Chapter 4
The week was a blur. Anya barely saw Natasha, and Natasha didn't try to see her. On the surface, Anya told herself she didn't care—that the space was what she wanted. But she hated it. The quiet left her alone with her thoughts, and her thoughts were dangerous company.
Her days fell into a routine that felt both necessary and numbing: wake up, eat, brush her teeth, watch Grey's Anatomy, train, eat again, train until she couldn't stand, retreat to her room, shower, eat once more, and collapse into bed.
On the first day, she met Vision.
She had barely cracked the door to her room when the sight of him startled her, stopping her in her tracks. A tall figure with a metallic sheen stood directly outside, red and green hues reflecting the overhead light.
"What the fuck," she muttered, her body tensing instinctively. "Why is there a robot standing outside my door?"
Vision tilted his head, his voice calm and polite. "I am Vision. I've been assigned to accompany you when you are not in your quarters. It is for your safety—and the safety of others."
Anya's jaw tightened. "Right. Because I'm dangerous."
He didn't respond to that, his synthetic eyes simply watching her. After a long pause, he added, "I hope this arrangement won't make you uncomfortable. I'm here to assist in any way you need."
"I don't need a babysitter," she snapped, brushing past him.
Vision followed her, his presence quiet but unshakable. As they walked through the halls, he attempted to make conversation.
"How are you finding the accommodations?"
Anya didn't respond, keeping her eyes forward.
"I've been told Grey's Anatomy is an intriguing choice for entertainment," he continued.
She glanced at him sharply, her patience fraying. "Is this what you're here for? Small talk?"
"I thought it might make the situation more comfortable."
"Don't bother."
The rest of the walk was silent, and Anya preferred it that way.
Later that day, during her training session in the gym, she caught glimpses of Clint and Steve through the glass observation window. They thought they were being subtle, but she felt their eyes on her, heavy with judgment. It wasn't paranoia—they didn't trust her. She could see it in the way Clint leaned forward, his posture tense, and in the way Steve's mouth tightened whenever she so much as glanced their way.
Her fists struck the punching bag harder, the force making it swing wildly.
Halfway through her workout, a man walked into the training room. He looked around as though he didn't belong there, his eyes landing on her with a friendly, curious expression.
"Hey there," a voice called out casually, breaking the steady rhythm of Anya's punches.
She froze mid-swing, her fists still raised, and turned her head sharply toward the source. A man stood in the doorway, dressed in workout gear, his expression open and friendly.
Anya's narrowed eyes studied him, but there was no recognition. "Uh, hi," she said flatly, her accent cutting through. Her tone made it clear she wasn't looking for company.
The man stepped closer, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm not here to bother you. Just thought I'd say hi. I'm Sam."
She turned back to the punching bag without responding, her fists landing hard, controlled blows that sent the bag swinging.
Sam stood a few feet away, unfazed. "You've got a hell of a punch there. Do you box professionally or something?"
Anya didn't answer, focusing on the satisfying impact of her fists against the bag.
"Alright," Sam continued, undeterred. "So you're not much of a talker, I get it. But most people would at least ask who I am if they didn't recognize me."
Without pausing her strikes, she finally replied, her accent thick and clipped, "Most people would take a hint."
Sam chuckled, leaning casually against the wall. "Most people don't meet someone with a voice like that either. Russian, huh?"
Anya's punches slowed, and she turned just enough to glance at him, her expression guarded. "What about it?"
"Nothing," he said, holding up his hands again. "It's just cool. Makes you sound like you've got a secret spy thing going on. Like in the movies. No offense or anything."
She scoffed lightly, turning back to the bag. "You talk too much."
"Yeah, I've been told," Sam replied with a grin. "So, where'd you learn to punch like that? Russia?"
Anya froze for a second, then grabbed her towel and slung it over her shoulder. "None of your business."
Sam raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. "Alright, mystery girl. Guess I'll have to figure it out on my own."
She paused at the door, glancing back. "Good luck with that."
Sam chuckled as she left, shaking his head. "This is gonna be fun."
Sam chuckled softly, but when she didn't say anything else, he finally shrugged and left her to her training.
That night, when she returned to her room, she ate dinner in silence, the food barely registering as she mechanically chewed and swallowed. The day felt like a string of disconnected events, each one blending into the next.
The second day passed in much the same way, but quieter. No one came to bother her this time, except Vision, whose presence was now a dull constant.
Her routine anchored her, but it also weighed her down. She woke up, ate the breakfast left outside her door, brushed her teeth, and then parked herself in front of the TV. The sound of Grey's Anatomy filled the space, drowning out the noise in her head. She let herself get lost in the chaos of other people's lives—people who didn't exist, whose problems were scripted and solvable within an hour.
By the afternoon, she was in the training room again, throwing herself into every exercise with brutal determination. Her muscles burned, her lungs ached, but she pushed herself harder, trying to drown out the hollow feeling that sat heavy in her chest.
Vision watched silently from the corner of the room, his head tilted slightly as if observing her technique.
She wanted to scream at him to leave, to stop staring, but she bit her tongue. What was the point?
By the time she returned to her room that evening, her body felt like it might give out. She showered, scrubbing her skin until it was red, and then ate her dinner in the same way as before.
That night, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her thoughts too loud despite the exhaustion weighing down her body until she eventually fell asleep.
By the third day, Anya was fully entrenched in her routine. The monotony was a strange kind of comfort, a way to stay in motion without having to think too much. She moved through her morning on autopilot—waking up, eating the breakfast left outside her door, brushing her teeth, and flipping on the TV. Grey's Anatomy played in the background as she dressed and prepared for training, the fictional chaos more bearable than the silence of her own thoughts.
After her first training session, Vision, as always, trailed behind her like a shadow. He didn't say much anymore, likely worn down by her disinterest, but his presence was constant. As she walked through the halls of the compound, she caught a glimpse of the lab.
Inside, Natasha was talking to a man Anya didn't recognize—dark hair, sharp features, dressed in a band T-shirt and jeans. He gestured animatedly as he spoke, his tone half-serious, half-teasing. Natasha, arms crossed, was listening intently, though her posture betrayed a hint of impatience. Anya paused briefly in the doorway, her eyes meeting Natasha's for a moment. Natasha's gaze lingered on her, but she didn't say anything. Instead, she turned back to the man and continued the conversation.
Anya clenched her jaw and kept walking. "Who was that man?" she asked as she continued down the hallway, her tone sharp and to the point.
Vision tilted his head, as though the question puzzled him. "That was Tony Stark," he replied evenly.
Anya raised an eyebrow. "And who is Tony Stark?"
Vision blinked, clearly surprised. "He's Iron Man. A founding member of the Avengers. Billionaire, inventor... rather hard to miss."
Anya crossed her arms, a slight smirk tugging at her lips. "Never heard of him."
Vision's synthetic brow furrowed, as if trying to decide whether she was serious or not. "He's one of the most well-known figures in the world. Surely you've heard of his work—Stark Industries, his arc reactor, or perhaps the... suit?"
She scoffed, turning away. "I've been a little busy for the past decade years to keep up with celebrity inventors."
Vision didn't respond, and Anya kept walking, her curiosity about Tony fading.
When they passed the kitchen, a familiar aroma hit her—rich, earthy spices mingling with the warmth of something being sautéed. Sokovian food. Wanda was likely in there, and even though her mind told her to keep walking, the truth was she was too afraid to face her. Afraid of what she'd say. Afraid of what she'd feel.
"Is something wrong?" Vision asked again, his synthetic voice unwavering in its politeness.
"Nothing," she muttered, keeping her eyes forward.
Eventually, she found herself stumbling into the gym again, but this time, she wasn't alone. Sam and Steve were standing near one of the training mats, deep in conversation. Steve noticed her first, his expression shifting to something between concern and curiosity.
"Hey, you okay?" Steve asked, his tone calm, his blue eyes scanning her face.
Anya hesitated, unsure how to respond. "Fine," she said shortly, moving toward the punching bag. She didn't want to talk, but ignoring Captain America outright didn't seem like a great idea either.
"You've got quite the fist," Sam chimed in, a grin spreading across his face. "I saw you going at it the other day."
She gave a noncommittal shrug. "I remember, thanks."
"We were just talking about boxing techniques," Steve said, stepping closer. "Sam here thinks he's got the moves to take me down."
"I do have the moves to take you down," Sam said, crossing his arms. "But you're too stubborn to admit it."
Anya huffed out a small, reluctant laugh. "You're both stubborn."
"See? She gets it," Sam said, pointing at her. "Finally, someone with some sense around here."
Steve smiled faintly, giving Anya a respectful nod as he watched her form. "You've got solid technique."
Anya gave him a brief look but didn't respond. Steve knew better than to push. He didn't need to ask where she learned it from—he already knew. He simply left the comment hanging in the air, letting it rest.
Sam, however, wasn't so aware. "So, where'd you pick that up?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Anya's gaze turned cold as she shot him a brief glance, her jaw tightening. "Here and there," she said, her voice flat.
Sam blinked, not picking up on her disinterest. "Here and there being?"
Her patience snapped. She stood a little straighter, her fists clenching. "I know how to fight, okay?" she snapped, her tone sharp and final. "Satisfied?"
Sam raised his hands in mock surrender, taken aback by the sudden intensity in her voice. "Hey, no need to bite my head off. Just curious."
Anya's eyes didn't soften, but she turned away and began to walk off. "I'm good," she muttered, heading in the direction of her room.
Steve watched her go, a knowing look in his eyes, but he didn't say anything. He knew better than anyone that she wasn't ready to talk about where she'd come from or the damage the Red Room had done. Some things didn't need to be asked.
Anya's footsteps echoed in the hallway as she made her way back to her room. She felt like she might fall apart but couldn't let herself. The idea of talking to someone—Natasha, anyone—was tempting, but she couldn't do it. She had built walls too strong to break now.
When she reached her room, she gripped the handle tightly before stepping inside. The air felt colder than it should have. She shut the door softly, as if to keep the outside world at bay. Tossing her jacket onto the bed, she sat down heavily, staring up at the ceiling.
She turned on the TV, but the noise couldn't distract her. Her thoughts were racing, dragging her back to memories she didn't want to face. Her chest felt tight, and her hands shook. She wanted to talk to someone, to let it all out, but every time she thought about it, fear and guilt stopped her. The idea of opening up made her stomach twist.
Sitting up, she ran her hands through her hair, trying to calm herself. It felt like she couldn't breathe, like the room itself was pressing in on her. The noise from the TV blurred into the background, doing nothing to help. She stood abruptly, needing to move, needing to do something.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, only to find Vision standing there as usual.
"I'm leaving now," he said calmly, but she knew he wasn't going anywhere. He would still be there, waiting outside.
Anya didn't answer. She glanced at him briefly, then turned and walked down the hallway, her pace quick. She didn't know where she was going. She just needed to keep moving, to get away from the weight of everything inside her.
The fourth day came like the others—another repetition in her cycle, another day filled with routine. Anya woke up to the usual quiet, the breakfast tray waiting outside her door. She went through the motions, brushing her teeth, eating, and turning on Grey's Anatomy without a thought. The chaotic, scripted drama on the TV was a small comfort, a distraction that worked for now. The repetitive nature of it all felt safe in its own way.
The rest of the day blurred into the same monotony as the others. Training, eating, training again—a cycle she knew too well. Clint and Steve passed by a few times, their glances brief, but they didn't approach her. Vision, as always, lingered nearby, his quiet presence a constant reminder that she wasn't truly alone. Strangely, it didn't bother her as much today. She was getting used to him being there.
At one point, Wanda crossed her mind. Her stomach tightened, and she quickly forced the thought away. Instead, she focused on her routine—the only thing keeping her grounded.
The hours dragged on. She ate her meals, trained until her muscles ached, and eventually returned to her room.
Her routine had dulled her emotions, but it hadn't silenced them completely. There was still that feeling pf unease.
She grabbed a shirt from the pile of clothes she hadn't bothered to fold and tied her wrist to the bed frame like she'd done so many nights before. The makeshift restraint gave her a strange sense of comfort, a reminder of control in a life that often felt like it lacked any. She lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling as the faint hum of the TV played in the background. Her body felt heavy, and before she realized it, her eyes fluttered shut.
The nightmare started subtly, as they always did. She was back in the Red Room, the walls dark and cold. The air felt heavy with tension as Dreykov's voice echoed, sharp and unforgiving. She was younger, standing in a line with the other girls, her heart pounding as she waited for her turn. When it came, her hands were shaking, but she stepped forward, trying to focus.
She threw a punch at the dummy but missed her mark. Again. And again. Dreykov's presence loomed behind her, his disapproval palpable.
"You're better than this," his voice hissed, low and venomous.
Anya's breath hitched as the first blow landed—a sharp, calculated punch to her ribs. She didn't cry out. She didn't flinch. It wasn't allowed. The pain radiated through her body, but she stayed silent. It was necessary. This was how she would get better. This was how she would survive.
Blow after blow landed—her ribs, her stomach, her face—but she didn't move, didn't falter. Blood trickled down her lip, but she stood still, accepting it. This is what I deserve, her mind told her. This is how I get stronger.
Dreykov's voice rang out again, louder this time. "Failure is not an option. You'll keep going until you get it right."
The nightmare shifted. She was older now, in the Red Room's training facility, sparring with another Widow. She was faster, stronger, but her opponent landed a hit that sent her crashing to the ground. The pain was real, searing, but the worst part was Dreykov's laugh echoing in her head.
Anya jolted awake, her body drenched in sweat. Her chest heaved as she struggled to catch her breath, her eyes darting around the room to remind herself where she was. The TV screen flickered faintly in the corner, but the comfort it usually brought was gone.
Her hand tugged at the makeshift restraint, and she quickly untied herself, her fingers trembling. She pressed her palms against her face, trying to ground herself, but the images from the nightmare were too vivid, too fresh.
She couldn't stay here. The walls of her room felt like they were closing in, the air too thick to breathe. Without thinking, she threw on her jacket and left, her footsteps hurried as she made her way to the training room.
The gym was empty, dimly lit, and quiet. Anya liked it that way. She wrapped her hands, not bothering to grab gloves, and started pounding the heavy bag. Each strike was harder than the last, her knuckles burning with the impact. She didn't care. She needed to feel something else, something real.
The pain in her knuckles grew sharper, but she welcomed it. Anya's fists pounded against the punching bag, her breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. The gym was silent except for the rhythmic thuds of her hits and the squeak of the bag shifting on its chain. Sweat dripped down her temples, her damp hair sticking to her forehead, but she didn't stop. She couldn't.
Her movements began to lose their precision as her exhaustion set in. Her punches grew sloppier, the fluidity of her form breaking down. A hook missed the bag entirely, her balance faltering. She cursed under her breath, planting her feet and forcing herself back into a stance. Again. Do it again.
But her focus was slipping. Dreykov's voice, cold and sharp, echoed in her mind. "Sloppy. Useless. You call that technique? Again."
Her breathing quickened, her chest tightening as if a vise was closing around her lungs. She clenched her fists, throwing another punch, but it landed awkwardly. Her wrist bent slightly on impact, sending a jolt of pain up her arm. She froze, staring at the bag as her heart pounded against her ribs.
"Weak. Worthless. You'll never be anything but a failure if you keep this up." The voice grew louder, as vivid as if he were standing behind her, watching, waiting. Her hands trembled at her sides, the air in the room suddenly too thick. Her head spun as the walls seemed to close in around her.
She stumbled back, gasping for air, her vision narrowing. Her mind was spiraling, a whirlwind of distorted memories and Dreykov's voice. "Punishment is the only way you'll learn. You mess up, you pay the price."
Anya's chest heaved as she clutched her head, her fingers tangling in her hair. She couldn't breathe; her throat felt like it was closing. Her legs gave out, and she dropped to her knees on the mat. The tremors in her hands spread through her body, her pulse pounding in her ears.
"Stop. Stop," she muttered, but the voice in her head only grew louder. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, the world around her fading into nothing but the harsh, unrelenting commands of her past. "You don't stop. You don't fail. Fix it."
Desperate to silence it, she lashed out, her fist striking her own thigh with a sharp, deliberate blow. The pain was grounding, fleetingly pulling her out of her spiral. But the voice persisted, drilling into her like nails. "Harder. You'll never be good enough. Fix it."
Her breathing hitched as her fist slammed into her ribs again, a sharp jolt of pain cutting through the haze for a moment before her panicked mind dragged her under once more. She gasped for air, her breaths shallow and ragged, her chest heaving as if the very act of breathing was an impossible task. Her trembling hands clenched into fists, and she struck herself again—her stomach, her arms, even the side of her jaw.
Her mind screamed at her, "You're weak. Fix it. Punish the failure." Tears poured freely down her face, burning her skin as they blurred her vision. She choked out a hoarse, trembling whisper, "Stop it," but her hands didn't listen.
The walls seemed to press in around her, the room spinning so violently that she thought she might fall over if she wasn't already on the floor. Her heart pounded erratically in her chest, a deafening drumbeat that drowned out everything else. She clutched at her head, her nails digging into her scalp, her body rocking as tremors wracked her frame. The voices in her head grew louder, sharper, more cutting. "You're a failure. Useless. Weak. Try harder. AGAIN!"
Her legs buckled completely, and she collapsed onto the mat, curling in on herself. Her forehead pressed against the cold surface as her breaths came in panicked, erratic gasps. Sobs tore from her throat, muffled against the mat, as her raw knuckles scraped against the ground. Her whole body was shaking violently.
Vision lingered silently in the doorway, his glowing eyes fixed on her trembling form. His face remained calm, unchanging, as he analyzed her behavior. His programming dictated observation, not action, so he did nothing but send a silent alert to Tony in the lab: "Miss Rostova is in severe emotional distress."
Tony, sitting lazily in his chair, glanced at the notification on his screen. He frowned slightly, his fingers drumming against the desk. "Uh, Nat?" he said, nudging Natasha's arm.
"What?" she asked, not looking up from her tablet.
"Your girl is having some sort of meltdown in the gym," Tony replied casually. "Vision's keeping an eye on her, but, uh, maybe you should..." He waved a hand vaguely. "You know. Deal with it."
Natasha set her tablet down, fixing him with a cold stare. "What kind of meltdown?"
"I don't know. Crying. Punching herself. Vision says it's bad," Tony said, shrugging. "Figured you'd want to step in before she, I don't know, breaks something."
Without another word, Natasha stood and left the lab, her strides quick and purposeful. She didn't bother responding to Tony's flippant tone—this wasn't about him.
In the gym, the creak of the door pierced through the chaos.
Anya froze, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, all she could hear was the deafening rush of blood in her ears. Slowly, her head turned toward the sound, her tear-streaked face pale and trembling.
The door opened fully, and a figure stepped inside. The sound of soft, deliberate footsteps filled the room before a quiet, steady voice broke through the suffocating silence.
"Anya."