One hour later, Brooklyn.
Petrov Restaurant.
This was an old establishment with an extremely rugged, retro decor. The wooden tables and chairs gleamed with oil, and the walls were adorned with shotguns and bear skins from some unknown century.
Reze followed Natasha through the somewhat noisy lobby and, under the respectful guidance of a waiter, entered a quiet private room located in a corner.
"Have a seat."
Natasha pulled out a chair for Reze and casually handed her the menu. "The borscht and pickles here are must-orders. Of course, if you want to try something else, feel free to order."
Reze sat down obediently, holding the menu with both hands, covering half her face, leaving only a pair of curious large eyes to look around.
She continued to maintain her persona of a "rebellious but naive little sister," pretending to be completely unaware that the caring older sister across from her was actually the famous Black Widow, and even more so pretending not to know that there were likely at least three bugs installed in this private room.
"Then... I'll have this, and this..."
Reze ordered several dishes based on Su Modie's and Perona's appetites.
Natasha nodded with a smile, signaling the waiter to take note. Once the staff had withdrawn and the door was closed, only the two of them remained sitting opposite each other.
The faint aroma of black tea filled the air.
Natasha sat with her hands clasped on the table. Instead of rushing into the main topic, she looked at Reze with a soft gaze and suddenly spoke softly in Russian:
"I haven't introduced myself yet, have I? Let's get to know each other formally."
"I am Natasha Romanoff."
"Born in Sta... born in Volgograd."
Hearing this name, Su Modie, far away in the apartment, was slightly stunned.
"She's actually giving her real name? Even the birthplace is real."
Su Modie was a bit surprised.
She had thought that a top Agent like Black Widow, when facing a dangerous individual with an unknown background, would surely use an alias or a code name.
She didn't expect her to lay her cards on the table right from the start, even revealing her background.
Perhaps Natasha felt that Reze had no idea who Black Widow was?
Or perhaps she truly saw a shadow in this young girl, also from the Soviet Union, that made her feel nostalgic and sympathetic.
Facing Natasha's sincere gaze, Reze put down the napkin in her hand.
She blinked, a hint of confused memory flashing in her turquoise eyes.
"My name is Reze."
She responded softly, also in fluent and authentic Russian.
"As for where exactly I'm from..."
Reze's voice paused.
This wasn't acting.
She really didn't know.
From the moment she had memories, she had been taken by the Soviet government for human experimentation; she was entirely a lab rat.
She had no childhood, no parents, no hometown.
Her memories only contained cold operating tables, endless assassination training, and the indifferent faces of those scientists.
Where was she born?
Who knew.
Maybe some forgotten orphanage, maybe some unknown rural farm.
She might not even be Soviet, but now, facing Natasha's "reunion," she obviously couldn't tell the truth.
"I don't remember very clearly either..."
Reze lowered her eyes, her fingers gently rubbing the coarse tablecloth, her voice filled with confusion and reminiscence:
"I only remember a very wide river that would freeze thick in the winter. Was it... Kamyshin? Or somewhere a bit further north? It's been too long; I was too small then, and I only remember that the snow there never seemed to stop..."
It was a perfect lie.
Kamyshin, located on the banks of the Volga River, was just as bone-chillingly cold as she described, and more importantly, it belonged to the Volgograd Oblast.
As expected.
Hearing the name "Kamyshin," Natasha's hand, which was holding the teacup, paused.
That approachable, perfect smile also stiffened.
For this top Agent who had been in a foreign land for many years, suddenly meeting a "neighbor sister" in this chaotic New York full of mutated monsters and superheroes, who spoke the same dialect and described the same familiar river...
That instinctive touch could not be faked.
It was the snow of her hometown, and a past she could never return to.
Natasha's gaze slowly softened, even carrying a hint of imperceptible surprise.
However, before Natasha could continue this warm "hometown reunion" vibe.
Bang.
The door to the private room was suddenly pushed open.
A chilling wind seemed to pour in as the door swung open, dissipating the warm atmosphere that had just been established in the room.
A bald man wearing a black leather trench coat and an eyepatch strode in.
That aura of natural authority, with a face so grim it seemed to carry the weight of the entire World's dark side, made the originally somewhat noisy restaurant seem to quiet down a bit.
The Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., Nick Fury.
Natasha's words were interrupted. She turned to look at Fury, a hint of complaint flashing in her eyes—Boss, your timing is terrible.
Reze's reaction, on the other hand, was textbook quality.
Her movements suddenly stiffened, and then, like a startled little rabbit, she shrank back into her chair.
"Au... Auntie Natasha..."
Reze's voice trembled slightly, her hands instinctively clutching the tablecloth, her eyes darting across Fury's face, which looked like a black-faced death god, not daring to look directly at him:
"Who... who is this? Do you know him?"
"He looks so scary... this eye... is he a pirate?"
"..."
Nick Fury, who had just pulled out a chair to sit down, clearly stiffened in his movements.
The corner of his eye twitched violently.
Pirate?
This was the first time someone had dared to say it to his face.
Fury sat down expressionlessly, without speaking, and slowly but steadily pulled something from his coat.
A black Glock pistol.
"Ah!"
Reze gave a short cry of alarm, looking terrified.
However, Fury did not point the gun at her.
He placed the gun gently on the glass turntable of the round table, then extended a finger and lightly spun it.
Whirr—
As the turntable spun, the gun slowly slid to the other side, with the handle facing outward and the barrel pointing toward an empty space.
It was even closer to Reze than to himself.
After doing all this, Fury rested his chin on his crossed hands.
His single eye stared intently at Reze, his tone carrying a bit of helplessness and the sense of being amused by anger:
"Alright, stop acting, little girl."
"I know you're not afraid of this. If I really wanted to threaten you, I wouldn't have brought just this one gun, let alone done this."
Fury sighed, seemingly exhausted by this "pro pretending to be a rookie" quirk:
"There is only a middle-aged man here who wants to talk to you."
"My name is Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm responsible for handling supernatural events and global crises.."
"You might have heard of me, or you might not have, but that's not important."
Nick Fury glanced at the pistol far from him.
"You can see it as... my sincerity."
"Let's talk."
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