Paris, France — Champs-Élysées.Five hours before Voss's departure for Washington.
It was late at night, but Paris was still alive — the streets glowing under soft lamplight, faint music drifting from open café doors.
Clint Barton sat in a 24-hour café, nursing an espresso while his eyes stayed fixed on the apartment building across the street.
He'd been there for three hours.
According to S.H.I.E.L.D. intel, Natasha Romanoff was in Paris on an assassination mission. Her target: a former Soviet official who had defected to France — a man who knew too many secrets about the Red Room. Now he was marked for elimination.
Clint glanced at his watch. 9:43 PM.If the intel was right, Natasha would make her move around ten.
"Damn Fury," Clint muttered. "Sending me to recruit a Russian assassin… might as well sign my death warrant."
He remembered Fury's tone over the phone — calm but urgent. In all his years with S.H.I.E.L.D., Clint had rarely seen the director so rattled.
A waitress approached. "Another cup, sir?"
"Yeah," Clint said without looking up. "Make it double sugar."
"Right away."
As she walked off, Clint returned to his vigil. Through his binoculars, he saw a flicker of movement on the third floor — the target's room.
Then, a shadow appeared on the roof.
"She's here," Clint whispered, lowering his cup and pulling out his binoculars again.
A woman with long red hair stood on the rooftop, her silhouette sharp against the moonlight. Even from this distance, Clint could sense the danger radiating off her.
Natasha Romanoff — the Black Widow.The Red Room's most perfect creation.
She moved down the building's outer wall with effortless grace, silent as a cat. Within minutes, she slipped through the third-floor window.
Clint knew the pattern. Within moments, her target would be dead. Natasha never missed.
But five minutes later, she emerged again. Instead of scaling down, she leapt from the window, twisting midair and landing lightly on the ground.
"What a woman," Clint muttered, standing up and tossing a few euros on the table. "Fury better owe me big for this."
Natasha turned down a narrow alley. Clint followed from a distance, careful to stay in the shadows. Getting close to a trained killer required timing — one wrong move and he'd be dead before he could say hello.
As she reached a darker stretch of the alley, Clint decided to close the distance.
"You've been tailing me for a while," Natasha said suddenly, without turning around.
Clint froze, then smiled faintly. "Guess I'm not as sneaky as I thought."
She turned slowly. The moonlight touched her face — beautiful, cold, and utterly lethal.
"Who are you?" she asked, hand brushing the weapon at her hip. "MI6? Section Seven? Or someone else?"
"S.H.I.E.L.D.," Clint said, raising his hands slightly. "Clint Barton. Codename Hawkeye."
Her eyes narrowed. "S.H.I.E.L.D.? What do you want?"
"To recruit you," Clint said plainly. "Give you a way out."
Natasha let out a short, bitter laugh. "Recruit me? You do realize who I am? My hands are covered in blood."
"I know exactly who you are," Clint replied. "But I also know you've been looking for a way out."
Her eyes flickered. "And how would you know that?"
"If you were still the Red Room's perfect killer," Clint said, nodding toward the apartment behind them, "that old man would be dead right now. But you only knocked him out, didn't you?"
Natasha said nothing. Then, quietly: "You're observant, I'll give you that. But it doesn't mean I trust you."
"You don't have to. Just listen," Clint said. "The Red Room's tracking you. They'll never let you disappear. But S.H.I.E.L.D. can make them stop."
"And in return?" she asked coldly.
"You work for us," Clint said. "Use your skills to protect people instead of killing them."
Natasha tilted her head. "Sounds like trading one cage for another."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't a cage," Clint said. "It's a second chance."
"Second chances?" she murmured, her tone distant. "You think someone like me deserves that?"
"I think everyone does," Clint said. "It's just a matter of whether you'll take it."
Before Natasha could answer, heavy footsteps echoed from the alley's far end. Three men in black appeared, weapons drawn.
"Red Room agents," Natasha muttered. "Guess the conversation's over."
"Not quite," Clint said, nocking an arrow. "Looks like I get to prove my point."
She gave him a sharp look — surprised that he was willing to stand and fight. "You sure about this? They're not amateurs."
"Neither am I," Clint said, eyes locked on his target. "Ready?"
Natasha drew her pistols. "Always."
The agents advanced, their leader shouting in Russian, "Natasha Romanoff! Come quietly, and we'll make your death painless!"
"Not tonight," Natasha replied coldly — then, in English, "Left one's mine."
Clint loosed his arrow. It shot through the air like lightning and hit the rightmost agent square in the shoulder, slamming him to the pavement.
Natasha darted forward, rolling low and firing twice. The man on the left collapsed before he even hit the ground.
The third tried to run, but Clint's next arrow pierced his leg, dropping him instantly.
Seconds later, the alley fell silent.
Natasha checked the bodies — all down, none dead — then turned to Clint. "Nice aim."
"Nice moves," he replied, lowering his bow. "Now do you believe me?"
She hesitated. "If I join S.H.I.E.L.D., how do I know I won't just be another expendable asset?"
"You have my word," Clint said solemnly. "In S.H.I.E.L.D., no one gets left behind."
Natasha studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine. I'll come with you. But on one condition."
"Name it."
"I want to meet your director. In person."
Clint smiled. "He's already waiting."
The two of them left the alley and headed toward the car waiting nearby. Clint had arranged a private jet for the trip to Washington.
As the city lights passed outside the window, Natasha finally broke the silence. "Why are you helping me? You don't even know me."
Clint thought for a moment. "Maybe because I believe people can change. And Fury's instincts are rarely wrong."
She gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. "Your director trusts you."
"We trust each other," Clint said. "That's what makes us different."
Natasha turned to the window again, watching the Paris lights fade into the distance. Her heart was heavy — regret and hope tangled together.
For the first time in a long while, she dared to believe in something new.Maybe this really was a new beginning.