward the door just as Clint Barton walked past the small glass panel in the doorframe. He came to an abrupt stop, backtracking slightly to peer inside the room. His expression shifted from curious to puzzled as he caught sight of Anya.
Clint opened the door, stepping inside cautiously. He was carrying his bow, slung lazily over his shoulder, as if he'd just returned from practicing or scouting. His brows furrowed as he took in the scene—Anya, drenched in sweat and hitting the bag with unrelenting precision. She didn't even glance his way, her focus entirely on her movements.
"Uh, Nat?" Clint said, his tone light but carrying a thread of confusion. "Who's the girl?"
Natasha stepped forward, brushing past him as she grabbed her towel from the bench. "That's Anya," she said simply, keeping her tone neutral.
Clint blinked, glancing back at Anya before looking at Natasha. "Okay... and who exactly is Anya?"
Natasha didn't answer immediately. Instead, she motioned for Clint to follow her out of the room. "Come on," she said quietly, shutting the door behind them. Anya didn't even look up as they left.
Once they were in the hallway, Clint turned to her, his curiosity giving way to something more serious. "Alright, Nat. Who is she?"
Natasha leaned against the wall, crossing her arms as she regarded him. "Complicated," she admitted.
Clint frowned. "Complicated? That's not an answer. I know you. You don't just train with random people who walk in off the street. What's her deal?"
"She's a Widow," Natasha said finally, watching Clint's reaction carefully.
The effect was immediate. Clint's posture stiffened, and his expression darkened. "A Widow?" he repeated, his voice low. "You brought a Widow here?"
"She's not with Dreykov anymore," Natasha said quickly, holding up a hand to stop the inevitable barrage of questions. "She's trying to figure things out. She escaped, Clint."
Clint's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "And you believe her?"
"I do," Natasha said firmly, though she could hear the faintest waver in her own voice.
Clint let out a short, humorless laugh. "Nat, come on. You know better than anyone what the Red Room does to people. How they get inside your head. She could be playing you, setting you up. Hell, she might still be working for Dreykov."
"She's not," Natasha said sharply, her eyes flashing with intensity. "She's not like that."
"You don't know that," Clint countered. "She's a Widow. Trained to lie, manipulate, and kill. That's what they do, Nat."
"If she wanted me dead, I'd already be dead," Natasha shot back, stepping closer to him. "You saw her in there. You saw how skilled she is. If she was here to kill me, she wouldn't need to play games. She could've done it in the first ten minutes."
Clint stared at her, his expression hard to read. Finally, he crossed his arms, his voice dropping lower. "Or she's waiting for the right moment. You know how patient they can be."
Natasha exhaled slowly, forcing herself to stay calm. "I know how it looks," she said quietly. "But she's not brainwashed. She's been through hell, Clint. She's trying to get away from all of that."
"And you're just taking her word for it?" Clint asked, his voice skeptical. "I know you, Nat. You don't trust people that easily."
"It's not about trust," Natasha admitted. "It's about giving her a chance. Someone gave me a chance once, remember?"
Clint's expression softened slightly at that, but he still looked wary. "That was different," he said. "I saw something in you. I knew you weren't just another Widow."
"And I see something in her," Natasha said, her voice firm. "I know she's dangerous. I'm not blind. But I also know what it's like to be where she is—lost, angry, trying to make sense of everything you've done and everything you've been through. If someone hadn't pulled me out of that, I wouldn't be standing here right now."
Clint rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a long sigh. "I get it, Nat. I do. But you can't save everyone. And if you're wrong about her—"
"I'm not wrong," Natasha said, cutting him off. "And if I am, I'll deal with it. But she's not Dreykov's anymore, Clint. She's not his."
Clint was quiet for a long moment, his gaze searching hers. Finally, he nodded, though the tension in his shoulders didn't fully ease. "Just... be careful, alright? You've got a soft spot for lost causes, and I don't want to see you get hurt because of it."
Natasha smirked faintly, though her eyes remained serious. "I'll be fine. You worry too much."
Clint shook his head, chuckling softly despite himself. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep you out of trouble."
Natasha watched as he slung his bow over his shoulder again and started down the hall. Once he was out of sight, her smile faded, and she let out a quiet sigh.
Unbeknownst to Natasha, Anya had been standing just inside the training room, the door cracked open just enough to hear their conversation. Her heart clenched as Clint's words echoed in her mind.
"She's a Widow. She could be playing you. She's dangerous."
Anya's fists tightened at her sides, the familiar sting of anger and guilt bubbling to the surface. She knew Clint wasn't wrong. She was dangerous. And no matter how much she wanted to leave her past behind, she couldn't escape what she was—or what she'd been made into.
Taking a deep breath, Anya turned back to the punching bag. She threw herself into her training with renewed intensity, each strike harder and faster than the last.
Natasha pushed open the door to the training room, still mulling over her conversation with Clint. When she stepped inside, Anya had just landed a vicious punch to the heavy bag, her breaths coming in short, sharp bursts. She stopped when she noticed Natasha, brushing her sweat-soaked hair out of her face. Her expression immediately hardened.
"I'm done for the day," Anya muttered, turning toward her water bottle. She didn't make eye contact. "I'm going back to my room."
"Wait," Natasha said quickly, stepping forward. "I was going to grab some mats, help you practice punching against a moving target."
Anya shook her head, already picking up her bag. "No thanks. I think I'm good."
Natasha frowned, stepping into Anya's path. "You don't have to shut me out, you know. I'm trying to help you."
Anya froze for a moment, her eyes narrowing. "I didn't ask for your help," she said sharply, brushing past Natasha and heading for the door.
Natasha followed her into the hallway. "That's the problem, Anya. You never ask for anything. You think you can just keep everything bottled up and punch your way through it. But that's not how this works. You're here now. You're safe."
Anya whirled around, her eyes blazing. "Safe?" she spat, her voice rising. "You think I feel safe here? You think I'm supposed to just forget everything I've been through because you and your friends decided to 'save' me?"
Natasha's patience snapped. "No one's asking you to forget anything, Anya. But you're not doing yourself any favors by acting like you don't need anyone. I know what it's like to come out of that place, to feel like you're nothing but a weapon. But you're more than that."
"Don't pretend you understand me," Anya shot back, her voice cold. "You got out. You built a life. You had choices. I didn't. I was raised to believe Dreykov was the only thing keeping me alive, the only thing giving me purpose."
Natasha's expression softened slightly. "I know what he did to you—"
"You don't!" Anya yelled, her voice cracking. She took a step closer, her chest rising and falling as she fought to control her emotions. "You don't know what it's like to have your entire brain rewired—to wake up every day thinking the same man who was assaulting you, hurting you, was also the one who made you who you are. To be devoted to him because that's what they programmed you to feel. And to fight for him because you didn't know there was anything else!"
Natasha stared at her, stunned into silence. She opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. For the first time, she saw past Anya's anger and coldness, past the sharp edges she used to keep everyone at bay. What she saw was a woman who was terrified, who didn't know who she was or how to begin finding out.
Anya let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "You can't fix me, Natasha. I don't even know if I can fix me."
Natasha took a step closer, her voice soft but steady. "You don't have to do it alone."
Anya froze in her tracks, her shoulders tensing before she spun around to face Natasha, her voice sharp and biting. "Enough with the 'you're not alone' speech. I've heard it. I know that."
Her eyes burned with anger and something deeper—something raw and broken. "Maybe I want to do it alone," she continued, her voice dropping into a low, trembling growl. "Maybe that's the only way I know how. So stop trying to fix me, stop trying to save me."
Natasha's expression softened, but her frustration was evident. "I'm not trying to fix you, Anya. I'm trying to remind you that you don't have to keep punishing yourself for what they did to you."
Anya scoffed, her lips twisting into a bitter smirk. "And what if I deserve it? Did you ever think of that? That maybe I deserve to carry all this alone?"
"That's not true," Natasha said firmly, her voice rising just enough to cut through Anya's words.
Anya shook her head, laughing humorlessly. "You don't get it. You'll never get it."
Without waiting for a response, she turned sharply and walked away, her footsteps echoing angrily down the hallway.
"Anya—" Natasha called after her, but Anya didn't stop, didn't even look back.
She pushed open the door to the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest. Her vision blurred slightly as she blinked away the tears threatening to spill over. She was almost to her room when she saw a figure step into the hallway.
It was Wanda.
They both froze, their eyes locking for a moment. Wanda's expression was unreadable, a mix of curiosity, concern, and something else Anya couldn't place.
Anya's lips parted slightly as if she was about to say something, but she quickly closed them again. She turned away and continued walking, her footsteps echoing down the hall as Wanda watched her go.
Anya shut the door to her room harder than she intended. She stayed there, leaning against the wood, her breath shallow and uneven. The edges of the room felt like they were folding in on her, shifting in a way that made her question if she was even standing in the same place she had been a moment ago.
Wanda's gaze lingered in her mind specifically, the way her eyes had softened like they used to when they were together. Anya pressed a hand to her chest, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sweatshirt as if she could anchor herself there. But it wasn't helping.
Her throat tightened, and her fingers twitched at her sides. She rubbed her temples roughly, as though she could press the thoughts out, but that only made it worse. Nothing about this was hers. Not her body. Not her feelings. Not even her mind. She had spent too long moving through life as a shadow of someone else's design, acting without thinking, existing without questioning. Now, every emotion that surfaced felt foreign and jagged, like she wasn't supposed to be feeling it at all.
Pushing herself off the door, she walked toward the bathroom, her movements stiff. She turned the faucet, watching the water cascade into the tub, her hand lingering under the stream until it was almost too hot to bear. Steam clouded the air around her, wrapping her in a haze, but she stepped under the spray of water anyway, her skin prickling as it washed over her.
She pressed her palms against the tiled wall, her head bowed under the water, eyes closed. For a moment, she let herself drift. Her memories crept into the corners of her mind—the endless drills, her hands bruised from striking too hard, the faint hum of electricity they used to "reprogram" her when her thoughts strayed. She clenched her fists. The voices weren't real anymore. She was free now. Right?
When she stepped out of the shower, the fogged-up mirror greeted her, and for the first time, she was grateful she couldn't see herself clearly. Her reflection always unsettled her. It was like staring at a stranger who wore her face but didn't belong to her. She dried off quickly and pulled on a fresh set of clothes—black joggers and an oversized gray sweatshirt that hung loosely on her frame. She moved through the motions: brushing her teeth, towel-drying her hair, pretending like each small task might bring her back to herself.
On the counter, a tray of food sat untouched—pasta, garlic bread, and a glass of water. She hadn't heard anyone bring it in, but it was there. Her stomach growled, though the thought of eating felt hollow. She sat at the desk and took a bite, chewing mechanically, not tasting anything. It didn't matter. Food was fuel. It was a task to complete, nothing more.
Her eyes drifted toward the bed, the soft folds of the blanket calling to her. Sitting down, she sank into the mattress. The remote on the nightstand caught her attention, and she picked it up, turning it over in her hands. She didn't know how it worked as she's never used a remote before but her thumb pressed random buttons until the screen flickered to life.
She flinched slightly at the sudden noise and light, the images blurring as she adjusted. Flipping through the channels felt strange. The commercials, the sitcom laughter, the dramatic voiceovers—it was chaotic and overwhelming. Her finger froze when she landed on a hospital scene: doctors shouting, nurses bustling through corridors, and a dramatic voice narrating the tension of life and death. Grey's Anatomy.
She stared at the screen, unsure why it caught her attention, but she didn't change the channel. Pulling the blanket over her lap, she let the show play. At first, it was just noise, filling the silence that pressed too hard against her ears. But as the episode unfolded, she became absorbed by the characters and their impossible lives—their messy relationships, their desperate decisions, their fragile humanity.
Watching the show, she didn't feel like she had to be anyone. She wasn't a Widow, a super soldier, or someone trying to figure out how to exist outside of someone else's control. She was just a person watching people on a screen, marveling at their lives, ridiculous and raw as they were.
Anya leaned back into the pillows as the episode ended, her fingers clutching the remote. She pressed a button and started the next episode.