Marvel: Ned the Master of Mystic Arts

The sharp screech of brakes echoed outside. Stark's heart clenched as he instinctively grabbed a metal rod from the side and pressed himself behind the door.

His keen senses immediately picked up on the unmistakable hum of an engine—one that was far from any ordinary civilian car.

This wasn't good.

Either Harry had betrayed him, or worse, their enemies had captured Harry and forced him to reveal his location. Neither scenario was ideal.

Outside, Harry approached the warehouse, leading a strikingly agile woman clad in a black tactical suit.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Crunch.

Her combat boots sank into the snow, each step slow and deliberate.

"Mr. Stark?" Harry called out toward the dimly lit warehouse.

Stark gritted his teeth before responding, his voice laced with urgency.

"I'm here! Get in quick—I'm injured, and I need your help!"

As he spoke, he hastily pulled a tattered cloak over Hawkeye, concealing the key features that would differentiate them. He wasn't ready to trust Harry blindly—not when the boy had someone else with him.

Harry was still young, naïve even. If someone had tricked him, there was no telling what kind of trouble they were walking into.

But no matter what, Stark wouldn't strike first. After all, Harry had saved him from freezing to death in this snowstorm.

"What?! Mr. Stark, hold on! I'm coming!"

Panic flared in Harry's voice as he sprinted inside.

With a loud bang, he shoved open the warehouse door, only to be met with the gruesome sight of Hawkeye lying motionless on the couch, his face a bloody mess.

Horrified, Harry assumed the worst.

"Mr. Stark!" he cried, throwing himself toward Hawkeye's still form.

In his panic, Harry failed to notice Stark lurking behind the door. But Stark wasn't watching Harry—his attention was fixed on the woman entering behind him.

The moment she crossed the threshold, Stark lunged.

With a swift motion, he swung the iron rod, aiming straight for her face.

Whoosh!

Had the strike connected, it wouldn't just have left a nasty scar—it could have shattered her skull, buying him and Hawkeye precious time to escape.

But the woman was faster.

With expert precision, she caught his wrist mid-swing, halting his attack completely.

A sharp twist.

A calculated strike to his shoulder joint.

A brutal kick to his knee.

Crash!

Thud!

Agh!

A cry of pain escaped Stark's lips as he was slammed to the ground, the iron rod clattering uselessly beside him.

"Mr. Stark?!"

Harry's voice trembled with betrayal and disbelief.

"You lied to me?!"

His hands shook as he grabbed the nearest weapon available—his homemade potato gun—and aimed it straight at the woman.

"Let him go!" he demanded.

Stark, still groaning in pain, felt a flicker of warmth spread through his chest.

So Harry hadn't betrayed him after all.

But seriously… did the kid really think a potato gun was going to scare off a trained assassin?

Just as Stark was bracing for another strike, the pressure on his body suddenly lifted.

Surprised, he turned his head.

The woman had stepped back, her grip loosening entirely.

A familiar, teasing voice followed.

"Well, well… it's only been a few days, and my former boss is already looking like a mess. What happened to all that fancy tech?"

Stark's breath caught in his throat.

That voice.

Natasha Romanoff.

As he turned his gaze, his suspicions were confirmed—standing before him was the Black Widow herself, smirking down at him.

His entire body slackened in relief.

With a heavy sigh, he slumped against the wall.

"Damn it, Romanoff… if you scared me into a heart attack, Fury would personally fire you."

"Mr. Stark!"

Harry rushed to Stark's side, still wary of the woman who had just attacked him.

"Who is she? Do you know her?" he whispered.

Stark chuckled, ruffling Harry's hair.

"Kid, remember how you kept bugging me for Avenger stories?"

Harry's eyes widened.

"Wait… does that mean—"

"Yep. They're the real deal."

Harry turned to glance at the unconscious Hawkeye, then hesitantly asked, "And… him too?"

Natasha approached the couch, lightly slapping Hawkeye's shoulder.

"Alright, Barton. Nice performance. You can drop the act now."

Silence.

Hawkeye didn't move.

A sinking feeling settled in Natasha's stomach. The sharp scent of blood filled her senses.

This wasn't an act.

"What happened?" she demanded, her playful tone vanishing. "Who did this to him?"

Her expression darkened—fury and worry flashing across her face. If there was one person in this world who truly mattered to her, it was the man lying unconscious before her.

"He's badly injured," Stark said grimly. "He needs medical attention—fast."

"I'll take him to a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house," Natasha said immediately. "It's equipped for situations like this."

Stark scoffed.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s safe house? You sure that's really safe?"

He didn't need to elaborate—Natasha knew exactly what he was implying. With everything going on inside S.H.I.E.L.D. right now, trust was a dangerous gamble.

She hesitated only for a second before making the call.

"Fine. We'll take him to a hospital. Use my car."

Without wasting another moment, she hoisted Hawkeye onto her back and sprinted toward the exit.

Stark forced himself to his feet, gritting his teeth against the pain. Before stepping out, he turned to Harry one last time.

"Stay home, kid. Keep Iron Man safe."

Then he disappeared into the snowy night.

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