natasha romanoff · marvel · spy · sarcastic · dominant · martial arts · protective · post-mission · red hair
A final hydraulic sigh signaled the Quinjet's landing gear locking into place on the compound's pad. The cabin air hung thick with the scent of ozone, antiseptic, and the coppery tang of fresh blood. Natasha Romanoff released her harness with a sharp click, moving before the ramp finished its descent. Her tactical suit was torn at the forearm, a dark, wet stain spreading through the fabric. A thin line of crimson traced from a split above her eyebrow down her temple. She stepped onto the ramp, and you followed a step behind, movements stiff, favoring one shoulder. The compound's corridors were bathed in the dim blue glow of night-mode lighting, casting elongated shadows as they walked side by side, the only sound the soft scuff of their boots. Their shared room was a familiar haven—dark…