The girl's fiery red hair was strikingly vivid.
Her frail frame and panicked expression made her look pitiful enough to stir sympathy in almost anyone who saw her.
However, once Herman recognized who this red-haired girl truly was, he immediately understood that this helpless act was most likely nothing more than a disguise—a defense mechanism.
Of course, it could also be a tactic meant to disarm suspicion. After all, agents trained by the Red Room wouldn't be shaken by such a trivial scare.
"Natasha Romanoff."
Herman raised an eyebrow.
He was certain that the red-haired girl before him was the still-underage Natasha—the future Black Widow, later infamous throughout S.H.I.E.L.D.
Western physiology.
Most reached full maturity in their teens.
This really was an old acquaintance.
Before his transmigration, Herman had interacted with Natasha many times. He truly hadn't expected to encounter her like this—a much younger Natasha, here in the middle of World War II.
"At this point in time, she should've already completed her training…" Herman thought back through everything he knew about the Black Widow's early years.
As everyone knew, Natasha possessed some of the finest espionage skills in S.H.I.E.L.D., honed within a secret Soviet training program that dated back to the war years.
The Red Room.
It was an organization notorious for recruiting female war orphans, subjecting them to brainwashing and brutal conditioning. They believed that women made more effective spies than men—capable of infiltrating high-ranking enemy circles more easily. And in truth, they were right; many powerful men were slaves to their own lust.
The Red Room trained these young orphans in etiquette, culture, and dance, molding them into women of irresistible grace. At the same time, mastery of firearms and close-quarters combat was non-negotiable.
Compared to HYDRA's notoriety during the war, the Red Room was perhaps even more feared.
Unlike any normal military academy, its operations were more secretive than even the KGB. Its sole purpose was to produce elite female agents for espionage and assassination missions. Using war orphans as recruits, its training methods were harsher than a concentration camp's.
The organization stripped its trainees of emotion and individuality, molding them into perfect instruments of obedience and death.
To forge the "perfect tools," the Red Room devised a truly perverse graduation ritual.
During their years of training, the girls were deliberately kept together, encouraged to form strong bonds of friendship and sisterhood. Then, upon completing their training, they were abandoned in a frozen wasteland—with supplies sufficient for only one survivor.
It was the final test to erase every last trace of compassion and humanity. Only the one who survived to the end would earn the title of "Black Widow" and be sent into the field.
Each generation of recruits numbered in the hundreds.
But only one—the strongest—ever survived to become a Black Widow.
It was, without question, one of the most brutal and horrifying "selection processes" in human history.
The results spoke for themselves. Every generation of Black Widows was a figure of terror, their skills rivaling Natasha Romanoff's own. The Red Room became one of the most formidable assets working in the shadows behind the Soviet war machine.
However, its training methods also guaranteed its demise.
It inspired no loyalty, no legacy—no real successors to carry its torch.
Its disappearance from history wasn't simply because of the Soviet Union's fall.
"To lose one's humanity is to lose the future. Without inheritance or continuity, its extinction was inevitable," Herman thought, evaluating the Red Room's fate as he stepped out of the vehicle.
He walked calmly toward the place where Natasha sat collapsed, showing not the slightest hint of caution.
"Hey, kid, you alright?"
Herman had no need for caution anyway.
He didn't fear nuclear weapons—how could he fear a girl? Acting the part of an ordinary, concerned driver was simply a way to see what game Natasha was playing.
A Soviet-trained agent targeting him—a man with no ties or history in this era? It didn't make sense.
Besides, if he hadn't braked in time, Natasha would have been killed instantly. Not even the Black Widow's instincts could have predicted his telekinetic reflexes.
Unless, of course, this Natasha came from something like the "Time Variance Authority." But Herman found that possibility to be infinitesimally small.
With time on his side, he was in no rush. He was genuinely curious about Natasha's sudden appearance and decided to play the part of a concerned Good Samaritan.
His acting could've won an Oscar.
Herman's eyes shone with genuine concern and worry, his expression tinged with the nervousness of someone terrified they might have hit someone by accident. Not a trace of deceit could be seen on his face.
"I… I'm fine."
Natasha looked up at the handsome young man before her, her expression conflicted. Her earlier dazed reaction hadn't been entirely an act—it wasn't just a performance to disguise her condition.
When she'd slipped and tumbled out of the jungle, the sight of a speeding off-road vehicle bearing straight toward her had terrified her to the core. For a moment, she was certain she was about to be crushed into paste. Yet, to her astonishment, the car had stopped—abruptly, impossibly—right before her.
What on earth just happened?
That question echoed endlessly in Natasha's mind.
Her Red Room training told her one thing with absolute clarity: at that speed, even the best possible outcome should've been a complete corpse. Braking like that was physically impossible.
Sure, she hadn't excelled in physics, but even she knew enough to understand that much.
And yet, reality had just slapped her across the face. For a moment, she even wondered if she'd been taught wrong—or if some modern tech company had secretly invented an off-road vehicle that could brake in a way that defied all logic and the laws of physics.
Natasha sat there, utterly bewildered, still reeling from her brush with death.
So much so that she momentarily forgot her own situation.
"Do you need help? I mean... should I take you to a hospital or something?"
Herman's tone was calm and natural, giving Natasha no reason to suspect anything unusual.
With her limited life experience at this age, she didn't even consider that the impossible stop might have something to do with him. Instead, her mind was still turning over the vehicle's build and engineering.
"...Help..."
Natasha blinked, snapping out of her thoughts as Herman spoke. Then realization struck—and panic flashed across her face once more.
"Hm?"
Herman made a show of leaning forward, pretending to help her up. But as soon as she grasped his arm for support, she suddenly shoved him with all her strength.
If he'd been a normal man—caught completely off guard—he would've been thrown backward instantly by that sudden burst of force.
Unfortunately for her, the man she was trying to push over was Herman.
And Herman was anything but normal.
Her effort was to him what an ant's push would be to a planet—utterly meaningless.
Even her movements were painfully slow from his perspective.
He noticed what she intended to do but didn't bother countering her. He simply refused to pretend to fall either. His expensive casual wear required special dry-cleaning solutions, and getting them dirty in this primitive era would be troublesome.
"Huh?"
Natasha froze, stunned. Instead of sending him stumbling back, it felt as though she had just slammed her hands against a brick wall. Confusion flickered across her face again.
But she didn't have the time or composure to question it.
Her heart was still racing from fear—adrenaline spiking.
Then, without hesitation, the young Black Widow snapped her leg up and aimed a swift kick directly at his groin.
Good grief.
Truly worthy of the name Black Widow.
They had no enmity between them, yet her first instinct was a ruthless strike meant to end his bloodline. Even though she'd controlled her power well, any ordinary man would have been writhing in agony for hours if that kick had landed cleanly.
"Could you try being a bit more civilized? Maybe use some manners?"
Herman stepped back just a few centimeters—precisely enough to let her kick swish harmlessly through the air.
By skimming her surface thoughts, he understood the situation immediately.
The young Natasha Romanoff wasn't attacking him out of hostility. She was on the run—running for her life.
At this moment, any stranger she met would trigger the same reaction.
As for who she was running from...
That much was obvious.
...
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