Yelena Belova
Budapest never got easier.
Even when you knew every shortcut, every broken alley, every rooftop path — it still felt like a labyrinth. A haunted one.
Yelena followed close behind Natasha, heart pounding as they sprinted through a market square, boots echoing off wet pavement. Behind them, the Red Room's Widows were closing in, silent and deadly.
"Left!" Natasha barked.
They cut through a food stall, knocking over crates of apples and hot dumplings.
Bullets cracked in the distance. Someone screamed.
Yelena turned her head — just a flick — and saw one of the Widows leap from a rooftop—
But then something blurred across the alley.
The Widow vanished, flung backward into a dumpster with a crash.
Yelena skidded to a stop.
"What—"
Natasha grabbed her arm. "Don't stop!"
"But—"
"No time."
They ran.
But the image stuck in Yelena's mind: a figure. Green. Yellow. Fast.
Max
Max crouched on the rooftop, heart racing. He watched Natasha and Yelena vanish into a side alley.
One Widow down. Five more stalking the perimeter.
"Stay quiet. Stay out of sight. Save them. Don't spook them," he whispered.
He darted across the rooftop, feet barely touching the surface. He'd learned to feel his speed now — no longer forcing it, but letting it carry him like wind through a crack in the world.
Below, a Widow closed in on the sisters, climbing down a drainpipe with a silenced pistol drawn.
Max jumped off the edge, landing with a roll, then rose behind her like a ghost. Before she could turn—
WHAM!
A jab to the throat. She dropped.
Max dragged her into the shadows and took her comms earpiece. Voices crackled:
"Unit 4 — lost contact. Unit 3 — approach from northern rooftop."
He tossed the device into a sewer grate and vanished again.
Natasha Romanoff
They stopped at a supply stash under the bridge.
Yelena dug through a bag of stolen gear, loading magazines and checking smoke grenades. Natasha pulled a broken piece of mirror from her jacket, scanning her reflection, trying to see behind them.
Nothing.
But something felt... off.
Yelena paused.
"You think we're being followed?"
Natasha narrowed her eyes.
"No. I think we're being protected."
Yelena blinked. "That makes no sense."
"Exactly."
Max
Another Widow approached the alley on the east side — quiet, fast, tactical. Max sprinted across a steel rail, moving so quickly the lights around him flickered.
He tackled her mid-stride.
CRACK!
A pressure point strike. She slumped.
He caught her before she fell, easing her down. He took a deep breath.
This was working. No flashy entrance. No need for a spotlight.
"A ghost in the story," Max whispered. "That's who I am."
Yelena
Two blocks later, Yelena spotted it again.
A blur. A streak of green-yellow.
Gone in an instant.
"Nat," she said, grabbing her sister's arm. "I saw him. Again."
Natasha frowned. "Who?"
"I don't know. Someone fast. Helping us."
Natasha's jaw tightened. "Could be one of Fury's assets. Or a new player."
"Should we trust him?"
Natasha didn't answer.
She was already checking her pistol.
Max
From atop the cathedral roof, Max watched the two Black Widows disappear into the city's underbelly.
He exhaled.
He wasn't ready to join them. Not yet. Not as Max. Not even as "Quicksilver."
But something had changed.
He no longer felt like a lost extra in someone else's movie. He was in the story now — not rewriting it, but bending it, shaping it, living it.
Max turned and sprinted into the night, faster than the eye could follow.