Archive of Our Own

Yelena did not move after Anya left.

The door slid shut with a soft, almost polite sound, and then there was nothing. No footsteps. No vents shifting. No small presence coiled in the shadows anymore. Just the gym, dim and cavernous, the punching bag still swaying faintly from earlier like it was breathing on its own.

Yelena stood exactly where she was.

Arms folded. Weight evenly distributed. Spine straight.

Perfect posture for a fight.

Useless posture for this.

Her brain refused to catch up. The conversation kept replaying in fragments, out of order, like a badly edited surveillance tape.

I’m your clone.

Ninety-ish percent.

Natasha raised me.

I didn’t want to be a problem.

A child.

A child who moved like a weapon because she’d been trained that way before she’d ever been allowed to be anything else. A child who had Yelena’s face in pieces—enough to be unmistakable if you knew where to look. Enough that Yelena’s body had recognized her before her mind could.

She slid down onto the bench without really noticing she’d done it.

Her hands started shaking the moment they were idle.

Yelena clenched them into fists, nails biting into her palms. The pain barely registered.

She’d kept it together in front of Anya. That was the part that burned now. The control. The careful pacing of her reactions. The jokes. The boundaries. The calm voice that said okay when nothing about this was okay.

Because Anya had been so small and the name rang a bell… it dug deep into her past.

Anya wasn’t physically small—she was tall enough, sharp enough, dangerous enough—but small in that other way. In the way children get when they’ve grown up too fast and never learned how to ask for things. In the way her shoulders had tensed every time Yelena moved too suddenly. In the way she’d talked too fast, apologized too quickly, taken responsibility for things that were never hers to carry.

Yelena had seen that look before.

In mirrors. In old footage. In Natasha, sometimes, when she thought no one was watching. In other Widows too.

She’d kept the mask on because if she hadn’t, she would have scared her.

Because what Yelena wanted to do—what every instinct screamed at her to do—was tear the world apart with her bare hands. To hunt down every scientist, every handler, every file that had ever touched Anya’s existence. To go back in time and put herself between that child and everything that had hurt her. She was really itching to go to Wakanda and kill Zemo herself.

To protect.

Too late.

The thought landed like a knife.

I should have known.

It echoed, relentless.

She was the best assassin in the world. She prided herself on seeing patterns others missed, on reading rooms, on knowing when something was wrong before anyone else caught on. And yet there had been a child—her clone, in every way that mattered—out there suffering, being shaped by the same machinery that had shaped her.

And she hadn’t known.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, breathing carefully, methodically, like she was diffusing a bomb inside her own chest.

Natasha.

The anger flared again, hot and sharp and familiar. Natasha, with her secrets and her silent decisions. Natasha, who had saved the world and dismantled the Red Room and still thought she had the right to decide what Yelena could handle.

She hid a child from me.

No—worse.

She hid Anya.

Yelena dragged in a breath that shook despite her best efforts. She could almost hear Natasha’s voice in her head, calm and infuriating and full of justifications. I was protecting you. I didn’t want to hurt you. I thought I had time.

You never had time, Natasha.

The night stretched on around her. At some point the lights dimmed further as the tower slipped into its automated sleep cycle. Yelena stayed exactly where she was, thoughts looping until they lost coherence, until anger bled into grief bled into something dangerously close to panic.

She didn’t cry.

She hadn’t cried in a bit.

Instead, she sat there, frozen, until the sky outside the high windows lightened almost imperceptibly. Until the world decided morning was coming whether she was ready or not.

After a few hours in the gym just sitting there her mind moved on autopilot.

After a minute she somehow got to the kitchen her mind was too occupied to remember how.

Yelena moved through the kitchen on autopilot.

Open fridge. Grab smoothie. Green. Kale, apple, something aggressively healthy she barely tasted. Her body knew the routine even if her mind was still trapped twelve hours in the past, looping through the same images like a broken reel.

A child.
Her face.
Natasha’s hands guiding someone else’s future.

The tower woke slowly around her.

Alexei was already there, shirtless and loud, digging through the freezer like it had personally offended him. “We have no sausages,” he announced to no one in particular. “This is crime.”

Bob sat at the table in pajama pants and thankfully a shirt, staring into a bowl of cereal with the intensity of someone hoping it might start speaking first. Bucky leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, posture relaxed but eyes alert. Walker stomped in a few minutes later, already irritated by the concept of morning. Ava followed silently, scanning the room, cataloging tension like it was a second language.

They all noticed.

Yelena didn’t need to look up to know that.

She didn’t make a joke. Didn’t insult Alexei’s life choices. Didn’t comment on Walkers scowl or Bob’s thousand-yard stare. She just stood there, smoothie sweating in her hand, staring at the counter like it might offer instructions.

Alexei squinted at her. “You are very quiet,” he said suspiciously. “This is not normal. Are you sick? Poisoned? Did someone insult that archer girl again?”

Yelena didn’t answer.

Bucky watched her for a long moment, then deliberately looked away, giving her the space of someone who understood what it meant when a soldier went quiet. Bob slurped his cereal. John shifted like he wanted to poke the bear and decided he valued his life. Ava stayed silent, gaze sharp.

They ate.

A mindless morning show played on the TV—some bright, noisy nonsense John had turned on. Plates clinked. A spoon scraped. The world continued, rude in its normalcy.

Eventually, Alexei wandered off, humming. Bob followed, muttering something about needing more coffee. Bucky left with a quiet nod that said later.

It was Ava who reached over and turned the TV down.

John glanced at her, then at Yelena. “Okay,” he said carefully. “You’re officially freaking me out.”

Ava leaned back in her chair. “Talk.”

Yelena laughed.

It burst out sharp and brittle, completely humorless. She slammed the smoothie down on the counter hard enough that it splashed. Ava flinched.

“Talk?” Yelena repeated. “My life was violated.”

John blinked. “Wow. Starting strong.”

“They took my body,” Yelena snapped, words spilling fast now that the dam was cracked. “My DNA. Without consent. They made a child from it. A weapon. And I did not know.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Wait—what?”

“The kid you were arguing with yesterday?” Yelena shot back, eyes blazing. “She is mine… well clone.”

John froze. “Oh.”

A beat.

“…That explains why I hated that kid so much.”

Ava smacked him upside the head without hesitation. “Not the time.”

“Ow—okay, okay, I meant personality-wise! I didn’t know.”

“That is the problem,” Yelena snapped. “None of us knew.”

Ava’s voice softened. “Yelena. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have,” Yelena said fiercely. “I am not blind. I am trained to notice everything. And she—she is me. She moves like me. Thinks like me. I should have seen it.”

“You didn’t consent,” Ava said carefully. “You didn’t create her.”

“But I am responsible,” Yelena shot back. “Because I could have protected her.”

Her hands were shaking now, fists clenching and unclenching. “She was probably abused in the Red Room. The first years of her life. The same conditioning. The same punishments.” Her voice cracked. “And then Natasha took her to safety but everyone knows she probably didn’t have time to raise a kid.”

Ava stilled.

John’s joking expression faded.

“And then,” Yelena continued, voice rising, “Natasha left her with S.H.I.E.L.D., because what else would she do? She was busy saving the world, dying for it every other Tuesday. And S.H.I.E.L.D. had no idea what to do with a child like that, so they turned her into Natasha. Again.”

She laughed, wild and broken. “Of course they did.”

John shifted, uncomfortable. “Look, I’ve got a kid,” he said, trying for casual. “It’s—hard, sure, but you figure it out. You just—show up.”

Yelena rounded on him. “She did not get that luxury.”

Silence slammed down.

“She was trained,” Yelena said, quieter but more dangerous. “Shaped. Weaponized. She did not get bedtime stories or mistakes or safety. She got survival.” Her jaw tightened. “And she thought she was a burden.”

Ava’s eyes darkened. “That’s not on you.”

“But it feels like it is,” Yelena whispered. “Because I lived. I got out. I healed. And she did not.”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “You didn’t fail her.”

Yelena shook her head violently. “I should have known. I am the best assassin in the world according to Aleixi.”

“And you’re not psychic,” Ava cut in firmly. She stood, placing a hand on Yelena’s arm—grounding, steady. “You didn’t do this to her.”

Yelena inhaled sharply, chest heaving. “I will find them,” she said coldly. “Every file. Every scientist. Every person who signed off on this. And I will make sure this never happens again.”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m… actually on board with that.”

Ava squeezed Yelena’s arm gently. “She’s alive,” she said. “She found you. That matters.”

Yelena closed her eyes, breathing through the tightness in her chest.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It does.”

——

Anya woke up already tired.
 
Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes—the other kind. The one that sat behind her eyes and pressed in, heavy and constant, like a reminder she hadn’t asked for. The tower was quiet in the early morning, all glass and steel and reflections, and everywhere Anya looked she saw fragments of herself that didn’t belong to her. Her reflection in the window looked like someone else. Her posture, the way she stood, the way she breathed—borrowed. Learned. Programmed by proximity.
 
She knew people. That was the problem. She knew how to read them, how to anticipate them, how to become what they needed her to be. Her personality felt like a collage made from scraps torn out of other lives. Her face was a copy. Her muscle memory came from someone else’s training. Her thoughts—those were hers, at least technically—but even those echoed in ways that made her skin itch. She thought like one of her clones. She couldn’t un-know that. Couldn’t un-feel it. Every instinct came with an afterimage.
 
She stood in her room staring at the door, fingers curling into the hem of her shirt like if she held on tight enough, she might keep herself from unraveling.
 
She wanted to leave.
 
Just walk out. No explanation. No team breakfast. No training. No one watching her to see if she cracked again today, cataloging it in their heads like evidence.
 
She took one step toward the door.
 
And stopped.
 
Sam was there.
 
Which made no sense, because Sam was never there this early. She’d noticed the pattern weeks ago. He gave them space. Trusted them to regulate themselves. Well she wasn’t in the picture yet but still.
So why was he here now?
 
And why was the whole common area quiet as she walked in?
 
Everyone was there—sitting, standing, leaning—but no one was loud. Kate had cereal she wasn’t eating. Riri pretended to scroll through something. Kamala stirred her bowl too slowly. Peter stared into his mug like it had the key to the city.
 
The air felt staged.
 
Controlled.
 
After a few seconds, Anya knew why.
 
Sam cleared his throat.
 
“New rules,” he said calmly.
 
Anya decided, immediately and irrationally, that she hated the word new almost as much as she hated the word temporary.
 
Sam used temporary like a shield. Like if he kept his voice level and his hands open, whatever was underneath wouldn’t show. But the way he stood—arms crossed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp—made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion.
 
“Buddy system,” Sam said. “Temporary. For everyone.”
 
Anya heard something else entirely.
 
You are unstable.
 
She leaned back against the counter, arms crossing tight over her chest, while the rest of them reacted like it was nothing. Kate shrugged. Riri sighed like she’d already expected this. Tommy was eating cereal like no tomorrow racing Eli to see who could eat the most.
Kamala spoke up immediately. “Buddy system?” She echoed, like it was a fun new game. “Are we doing power-coded buddies? Because I call—”
 
“It’s not a game,” Sam said, without heat but without room to argue. “Yesterday got… loud. I want everyone paired up when they leave the tower.”
 
Everyone.
 
The word landed like a lie that had learned how to smile.
 
Anya knew exactly who that rule was for.
 
She pushed off the counter accent thick. “I don’t need a buddy.”
 
Sam finally looked directly at her. Not at her hands. Not at her stance. Not at the way her shoulders were already braced for impact—just her.
 
“It’s not about need,” he said. “It’s about making sure nobody’s alone.”
 
“I like being alone.”
 
“That’s not the same thing.”
 
Peter drifted closer before she could step away, already grinning like this was an adventure. “Hey, I’ll be your buddy. I’m very low-maintenance. I mostly just need oxygen.”
“I said I don’t—”
 
“And doughnuts,” Peter added quickly. “Because I’m getting doughnuts. For the team. Which means you’re getting doughnuts. You’re welcome.”
 
She stared at him, heat crawling up her neck. “I can get my own.”
 
“But Sam said—”
 
“Peter,” Sam cut in, firmer now. “You’re going anyway. Take Anya with you.”
 
There it was.
 
The real sentence hidden inside the first one.
 
Anya laughed, short and humorless. “So it is about me.”
 
Sam didn’t deny it. “It’s about you not spiraling by yourself.”
 
“I’m not spiraling.”
 
The room went quiet in that way that said everyone was suddenly listening while pretending not to.
 
Peter rocked back on his heels. “Okay, counterpoint,” he said lightly. “We get doughnuts, you get fresh air, nobody explodes. Win-win.”
 
Anya wanted to snap at him. Wanted to tear into the way he said explode like it was a joke and not a memory—her voice echoing off the walls yesterday, sharp and out of control. Instead, she grabbed her jacket and shoved her arms into it.
 
“Fine,” she said. “But I’m keeping my distance.”
 
Peter beamed joking. “Deal. Unless we cross the street we gotta say safe.”
 
She shot him a look that promised violence.
 

They left the tower together, the city air hitting her like a wall of noise and cold. The doors sealed behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss, and for a split second Anya felt that hollow drop in her chest—the one that whispered leave, leave, leave, the one that always showed up the moment an exit presented itself.

She slowed without meaning to.

Peter didn’t.

He was already halfway down the steps, hands shoved into his pockets, humming something off-key and unrecognizable, like momentum itself had grabbed him by the collar and decided they were going places whether he liked it or not. He didn’t look back, didn’t check if she was following, didn’t hover. He just… assumed.

That irritated her.

And, annoyingly, made it harder to stop walking.

She caught up to him easily, falling into step beside him. He glanced over, grinned like this was the most normal thing in the world, and immediately launched into commentary about the weather, the sidewalk, and a pigeon that looked “kind of judgmental, honestly.”

“You ever notice,” Peter said, hopping over a crack in the pavement, “how New York pigeons act like they own the place? Like, that one definitely pays rent.”

Anya snorted before she could stop herself.

She scowled immediately afterward, like she could bully the sound back into her throat.

Peter noticed. Of course he did.

“Oh my god,” he said, eyes lighting up. “Was that a laugh? I knew it. I knew there was a sense of humor under all that murder energy.”

“I do not have murder energy.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Okay. Intimidating assassin energy, then.”

“Keep talking,” she said flatly. “See what happens.”

He beamed. “Threats. Nice. Very murder coded.”

She shot him a look. “I’m not murder.”

.

“Yet,” he said easily with a laugh. “Give it time we all have a dark side.”

That, made her chest feel weird.
Was she a murder… she’s killed so many just for jobs once Natasha died and before.

The doughnut shop was only a few blocks away, tucked between a dry cleaner and a nail salon with flickering lights that buzzed faintly even in the daylight. It looked small and unassuming, the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. The windows were fogged slightly from warmth inside, sugar-dusted fingerprints smudging the glass.

The bell chimed when they walked in.

Warmth hit her immediately. Sugar and coffee and oil and something fried enough to make her stomach twist in a way she didn’t trust. The display case stretched along the wall, rows of doughnuts lined up like they were on parade glazed, powdered, filled, iced in colors that felt aggressively cheerful.

Peter froze.

Anya noticed because Peter never froze.

It was subtle just a hitch in his step, shoulders going stiff but she clocked it instantly. His head tilted, spider sense or something adjacent humming under his skin, and then his eyes flicked to the counter.

The girl behind it was maybe Peter’s age. Hair pulled back, and hands dusted with sugar. She smiled automatically when she saw them—and for half a second, Peter forgot how to be subtle.

Anya followed his gaze, then looked away just as quickly.

She didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. Didn’t smirk. She leaned against the display case, arms crossed loosely, watching reflections move across the glass instead of the way Peter’s ears had turned faintly pink.

Peter cleared his throat. “Hi,” he said, too fast. “Uh. Hi. MJ We’d like to—wow, it smells really good in here. I mean—obviously. Doughnuts. That’s—yeah.”

The girl smiled wider, amused but kind. “What can I get you Peter?”

Peter glanced at the case like it had personally betrayed him by having so many options.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’re getting doughnuts for… a group. A team. A large team.… math club group thing.” Peter counted on his fingers. “Umm a dozen would be good…. I think”

MJ smiled as she went to grab a large doughnut box. “Ok what kind?”

Peter looked stressed out as Anya raised an eyebrow.

Peter leaned toward her conspiratorially. “This is where you come in.”

“I am not helping you pick doughnuts.”

“Yes you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You absolutely are,” he said cheerfully. “Because if I mess this up, Kate will complain, Kamala will feel bad for me, Riri will silently judge me, and Tommy will steal everyone else’s. I need strategy.”

She stared at him. “I’ve known them for less than a day.”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. But smiled whispering so MJ didn’t hear. “But you’re also a highly trained spy who definitely knows everyone’s psychological profile, favorite breakfast foods, and deepest fears.”

“I do not.”

He grinned. “You totally do.”

She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt—but she pushed off the case and leaned closer anyway, peering into the display.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Who first?”

Peter clapped his hands softly, delighted. “Okay, team doughnut draft. This is very serious.”

He pointed at a chocolate-glazed with rainbow sprinkles. “Kamala.”

Anya squinted. “Too obvious.”

“What? She loves fun.”

“She loves everyone else having fun,” Anya corrected automatically. “She’d pick something plain so no one else feels bad about wanting the last fancy one.”

Peter blinked. Then slowly pointed at a classic glazed and MJ grabbed it. “Oh. Oh wow. That’s—yeah, that tracks.”

She frowned slightly, like she hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

Peter pretended not to notice.

“Cassie?” he asked, gesturing toward a maple bar.

“Sprinkles,” Anya said without hesitation. “Extra. She likes things that look like they’re already celebrating.”

Peter laughed, bright and genuine. “You’ve known her for twelve hours.”

She shrugged. “People wear their tells loudly. And didn’t you want the help?”

“Okay,” he said, shaking his head. “Creepy, but helpful.”

He pointed at a powdered jelly-filled. “Billy.”

Anya shook her head. “Too messy. He won’t want the distraction.”

She pointed instead to a cinnamon twist. “That one. Low maintenance. Still good.”

Peter’s grin softened. “You’re really good at this.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m absolutely making it weird.”

They moved down the case together, Peter pointing at one and Anya vetoing or approving with short, decisive comments.

“Riri,” Peter said, pointing at a chocolate cake doughnut.

“Plain,” Anya said. “No filling. She eats like it’s fuel.”

“Ouch,” Peter laughed. “Accurate.”

“Kate,” he continued.

Anya hesitated. Just for a beat.

“Something she didn’t choose herself,” she said finally. “She always defaults to what she thinks she should like.”

Peter studied her, then nodded and MJ picked a lemon-glazed. “Risky. I like it.”

“Tommy,” Peter said next, already laughing.

“Two,” Anya said flatly. “He’ll steal one anyway.”

Peter snorted. “True.”

“And you,” she added, eyeing the case. “You’ll forget to eat yours.”

He looked startled. “Hey.”

“You will.”

“…Okay, yeah.”

By the time they reached the counter, the box was dangerously full.

The MJ smiled, rang them up, didn’t ask why Peter looked so relieved when Anya nodded once in approval at the final count.

As they stepped aside to wait, Peter leaned closer. “You know,” he said quietly, “for someone who claims she doesn’t belong, you just picked doughnuts for everyone like you’ve known them forever.”

She stiffened. “It’s pattern recognition.”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Sure.”

She stared back at the display, jaw tight. “Don’t read into it.”

“I’m not,” he said gently. “I just think… you see people. Even when you don’t want to.”

That landed somewhere tender.

She didn’t answer.

When the box was ready, Peter took it carefully, balancing it like it contained something precious.
 
On the walk back, Peter balanced the box carefully. “So,” he said. “You okay?”
 
“No.”
 
He nodded like that was an acceptable answer. “Cool. Want to not be okay quietly or loudly?”
 
She huffed despite herself. “You’re annoying.”
 
“Yeah,” he agreed. “But I’m consistent.”
 

They came back to the tower with the doughnut box already lighter than it should’ve been.

Peter kicked the door shut with his heel and announced, “Morale delivery!” like he was entering a war zone instead of the common area. The tension in the room shifted immediately—not gone, not fixed, but softened around the edges. Food did that. Familiar noise did that.

Tommy looked up first. “Did you get the chocolate ones?”

“Yes,” Peter said, already opening the box. “Plural. Because I respect your brand.”

Tommy whooped and immediately abandoned the ping-pong table mid-rally. Eli groaned as the ball bounced uselessly off the edge and rolled away.

“Hey!” Eli protested. “You can’t just—”

“I absolutely can,” Tommy said, already grabbing a doughnut and sprinting back. “Ping-pong pause!”

Billy, Teddy, and Kamala were curled up on the couch, some movie playing that Anya hadn’t been paying attention to—something animated and loud, colors flashing too bright to mean much. Kamala waved enthusiastically when she saw the box.

“Oh my god, doughnuts,” she said, like it was a miracle. “You’re my favorite people.”

Billy glanced into the box, thoughtful. “Cinnamon,” he said quietly, picking one out. He gave Peter a small nod of thanks that felt more sincere than words.

Peter shot Anya a look like see?.

She pretended not to notice.

Cassie sat cross-legged on the floor near the TV, eyes flicking between the screen and a small, clear container balanced carefully on a towel. Inside, an ant farm was half-assembled—tiny tunnels etched into red sand. She used a pair of tweezers with the kind of focus Anya recognized immediately.

“Don’t shake the table,” Cassie said absently. “They’re still adjusting.”

Tommy leaned over the back of the couch. “You say that like they have opinions.”

“They do,” Cassie replied seriously. “You just can’t hear them.”

Kate was a few steps away, half-turned from the room, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice was low, controlled, that familiar mix of warmth and steel. Anya caught just enough of it to know who was on the other end.

“—yeah, I know,” Kate was saying. “No, I’m fine. I just—Sam wants me to go over the old reports again. I’ll call you later, okay?”

Anya looked away immediately, jaw tightening.

Kate and Yelena were easy.

Too easy.

Not in the loud way—no big gestures or dramatic declarations—but in the quiet, settled way that came from time and shared survival. The kind of comfort that didn’t need to be proved every second. They argued without fear of it meaning something permanent. They laughed without checking to see if the other one would disappear afterward. They trusted each other in that deep, unconscious way Anya had only ever seen in people who’d already done the work of healing.

And that was what hurt.

Because it wasn’t really about Kate.

It was about the fact that Yelena had that at all.

Yelena had lost Natasha too. Anya knew that. She felt it in the way Yelena sometimes went quiet, in the way her humor sharpened when things got too close. But Yelena still had people. She had a team. She had a place to land. She had a life that kept moving forward instead of folding inward on itself.

She had friends—real ones. People she chose. People who chose her back.

Kate. Bob. Even Alexei.

Alexei, who should’ve been a disaster, who had been a disaster—and yet somehow, impossibly, Yelena’s relationship with him was healing. Not perfect, not clean, but alive. Something growing where rot should’ve been. Anya had seen it from the outside and didn’t understand how that was possible. How you could take something that broken and not let it poison everything it touched.

Yelena had that.

Anya didn’t.

And the worst part—the part that made the grief twist sharper—was that Yelena was a ninety-percent genetic match. Close enough that Anya saw her own face in Yelena’s expressions sometimes, close enough that her body moved through the world with echoes that weren’t hers. Close enough that people looked at Anya and saw her.

But closeness on paper didn’t mean closeness in life.

Natasha had been Anya’s parent in every way that mattered. Not biological, not official—but chosen, deliberate, fierce. Natasha had taught her how to survive, yes, but also how to sit quietly, how to breathe through panic, how to tie a bandage without rushing, how to listen. She had been the one constant. The axis everything else rotated around.

And she was gone.

There was no replacement for that. No version of “found family” that filled the exact shape she’d left behind. Anya carried that absence everywhere, heavy and unresolved. Every morning she woke up with the same realization: Natasha wasn’t coming back. There would be no correction, no explanation, no chance to ask why she’d been left with so many questions and no answers.

Yelena could never be that person.

And that terrified Anya more than she wanted to admit.

Because Yelena could have been something—could have been an anchor, a mirror, a bridge between who Anya was and who she might become—but Anya didn’t know how to reach for her without feeling like she was trespassing in a life that had already moved on. Didn’t know how to stand in front of someone who shared her blood, her face, her instincts, and not feel like a mistake standing too close to the original.

Yelena had healed in ways Anya hadn’t even started.

And Anya was still standing in the wreckage, holding onto Natasha’s ghost like letting go would mean losing the only proof she’d ever really been loved.

She’d lied to herself the night before when she said she was over Natasha’s death, that she was fine, that she wanted to stay. The words had come easily in the dark, whispered like a promise she could make without having to prove it. Morning had ruined that lie almost immediately. The grief had been sitting in her chest the moment she woke up, heavy and unmovable, pressing down on her lungs like it had weight. It wasn’t sharp anymore—it was worse than that. It was constant. Quiet. The kind of ache that threaded itself through everything she did.

Natasha was in the empty spaces. In the way Anya reached automatically for discipline when she wanted comfort. In the way she cataloged exits without thinking. In the way she corrected her posture when no one was watching. Every habit was a ghost, every instinct a reminder that the person who taught her those things was gone and wasn’t coming back to soften the edges or tell her when she could finally stop being so careful.

She’d noticed it sometime around mid-morning: she’d only made two snarky remarks all day.

That should’ve been impossible.

Sarcasm was armor. Sarcasm was how she stayed sharp, how she kept people at a distance without having to explain why closeness felt dangerous. When it dulled, when it slipped, it meant something underneath was wrong. It meant she was tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with loss.

She didn’t have the energy to perform today. No biting comments, no calculated detachment, no sharp tongue to keep the grief from leaking out. Just this muted, hollow version of herself that felt stripped down and exposed. Like if someone looked at her too closely, they’d see exactly how much she was still unraveling.

Natasha had been her anchor. Her constant. The one person who had seen her at her worst and stayed anyway. Without her, everything felt unmoored—every decision heavier, every step forward uncertain. Anya could survive without Natasha. She’d been trained to survive without almost anything.

But living? That was something else entirely.

And today, sitting there among people who cared in ways she didn’t know how to return, the truth pressed in hard and unavoidable:

She wasn’t over it.

She wasn’t okay.

And she didn’t know how to be.

She took a doughnut from the box without really looking at it. Chocolate. She bit into it mechanically, sugar sticking to her fingers.

They ate in companionable noise—movie dialogue overlapping with the ping of the ping-pong ball, Kamala’s commentary, Tommy’s trash talk, Cassie muttering encouragement to insects no one else could see. Kate paced a little as she listened to Sam now, phone tucked between shoulder and ear, a tablet in her free hand filled with reports she clearly didn’t want to read.

Anya sat there, quiet, watching it all like she was standing just outside a window.

Peter nudged her lightly with his elbow. “Hey,” he said. “You did good today.”

She frowned. “I yelled at everyone.”

“Yeah,” he said. “But you also brought doughnuts. Net positive.”

She huffed, shaking her head—but she didn’t move away.

For a few minutes, she let herself sit there. Eating. Listening. Not leaving. Peaceful.

“Anya!”
 
Kamala’s voice came through snapping her out of her thoughts, bright and relentless. A second later, Cassie chimed in, breathless like she’d been running. “Training day! Sparring day! Best day!”
 
Billy’s voice followed, dry as ever. “They’re lying. It’s not fun.”
 
A blur of motion zipped past the doorway. “Too late!” Tommy called, already halfway down the hall. “I’m starting without you!”
 
Anya closed her eyes.
 
She hated herself for not leaving when she had the chance. Hated herself for caring what happened if she didn’t show up. Hated herself for the relief that flickered—brief and unwanted—at not being alone.
 
They dragged her to the training room whether she wanted to go or not, the hallway stretching longer than usual as if the tower itself were conspiring to keep her moving forward. Kamala filled the space with sound, her voice bouncing off the glass walls as her hands flew in every direction, acting out some new move she’d apparently thought up at three in the morning. She kept stopping mid-walk to demonstrate it, spinning on her heel or throwing an exaggerated punch, nearly smacking the wall more than once. “Okay, okay, so imagine this—like, you fake left, but then you drop your weight and—no, wait, that’s not it—”
 
Cassie laughed, elastic and bright, bouncing alongside her while rolling her shoulders and tugging at her sleeves like she physically couldn’t wait to get started. She stretched her arms overhead, then her legs, then hopped a little just to shake the energy out. “I love sparring days,” she said cheerfully. “It’s like controlled chaos. You get hit, but it’s on purpose.”
 
Billy snorted from a few steps ahead, hands shoved deep into his pockets. “That’s a wild way to describe it,” he said, not even looking back. He didn’t complain, though. He never did. He just walked, present in that quiet, grounded way that made it obvious he was choosing to be there even if he pretended otherwise.
 
Anya followed behind them, one step back like she didn’t quite fit into the formation. Her shoulders were tight, neck stiff, every muscle braced as if she were walking into something she couldn’t see but knew would hurt. The conversation flowed around her without touching her, voices overlapping, laughter echoing, plans being made that didn’t include her input. Every footstep felt like another decision she hadn’t made for herself—another moment where momentum carried her forward instead of choice. She watched their backs, the easy way they moved through the space like it belonged to them, like they belonged to each other. She wondered when she’d stopped being a person walking to training and started being something that was simply escorted there, carried along by expectation and routine.
 
By the time the training room doors came into view, her jaw ached from how tightly she’d been holding it shut. She hadn’t said a word the entire walk. No one commented on it. That almost made it worse.
 
The training room smelled like mats and sweat and something metallic underneath it all. Familiar. Too familiar.
 
Kate was already there.
 
Of course she was.
 
She stood in the center of the room, relaxed and confident, bow set aside, hair pulled back, posture easy in a way that said this was where she belonged. Leader without trying. The kind of person who filled space without swallowing it.
 
Anya’s jaw tightened.
 
Kate clapped her hands once, bright smile flashing. “Alright, sparring day. Pair up.”
People moved instinctively, gravitating toward each other the second Kate finished speaking, like magnets snapping into place.
 
“Dibs on Cassie,” Kamala said immediately, already grabbing her arm. “We’re trying the thing I told you about—the spin, but then you drop low—”
 
“I remember,” Cassie laughed, already rolling her shoulders. “You explained it like five times.”
 
Billy watched them for a moment, lips pressed together, then let out a quiet sigh like the outcome had been inevitable. “Of course you two paired up,” he said. “Of course.”
 
Tommy zipped in front of him and skidded to a stop, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “So that means you’re with me, right? Because last time you said I wasn’t allowed to fight anyone who could actually hit me.”
 
Billy raised an eyebrow. “I said you weren’t allowed to fight anyone who wanted to hit you.”
 
“Semantics,” Tommy said cheerfully, already stretching. “Also, I’m bored.”
 
Riri leaned against the wall, arms crossed, scanning the room like she was calculating odds. “You say that every five seconds.”
 
“Because it’s true every five seconds,” Tommy shot back.
 
Peter shifted his weight, glancing around like he was waiting for someone to tell him where to stand. “Uh, okay, quick question—are we doing random pairs, power-balanced pairs, or ‘don’t let Peter accidentally die’ pairs?”
 
“Third one,” Eli said without missing a beat.
 
Peter pointed at him. “Rude, but fair.”
 
America cracked her knuckles, grinning. “I’ll take whoever actually wants to go all out.”
 
Teddy lifted a hand halfway. “I can, uh—” He looked between America and Eli. “I can spar with either of you?”
 
Eli shrugged. “I’m good.”
 
Riri pushed off the wall. “I’ll take Teddy. We’ll keep it technical.”
 
Tommy groaned dramatically. “Wow. Everyone’s so organized.”
 
Billy glanced around again, then finally spoke, voice quieter. “So… what about Anya?”
 
The room shifted, just slightly, the way it always did when her name came up. No one answered right away.
 
Kate stepped forward, already making the decision. “I’ve got her.”
 
Tommy stopped bouncing. Kamala hesitated, biting her lip like she wanted to say something. Billy just nodded once, expression unreadable.
 
“Okay,” Peter said softly, clapping his hands together a little too loud. “Cool. Let’s… let’s punch each other responsibly.”
 
Kate’s gaze landed on Anya.
 
“Guess it’s you and me,” Kate said, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
 
Anya almost laughed. Of course it was.
 
They faced each other on the mat, hands raised. Kate’s expression was focused but not aggressive, eyes sharp in a way that made Anya feel exposed. They circled each other, feet sliding, testing distance.
 
“You ready?” Kate asked.
 
“Sure,” Anya said. It came out flatter than she meant it to.
 
They started slow, circling each other on the mat, bare feet whispering against the rubber. Kate moved first—not rushing, not aggressive—just clean, efficient steps that kept her perfectly balanced. Every shift of her weight looked intentional. Anya blocked the first strike easily, countered out of habit, adjusted when Kate slipped past it like she’d been expecting that exact response.
 
“Okay,” Anya muttered, breath even. “Didn’t think you’d be this annoying.”
 
Kate laughed, short and surprised. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
 
They exchanged a few more blows, controlled and technical. Anya felt herself warming up, instincts clicking into place. She was good—she’d always been good—and she knew it. But Kate wasn’t sloppy or predictable like some people assumed. She watched, learned. After the third exchange, Kate shifted her stance just enough to cut off one of Anya’s favorite counters.
 
Anya scowled. “You’re better than you look.”
 
“Wow,” Kate said, grinning as she ducked under a swing. “You’re really great at encouragement.”
 
Anya went for a sweep; Kate hopped it, already moving. “Seriously,” Anya added, irritation creeping in. “Most people telegraph their stuff. You’re not.”
 
Kate shrugged mid-motion. “I’ve had good teachers.”
 
Anya lunged again, faster this time. Kate met her head-on, hands snapping out to redirect, turning Anya’s momentum against her. Anya barely caught herself, boots skidding on the mat.
 
Kate’s eyes lit up. “There it is. You overcommit when you think you’ve got someone.”
 
Anya bristled. “You don’t know me.”
 
Kate smiled, unapologetic. “I know your left shoulder dips right before you strike.”
 
Anya didn’t have time to argue before Kate moved in, close enough that Anya could hear her breathing. They grappled briefly, forearms locked, strength pressing against strength. Anya tried to twist free—
 
—and suddenly the floor rushed up to meet her.
 
Kate swept her leg and followed through smoothly, pinning Anya before she could react, knee planted, grip firm but controlled.
 
Kate blinked, a little surprised herself. “Huh. That worked.”
 
Anya stared up at the ceiling, chest rising too fast, heat crawling up her neck—not from the loss, but from the realization. Kate hadn’t won by being stronger.
 
She’d won by paying attention.
 
“Yelena taught me that one,” Kate said lightly, breath barely uneven.
Something in Anya’s chest snapped tight—not loud, not dramatic, just a clean, sharp pull like a wire drawn too far. She pushed it down and got back to her feet while Kate stepped away and reset, polite about it, giving space like this was just practice and not something that felt personal in a way Anya couldn’t explain.
 
They went again.
 
Anya came in faster this time, irritation buzzing under her skin. She blocked on instinct, struck back on muscle memory, her body moving before her thoughts could catch up. That was always how it worked. Thinking was dangerous. Thinking led to comparisons, to echoes, to realizing she was doing exactly what she’d been trained to do—what someone else had been trained to do.
 
Kate sidestepped, hooked Anya’s arm, and twisted just enough to throw her off balance.
 
Anya stumbled, recovered, swung again. Kate ducked, smooth as water, and swept her leg out from under her. Anya hit the mat with a grunt, air knocked from her lungs.
 
Kate offered a hand automatically, not even smiling this time. Just calm. Professional.
 
That was worse.
 
Anya ignored the hand and pushed herself up, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. Stop reacting, she told herself. Stop fighting like—
She didn’t finish the thought.
 
Round three.
 
This time, Anya tried to slow herself down. Tried to think. Tried to choose her movements instead of letting them choose her. But her head filled anyway—overlapping images, half-memories of drills and corrections, voices that weren’t Kate’s reminding her where to place her feet, how to angle her hips, when to strike.
 
This isn’t mine, she thought desperately as she blocked Kate’s first move. None of this is mine.
 
Kate pressed forward, testing her defenses, and Anya responded automatically, slipping into patterns she hated recognizing. She landed a hit—clean, controlled—but Kate adapted instantly, shifting her guard, countering before Anya could adjust.
 
“You favor your right when you’re thinking too much,” Kate said, almost conversational as she redirected Anya’s momentum.
 
Anya scoffed, breath sharp. “You narrate all your fights?”
 
“Only when it helps,” Kate said, smiling faintly as she moved.
 
That smile did it.
 
Anya felt herself fracture, just a little. Not outwardly. Inside. Like something sliding out of alignment.
 
She went on the offensive again, harder now, frustration bleeding into her movements. Kate blocked, stepped in close, and suddenly Anya felt hands on her shoulders, weight shifting, leverage applied—
 
—and she was down again.
 
Kate pinned her, controlled and steady, not hurting her, not even straining. Just holding her there long enough for the message to land.
 
Kate released her immediately and stood, backing up to give space. She wasn’t smug. She wasn’t triumphant. She just looked… concerned.
 
Anya stayed on the mat for half a second too long, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. Her thoughts spiraled—You’re sloppy. You’re predictable. You’re a copy doing a copy of a copy. Every loss felt like confirmation of something she’d been afraid to name.
 
She sat up abruptly, eyes sharp. “You’re annoying,” she snapped, pushing to her feet.
 
Kate huffed a laugh. “You already said that.”
 
“Yeah, well, you’re better than I thought,” Anya added, not looking at her. “Which is—” She cut herself off, scowling. “Whatever.”
 
Kate tilted her head, studying her. “You’re better than you think,” she said. “But you’re not using it.”
 
That made Anya’s hands curl into fists. She wasn’t trying she knew it too because she only had an on or an off switch when it came to fighting and the fighting she knew was meant to kill.
 
They faced each other again, the air between them tighter now, heavier. Kate didn’t raise her guard right away. She watched Anya, really watched her, like she was trying to figure something out.
 
“You’re holding back,” Kate said after the third round, voice quieter this time. She tilted her head slightly. “Why?”
 
 
“I’m not,” Anya lied.
Kate studied her for a moment, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in suspicion, but curiosity. There was something wound too tight in Anya, something vibrating under the surface, and Kate felt it the way you feel pressure before a storm. Normally she’d leave it alone. Normally she knew better.
 
But something in her—some instinct she hadn’t learned how to shut off—nudged her to poke, just a little. Playful. Harmless. Or at least it was supposed to be.
 
“You chose to stay,” Kate said, resetting her stance but not attacking yet. Her tone was light, casual, like she was filling the silence. “I’m kind of surprised.”
 
The words weren’t meant to cut.
 
They sliced anyway.
 
Anya didn’t hesitate. Her mouth moved before her thoughts could catch up, the response sharp and automatic. “Yeah?” she said, lips curling. “Why’s that?”
 
Kate shrugged, still easy, still unaware she was standing on a fault line. “I don’t know. Just figured… if you didn’t want to be here, you’d leave.”
 
Something cracked.
 
Not loudly. Not all at once. Just a quiet splintering somewhere deep in Anya’s chest, like glass stressed too many times in the same place. Her vision narrowed, edges blurring. She felt herself nod, heard herself scoff softly, like this was all nothing.
 
But her thoughts were already slipping.
 
The room shifted. The smell of the mats changed in her memory—sharper, older. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead instead of the tower’s clean glow. Voices layered over Kate’s, calling instructions in tones that didn’t allow questions. A different name, sometimes. Or no name at all. Just commands.
 
Again.
Faster.
Don’t hesitate.
 
Hands adjusted her stance without asking. Fingers dug into her shoulders, correcting angles, forcing precision. Over and over and over until the movement stopped feeling learned and started feeling inevitable.
 
Her body was still sparring. Blocking. Striking. Losing.
 
She barely registered the takedown this time. Just the sudden absence of balance, the mat against her back, the familiar ceiling above her. Again.
 
Kate stepped back immediately, concern flashing across her face. “Hey—sorry. You okay?”
 
Anya blinked up at the lights, heart pounding too fast, throat tight. Get up, she told herself. Don’t stay down. Staying down meant something. Staying down meant failure.
 
She pushed herself to her feet without answering, jaw locked, eyes unfocused. The loss didn’t sting because Kate was better.
 
It stung because every time she hit the ground, it felt like proof.
 
Proof that no matter where she went, no matter who she stood across from, she was still fighting someone else’s fight.
 
“Do you need a break,” Kate said gently, concern flickering across her face. “You spaced out.”
 
Something shifted. She shook her head. Kate nodded worry lifting. “Ok, lock in.”
 
Anya locked in.
 
Her movements sharpened, faster now, more precise. She won the next round. And the one after that. Kate kept up, adapting, smiling like this was what she’d wanted all along—a challenge. Anya felt herself slipping further into it, into the place where emotion dulled and instinct took over.
 
Her strikes got harder. Less controlled.
 
A jab landed too close to Kate’s ribs. A sweep aimed lower than necessary. Kate blocked, but her eyes widened just a fraction.
 
“Hey,” Kate said. “Careful.”
 
Anya didn’t hear her.
 
She moved again, too fast, too hard, her body remembering things her mind didn’t want to. She went for a hit that would’ve hurt. Badly.
 
Tommy was there in a flash, hands on her arms, yanking her back with a sharp, “Anya, stop!”
 
Kate stumbled but stayed upright. “I’m fine,” she said quickly, raising her hands. “I’m okay.”
 
Anya stared at them both, chest heaving. The room felt too small. Too bright.
 
“Your right Kate,” she said, words tumbling out rough and raw. “I shouldn’t be here.”
 
Kate tried to lighten it, half-smiling. “Hey, your sparring’s not that bad—”
 
“It’s not you!” Anya snapped, the sound of her own voice startling her. “It’s not your fault.”
 
Kate’s smile faded. She nodded slowly. “I know.”
 
Anya’s hands shook. “I didn’t ask to be here,” she said, voice cracking. “I didn’t ask to be a clone. I can’t even fight without being reminded of who I’m supposed to be. Every move, every instinct—it’s all someone else.”
 
Silence pressed in around them. Half of the room didn’t even know what she meant.
 
“I’m sorry,” Anya said suddenly, the words spilling out like she couldn’t stop them. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. A team isn’t for me. I don’t belong here.”
 
She turned and ran.
 
Not fast enough to outrun the noise in her head, but fast enough that no one followed. The tower doors slid shut behind her with a soft, final sound, sealing in voices and footsteps and hands that might have reached for her if she’d given them half a second more. The city air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, unapologetically real—and it burned her lungs in a way that felt earned.
 
She didn’t slow down.
Didn’t look back.
 
She didn’t know who she was.
 
All she knew was who she wasn’t.
 
And that felt unbearable.

The park swallowed her whole.

Wide and exposed in a way the tower never was, all open space and nowhere to hide. Wind scraped through bare branches overhead, setting them rattling like bones. Somewhere beyond the trees, traffic hissed and surged, indifferent. A child laughed near the swings—high, unguarded, careless in the way only children who hadn’t learned the price of joy yet could be.

The sound hit Anya harder than it should have.

She walked until her legs began to tremble, until the pressure in her chest sharpened into something brittle and volatile. Movement had always been her answer—run it out, burn it down, don’t stop long enough to feel—but today even that wasn’t working.

Her foot lashed out before she thought better of it.

The trash can tipped with a loud, ugly clang, metal skidding across concrete.

“Idiot,” she muttered instantly—and dropped into a crouch, hands already reaching to fix it.

She didn’t leave messes.

She never had.

That was how you got noticed. That was how someone decided you needed to be corrected.

Her fingers shook as she shoved the can upright, breath coming too fast, too shallow. She was already cataloging the sound, the angle, the witnesses—until something else cut through the static.

A noise.

Too small.

Too wrong to belong in the open air.

A thin, strained bark, barely there, coming from inside the can.

Anya froze.

For a heartbeat, she thought her mind had finally cracked. It had been doing that all day—pulling ghosts out of nowhere, layering old memories over the present until everything blurred together. But then the sound came again, weaker this time.

Her heart slammed so hard it hurt.

She moved slowly, deliberately, like sudden motion might shatter whatever fragile thing was trapped inside. Her hands peeled the bag away, muscles tight, braced for blood or nothing at all.

“Oh,” she breathed.

The puppy was impossibly small.

Too thin. Too light. Ribs visible beneath patchy fur, breath shallow but stubbornly steady. One leg was gone where it should have been, the wound healed just enough to say this wasn’t new—which somehow made it worse. It didn’t cry. Didn’t whine.

It wagged its tail.

Weakly. Hopefully.

Like it was just grateful someone had finally looked.

Anya’s hands hovered uselessly for a second, fear spiking sharp and irrational. Afraid of hurting it. Afraid of how easily it might break. Afraid that touching it would make the reality of it settle in her bones.

Then she lifted it anyway.

Careful. Reverent. Like she was handling something sacred.

Rage detonated in her chest so fast it made her dizzy.

“I will kill them,” she said flatly, pressing her forehead to the puppy’s head. “Whoever did this. I will—”

She cut herself off, breath hitching hard.

The words had come too easily.

Too practiced.

The puppy licked her thumb.

Something inside her split cleanly in two.

She sank onto a cold bench, curling around the small, warm weight in her arms like instinct had finally chosen something other than violence. Minutes stretched thin and strange. People passed. No one stopped. No one slowed.

The puppy wagged its tail like it didn’t know fear yet. Like the world was still mostly good if you looked at it from the right angle.

Anya stared out at the park and spoke quietly, like saying it too loud would make it real in a way she couldn’t survive.

“I don’t know who I am,” she told it. “I know everyone else. How they move. How they lie. How they fight.” Her voice wavered despite her discipline. “But me?” A brittle, humorless laugh slipped out. “I’m just… assembled.”

She swallowed hard.

“My face isn’t mine. My instincts aren’t mine. My memories are—” Her jaw locked. “They made sure I remembered everything.”

The puppy shifted, tail thumping once against her arm.

“I didn’t ask to be made,” Anya whispered. “I didn’t ask to be compared to someone who already existed. I didn’t ask to survive her.”

Her vision blurred, the park smearing at the edges.

“I didn’t ask to be left.”

The spiral tightened fast and vicious, shame and panic crawling up her spine. The old urge rose—the one that promised quiet, disappearance, relief if she just made herself smaller. If she stopped being anything at all.

Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting down.

Not here.
Not like this.

Footsteps crunched on gravel.

Anya’s head snapped up, heart lurching—and then everything inside her locked down.

Yelena stood a few feet away.

Leash in hand. Fanny wagging enthusiastically, nose already pulling toward the puppy like the world was made of nothing but possibilities. Yelena herself looked relaxed, bundled against the cold, expression open in a way that made Anya’s stomach twist.

Too open.
Too familiar.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Anya’s body went rigid, every instinct screaming danger—not because Yelena would hurt her, but because she wouldn’t. Because Yelena saw. Because Yelena’s face carried echoes Anya could never outrun.

Yelena broke the silence gently. “Have you always liked animals?”

Anya nodded. She didn’t trust her voice. Talking to Yelena felt like standing too close to a mirror that reflected things she was trying desperately not to examine.

That was enough.

Her breath hitched. Then broke.

The sob tore out of her—sharp, ugly, humiliating—collapsing her inward before she could stop it. It ripped through her chest like something clawing its way out, leaving her folded over herself, shoulders caving.

She hated it instantly: the loss of control, the way her body betrayed her, the shaking she couldn’t lock down no matter how hard she tried. It made her feel small. Exposed. Like something breakable. Like the kid she’d never been allowed to be and had been punished for even resembling.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said finally, the words scraped raw from her throat. “Everything is wrong. Ever since Natasha died, it’s like I’m… regressing.” She laughed weakly, the sound catching halfway to a sob. “Like I’m that kid again who wasn’t allowed to feel anything. Like if I feel it, something bad will happen.”

They stood in the park with the city breathing quietly around them—wind brushing through the trees overhead, leaves skittering across the path, a jogger passing just close enough to be aware of them. Somewhere farther off, someone laughed, carefree and distant, like it belonged to another universe entirely.

Yelena glanced around on instinct, cataloging exits, people, threats that weren’t really threats. Then she looked back at Anya and lowered her voice.

“Hey,” Yelena said, careful, controlled. “We do not have to do this here.”

Anya let out a laugh that cracked in half the moment it left her mouth. “Oh,” she said bitterly, “I think we do.”

Yelena stiffened, shoulders squaring. “Anya—”

“No.” Anya cut her off sharply, dragging the heel of her hand across her face, smearing tears she didn’t even bother hiding anymore. Her hands were shaking too badly to care. “You don’t get to ‘hey’ me. Not right now. Not after all of this.”

Yelena’s jaw tightened, a familiar mask slipping into place even as her eyes stayed soft. “You are upset. I understand that. But you are shaking and you are spiraling and—”

“Don’t,” Anya snapped, stepping closer. “Don’t go clinical on me. Don’t analyze me like I’m a report you need to file. I’ve had enough people assessing me like I’m a problem to solve.” Her mouth twisted. “Dumb buddy system Sam made.”

A couple walked by with a dog, close enough that Anya could hear the jingle of the leash. Yelena shifted closer without touching her, voice dropping to a hush.

“You are yelling.”

Anya leaned in too, eyes bright and furious, her voice razor-thin. “I’m whispering. I learned how to do that when I was three.”

That landed harder than anything else. Yelena flinched despite herself, the breath knocked half out of her. “That is not—”

“You had people,” Anya cut in, the words spilling out now, fast and bitter, like she’d been holding them behind her teeth for years. “After Natasha died, you had people. You spiraled, yeah—but you spiraled into arms. Into friends. Into someone grabbing you before you hit the ground.”

Yelena swallowed hard. “You think I was fine?”

“I think you were caught,” Anya shot back immediately. “I think someone noticed you falling. I think when you broke, it mattered.”

Yelena’s eyes flashed, something sharp and wounded breaking through. “You do not know what you are talking about.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Anya said. Her voice shook, but she didn’t back down. “I watched it happen. From the outside. From missions and hallways and safehouses and places where people don’t ask if you’re okay because the answer doesn’t change the assignment. Because Natasha we both hold up so high left me.”

Yelena shook her head slowly, disbelief mixing with pain. “Natasha would never—”

“Natasha did,” Anya said.

The words were quiet now. Controlled. Deadly calm.

“She loved me. I know that,” Anya continued. “But she left me with S.H.I.E.L.D. because she didn’t have time. Because I was already… wrong.” Her throat tightened. “Too fast. Too angry. Too good at things kids shouldn’t be good at.”

Yelena’s breath stuttered. “She saved you.”

“She outsourced me, you know I’ve spent all day thinking And finally came to the conclusion that she left me alone.” Anya said flatly.

“That is not fair. You don’t know her process, her reason.”

“And you do? You were just so mad at her yesterday now you defend her? You know what was not fair Yelena?”

Anya held in a slight broken laugh. “What’s not fair was growing up with enhancement drugs burning through my veins and people calling it a privilege,” Anya hissed. “Neither was being told I was lucky because it wasn’t the Red Room anymore.”

Yelena’s hands curled into fists at her sides. “You think I had a good life?”

“I think you had a life,” Anya snapped. “I think when you fell apart, it led somewhere.” Her voice sharpened. “Heck, half your life you were mind-controlled. They never did that to me. They made sure I remembered. From the time I was a baby. You didn’t know better BUT I DID.”

Yelena’s eyes widened slightly.

“I’m physically fifteen,” Anya went on, bitter laughter bubbling up. “But my brain? Red Room science made sure that aged faster. Took in information faster. Healed up faster. I’m about thirty-five mentally I’d like to guess. Wow. About the same as you. Funny, right? Maybe that’s why they made me like this. To make up the years I didn’t get. So I could be your perfect clone.”

Yelena reeled back like she’d been struck. She still wasn’t used to knowing she had a clone at all—and now that clone was standing in front of her, yelling, bleeding truth straight at her.

“You found people who helped you,” Anya continued relentlessly. “Who stayed. Look at you now. You have friends. A future. A name that means something to someone who is alive, to little kids who see you on television.”

“That name cost me everything,” Yelena said, low and dangerous.

“And it gave you something back,” Anya fired back. “So what did I get?”

Yelena opened her mouth.

Nothing came out.

Anya took that silence and ran with it, voice cracking again under the weight of it all. “I sat in rooms asking S.H.I.E.L.D. if they could bring Natasha back. Over and over. Like if I said it enough times someone would realize they didn’t do their homework before Barton threw Natasha off a cliff.”

“Anya,” Yelena warned softly.

“They said no,” Anya pushed on. “They said it didn’t work like that. They said she chose it.” Her breath hitched. “And I was supposed to accept that? I was supposed to understand sacrifice when I was built to survive everything?”

She laughed, sharp and broken. “Heck, they had Barton talk to me after he talked to you. Same speech. Word for word. Thought it would land the same way on the clone, right?”

Yelena’s face went pale.

“No,” Anya whispered. “My brain doesn’t stop. It rips me apart. Every thought at once. I was in New York when you went to kill him. I heard that speech and then I went on a killing spree anyway.” Her eyes burned. “You stopped. I didn’t. I kept going.”

Yelena’s voice was barely there. “You did not tell me any of this. I only knew of you yesterday—how was I supposed to know?”

“You didn’t ask,” Anya said bitterly. “Yesterday you were too busy looking at me like a ghost. Or a mistake. Or something that shouldn’t exist. I could tell the look on you’re face you were hiding behind a mask of emotions because you didn’t think I could take it.” Her voice dropped. “You were more scared of me being your clone than trying to figure out who I was as my own person.”

“Well clearly you couldn’t take it,” Yelena said too fast.

“you sure I couldn’t? I handle a lot with no help.” Anya challenged. “You spent all day in the gym staring at the wall like me standing there wasn’t real. Like if you ignored me long enough, I’d disappear. You finally went upstairs—props to you—ate some food, talked to your wonderful supportive team, and now here you are. Walking your lovely dog then probably to go see your wonderful girlfriend.”

Her mouth twisted. “Such a hard life. Am I right?”

Yelena stayed quiet.

That silence was answer enough.

A child’s laughter rang out from the nearby playground. Both of them froze, instinct kicking in, voices shrinking back down to sharp whispers.

“I woke up from cyro freeze after I got in a bad blast from some mission and she was there,” Anya said softly. “She told me she had to go save the world. One last time. I told her okay. I always told her okay.” Her eyes blurred. “Because she always came back.”

Yelena closed her eyes.

“When she didn’t,” Anya went on, “I did what I was made to do. I killed. Clean. Quiet. Solo. Just like you.” She swallowed. “The difference is no one was watching out for me.”

Yelena’s voice broke. “You think I had people, I was watching out for myself?”

“At least someone noticed when you disappeared,” Anya said. “When I disappeared, it was just… efficient.” She exhaled shakily. “At least people knew who you were. No one even knew I existed. No one asked how I was doing besides the people supporting it.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and vibrating.

Yelena really looked at her then—not the face that mirrored her sister, not the idea of a clone. The scars. The tension coiled tight under her skin. The grief that had never been given permission to land.

“You should have told me,” Yelena said quietly.

“You know why I didn’t,” Anya shot back. “I watched you for years. All I saw was someone who got everything I didn’t.”

“I didn’t know you existed until yesterday,” Yelena snapped, then softened. “You can’t yell at me for not knowing. That is not fair.”

Anya’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That’s on me. I know that. I was wrong. I should’ve told you sooner.”

Her shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of her all at once. She looked suddenly younger. Smaller.

Yelena didn’t rush her. Didn’t touch her.

She stepped closer and simply stood there—solid, present, letting Anya set the distance. It was a choice. A deliberate one.

“I am sorry,” Yelena said quietly. “Truly.”

Anya let out a broken laugh through her tears. “I only cry when she’s gone,” she said. “That’s it. That’s the rule, apparently.”

Yelena crouched slowly, letting the puppy sniff her fingers before speaking again. “You are still a kid,” she said. “Even if they tried very hard to make you into something else.”

Anya’s throat tightened. She stared at the ground. “I didn’t ask to be a clone,” she whispered.

“I know,” Yelena said immediately.

They sat there together, the park breathing around them, life continuing in small, indifferent ways. Anya’s thoughts whispered cruel things—mistake, replacement, leftover—but Yelena’s voice cut through it, steady and grounded.

“When I was lost,” Yelena said, “I found purpose. Slowly. In pieces. People. A reason to wake up.”

“I don’t know how to find that,” Anya said. “Everyone keeps telling me I have a team. I don’t know how that’s supposed to help.”

“It did not help at first,” Yelena admitted. “I did not want them. I did not trust them.” A pause. “But I found something new.”

She nodded toward Fanny who curled against Anya’s leg. “Sometimes it finds you.”

Anya looked down. The puppy she almost forgot was in her hands wagged.

“With one leg,” Yelena added softly. “Still breathing. Still trying. Kate Bishop’s dog has one eye. I think they would be friends.”

The puppy yawned and licked Anya’s chin.

Anya made a sound that might’ve been a sob or a laugh.

“I don’t know how to find a purpose,” she said again, smaller now.

“And if you need anything,” Yelena said gently, “you come to me. Or we sit. Or we say nothing.” A beat. “We survive first.”

Anya didn’t answer.

Yelena let the silence sit for another breath before she spoke again, voice casual in the way that meant she was being careful.

“I am going back to my apartment,” she said. “Kate is there. You can come too. If you want.”

Anya huffed softly, eyes still on the puppy. “Pretty sure Kate doesn’t want to see me,” she muttered. “Considering I almost beat her up this morning. That’s… kind of why I ran to the park.”

Yelena snorted, the sound sharp and genuine. “Kate Bishop does not hold grudges,” she said. “She collects dramatic stories.”

Anya glanced up at her, skeptical.

“And,” Yelena added, nodding at the puppy, “this one needs a vet. Soon. Kate is the only one of us who is not currently famous enough—or wanted by several federal agencies—to get stopped on the street. She also has a lot of money to pay for what the dog needs.”

“That’s fair,” Anya admitted.

They sat there another second, the puppy’s tail thumping steadily against Anya’s arm.

“Why do you come here?” Anya asked suddenly, gesturing vaguely at the park.

“Fresh air,” Yelena said at the exact same time Anya said, “So no one asks questions.”

They both froze.

Then Yelena laughed, bright and surprised. “Okay. Maybe you are right about being a clone.”

Anya rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

She shifted, then stood, adjusting the puppy carefully in her arms. Fanny wagged enthusiastically, already circling Yelena’s legs like this was the best day of her life.

As they started walking, Anya glanced sideways. “Did you think I was lying? Earlier. About… everything.”

Yelena shook her head immediately. “No. That was just—” She waved a hand. “A joke. Apparently Americans do those. Kate has been teaching me.”

Anya nodded, accepting that.

She looked down at the puppy, who was staring ahead like the future was something exciting instead of terrifying, tail wagging without hesitation.

“Okay,” Anya said quietly.

And she kept walking.

They walked slowly, the city easing back in around them one block at a time.

Yelena kept an easy pace, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, leash loose in her grip as Fanny trotted ahead like she’d personally scouted the route already. Anya stayed half a step behind, careful with the puppy tucked against her chest, one arm curved protectively around its small, warm body. The puppy watched everything with solemn intensity, ears twitching at passing cars, tail wagging whenever Fanny glanced back like they were already part of the same pack.

After a few quiet minutes, Anya frowned slightly.

“Why do you have an apartment,” she asked, genuinely curious, “when you live in the Avengers Tower?”

Yelena didn’t look surprised by the question. “Why do you have another place,” she asked instead, glancing sideways, “now that you technically live at the compound?”

Anya opened her mouth.

Paused.

Then shut it again.

“…I have a safe house in New Jersey,” she admitted.

Yelena nodded, like that settled it completely. “Exactly.”

That answer followed Anya the rest of the walk.

Yelena continued, conversational. “Also, Valentina hates pets. Like, actively. And Sam Wilson decided Kate is ‘not responsible enough’ to have Lucky in the tower because he is, apparently, a ‘menace to government property.’”

“He is,” Anya said automatically. She hadn’t met the dog but seen him from afar.

“Yes,” Yelena agreed. “So now I have both dogs.”

They stopped in front of a brownstone that blended in just enough to not be interesting. Yelena unlocked the door with practiced ease, nudging it open with her shoulder.

Inside smelled like clean laundry, dog food, and something faintly burned.

They stepped in—and immediately froze.

Kate was sitting on the couch, hoodie half-zipped, one arm propped up awkwardly as she pressed a frozen pizza box against a blooming bruise on her upper arm. She looked up mid-grimace—

—and did a full double take.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

Anya stiffened instantly. “Hi.”

There was a beat.

Then another.

Yelena gestured vaguely between them. “Park. Puppy. Emotional spiral. She did not, in fact, murder anyone.”

Kate blinked. “Wow. Okay. Cool.”

Anya cleared her throat. “I—uh. Sorry. About earlier. For… beating you up like that.”

Kate waved her free hand immediately. “No, it’s fine. Seriously.” She grinned. “Now I get to tell people I almost died fighting a trained child assassin. That’s, like, a career highlight.”

Yelena shot Anya a look.

A very clear I told you so look.

Before Anya could respond, a blur of gold launched itself across the room.

Lucky skidded to a stop in front of Anya, tail wagging so hard his whole body wobbled, tongue lolling happily as he sniffed her shoes, her jacket, her hands—

The puppy barked, sharp and indignant.

Lucky froze.

Then wagged harder.

Anya stared, wide-eyed, as the puppy growled again, tiny and fierce.

Yelena laughed. “I think it is trying to protect you from the chaos dog.”

She unclipped Fanny’s leash, and Fanny immediately trotted to her dog bed and circled twice before collapsing dramatically.

Kate crouched. “Lucky. Hey. Down.”

Lucky stopped instantly and sat, tail still wagging like it hadn’t gotten the memo.

Kate straightened, smug. “See? He listens to me now.”

Yelena snorted. “He does not listen when he steals my socks.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “That’s selective hearing.”

Her gaze softened as she noticed the puppy properly for the first time. “Oh my god,” she breathed. “It’s so tiny.”

The puppy gave a low, suspicious growl.

Anya stroked its head gently. “Easy. She’s not a threat.”

The puppy settled, tail resuming its hopeful wag.

Yelena nodded toward them. “It needs a vet. Soon.”

Kate straightened immediately. “Yeah, okay. I can take—”

“You should take Anya,” Yelena added casually. “I am too recognizable. And Kate is rich.”

Kate opened her mouth to argue—

“And Anya is a child,” Yelena finished.

Anya bristled. “I am not—”

Yelena sighed, already turning toward the hallway. “You look like a child. I am tired.”

She disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door.

Fanny didn’t even stir.

Kate stared at the closed door, then back at Anya. “She does that.”

Anya huffed. “She’s annoying.”

Kate grinned. “Yeah.” She really wanted to add the clone part but didn’t.

She grabbed her coat, slid the frozen pizza back into the freezer, and pulled on a hat. “Vet’s right down the street. They know me. I take Lucky and Fanny all the time.”

Lucky’s ears perked up at the word vet.

Kate glanced at Anya. “You ready?”

Anya looked down at the puppy—small, alive, stubbornly wagging its tail like the world hadn’t already tried to break it.

“…Yeah,” she said.

And she followed Kate out the door.

The walk to the vet was quieter than the walk to the apartment.

After half a block, Anya spoke.

“Hey. Um.” She hesitated, eyes fixed forward. “Sorry. About earlier. For… losing it. And almost breaking your ribs.”

Kate glanced over her shoulder. “Eh.”

That was it.

Anya frowned. “That’s it?”

Kate shrugged. “Well im around Yelena. That barely registers as an outburst.” She smirked. “Honestly, I’m just happy I finally got to spar with someone better than Eli.”

Kate groaned. “He complains about not having powers like that’s why he lost. Like—hello? Neither do I.”

They reached the vet clinic a minute later, the glass front warm and fogged slightly from the heat inside. The bell chimed as they stepped in.

The guy at the front desk looked up—and immediately froze.

“Oh my god,” he said, leaning forward. “Is that a—”

The puppy barked at him. Sharp. Indignant.

Kate laughed.

“It just needs a check-up,” Kate explained quickly. “And maybe a look at—” she nodded at the missing leg and the faint scars along the puppy’s side.

The guy nodded, already typing. He leaned closer, eyes gentle. “Looks about eight or nine months,” he said. “Probably a husky mix.” He smiled at Anya. “She’s got opinions.”

“She does,” Anya agreed.

“Room four,” he said, gesturing down the hall. “Doctor’ll be right in.”

The room was small and clean and smelled faintly like antiseptic and dog treats. Anya lifted the puppy onto the exam table carefully, murmuring to it while Lucky sat politely at Kate’s feet like he was trying to impress someone.

The door opened a moment later.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite archer,” the vet said cheerfully. She paused when she saw Anya. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Anya said cautiously.

The vet smiled. “Are you related to Yelena? You look very alike.”

Kate answered instantly. “Cousins.”

Anya blinked.

The vet nodded like that made perfect sense. “That explains it.”

Anya said nothing.

“I found her in a trash can at the park,” Anya said instead, steadying the puppy as the vet examined her gently.

The vet hummed softly. “She’s a girl,” she said. “Few fleas, some healed scarring. Nothing infected.” She glanced at Anya. “No signs of internal worms—her stomach’s not distended. We’ll do a heartworm test and a few others to be safe.”

Kate nodded. “Go for it.”

Anya nodded too.

The puppy handled everything like a champ—barely flinched at the blood draw, tolerated the shots with only a mild glare, tail wagging again the second it was over.

“Negative for everything,” the vet said when she returned. “Just fleas. We’ll give her preventative meds, puppy vaccines today.” She smiled. “She’s lucky you found her.”

Anya swallowed.

On the walk back, Anya felt lighter. Not fixed. Not healed. But steadier.

When they opened the apartment door, the smell of butter and cheese hit them immediately.

Yelena stood at the stove, stirring a pot. “Is puppy okay?”

Anya nodded, holding the little dog up slightly. “Yeah.”

Yelena smiled without turning fully around. “Good.”