Location: The Lukin Estate, Carpathian Mountains
"I knew you were there," 47 said.
The wind howled between them, kicking up a veil of ice, but the silence that stretched across the courtyard was heavier than the storm.
Natasha paused.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, the green irises shifting from analysis to threat assessment.
She had expected surprise. She had expected a tactical retreat. She had not expected to be tracked by a man she was actively hunting.
"Since when?" she asked, her voice low, carried under the wind.
"Since the ridge line," 47 replied.
His posture was relaxed, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, but Natasha knew better.
It was the relaxation of a coiled spring. "You step lightly, Romanoff. But you disturb the air. And you wear a specific polymer blend in your suit that makes a distinct friction sound against nylon. I heard you three miles back."
Natasha stared at him.
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed her face, quickly replaced by a cold, professional smirk.
"Fury was right," she said, her hand drifting imperceptibly toward her thigh holster. "You are expensive."
"I haven't accepted a contract."
"We're not offering a contract," Natasha said. "We're offering a purpose."
47 tilted his head. "And if I refused?"
"You know exactly the answer to that question," Natasha replied.
Silence stretched between them, a taut wire ready to snap. The blizzard roared around the courtyard, whipping ice crystals against their faces, but neither flinched.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed down to just the two of them—the Wolf and the Spider—locked in a stillness that was louder than the storm. It was the pause of a pendulum at the height of its arc, gravity waiting to take hold.
47 didn't blink.
He moved.
It wasn't a signal, or a telegraphed tensing of muscles. It was an explosion of kinetic energy.
One moment, he was standing ten feet away; the next, he was inside her guard.
He launched a palm strike aimed at her solar plexus—a blow designed to collapse the diaphragm instantly.
Natasha didn't panic. She crossed her gauntlets just in time.
THWACK.
The impact was sickening, the sound of bone on reinforced alloy echoing through the courtyard. Natasha slid back two feet, her boots carving grooves in the snow, but she kept her footing.
47 didn't hesitate.
He followed up with a knee strike, but she was already gone, using the recoil to spin away.
She rolled, coming up with her Widow's Bite gauntlets charged. Blue electricity crackled in the snowstorm.
"Electrical discharge," 47 noted calmly. "30,000 volts. Painful. But insufficient."
Natasha lunged, a flurry of strikes. Jab, cross, elbow. She was more flexible than him—fluid, acrobatic, a dancer of violence trained in the Red Room's most brutal ballet.
She slipped under his guard, planting two electrified discs onto his chest plate.
The voltage surged.
47 grunted, his body seizing momentarily as the current coursed through his nervous system.
But his nervous system was a fortress.
He didn't fall. He didn't scream. He simply exhaled, his metabolism processing the shock, isolating the pain, and discarding it.
As Natasha moved for a follow-up takedown, wrapping her legs around his neck to use her signature hurricanrana, 47 reacted.
He didn't struggle against her weight.
He anchored himself.
He reached up, gripping her tactical belt with hands that felt like hydraulic clamps.
Then, with precise timing and movements, he ripped her off his shoulders and slammed her onto the frozen cobblestones.
The impact knocked the wind out of her. She gasped, rolling backward instinctively to create distance.
"You fight like a gymnast," 47 critiqued, walking toward her.
He didn't run. He stalked. "Flash. Style. Wasted energy."
Natasha spat blood into the snow. She glared at him, her eyes burning. "And you fight weird."
She drew two batons, extending them with a snap. She charged again. This time, she abandoned the grappling.
She used the weapons to extend her reach, striking at his joints. Knees. Elbows. Throat.
47 parried with his briefcase.
The reinforced aluminum rang like a bell under the assault.
He used the case as a shield, then as a weapon, swinging it in a brutal arc that Natasha barely ducked.
The fight spilled over the courtyard, smashing through the burning debris of the chateau entrance.
They fought on ice, amidst fire.
Natasha was relentless. She tagged him twice—a baton strike to the ribs that would have shattered a normal man's cage, and a kick to the jaw that split 47's lip.
But 47 was inevitable.
He absorbed the damage. He learned her rhythm. Left feint, right strike. Low center of gravity. Relies on momentum.
He waited for her to commit.
Natasha leaped off a stone planter, aiming a two-handed overhead strike.
47 dropped the briefcase.
He stepped into the attack.
He caught her wrists mid-air.
The force of her descent shuddered through his arms, but he held firm. He looked into her eyes.
He saw the shock.
She was enhanced—stronger, faster than any civilian. But in the end, she was still human.
He was designed.
"End of the line," 47 said.
He twisted her wrists, forcing her to drop the batons. He spun her around, locking his arm around her throat in a rear-naked choke.
He pulled tight.
Natasha clawed at his arm. She kicked backward, her heels slamming into his shins, but it was like kicking a tree.
47 compressed the carotid arteries. He wasn't trying to kill her; he was turning off the lights.
"Sleep," 47 whispered.
Her struggles slowed. Her vision began to tunnel. The Wolf had caught the Spider.
Then, 47 heard it.
It wasn't the wind. It wasn't the fire. It was a frequency he knew intimately from his extensive study of ballistics and projectiles.
A sharp, high-pitched whistle. Cutting the air.
Object approaching. Velocity: 300 feet per second. Trajectory: Rear flank. Target: Cranial.
It wasn't a bullet.
It was an arrow.
The calculation took a nanosecond. If he held onto Natasha, the arrow would miss her and strike him in the base of the skull. If he moved, he lost his prize.
Survival took precedence.
47 released the chokehold instantly. He didn't just let go; he shoved Natasha forward and snapped his head to the left.
Thwip.
The arrow sliced the air where his ear had been a millisecond ago. He felt the fletching brush his skin. It buried itself in the wooden doorframe behind him, vibrating with lethal intent.
47 spun around.
His enhanced vision zoomed in on the darkness of the ridge line.
He saw nothing but snow.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Three more sounds. Three projectiles. Arcing high. Coming down on his position.
He had no cover. The courtyard was open ground.
47 looked down. The debris from the explosion earlier.
Rubble.
Stones.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
The adrenaline dump in his system pushed his perception into overdrive. He saw the arrows descending.
He calculated their speed. He calculated their intercept point.
He dropped to a knee, his hand blurring as it scooped up three jagged stones from the frozen mud.
He stood up. He wound back.
He didn't throw them like a baseball pitcher. He threw them like shurikens, with a snap of the wrist and perfect alignment.
Crack. Clack. Snap.
The impossible happened.
Ten feet above his head, the first stone struck the shaft of the lead arrow, shattering it.
The second stone clipped the arrowhead of the second projectile, sending it spinning harmlessly into a snowbank.
The third stone collided dead-center with the third arrow, knocking it out of the air.
Physics defined by precision.
47 stood alone in the center of the courtyard, his chest heaving slightly.
Natasha, who had recovered her breath, looked at the broken arrows on the ground.
She looked at 47.
Her mouth opened slightly, the professional mask slipping entirely.
"How..." she breathed.
Suddenly, the ground began to vibrate.
A roar, louder than the wind, rose from below the cliff edge.
Snow and ice erupted into a white cloud as a black shape ascended.
A Quinjet. Its engines screamed as it hovered over the courtyard, its floodlights blinding 47.
Doors slid open on the side.
"CONTACT FRONT!" a voice bellowed.
A ramp lowered. Brock Rumlow and a full STRIKE team poured out, weapons raised. Laser sights danced across 47's chest, painting him with a dozen red dots.
Above them, the Quinjet's nose-mounted gatling gun spun up, the barrels whining as they locked onto him.
47 stood frozen. He ran the numbers.
Ammunition: Low. Cover: None. Hostiles: 12 STRIKE operatives + 1 Enhanced (Romanoff) + 1 Aerial Support. Probability of Survival: 0.004%.
A voice boomed from the Quinjet's external speakers.
"STAND DOWN!"
47 frowned.
He hated surrendering. It felt untidy.
He looked at Natasha.
She had regained her composure and was now pointing her Glock at him, though her finger hovered off the trigger.
He looked at the Gatling gun.
Slowly, with deliberate care, 47 opened his hands. He dropped the stones he was still holding.
He raised his hands above his head.
He sank to his knees in the snow.
The STRIKE team advanced, zip-ties ready. Rumlow walked up to him, grinning like a shark, his rifle aimed at 47's face.
"Gotcha," Rumlow sneered.
47 looked up at the circle of soldiers, the hovering jet, and the Black Widow.
"I must say," 47 said, his voice dry and devoid of fear. "This is a very unique way of recruiting someone."
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