I. Emris

    The night drips with tension, thick as the smog curling above the city skyline. I stand poised on the rooftop of a luxury high-rise, my silhouette barely distinguishable against the darkened sky. The neon glow of the city reflects in the sharp angles of my combat suit, its deep green panels broken only by the black seams that trace my form. Below me, the target moves, unaware of the predator watching from above.

I exhale slowly, fingers ghosting over the hilt of the dagger at my thigh. This mission is simple. Infiltrate. Eliminate. Vanish. A routine assignment, nothing I haven't done a hundred times before. And yet, there's a whisper in the air tonight—a shift in the usual pattern. Something is off.

My eyes flick to the guards stationed at the perimeter of the penthouse. Armed, but unremarkable. They won't be an issue. The real problem is the gut feeling twisting in my stomach. Years of training have taught me to trust it.

Still, I move.

Descending the building's side is second nature, my gloved fingers gripping the ledges with practiced precision. When my boots touch the balcony, I'm a ghost, slipping through the shadows as I disable the security system with a small device that is attached to my belt. The door slides open without resistance. Silence follows me inside.

My target sits in an overstuffed leather chair, sipping from a crystal glass, oblivious to the shadow that has just stepped into the room. I am five steps away when the shift in the air becomes a tangible force.

Then—impact.

I twist just in time to dodge the strike aimed at my skull, ducking beneath a well-placed kick as I roll into a defensive stance. The shadows erupt around me, and suddenly, I'm not alone.

The Avengers.

My lips curl into a smirk even as adrenaline surges through my veins. So this was the unease I felt creeping along my spine. They were waiting for me.

A red-and-gold blur shoots toward me first. Tony Stark, ever the showman, repulsors glowing in the dimly lit room.

"Didn't expect company, did you?" His voice is casual, but his stance is anything but.

I tilt my head. "Can't say I did. But you should know, Stark—" I flick my wrist, a throwing knife snapping into my palm. "I don't like surprises."

I let the blade fly.

The moment it leaves my hand, I'm already moving. Tony deflects it with a quick blast, but I had anticipated that. Using the distraction, I lunge toward the nearest opponent—Steve Rogers. His shield comes up just in time to block my second dagger, the clang of metal against vibranium ringing through the space.

"Stand down," he orders.

I laugh, twisting away from his reach. "Not really my style."

A blur of red and black drops from the ceiling, landing in a crouch. Natasha Romanoff. Our eyes meet, and for the first time that night, I hesitate.

Natasha's expression is unreadable, but there's something behind her gaze—recognition.

"You," Natasha murmurs. It isn't a question.

I feel the weight of the moment pressing against my ribs, but I shove it aside. Hesitation is weakness. I surge forward, engaging Natasha in a flurry of blows. The Widow is fast, but I was similar to her, but worse, forged in the fires of something even darker than the Red Room. I twist, using Natasha's momentum against her, flipping her to the ground.

Then, a presence behind me. Captain America, again.

I turn quickly and catch his gaze right on time, I tilt my head slightly to the side as he stumbles backwards. Vertigo. He tries to catch his balance but continues to stumble over his feet.

"Patriotic," I mock.

A fraction of a second is all it takes for Natasha to recover from my last attack on her. I feel the press of a Widow's Bite against my side, crackling with energy. It hurts at first, but only for a second, as I grab her wrist and twist it away from me. Funny, she thought I would waver from a simple shock?

"Yield," Natasha says, voice calm, still unshaken.

I smirk and hear a rustling behind me, Stark has probably helped Rogers recouperate by now. I have two options: stay and have some fun fighting the Avengers, paying the consequences later, or—

My fingers twitch, and Natasha sucks in a sharp breath. For a fleeting moment, her emotions shift, controlled by an external force, me—doubt, confusion, a flash of fear.

It's all I need.

With a sharp twist, I free myself, throwing a smoke grenade to the floor. The room is consumed in darkness, and by the time it clears, I am gone—nothing but a whisper in the wind. I stay above for a moment, watching and listening.

The Avengers stand in silence, the weight of the encounter settling over them.

Steve exhales sharply. "Who the hell was that?"

Tony glances at Natasha, who is still staring at the space where I vanished. "Romanoff?"

Natasha's jaw clenches as she snaps out of my temporary invasion of her senses. "She's not just another assassin."

"Then what is she?" Steve asks.

Natasha's gaze is distant, haunted. "A ghost."