The small Russian town lay in a hollow beneath the mountain pass, cloaked in early morning mist. Wooden houses leaned with age, wires sagged between crooked poles, and people trudged through the cold with shoulders hunched. It was the kind of place where news arrived late — but silence arrived early.
Max limped down the dirt path barefoot, clutching the last scraps of fabric from the prison guard uniform. He looked more like a ghost than a man — gaunt, blood-speckled, wild-eyed.
The first place he saw was a humble suit shop with a faded sign above the door:
"Yegorovich's Fine Tailoring"
The window was cracked. The bell above the door jangled when he stepped in.
Inside, everything smelled like dust and mothballs. Racks of half-finished suits, neatly hung jackets, bolts of fabric in muted greys and blacks. A small oil heater rattled in the corner. Sitting on a stool, bent over a coat sleeve, was an elderly man with trembling hands and a permanent scowl carved into his face.
Max cleared his throat.
The man looked up — wary at first, then confused.
"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" the old man asked, in gruff Russian.
Max struggled to remember the words. His Russian was shaky — remnants from Pietro's memories, still foggy.
"Name... Max," he said slowly. "I need... job. Work."
The old man raised a snowy brow.
"You don't speak Russian?"
"A little. Badly."
"You're not from here."
"No."
"Where's your home?"
Max hesitated, then simply said:
"Nowhere."
There was a long silence between them.
The old man finally stood up, sighing.
"You can sleep in the back. But no stealing. I'll break your legs, and I used to be strong."
Max nodded gratefully.
"Thank you... thank you."
"My name is Ivan. Ivan Yegorovich. You address me as 'sir.' Understood?"
"Yes... Sir Ivan."
Ivan sighed again, turning back to his work.
"God help me, I'm a fool."
The Backroom
That night, Max curled up in the storage room behind the shop — between rolls of velvet and cardboard boxes. For the first time in weeks, there were no alarms, no screams, no blood in the air. Just silence.
He didn't sleep much. His body was still humming with residual energy — his speed buried just beneath his skin, twitching, restless.
But his mind was focused now.
He had escaped.
Now it was time to re-enter.
The Next Day
Morning light crept through the shop window.
Ivan barked orders at Max while drinking strong tea and eating stale biscuits.
"You! Stitch this! Pocket's ripped — clumsy rich bastard tore it on a bench or something."
Max took the jacket carefully and moved to the front counter. He'd never sewn anything in his life — but Pietro's hands remembered. His fingers found the needle with a natural rhythm.
As he worked, he glanced at the dusty old television bolted to the corner wall. He grabbed the remote and turned it on.
Broadcast: The Aftermath of Civil War
"—Footage from the Leipzig Airport incident has now gone viral, showing Captain America and Iron Man clashing directly. The Avengers, once Earth's mightiest heroes, have fractured..."
Max's hand froze over the stitch.
He stared at the footage.
Black Panther. Scarlet Witch. Ant-Man. War Machine.
He recognized all of them.
"—Steve Rogers and his allies are now fugitives under the Sokovia Accords. Tony Stark has resumed a leadership role under UN oversight..."
"—Unconfirmed reports suggest former assassin Natasha Romanoff has gone off-grid. Authorities believe she may be in Eastern Europe."
Max blinked.
"Black Widow," he whispered.
The old man snorted from behind.
"Bah. More politics and capes. They don't care about people like us."
But Max wasn't listening.
His mind was racing.
Civil War is over… That means Black Widow is next. Russia. The Red Room. Yelena. Dreykov. Budapest. I can find them. I can intercept Natasha before the final act. I can rewrite the story.
He stood up too fast, needle pricking his finger. Blood smeared the edge of the jacket.
Ivan glanced up.
"Hey! Careful, damn it! That suit's worth more than your life!"
Max sat back down quickly, wiping his hand on his pants.
"Sorry… sir."
Ivan eyed him closely.
"You got fire in your eyes, boy. Trouble's gonna follow you like a dog."
"Then I'll run faster than the dog," Max muttered under his breath.
That night, Max didn't sleep either. He sat behind the tailor shop, watching the stars fade behind city light. In the distance, a train passed — heading west. His mind burned with maps, timelines, names.
"No more improvising," he whispered. "It's time to re-enter the plot."
His fingers twitched. Speed rippled beneath his skin again, hungry.
Tomorrow, he'd find a way into Budapest.
Then he'd find Natasha Romanoff.
And from there?
He'd break the MCU apart — and rebuild it in his own image.