The Quinjet lifted off without ceremony.
No victory report. No debrief jokes. No sound except the steady hum of engines cutting through the clouds. Inside, the Avengers sat scattered, wounded in ways no med-kit could touch. The city they left behind was still burning, still evacuating, still trying to understand how close it had come to becoming another erased name on a global map.
Natasha Romanoff lay strapped to a medical platform at the center of the cabin.
Her breathing was shallow. Uneven. Each rise of her chest felt like a question without an answer.
Bruce Banner hovered beside her, hands trembling as scanners glided over her body. Fractured ribs. Internal bleeding. Spinal trauma from the impact. Injuries that should have killed her instantly—but somehow hadn't. Not yet.
"Come on, Nat," he murmured, more plea than science. "Stay with me. You've survived worse than this."
She didn't respond.
Steve Rogers stood a few steps away, helmet off, shield resting uselessly against the wall. There was blood on its edge—not hers, not his. He couldn't stop looking at it. The symbol he carried had never felt so powerless.
Tony Stark paced near the cockpit, running diagnostics that told him nothing he wanted to hear. His armor retracted and redeployed restlessly, mirroring the storm in his head.
"This is on me," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I pushed for engagement. I said we could test him. Gather data." He laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Turns out he gathered data on us."
Thor sat motionless, Stormbreaker across his knees. His armor was cracked. Lightning refused to answer him. He stared at the floor like a god who had failed to be one. "I struck him with the power of a star," he said quietly. "And he walked through it. What kind of being does that?"
Doctor Strange leaned against the wall, cloak hanging limp. His hands were wrapped in bandages glowing faintly with healing runes. His eyes were darker than usual. "The kind that treats resistance as instruction," he replied. "We taught him today."
Natasha stirred.
Everyone froze.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then sharpening as she took in the cabin. The faces. The tension. The silence that was too careful.
"Wow," she rasped. "You all look terrible."
Steve was at her side instantly. "Easy," he said, voice thick. "Don't talk."
She smirked faintly. "Still bossy."
Bruce swallowed hard. "Nat… you're hurt. Badly. But we're getting you back. Wakanda, Kamar-Taj—wherever. We'll fix this."
She looked at him then. Really looked. And in that moment, Bruce felt it—that quiet certainty she'd carried into every impossible mission.
"No," she said softly.
Tony turned. "Hey. Nope. Not doing the 'acceptance' thing. You're not allowed to do that."
Natasha's gaze drifted to him. "Stark," she said. "You finally look like someone who understands consequences."
He flinched.
She shifted slightly, pain flickering across her face, then reached out weakly. Steve took her hand without hesitation.
"You didn't fail," she said to him. "You did what you always do. You stood up."
Steve shook his head. "I led you into this."
"You led us out alive," she replied. "That counts."
Her breathing hitched. Bruce watched the monitors spike, then falter.
"Natasha," Bruce said urgently. "Stay with us."
She smiled faintly. "You know… I always wondered how it would end for me." Her eyes flicked upward, thoughtful. "Guess I don't hate this version."
Thor finally looked up, pain naked in his expression. "You fought with the heart of a warrior," he said. "You will be remembered in song."
She let out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. "Make me sound taller."
Then her eyes met Strange's.
He said nothing.
He couldn't.
Because for the first time since becoming Sorcerer Supreme, he had looked into the future and seen only one path that ended here.
Natasha's grip tightened around Steve's fingers. "Promise me something."
"Anything," Steve said immediately.
"Don't let this break you," she whispered. "That's how he wins."
Her eyes fluttered.
The monitors screamed.
Bruce moved instantly, hands flying, shouting instructions no one needed to hear. Strange stepped forward, spells forming desperately, time itself trembling at his fingertips.
But it was too late.
Doomsday had not killed Natasha Romanoff.
He had simply made survival impossible.
The line went flat.
Silence swallowed the cabin.
Bruce collapsed back, hands shaking, eyes wide and empty. "No," he whispered. "No, no, no…"
Steve didn't move. He didn't breathe. He just held her hand, unwilling to accept what the stillness meant.
Tony turned away sharply, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His eyes burned—not with tears, but with something darker.
Thor bowed his head.
Doctor Strange closed his eyes and let the future settle into place.
Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow—was gone.
Permanently.
The world learned the truth hours later.
Not through explosions or speeches, but through absence. Black Widow did not answer calls. Did not appear in briefings. Did not sit in her usual chair at Avengers Compound. Flags lowered quietly. News anchors spoke her name with unfamiliar reverence.
The Avengers gathered in the briefing room, her empty seat a wound no one could ignore.
"This is my fault," Tony said flatly. "I should've known better. I always push. Always assume there's a workaround."
"You couldn't have known," Bruce replied, though his voice lacked conviction.
"I could've listened," Tony snapped. "Instead, I treated him like a problem to solve."
Steve finally spoke. "This wasn't about intelligence or strength," he said. "This was about responsibility. And we all share it."
Thor stood. "I have faced gods, monsters, and fate itself," he said. "Never have I felt so unworthy."
Strange turned to them, expression grave. "Her death is fixed," he said. "I looked. There is no version of this future where she survives. Doomsday adapts not just to force—but to interference. Saving her would have taught him something worse."
The room went cold.
"So that's it?" Tony asked. "We just… accept it?"
"No," Steve said firmly. "We remember it."
He looked at Natasha's chair.
"We stop reacting," he continued. "We stop testing him. We stop feeding him information. From now on, every move we make has one rule."
Thor straightened. "And that rule is?"
Steve's voice hardened.
"We do not lose anyone else."
Far away, on a ruined world light-years beyond Earth, Doomsday paused.
Something had changed.
Not resistance.
Not power.
But consequence.
He had not intended to kill Natasha Romanoff.
But he had learned from her death all the same.
And evolution never forgets.
The funeral was private.
No crowds. No cameras. No speeches meant for comfort. Just a small clearing beyond the Avengers Compound, surrounded by trees that whispered softly in the wind, unaware of the weight they bore witness to. A simple marker stood at the center. No aliases. No symbols. Just her name.
Natasha Romanoff.
Steve stood at the front, unmoving. He had worn his uniform out of habit, then hated himself for it. She hadn't died in a battle worth commemorating. She hadn't fallen saving the universe. She had been crushed by a mistake. By curiosity. By arrogance.
By them.
Tony stayed back, sunglasses hiding eyes that hadn't slept since the Quinjet landed. He hadn't built anything. Hadn't upgraded armor. Hadn't even touched a tool. The workshop lights were still on, untouched, like a room holding its breath. For the first time in his life, Tony Stark didn't trust his mind.
Bruce stood apart from everyone, arms wrapped tightly around himself as if trying to keep something contained. Hulk had not emerged since the fight. Not during the return flight. Not after Natasha died. Not even when Bruce begged him to. It wasn't fear keeping the monster silent.
It was guilt.
Thor placed Stormbreaker against the ground, bowing his head. Asgard honored its dead with feasts and fire, with stories and song. This felt wrong. Too quiet. Too small. A mortal ending for someone who had stood beside gods without flinching.
"She died facing something none of us understood," Thor said softly. "And yet she did not hesitate."
No one replied.
Doctor Strange watched from the edge, cloak wrapped tightly around him. He had seen this moment more times than he could count—different angles, different skies, different words—but the outcome had never changed. Knowing that did not make it easier. It made it heavier.
When it was over, no one left immediately.
They lingered, each trapped in their own memory of her. A smirk during a mission. A quiet conversation after a loss. The way she never pretended to be anything other than what she was.
Eventually, Steve turned away first.
The Avengers Compound felt different after that.
Too large. Too empty. Too quiet.
Natasha's room was sealed—not by protocol, but by unspoken agreement. No one wanted to be the one to step inside. Her gear locker remained untouched. Her weapons cleaned, precisely aligned, waiting for hands that would never return.
Meetings became shorter. Sharper.
"We should've pulled back earlier," Tony said during one briefing, voice clipped. "The data was incomplete."
"You still want data," Steve shot back. "That's the problem."
"So what, Cap? We do nothing?" Tony snapped. "Because last I checked, 'standing still' isn't exactly a winning strategy."
"It is when moving forward makes him stronger," Steve replied. "Natasha understood that."
Tony flinched. The name landed like a weapon.
Bruce slammed his fist against the table. "Enough." His voice shook. "This isn't helping. We're tearing each other apart, and Doomsday doesn't even have to be here to do it."
Strange finally spoke. "This is part of it," he said quietly. "Not his plan—but the consequence. He doesn't just destroy cities. He destabilizes defenders. Every loss changes how we think. How we act."
Thor rose from his seat. "Then we change again," he said, fire returning to his eyes. "We adapt as he does."
Strange met his gaze. "Careful. That path leads to becoming what we fight."
The room fell silent.
Later that night, Steve stood alone in the training room. He struck the punching bag again and again, each blow fueled by restraint barely holding together. Not rage. Regret. He remembered Natasha's voice—calm, clear, certain—telling him not to let this break him.
He stopped, breathing hard.
"I won't," he said to the empty room. "I promise."
Elsewhere, Tony sat in his workshop, staring at a hologram frozen mid-frame: Natasha during a mission briefing, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in quiet skepticism. He reached out, fingers trembling, then shut it down abruptly.
"I was supposed to protect you," he muttered. "That was the deal."
For the first time, he began designing not a weapon—but a contingency. Not to kill Doomsday.
To survive him.
Bruce sat in the lab, staring at a cracked monitor displaying Hulk's biometrics. Flat. Dormant. "You loved her too," Bruce whispered. "I know you did." He waited for anger. For resistance.
Nothing came.
High above Earth, in a place without stars, Doomsday paused again.
Something new echoed within him—not emotion, not memory—but recognition. Resistance had decreased. Chaos had increased. The defenders were changing their patterns.
Interesting.
He turned toward his next destination.
Back on Earth, Doctor Strange stood before the Avengers, eyes hard with resolve. "Natasha's death is a fixed point," he said. "But what comes after is not. From this moment on, we stop fighting Doomsday like an enemy."
Thor frowned. "Then what is he?"
Strange answered without hesitation.
"He is a law of nature," he said. "And laws aren't defeated."
Steve stepped forward. "They're rewritten."
The Avengers looked at one another—broken, grieving, diminished.
But not finished.
Natasha Romanoff was gone.
And because of her, they would never fight the same way again.