Another wound. Another scar.

I never looked the same coming out of a training session. I suppose I've never come out looking the same after a mission either.

My eye was throbbing from the blow I took from my second opponent, as well as Black Widow, but I was sure she had done more damage than the first guy, considering my brow wasn't bleeding before she socked me. And my lip was no better, flooding my mouth with the nickeled taste of blood.

The doctor shined his light across my eyes, having me follow its glare as it moved, one of the many examinations I went through after a training session with Agent Romanov.

"Well," he started, putting his light away, "no real damage had been done on the inside."

"What about the outside?" I asked, nervous.

He laughed, standing with his clipboard. "You have a bruise on your stomach and side, probably from a hard kick. Your face is a little out of shape, but nothing serious. Minor injuries."

"So you say."

"I'll be back with your x-rays," he said, heading for the door. "Go ahead and start cleaning those cuts."

"Alright, doc."

I peered into my mirror to examine the damage, no longer seeing a fatigued Tony Stark intern. I saw a fatigued Tony Stark intern with a black eye, a split right brow and a groove running perpendicular over the left side of her lip.

"Oh my," I mutter. "That's some damage done."

The blood from my brow was mostly dry, and my lips could function well, but my eye was to take some time before it returned to its natural color. I guaranteed it will be sore in the morning.

"Well," I sighed, "these wounds won't heal themselves."

That was an understatement, as my wounds often healed within a few hours, depending on the severity, but I always felt the need to speed up the process.

As was my usual procedure, I began dabbing at my cuts with rubbing alcohol and clenched my jaw to force down any vocal signal of pain. It stung for only a moment, thank goodness, but it was to take time before the marks became distinguishable whether it would be a scar or a temporary cut.

"How is she doing?" came a voice outside the door.

"We're making progress," answers another.

Oh no. I should have known. Stark was asking Romanoff about my training session. I had no doubt she would start gloating about kicking my butt after I let my guard down. Tony would never trust me again.

"Meaning?"

"She wasn't at her best today."

"How so?"

Great. Here it comes.

"Well, she did fine in the beginning. Her technique was good, she had quick thinking, good reflexes, strong hits, quick recovery, but..."

A taunting pause.

"But what?" Stark asked.

She sighed. "She's lacking something."

Stark raised a brow in question. "Lacking something? What? Good looks? Snappy comebacks? Incredible pep talks from me?"

I rolled my eyes and pressed my lips together, eager to hear what Romanov had to say.

"Self-confidence."

What? What is that supposed to mean?

My boss nodded inquisitively, thinking over her answer. "So it shows in her training?"

"Have you noticed it as well?"

He nodded again, rubbing his chin. "It's been more and more common. This morning, she was doing her weekly drill. They're meant to test how well she performs in speed and agility after just waking up. She did the job well, but missed her record time by three seconds."

"And she wasn't satisfied?"

He pointed to his dented wall near the living area. "Exhibit A."

She nodded, wide-eyed. "I see. Well, that's exactly what's getting in the way."

What's getting in the way? My strive for perfection?

"Her anger?"

"That's part of it."

Excuse me?

"She does the moves well, she has mastered the technique, she knows all there is to know. But beyond that, there is nothing. All she does is go through the motions, never striving for something more than that. In other words, her mission to gain perfection is the one thing that holds her back."

What? That's not true! How I wanted to shout that to her. The only reason I was where I was it was that I had strived for nothing less than perfection.

"So, a new plan?"

"Yes."

"What is her new goal then?"

"Something better than perfection."

Better? What could possibly be better?

"And what would that be?" Tony asks, strolling towards the bar.

"Believing in herself."

Silence.

Tony descended from the bar, holding a drink in his hand. "But she has done nothing different than what I have done. She is at my level. Almost. Like, maybe about one-third of the way there. Give or take a few. I'm pretty sure she could argue me up to about half-"

"Stark. The only difference between you and her is confidence in yourself. You wear your pride outwardly, bragging about how incredible you think you are."

"Uh, correction. How incredible I know I am. I'm a billionaire. I don't need to think to know that I am amazing."

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "The point is, if she can't even learn to please herself, then she will never be able to please anyone else. And she will never be an agent."

Never... the word echoed in my head.

Anxiety. Doubt. Fear. Stress. Anger.

One by one, they hit me just as hard as my opponents did in training, bringing back the pain of each blow. Only this time, I didn't feel like I would ever be able to recover.