Chapter 15
A year passed like this, in silence within her. The name Rebecca still existed, hidden, but no one there knew it. It was always "616." And she, silently, accepted that.
Rebecca learned to move her body like a weapon, with surgical precision and contained brutality.
Still, she danced.
It was different from the training. Ballet didn’t demand killing, or deceiving. It was the only time she moved without orders, without shouting, without being watched by cold eyes behind fake mirrors.
There, in that suspended silence, she remembered another room. A cozy room, with a woman with brown hair, kind eyes, and hands that never hurt. Elise. The memory was so distant it felt like it belonged to another life, like a play staged by another girl. But when she danced, Rebecca felt like she could reach her again. For a moment, it was as if she were back there, trying to copy the movements from an old video that Elise had let play on an old portable TV.
'You move like you’re flying,' she had once said, smiling. 'Like you leave the weight of the world on the ground.'
Rebecca had never quite understood what that meant. But now, every time she rose to the tips of her toes, she felt the weight of Hydra, the Red Room, the pain, staying behind. At least for a few minutes. She could be whoever she wanted.
An older redhead began to appear during the ballet lessons.
Rebecca noticed her presence for the first time during a training session with the other girls. They were all lined up in front of the mirror, their bodies stiff and tense, like soldiers disguised as ballerinas. The music was soft, but the atmosphere remained tense, as if even the melody was under surveillance. It was between a position change that she saw her—a figure standing by the door.
The girl was tall for her age, her red hair tied in a tight bun. She wasn’t in training uniform, nor was she smiling. Her arms were crossed over her chest, her posture too relaxed for a typical observer. But the gaze... the gaze was sharp. Quiet. Analyzing everything.
Rebecca quickly looked away, by instinct. She had learned not to attract attention. But in the following lessons, the redhead returned. Always in the same spot. Always silent.
She never said anything. She just watched. Sometimes she stayed until the end, sometimes disappeared after a few minutes. When the monitor’s eyes were occupied, Rebecca looked back, trying to decipher who that girl was, the one no one dared to approach. She was different. The other veterans spoke loudly, gave orders, corrected postures with brutality. But this one… she only watched. As if searching for something.
One night, after the lights went out and the ballet room was empty, Rebecca came back alone. Her bare feet against the cold floor, her heart beating at a calmer pace than usual. Dancing there, in the dark, was like truly breathing.
It was in the middle of a movement, spinning through the silence, that she saw her again.
The redhead.
Standing in the shadow of the door, not announcing her presence. Her arms crossed, her head slightly tilted. But now, her eyes weren’t cold. There was something there. Curiosity, perhaps. Or recognition.
Rebecca stopped, her shoulders tense. Her instinct told her to run, to not be seen. But her legs didn’t obey. And the older girl didn’t move either.
The two stayed in silence for long seconds. Until the older girl uncrossed her arms and gave a slight nod of her head, stopping beside Rebecca.
She turned back to the center of the room. Took a deep breath. And danced.
This time, not alone.
--
That day, the younger girls were led into the central courtyard of the complex. The space was wide, yet suffocating — surrounded by high, bare concrete walls and rusted steel beams across the ceiling that let sunlight filter through in sharp, slicing beams. The cracked cement floor reflected the shadows of the bars above like poorly healed scars. The air reeked of metal and sweat.
The veterans were already there, standing in silent formation. Still as soldiers waiting for orders. Taller, leaner, stronger — they looked carved from stone. Each wore the same expression: dull eyes that didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. Living statues of obedience.
Rebecca was the last of the novices to enter. She walked with measured steps, her body rigid with instinctual vigilance. Her eyes scanned the space — the lines, the cameras, the instructors lurking in the shadows. Everything looked routine. But something was off that morning. The other girls' breathing was too shallow, too controlled. The silence felt thick, almost heavy. And more than anything, there was a feeling in the air she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t fear.
It was... anticipation.
A test, she thought.
With a curt command, the rows shifted. The novices were pushed forward, one by one, until each stood paired with a veteran. Rebecca felt a rough hand on her shoulder, steering her firmly toward the center. She stopped in front of a solitary figure.
The same figure from the dance room.
She stood there, sharp as a blade. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid, her posture impeccable. She didn’t need instructions — her entire presence radiated discipline. But her eyes... they weren’t machine-like. They were cold, yes, but alive. Focused. And when they locked with Rebecca’s, there was something different in them. Not judgment. Not threat. Something more... human.
Curiosity. Maybe even empathy.
The girl extended a hand. A simple gesture, but in that place — where touch was either punishment or technique — it felt almost radical. It wasn’t aggressive. It was steady, direct. As if to say: I see you.
"Natasha Romanoff," she said, voice low, clear, accentless.
Rebecca hesitated. Her gaze dropped to the outstretched hand. The touch wasn’t mandatory—it wasn’t part of any protocol. It was a choice. And in that moment, she realized how rare that was in this place. On instinct, she extended her own hand. Small, pale, her fingers slightly trembling. The contact was brief, cold—but real.
“616,” she answered automatically, just as she always did.
For a moment, there was silence. Then Natasha raised an eyebrow, almost amused. “That’s not a name.”
Rebecca froze. Something stirred inside her—a memory buried deep under layers of silence and pain. Someone had said that before. Someone who had looked at her with kindness. 'You have a real name, not a number'. Elise’s voice echoed in her mind like a distant ghost. She didn’t reply. She just lowered her eyes.
Natasha released her hand gently. She didn’t pull, didn’t push—just let go, as if to show Rebecca that she still had a choice. “We’ll work on that,” she said, the corners of her lips lifting in the faintest trace of a smile, the kind that suggested she carried far too many secrets for someone so young.
Rebecca looked up slowly. And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel completely alone.
“But first,” Natasha added, stepping back and shifting into a fluid combat stance, “let’s see what you can do.”
Rebecca nodded, her muscles tensing in preparation.
Rebecca stepped forward, testing the distance. As soon as Natasha grounded her stance, Rebecca lunged, aiming a swift side kick with her right leg toward the midsection. Natasha blocked it cleanly with her forearm, keeping her guard high, and countered with a straight punch aimed at Rebecca’s chin. Rebecca instinctively pulled her head back, and the fist grazed past her face.
Spinning her hips, the younger girl tried to use the same leg in a low sweeping kick meant to throw Natasha off balance. But the redhead jumped lightly back, avoiding the strike and using Rebecca’s brief instability to close the distance. Rebecca reacted just in time, launching herself forward with the strength in her legs, aiming a direct front kick to Natasha’s stomach. But Natasha sidestepped smoothly and grabbed Rebecca’s extended ankle. She yanked hard, trying to bring her down, but Rebecca twisted her hips midair, broke free, and landed on her hands before rolling away to safety.
They reset into their fighting stances, circling each other in silence.
This time, Rebecca attacked with her fists. A right jab followed by a left hook—Natasha blocked the first with her arm and dodged the second by leaning back. Rebecca, her body now more exposed, tried to capitalize with an upward punch toward the solar plexus. Natasha caught her wrist midair and, with a tight circular motion, used Rebecca’s own momentum to pull her forward. In one fluid move, she slipped behind her and twisted Rebecca’s arm behind her back in a classic joint lock. Rebecca fought back with a sharp elbow to Natasha’s side, forcing her to take a step back without breaking form.
Seizing the opening, Rebecca spun with a high kick aimed at her opponent’s neck. Natasha ducked smoothly, slipping under the kick and answering with a low sweep, taking Rebecca’s legs out from under her with one extended leg. The girl hit the ground hard, landing flat on her back.
Before she could recover, Natasha was already on top of her, one knee pinning her shoulder, her left fist raised—not to strike, but to show that the fight could’ve ended there.
It was over.
The instructor stepped forward, looking down at Rebecca with cold, pitiless eyes. “Strength can make you feel invincible,” he said, voice low and sharp. “But it’s technique that keeps you alive.” He turned to the other trainees, his voice rising over the cold concrete courtyard. “Remember that. Because those who don’t… die.”
Rebecca didn’t respond. Her breath came fast and shallow, her eyes locked on the dull sky above the courtyard. She didn’t feel angry at Natasha—what she felt was shame. And a deep, burning need to understand how she did it. How it was possible to defeat someone stronger by being… simply human.
Natasha extended her hand. This time, Rebecca didn’t hesitate.
As she helped her up, Natasha leaned in just enough for her voice to stay between them, low and quiet, meant for no one else.
“You’re thinking like a weapon,” she said. “Try thinking like it’s a dance.”
Rebecca blinked, confused.
“Every move has to lead into the next. It’s not about strength. It’s rhythm. Flow. Just like ballet.” Natasha gave a faint, knowing smile. “Fighting well… is just dancing with purpose.”
And then she turned and walked back to the veteran line, not looking back once.
--
The next morning, the alarm rang as it always did: 5 a.m. The cold lights of the cell flickered on abruptly, stinging tired eyes. Rebecca—616—rose without hesitation, her movements automatic. The routine was etched into her body like a second skin. She put on her black uniform, tied her hair back, and headed toward the training block for the younger recruits, just like every other day.
But this time, before she could cross the hallway, a voice cut through the air.
"616. With me."
The instructor stepped out from the shadows along the wall, as rigid as ever, his eyes locked on hers. There was something different in the way he looked at her—not contempt, but a quiet assessment, as if he were weighing the burden of something new.
Rebecca paused for just a second before turning and following him. Their footsteps echoed through the concrete halls like an unforgiving metronome.
They walked through corridors she barely recognized. Clean, sterile areas, with fewer visible cameras and guards armed with more than just batons. The air smelled of disinfectant and steel.
At the end of the hall, a metal door clicked open. Inside, General Dreykov was waiting.
He stood by a steel table, his uniform as crisp as ever, hands clasped behind his back. His face was unreadable—but his eyes were not. His eyes were measuring.
"Come in," he said, without raising his voice.
Rebecca obeyed, shoulders squared, eyes fixed on the empty spot between his. She had learned never to meet the gaze of authority directly—but also never to appear too submissive. Balance. Survival.
Dreykov studied her for several long seconds before speaking.
"Your performance in the junior training sessions is... predictable."
She stayed silent. It wasn’t a question.
"You’re not being challenged. And that’s making you slow. Distracted. Vulnerable."
More silence.
"From today on, you train with the veterans."
The words hung in the air like a sentence. Rebecca didn’t react right away, but something tightened inside her. The veterans were different. Ruthless. They had to be. Surviving among them was a refined art—not just strength, but cunning, precision, calculated cruelty.
Dreykov took a step forward, his voice lower now, sharper.
"This isn’t a promotion. It’s a necessity. You’re behind. Whatever makes you different from the others means nothing if you don’t know how to use it."
Rebecca gave a single nod.
"We’ll see if you can handle it," he said, already turning away, signaling the end of the conversation.
The instructor led her back, but this time toward the other wing—the one she’d only heard about. The place where mistakes weren’t corrected. They were erased.
As they walked, Natasha’s words echoed in her mind.
'Every move has to lead into the next. It's not strength. It's rhythm. It's flow. Like ballet.'
Rebecca took a deep breath. The path ahead would be brutal. But maybe—just maybe—if she found the right rhythm... she could survive.
Or better yet: dance with the wolves.