My name was Natasha Romanoff.
I was an...
Agent!
A professional agent!
In my line of work, failure meant death.
So, having survived this long, I had never failed.
The organization I served was officially called the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division, abbreviated as S.H.I.E.L.D.
Since that full name was far too long, we preferred to call it S.H.I.E.L.D.
It was a special organization that dealt with all kinds of strange incidents.
Everything we handled posed a major threat to humanity's safety!
But today, for the first time, I found myself facing something this difficult.
It started with a man I needed to evaluate. With little time left to live because of palladium poisoning, he had decided to cut loose.
A billionaire, of all people, had gone off to compete in a car race.
Even as his assistant, I hadn't seen that coming.
That alone would have been manageable. The trouble was that someone attacked him during the race.
S.H.I.E.L.D.'s future consultant and financial backer had nearly met his end right there.
My boss had sent me to investigate the reasons behind it.
As luck would have it, the attacker was Russian.
And at the reception in Monaco that day, there happened to be someone with ties to Russian power groups.
Watson Wick, a successful businessman who was also listed as a dangerous individual by government organizations around the world.
He had vanished from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s surveillance.
So S.H.I.E.L.D. had turned its attention to his son, someone on whom its database held virtually nothing.
For certain reasons, I didn't want anyone else involved in this investigation.
To get close to him, I deliberately walked alone at night and let a local ring of pimps set their sights on me.
Then I seized my chance to escape, running two blocks to Privet Drive.
I planned to approach the target as a vulnerable woman who would stir his protective instincts.
According to the file, the target was thirty, single, and of Slavic descent.
That meant speaking with a Slavic accent could make him feel a sense of familiarity with me.
This approach always worked well on men like that.
It was a matter of confidence. Beauty might not have been my strongest weapon, but it was certainly my most obvious one.
But!
Now, I, Natasha Romanoff!
A S.H.I.E.L.D. Level 7 Agent!
Was standing there with a thousand pounds in my hand, like a prostitute selling her services door-to-door!
And the point was!
I'd been shut out!
The door closed again, leaving Natasha standing outside, utterly discomposed.
The firmly shut door showed no sign of opening a second time, so she immediately changed tactics.
Acting skills were one thing an agent never lacked. Her eyes reddened instantly, and she clutched the thousand pounds tightly as she pounded on the door, hard and persistently.
She looked every bit the strong-willed girl who had been humiliated with money.
Until he opened the door, the pounding wouldn't stop.
Sure enough, the tactic worked.
The door opened.
Natasha expertly hid the tiny glint of triumph in her eyes.
She was just about to speak when John reappeared and said in surprise, "You don't want it? Then give it back."
The bills had barely warmed in her hand before John took them back without waiting for permission.
After taking them, John muttered, "Turning down free money. How strange."
He shut the door again!
All the things Natasha had been about to say caught in her throat.
Just before she could string together a few words that would have needed censoring, her formidable training as an agent allowed her to preserve her goddess-like image once again.
She drew a deep breath. The delicate vulnerability vanished from her face, replaced by a cool, striking beauty.
She smoothed her silky red hair. A closer look would have revealed two fingers of her left hand pressed to her ear, where a concealed earpiece rested.
"I think we need to change our strategy."
"That kid is as slippery as his father," came a voice with a distinctive cadence through the earpiece. "Coulson has been working at his father's company for ten years, and he still hasn't gotten access to much."
"Lay your cards on the table. Tell him he'd better cooperate. Ideally, find out whether he has any connection to that Russian, and where his father is."
Fine.
This attack had clearly left her direct superior feeling uneasy.
That playboy had the highest priority in the Avengers Initiative.
She had applied to become Tony Stark's new assistant not only to assess whether he qualified for the Avengers Initiative, but, most importantly, to protect him.
One thing needed to be said about that.
For the record, Tony Stark's high priority had absolutely nothing to do with his father being one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s founders!
Natasha could only resign herself to it.
She knocked again.
This time, however, the door didn't open.
Natasha frowned, realizing something was wrong.
She reached for the doorknob, then stopped abruptly.
The information on this house mentioned an inexplicable force that repelled outsiders.
Natasha went to the window and looked inside.
The curtains were open, revealing an empty room.
Two owls, one black and one white, turned their heads and tilted them, staring at the woman climbing up to the window.
They seemed to be wondering whether she was a peeping Tom.
The man had run off.
Even a professional agent like Natasha couldn't help feeling anger well up inside her now.
Unfortunately for them, the two pimps who had left came back in that yellow Chevrolet.
One ran across the lawn and reached out to grab Natasha's beautiful red hair.
He was just as rough as he was with the women in the red-light district.
Only this time, he had picked the wrong person.
She was no helpless woman. In fact, she could be called one of the most dangerous women in the world.
The Slav woman who had meekly endured their bullying not long ago was now desperate for somewhere to vent her anger.
By the time Natasha left, the two scumbags were almost crippled scumbags.
"Reporting in. The target's whereabouts are unknown."
"Contact with the target failed."
"13 West 57th Street, Manhattan."
As a wizard, having a Floo Network connection at home was perfectly reasonable.
It was a means of transportation for wizards.
Its defining feature was that it could take you from one fireplace to whichever fireplace you named aloud.
Extremely convenient.
And it had another advantage.
No one could detect you.
You could travel thousands of miles without stepping outside.
Truly an essential for home and travel alike.
Inside a cozily furnished house, blue flames sprang to life in a fireplace that held no firewood.
A figure walked out of it.
The house stood in New York's bustling Manhattan.
It was also the home of John's parents.
With magic, he had successfully traveled to another country without ever setting foot outside.
Having such a large house in this wealthy neighborhood, where every inch of land cost a fortune, was all thanks to his father's tireless efforts.
As an "unambitious" son with an estate in London, John sometimes felt genuinely guilty.
As for the woman who had put on that elaborate performance in front of him, John could guess who she was.
An agent.
Honestly, given his family's unusual circumstances, having agents around hardly seemed strange.
Back when he was still at school, at least twenty agents had taken turns watching his father outside their home every day.
What was strange was that this agent had come for him.
John considered himself fairly low-profile. He spent most of his time in the magical world and rarely appeared before Muggles.
He just didn't know whether it was a coincidence or something else that he had encountered this little performance as soon as he returned.
There was no denying that she was beautiful, but unfortunately for her, John wasn't the sort to be tempted by a pretty face.
John walked farther into the New York house, looking around.
"No one's here?"
He hadn't seen his parents since arriving.
That struck him as odd. His parents had jobs, but they should have been home at this hour.
There was also his younger sister.
None of them were here.
John was pondering this.
He looked up at a disturbance.
And it was no small disturbance, either.
A golden ring appeared out of thin air, trailing sparks.
On the other side of the ring stood a... bald woman in yellow robes?
"Hello, Wizard King," the newcomer greeted John.
Her casual tone conveyed an unhurried sense of control.
John looked at the visitor.
In that wondrous world.
Among its most memorable figures, she was certainly one.
The Sorcerer Supreme, The Ancient One.
Before you continue