"You guys—those people—what on earth...?"
The girl's mother couldn't make sense of it. Why would anyone cause this much chaos to steal a child's toy car? As a police officer herself, every instinct screamed something's wrong.
But in the end, it was just a toy car. Chasing after thieves alone while her husband and three kids stood vulnerable didn't seem smart. And honestly? With how erratic those attackers were behaving, they could've been escaped psych patients for all she knew.
The man and woman sprinted off in opposite directions. The strongest fighter in the group—the mother—didn't chase. Bella, whose survival instincts were honed by understanding she lived in the Marvel universe, also didn't chase.
This whole mess had nothing to do with her.
The young girl, though, was sharp. She'd already positioned herself near the outer edge of the corridor. As the female thief ran past, the girl casually stuck out her leg and tripped her clean.
The mother sighed—but she couldn't just ignore the situation now that the woman was sprawled on the floor. She rushed over, pinned the thief with a crisp textbook takedown, and retrieved the toy car.
A glorious victory... over a plastic toy.
Bella was absolutely convinced the car must be hiding something—a data chip, maybe, or stolen tech—but she had zero intention of sticking around to find out. She was just a passerby. Why waste her time getting tangled up in someone else's trouble?
Right then, the airport announcement called her flight. She quickly said goodbye to the family.
"Yeah—my advice? Call the police right away. Their target was... weird. Way too organized for a random mugging."
She pulled out a sticky note and scribbled quickly:
"Nice meeting you. I'm Isabella Swan. Here's my number—contact me anytime if the police need a witness statement."
And for reasons she couldn't quite explain—probably because the girl was pretty and Bella had a weakness for pretty things—she handed the note directly to the teenager instead of the parents.
The girl gave her name in return.
"Natasha Romanoff."
Who?!
Bella's expression twitched. She forced herself to stay calm, studied the girl from head to toe with fresh eyes, then asked—very, very carefully—
"What year were you born?"
If a man asked that question, he'd get slapped. Girl-to-girl? Perfectly acceptable.
Teenage Natasha didn't hesitate. "1984. You? Miss Swan?"
"Uh... 1983. Just call me Bella."
"Natasha." The girl's reply was clipped, confident—cool in that effortless way some people just had.
Their conversation ended quickly, mostly because Bella fled the scene like her life depended on it.
If Natasha Romanoff exists... is Hawkeye going to show up next? Tony Stark? Whether she's tiny Natasha or full-grown Black Widow, whether she was born in 1984 or 1884—it has nothing to do with me.
I'm a civilian. Civilians should run.
She bought a stylish pair of aviator sunglasses for her bargain-bin dad, and the whole Natasha incident slipped from her mind like water off glass.
She found her gate, stepped forward—
—and stopped dead.
A wave of images crashed into her mind without warning: disease, decay, catastrophe, slaughter. Some vivid and terrible. Others flickering like a corrupted film reel—appearing and vanishing too fast to comprehend.
Sweat slicked her palms. Her heart hammered like it was trying to break through her ribs. It felt like... information. A message. Something she was receiving, but her human brain couldn't properly decode.
Her forehead grew damp. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
An invisible hand clenched around her soul. Terror squeezed her lungs tight, crushing the air from her chest.
"Passengers for Flight... 180... please prepare for... boarding..."
The announcement twisted into distorted electronic noise. Static buzzed underneath like something powerful was interfering with the signal itself.
"Why is she just standing there?"
"Is she having some kind of episode?"
The words dropped into her consciousness like stones into still water. The trance shattered. Bella sucked in a ragged breath, her neck stiff as she turned to look.
A large group of students walked past, led by a middle-aged teacher with a harried expression.
A few girls gave Bella pitying looks. Country bumpkin. Probably never been on a plane before.
"Miss, do you need assistance?" the teacher asked, noticing Bella frozen at the gate entrance, neither boarding nor leaving.
"Huh? Oh—no! No, I'm fine!" Bella practically jumped. She looked at the plane waiting outside, at the steady rain drumming against the windows, at the clock on the wall ticking forward.
She couldn't calm down.
She stepped aside, pressing her back against the wall. The memories were already fading, like fragments of a half-forgotten movie she'd seen years ago. The details were slipping away like sand through her fingers.
But her gut screamed one truth:
She could not get on that plane.
If she boarded, she would die.
Watching forty excited students line up to board made her stomach twist into knots. After several long seconds of hesitation, she finally spoke up.
"Wait—ma'am? The rain outside is getting heavier, and the flight's already been delayed an hour. Maybe... maybe we should—"
The words died in her throat. How did one even explain this? I had a terrifying vision of death and you're all going to die if you board?
"Freak."
"Look at her clothes. Total small-town energy."
"Actually, she might have a point. The weather really is bad today."
The students were roughly her age, but they treated her like free entertainment. The boys seemed inclined to agree with her concerns; the girls rolled their eyes and snickered. As soon as the boys noticed the girls' reactions, half of them immediately switched sides.
Typical high school dynamics.
"I mean it—I'm not joking. Ma'am, I have a really bad feeling about this. This plane—"
She didn't even finish before the teacher cut her off with the gentle, condescending tone reserved for talking to confused children.
"Miss, you should see a doctor. You're young—early intervention is important for anxiety disorders. Come along, everyone. We're already late."
She herded the students forward like sheep, dismissing Bella entirely. The forty-some young men and women were already chattering excitedly about their trip to Paris.
Bella exhaled shakily. Doubt gnawed at her insides.
What if I'm wrong? What if I cause a scene and nothing happens? Can I handle that kind of embarrassment? That kind of trouble?
And honestly—is it really my business if Americans get themselves killed?
But then she looked around the gate area: elderly travelers with white hair and canes, a young mother cradling a sleeping newborn, families holding hands, a couple in matching tourist shirts—ordinary people living ordinary lives.
Her small, stubborn bit of conscience flickered to life.
She believed—no, she knew—the chance of disaster was over ninety percent.
She couldn't just stand here and let them walk into death.
Bella steeled herself, squared her shoulders, and began trying—once again—to stop the passengers from boarding Flight 180.