As the first golden rays of sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains, you stirred from slumber. The warmth of your bed, the soft sheets cocooning you like the gentle embrace of a forgotten dream, made it difficult to part from its comfort. For a few lingering moments, you let yourself remain there, basking in the quiet peace of morning. The cool breeze slipped through the crack of the window, stirring the edges of the curtains, carrying with it the faint hum of the city below—a reminder that the world beyond the tower was ever awake and alive.

You stretched, the motion languid and satisfying, your fingers brushing the headboard and your toes curling beneath the sheets. The ache of sleep faded as you arched your back, a soft sigh escaping your lips. Finally, with reluctant resolve, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet meeting the cool wooden floor with a soft thud. The familiar creak of the floorboards greeted you like an old friend.

The Avengers Tower had become your sanctuary—a marvel of modern architecture with its sleek staircases, glass-panelled walls, and sprawling views of the city skyline. Every day here felt like stepping into a new chapter of an ever-evolving story, one that you'd willingly let yourself be written into. The distant memory of your old world, your former life, no longer tugged at your mind. It was a faded photograph, worn and forgotten, while this new reality had become your home.

You padded across the room, the morning silence thick and comforting, wrapping around you like a well-worn cloak. At your wardrobe—an antique piece that looked oddly out of place in Stark's hyper-modern tower—you traced your fingers over the carved wood before opening the doors. The hinges groaned softly in protest, the scent of cedar rising to meet you. You selected simple black and gray attire, slipping the clothes over your form with practiced ease. Though understated, the outfit was comfortable and practical, lending you a quiet elegance that suited your mysterious presence among the Avengers.

Blindfold in hand, you tied the fabric securely over your eyes, the world shifting into shades of muted light and energy. You didn't need sight to navigate the tower; your senses were far sharper than any pair of eyes could offer. The vibrations of life thrummed through the walls—the distant hum of Jarvis, the soft whir of machinery, the gentle heartbeat of the city below.

As you stepped out onto one of the balconies, the brightness of the morning greeted you, the sunlight casting warm hues across the tower's metal and glass exterior. Down in the courtyard, you spotted Bruce sitting on a bench, contentedly munching on a sandwich. Beside him, Natasha stood with her arms crossed, her expression one of amusement as she listened to something Bruce was saying. Tony leaned casually against a nearby wall, sipping coffee from a sleek black mug, his signature smirk firmly in place.

Natasha was the first to notice you.

"Hey there, Y/N!" Her voice was warm, cutting through the morning quiet. "Are you alright?"

You nodded, lifting a hand in greeting as you made your way down to join them. The remnants of sleep still lingered in your muscles, a stiffness that made your movements slow and deliberate. Reaching the courtyard, you raised your arms above your head, stretching to chase away the lingering ache.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice light with a hint of a yawn. "Just a bit stiff. I think I slept wrong."

Tony snorted, his smirk widening as he set his coffee down on a nearby ledge. "You slept wrong? I didn't think someone like you ever did anything wrong."

You shot him a playful glare, adjusting your blindfold. "Even I'm not immune to a bad pillow, Stark."

Natasha chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Well, if you're looking to shake off that stiffness, you've got options. We've got a training session this morning."

Before you could respond, another voice chimed in.

"With me and Bucky," Tony added, crossing his arms over his chest. There was a hint of challenge in his tone, a glint of something mischievous in his eyes.

You blinked, tilting your head in surprise. "Wait, really? You're training together?"

Tony shrugged nonchalantly, though you caught the flicker of irritation that passed through his expression. "Yeah, well, Fury's orders. Something about 'team-building' or whatever."

Beside him, Natasha raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Tony's reluctance to cooperate.

You crossed your arms, leaning your weight on one foot as a grin spread across your face. "I thought you didn't get along with him," you teased.

Tony rolled his eyes. "I don't. But apparently, I've been volunteered to be his sparring partner."

Natasha stepped closer, a sly smile on her lips. "Should be interesting to watch, don't you think?"

You hummed thoughtfully, the prospect intriguing you more than you'd care to admit. The dynamics between Tony and Bucky were famously tense, and seeing them go head-to-head—without trying to kill each other, hopefully—promised to be entertaining.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," you said, already picturing the scene.

Tony sighed dramatically, throwing his hands in the air. "Great. Another spectator. Just what I need."

Natasha patted his shoulder, her smile growing wider. "Relax, Stark. Think of it as motivation."

As the three of you made your way to the training room, you couldn't help but feel a ripple of excitement. This wasn't just another day in the tower—it was another step in your journey, another moment where you found yourself growing closer to the Avengers.

And deep down, you knew that your presence, your power, and your unique perspective were changing things.

For better or worse, you were becoming an integral part of their world.

SCENEBREAK

The training session unfolded with an intensity that left the air charged with energy. Each punch, each kick from Bucky was calculated and fierce, but you danced around him like a whisper of wind—a ghost of a fighter who never seemed to tire. His movements were powerful, but yours were fluid, each dodge and counterstrike precise and graceful, as if you were weaving through an invisible tapestry of battle.

You ducked under a sharp hook aimed for your ribs, the momentum carrying Bucky forward. Taking advantage of his overextension, you pivoted on your heel, stepping behind him in a blur of motion. In one swift, practiced maneuver, you leapt up, legs locking around his torso. Using his own weight against him, you twisted your body, flipping him clean over.

The thud of his back hitting the mat echoed through the training room.

Bucky blinked, dazed but not hurt, his chest heaving with exertion. He propped himself up on his elbows, brushing strands of dark hair from his face, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and admiration.

"Where the hell did you learn those moves?" he asked, his voice rough with exertion.

You offered him a hand, pulling him to his feet with ease, a playful grin tugging at your lips. "Oh, you know. Here and there," you replied coyly, patting him on the back with a reassuring chuckle.

But behind the playful banter, your mind stirred with memories. Memories of a time before you were here—before you were part of this strange, chaotic family of heroes.

Your movements weren't learned in a standard dojo or from some friendly sparring partner. No, your skills had been honed in shadowed halls and behind locked doors, where every strike, every dodge, was a matter of survival. Your family had made sure you knew how to fight—not for sport or defense, but with lethal precision. You were trained to be a weapon, an assassin molded in secrecy.

It wasn't something the Avengers needed to know.

Not yet, at least.

Bucky studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing as though he could see there was more to you than you let on. But instead of pressing further, he gave a short, approving nod.

"You're fast," he admitted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Too fast for me to keep up with."

Natasha, who had been observing from the sidelines, smirked. "She's fast because she doesn't rely on brute strength. It's all about finesse, right?" she said, raising an eyebrow at you.

You gave a small shrug, your smile softening. "Something like that."

Tony sauntered over, a towel slung over his shoulder. He gave you a once-over, his usual smirk in place. "Well, I've got to say, Y/N, you're making all of us look bad. Even the super-soldier can't keep up."

"Maybe you should try, Stark," you teased, raising a brow under your blindfold. "I'd be more than happy to knock you down a peg."

Tony laughed, clapping Bucky on the shoulder. "Nah, I'm good. I like my ego right where it is, thanks."

As the laughter subsided, you glanced around the room, feeling a sense of belonging wash over you. There was something comforting about the banter, the camaraderie, the shared effort to make each other better.

But deep down, you knew that your past lingered like a shadow in the corner of the room. You could keep it hidden for now. After all, everyone here had secrets. They all carried burdens they didn't wear openly on their sleeves.

And yours? Yours was just one more to add to the mix.

Still, as Bucky offered you a rare smile—genuine and warm—you couldn't help but feel that maybe, just maybe, you were finding your place here.

Even if the ghosts of your past followed you, for now, you were part of something bigger.

And that mattered more than anything.

SCENEBREAK

In a quiet corner of a bustling Tokyo café, the world outside seemed distant, muffled by the hum of conversation and the gentle clinking of porcelain cups. Mr. Gojo sat alone at a small table by the window, one long leg crossed over the other, his hands folded neatly in his lap. The afternoon sun streamed in, painting his pale features in a warm glow, soft shadows tracing the curve of his jaw. His blindfold, a signature accessory, rested lightly around his neck, allowing his sharp, crystalline eyes to take in the world without obstruction—a rare sight for anyone who knew him.

He gazed out at the busy street with an air of quiet contemplation, his mind elsewhere. For all his charm and bravado, Satoru Gojo was a man weighed down by the burdens of his bloodline, his responsibilities, and the ghosts of people he had lost.

The soft chime of the doorbell drew his attention. A man entered the café, his distinctive blond hair catching the sunlight. His glasses sat perched on his nose, and his expression carried a curious mix of anticipation and relief. He scanned the room before his gaze landed on Gojo.

With purposeful strides, he crossed the café, stopping just short of the table.

"Satoru," he began, his voice low but insistent, "I've found her—your sister."

Gojo's eyes, as sharp as cut glass, snapped up to meet the man's gaze. For a moment, there was nothing but silence, the world outside fading into white noise. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile—genuine and radiant, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the strongest sorcerer's façade.

"Great," he said, leaning back in his chair with a casual air that didn't fool anyone. "Where is she?"

The man adjusted his glasses, his expression thoughtful. "In America. New York City."

Gojo hummed softly, drumming his fingers against the table as if testing the rhythm of this new information. "New York, huh?" His voice was light, almost playful, but there was a glint in his eyes—a spark of resolve. A plan was already beginning to take shape in his mind.

"She's been there for some time," the man continued. "Working with... interesting company."

Gojo's brows lifted. "Interesting? Care to elaborate?"

"She's with the Avengers."

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with meaning. Gojo tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face.

"Of course she is," he chuckled. "It would be too simple if she was just living a quiet life in the countryside, wouldn't it?"

The man nodded. "She's powerful, Satoru. Maybe more than you realize."

Gojo's grin didn't waver, but his gaze grew more intense. "She's my sister. Power runs in the family."

The man leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. "Are you sure you're ready for this? She might not be the same person you remember."

Gojo waved a hand dismissively. "People change. That's life." His expression softened, a rare flicker of vulnerability passing over his features. "But family is family. I won't let her slip away again."

As the man stood to leave, Gojo remained seated, lost in thought for a moment longer. Then he rose gracefully, adjusting the blindfold around his eyes.

"Guess it's time for a little trip," he mused, his voice carrying a quiet determination. "America, here I come."

As he stepped out of the café, the sunlit streets of Tokyo stretched before him, bustling with life. But Gojo's gaze was already set on the distant horizon.

He wasn't just going to find his sister.

He was going to bring her home.