The atmosphere within the mansion was shifting, static tension of survival giving way to a living rhythm. I noticed it first in the small things—the way the shadows in the hallways felt less like hiding places and more like architectural choices.
Wanda was changing. She smiled more now, and it wasn't the fragile mask she had worn in the rubble of Sokovia. This was a unconscious expression that bloomed when she was buried in a complex logistics file or quietly observing the garden.
And Pietro noticed. He didn't say anything, of course, but he had become a permanent fixture in the doorways, leaning against the frames with his arms crossed, his eyes tracking Wanda with a protective intensity. Every time she laughed near me, his jaw would tighten with a soft click that I could hear from across the room. He was just a man realizing the borders of his world were expanding beyond his control.
Wanda's mind was like dry soil drinking rain. She absorbed the systems of Umbrella. Corporate structures, data flow, the intricate dance of international finance—things that made seasoned executives stutter barely slowed her down.
I once walked past a glass conference room and saw her explaining a supply-chain bottleneck to a senior engineer. Her logic was clear, and utterly undeniable. The man was scribbling notes as if she were a visiting professor. Pietro stood in the corner, pretending to be fascinated by a fire extinguisher, but his eyes were on Wanda. When she finished and flashed a proud smile, he immediately looked at the floor, his ears tingeing red.
Sharon, meanwhile, had been doing her homework. She entered my office that afternoon, the tablet in her hand held like a weapon she had decided not to use. Her posture had shifted from "Watchful Agent" to something more complex—something human.
"I ran the background checks," she said.
"I assumed you would," I replied, not looking up from Google analytics.
"They're clean." She hesitated, "Sokovia. They lost their parents to a mortar shell while they were eating dinner. Ten years old, trapped in a collapsed building for two days with an unexploded shell three feet from their faces. They shouldn't have survived, Aryan."
"They are survivors, Sharon. That is why they are here."
She exhaled a shaky breath. "They're just... kids who never got to be kids." She looked toward the glass wall, where Wanda was currently laughing at a joke Pietro had muttered. "It's good for them. Being here. Being normal." She paused, her gaze returning to me. "And it's good for you, too."
I didn't respond.
"Why do I feel like you're waiting for me to betray you?" she asked, her brow furrowed.
Because in my world, loyalty is a currency that devalues daily, I thought. But I only said, "Habit."
"You're lonely," she said simply, and left before I could offer a rebuttal.
————-
Pietro's POV: The End of the World (As I Know It)
Something was wrong.
Not "world-ending wrong" wrong, but something much more terrifying. Wanda was happy. Suspiciously happy.
She was waking up early—on purpose. She was humming in the shower. Hummed! My sister, the woman who used to communicate primarily through grimaces and sighs of despair, was now making musical noises.
I began tracking the data points.
Day Three: She laughed at something Aryan said. It wasn't even a joke. He just said something about "market volatility," and she acted like he was a world-class comedian. Then she turned red. End of the world: Confirmed.
Tactical Positioning: She wasn't just sitting anywhere. At breakfast, she was two seats away. In meetings, she was angled toward him at exactly forty-five degrees. In the garden, she was always within "conversational intercept range." This wasn't a coincidence; this was a military-grade social maneuver.
And the smiles. Before, she rationed smiles like they were bread crusts in a famine. Now? She was handing them out like flyers. I hated that I noticed. I hated that I liked seeing her healthy. And I especially hated that Aryan was the one doing it.
I tried to find the catch. Was he flirting? No. That was the annoying part. He didn't use lines. He just listened. He asked her questions about her day and actually waited for the answer. Once, he brought her tea. Not coffee. Not a soda. Tea. The specific herbal blend from the Sokovian highlands. I almost threw a chair through the glass wall.
One night, I watched them from the balcony. They weren't touching or whispering. They were just talking. And for some reason, that felt more permanent than a kiss. I realized then that I had been so busy being her shield that I had forgotten she might want to put the shield down and just... be Wanda.
Fine. She looks better. She looks stronger. But I'm still watching him. I don't care how many search engines he owns; if he makes her cry, I will move so fast his molecules will forget how to stay together.
Then Wanda laughed again, a real, genuine sound, and against my will, I felt my own mouth twitch into a smile. Just a little one.
—————-
Aryan's POV:
That evening, I sat alone in the library, the glow of the television flickering against the dark wood. I wasn't paying attention until a name sliced through the silence like a blade.
"...Tony Stark has been nominated for the Apogee Award—one of the most prestigious honors in weapons innovation. The gala will be held at Caesars Palace, Las Vegas."
The screen showed Stark—grinning, arrogant, the golden boy of a world built on gunpowder. He looked untouchable.
I leaned forward, "So," I murmured, the silver fog of the Castle stirring in the back of my mind. "The first ripple has reached the surface."
In the original timeline, this was where the path to the cave began. This was where the Merchant of Death began his transformation into a Hero.
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