For Leon.
Knowing the cause and working backward to find a solution is a simple matter as long as the basic conditions permit.
Now that it has been confirmed that Natasha was under mind control through some kind of chemical substance, the next step—reversing the inhibitor formula—became straightforward.
Leon used his supercomputer-like brain to quickly simulate various solutions, then handed them over to Jarvis for real-world simulation.
It took him only twenty minutes to produce a vial of bright red reagent.
"The success rate is 87 percent, right?" Leon asked, drawing the liquid into a syringe.
"Yes. According to the simulation, there is a 12 percent chance the drug will not work and a 1 percent chance of a fatal reaction, leading to brain death," Jarvis confirmed.
"This is the best we can do with current medical technology." Leon shrugged.
He glanced at Natasha and mused, "Ideally, we'd conduct a Phase III randomized double-blind clinical trial. That's standard procedure for drug development."
"But given the situation, I doubt we have the time to find volunteers."
On the workbench, Natasha was already awake, fiercely struggling against her restraints.
Leon remained unfazed as he pushed the air out of the syringe, watching a thin line of liquid spurt from the needle tip.
"Stop struggling. You're about to get an injection. You wouldn't want to break the needle, would you?"
"Besides, you tied me up first. Now we're even."
"I'm sure Miss Natasha can understand that, right?"
Her bloodshot eyes glared at him, ignoring the tape covering her mouth.
"Very good. Our patient agrees to the treatment."
"But do be prepared." He flicked the syringe again to dispel any lingering air bubbles.
"After all, I'm an amateur doctor. If the medicine works, great. If not, well… let's call it survivor bias."
In his previous life, Leon had been a man of few words.
But after spending over a decade around Tony Stark, he had picked up a habit of talking—especially at critical moments.
"The injection needs to go in the arm. Do you want to take off your sleeve, or should I tear it off for you?"
"Ah, I see. You want me to tear it off. Got it."
Leon ripped Natasha's sleeve, pinning her arm down with controlled strength before applying alcohol to the exposed skin.
"Alright, Natasha. This is the final step. You have one second to reconsider."
"One! Time's up! You agree to proceed! Excellent!"
"Since we're pressed for time, we'll skip the paperwork. If something goes wrong, we'll just send your ashes back to the Red Room."
Natasha's eyes widened, and she mumbled something through the tape.
"What's that? No anesthesia? Oh, don't worry. We don't have any."
"Here we go!"
Leon smoothly injected the serum into her arm.
The bright red liquid disappeared into her bloodstream.
"Done! See? Didn't even hurt. Our treatment process is impressively short."
"Now, we need to press the injection site to prevent bruising, but since you're tied up, I'll do it for you."
Leon withdrew the empty syringe and pressed a cotton swab to her arm before setting the syringe back on the tray held by a robotic assistant.
Then, he fell silent.
His earlier nonchalance faded as he studied Natasha intently.
Leon's thoughts weren't as carefree as his words suggested.
As one of this world's central figures, Natasha Romanoff wouldn't succumb to a mere 1 percent probability.
Besides, the counteragent was the best he could devise under current conditions.
Even if the world's top doctors collaborated, they might only reduce the fatality risk by a fraction of a percent—not significantly better.
The chemicals controlling Natasha had never been designed with an antidote in mind.
The creators sought an irreversible control agent, prioritizing its unbreakable nature over the lives of its subjects.
The chemicals were embedded within Natasha's brain cell fluid. Removing them risked killing the very cells they occupied.
Brain damage. Death.
That was the price of breaking free.
The fact that Leon had managed to create an inhibitor at all was already a miracle.
As for the 1 percent fatality rate? Acceptable collateral.
"Looks like it's working."
Leon removed his gloves, rinsed them with disinfectant, and wiped his hands with a towel handed to him by another robotic assistant.
He silently prayed for Natasha for a second.
"Jarvis, would you consider it lucky or unlucky if she actually hits that 1 percent probability?"
Leon mused as he observed her.
"Statistically, a 1 percent chance is quite fortunate," Jarvis answered. "However, if the worst outcome occurs, it would be exceedingly unfortunate."
"How very objective of you."
Leon chuckled. "But humans don't think like that. When disaster strikes, even a minuscule chance becomes an absolute certainty in their eyes."
"Noted, Master Leon. I will attempt to process probabilities this way in the future."
"No need. Logical thinking is your strength. Besides, some women find that appealing—Oh! Natasha's waking up!"
Leon saw Natasha's long lashes tremble and leaned in closer to observe.
Slowly, she opened her eyes, amber pupils clouded with disorientation.
Leon grinned. "That blank stare... perfect! Miss Romanoff, congratulations! Your operation was a success!"
Confusion meant that her mind was no longer under chemical control.
Her fragmented consciousness was reassembling itself.
Though it would take time for her to fully recover.
Leon pulled off the restraints binding her hands and the tape covering her mouth.
Natasha blinked in shock.
The first thing she saw upon regaining consciousness was Leon's face—way too close.
Her pupils contracted, and her instincts took over.
Freed from her restraints, she reacted on reflex.
In one fluid motion, she wrapped her legs around Leon's waist, twisted her body, and maneuvered behind him in a chokehold.
Years of elite training had ingrained this response into her muscle memory.
Her arms tightened around his neck without a second thought.
Yet Leon remained utterly unfazed.
Her grip, meant to suffocate, felt as ineffective as trying to strangle a stone pillar.
Natasha froze.
Memories rushed back into her mind like a flood.
Her face went blank as her eyes lost focus.
Leon casually unhooked her arms, picked her up, and set her back on the workbench.
Natasha finally snapped out of it.
"You... saved me."
She looked at him, her expression a mix of emotions.
Her hands fidgeted at her sides before she slowly lowered her head.
"What have I done..."
She had resigned herself to being under the Red Room's control forever. Yet, by some twist of fate, she had been freed—by her own target.
As her thoughts settled, a storm of emotions swirled within her—remorse, resentment, anxiety.
"Looks like you're recovering well," Leon observed.
Natasha's head snapped up.
She sat on the workbench, suddenly feeling lost.
"Thank you... truly. And... I'm sorry. I acted on instinct. I shouldn't have done that. Did I hurt you?"
…
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