The knock came precisely ten minutes after Smith ended his call with Fox, enough time for Natasha to compose herself, to shift mental gears from administrative assistant to whatever role this confrontation would require.
"Come in."
Natalie Rushman stepped through the doorway with the practiced poise of someone who'd infiltrated countless organizations. She wore her secretary persona like a second skin, professional blazer, modest skirt, hair pulled back efficiently. But her eyes scanned the office with the automatic threat assessment of someone trained from childhood to catalog exits, weapons, tactical advantages.
This was her first time in Smith Doyle's private office. Despite working for Fox, despite witnessing Smith's impossible abilities firsthand during training demonstrations, she'd never been invited to the Fraternity's inner sanctum. She wasn't one of them, just an embedded observer wearing a convincing mask.
"Boss, you wanted to see me?"
Smith gestured to the chair across from his desk. "Sit."
Natasha lowered herself into the seat with controlled grace, her posture suggesting relaxed confidence while her muscles remained coiled for instant reaction. Whatever was coming, she'd face it as she'd faced everything else, with calculated performance and hidden steel.
Smith leaned back, his expression unreadable. "Should I call you Natalie Rushman? Or would you prefer Natasha Romanoff?"
He paused, letting that sink in, then smiled slightly. "Or perhaps your Red Room designation, Black Widow?"
The shock hit like ice water, but Natasha's training held. Her expression flickered for just a microsecond; surprise quickly masked by professional composure. Coulson had warned her last night after the gala, cautioned that the Fraternity knew about SHIELD's history, suggested extra vigilance. But she hadn't expected this. Not this quickly. Not this directly.
She didn't panic. Didn't reach for weapons or calculate escape routes. The gap between her capabilities and Smith Doyle's was a chasm she couldn't cross through combat. She'd watched him move during demonstrations, seen speeds and reflexes that defied human limitations. Fighting would be suicide.
Her only play was conversation. And the fact that he'd called her here instead of simply eliminating her suggested he wanted something.
Natasha allowed herself a slight smile, her tone carrying rueful acknowledgment. "The Fraternity's intelligence network is even more impressive than I'd estimated. I've barely been undercover here three months, and you've already burned my cover."
She crossed her legs, projecting calm acceptance. "So I'm guessing I'm unemployed now. The question is, what instructions does Mr. Doyle have for his former secretary?"
Smith studied her for a long moment, then began speaking with the methodical precision of someone reciting from a dossier. "Natasha Romanoff. Agent trained by the Soviet Red Room program. Codename: Black Widow."
His voice remained conversational, almost casual, which somehow made the revelations more unsettling. "Born in Stalingrad. Real name Natalia Alianovna Romanova, Americanized to Natasha Romanoff. Before joining SHIELD, you served the Red Room for years. At age eleven, you were deployed to the United States as part of a deep-cover operation, a fabricated family in Ohio. You, Yelena Belova, Melina Vostokoff, and Alexei Shostakov. Three years maintaining the illusion of normalcy, gathering intelligence, playing house."
Natasha's composure cracked. Her pupils dilated slightly, her breathing pattern shifted microscopically. She'd expected him to know about her SHIELD status, that was explainable through various intelligence channels. But this? This was her classified Red Room history, details that shouldn't exist outside of sealed Soviet archives and SHIELD's most restricted files.
Smith continued without acknowledging her reaction. "When the mission concluded, you extracted to Cuba. Then back to the Red Room for advanced conditioning. You graduated from their program at the top of your class, became one of their premier Black Widows, conducted operations across Europe and Asia."
He paused, his gaze never leaving her face. "After 2000, you were assigned to Budapest. Target elimination mission. But you encountered SHIELD Agent Clint Barton, Hawkeye. He was sent to kill you. Instead, he made a different call."
Natasha's hands gripped the armrests slightly tighter. "I'm impressed. Genuinely impressed." Her voice carried layers, acknowledgment, wariness, grudging respect. "That level of detail suggests either incredibly deep intelligence penetration or actual spies inside SHIELD itself."
She met his eyes directly. "Yes, that's my past. All of it. So, what comes next, Mr. Doyle? You didn't expose me just to prove your organization's capabilities."
Smith's smile widened slightly. "You're right. What I've told you so far? That's just confirmation of what you already know, your own history. What comes next are the secrets you don't know. The truths that SHIELD has been hiding from you."
Natasha's entire focus sharpened. Whatever came next was the real reason for this conversation. "I'm listening."
"SHIELD arranged quite the performance to secure your loyalty," Smith said, his tone carrying an edge of contempt. "The mission to kill Dreykov and destroy the Red Room. You and Barton, sent to eliminate the man who'd tortured and conditioned you, who'd turned you into a weapon."
His eyes glittered with something predatory. "But it was a show, Natasha. Theater designed to make you believe you'd closed that chapter. To make you grateful. To make you loyal."
Natasha's mind seized on the key word. "Show?" Her voice came out sharper than intended.
Smith leaned forward. "Do you really believe the Red Room was destroyed? That Dreykov died in that explosion? That his daughter, the girl you've carried guilt over for years, actually died?"
"Impossible." The word burst from Natasha before she could control it. "I was there. I saw the bomb detonate. Saw the building collapse. The force of that explosion, no one could have survived. Dreykov was in his office. His daughter was with him." Her hands clenched into fists. "They're dead."
Smith's expression turned mocking. "Did you see bodies? Did you confirm kills? Or did you see an explosion and assume?"
He tilted his head, his next words landing like precision strikes. "I understand Dreykov's daughter has become something of a psychological burden for you. The collateral damage you couldn't prevent. Your guilt"
Natasha felt her world tilting. "You have spies in SHIELD. You must. That information, " She cut herself off, mind racing. "That's in my psychological profile. Classified files that even most SHIELD agents can't access. Only my evaluator and maybe Fury know about that guilt."
Even Clint only had suspicions, insights gained through years of partnership rather than official knowledge.
Two possibilities crystallized in her mind. First: the Fraternity had successfully infiltrated SHIELD at the highest levels, compromising their most secure systems. Second: Smith Doyle possessed some kind of supernatural ability to read minds or perceive the past. Neither option was comfortable, but the second seemed less likely based on SHIELD's records of documented abilities.
Smith neither confirmed nor denied anything. His silence was answer enough, or perhaps deliberate misdirection.
Natasha pushed forward, her training demanding evidence. "What proof do you have? That Dreykov survived, that the Red Room still operates? In all my years since that mission, I haven't encountered a single active Red Room agent. They've vanished from the intelligence community. No operations, no assassinations, nothing."
Her voice hardened. "And why would SHIELD orchestrate a fake mission? What purpose does that serve?"
The questions poured out, each one carrying weight. The Red Room represented her darkest history, the torture, the conditioning, the murders committed before she'd developed enough autonomy to resist. SHIELD represented her salvation, her second chance, her opportunity to balance her ledger through heroic action.
But even as she defended SHIELD, part of her acknowledged the uncomfortable truth. How loyal was she, really? She'd never fully trusted them, couldn't fully trust them, as an outsider, a former enemy operative given provisional acceptance. She'd earned their faith through blood and sacrifice, proved herself through countless missions, but she'd never graduated from a SHIELD academy. Never been part of their institutional culture. She was useful, valued even, but never entirely trusted.
Some part of her had always known that.
Smith reached into his desk drawer and withdrew two photographs. He placed the first directly in front of Natasha.
She picked it up, her breath catching.
The photograph showed a prison, harsh concrete, iron bars, the utilitarian brutality of a Soviet-era facility. And there, in heavy restraints, sat a man she recognized despite the years and deterioration.
Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian. The man who'd played her father for three years in Ohio.
He looked nothing like the proud Soviet super-soldier she remembered. His face had gone jowly, his body bloated with prison food and inactivity. His expression carried the hollow defeat of someone who'd given up hope of ever seeing freedom again.
But it was him. Unmistakably him.
That fabricated family had been a mission, nothing more. She'd known that even at eleven years old. But in her memories, those three years in Ohio glowed like a brief candle in endless darkness. Alexei had taught her to ride a bicycle. Melina had helped her with homework. Yelena had been her sister, sharing secrets and laughter.
It had been fake. But it had also been the closest thing to a real family she'd ever known.