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2014
With hearts pounding and adrenaline coursing through their veins, Natasha and Indigo rushed through the hospital corridors, determined to reach Nick Fury's bedside. Fear and urgency etched into their expressions, they pushed past nurses and security, their minds focused solely on ensuring Fury's survival and uncovering the truth behind the looming threat that had brought him to the brink of death.
The news had come so suddenly. One minute, they were sprawled on the floor of Avengers Tower, binge-watching romcoms and devouring takeout, the world feeling absurdly normal. Then came Maria Hill's call—sharp, frantic, and utterly chilling. Fury was in the hospital. Shot. No details, no explanation, just the stark reality that their fearless leader was in danger, and they needed to move now.
Indigo's mind raced as they navigated the corridors, her pulse pounding in her ears. How could this happen? Fury had always been untouchable, impervious to the world's chaos. She had grown up watching him lead, a force of nature wrapped in a cool, unflappable exterior. The idea of him in any kind of peril felt like a betrayal of nature itself. The sharpest tactician she knew, the man who could outthink, outfight, and outlast anyone—he couldn't die.
Finally, they reached the door to the observation wing of the operating room, and Steve was there, his face a mask of quiet dread. Seeing him like that only made the fear in Indigo's chest deepen. This wasn't the Steve Rogers who led them, who fought beside them. This was a man who had already faced too many battles and seen too many friends slip through his fingers. His eyes flicked up when he saw them, but there was no reassurance, no promise that everything would be okay.
"Is he gonna make it?" Natasha whispered, her voice tight with barely restrained panic, the ever-strong Natasha Romanoff shaken to her core.
Steve let out a sharp, frustrated sigh, as if the question had been hanging in the air for far too long. "I don't know."
Indigo's gaze shifted, her heart sinking as she saw Fury sprawled on the operating table, surrounded by frantic doctors and nurses. The sight felt wrong—so profoundly wrong. The man she knew to be strong, unyielding, and fearless now lay still, his body lifeless and foreign on the cold, sterile surface.
She backed away, retreating to the corner of the room, unable to look at him any longer without feeling the weight of the void in her heart. Every instinct screamed for her to do something, to help, to fix whatever had broken him. But her hands were tied. She couldn't do a damn thing. She was useless in this sterile, heartless room, trapped in the silence of her own thoughts and the rapid beat of her pulse.
"Tell us about the shooter," Indigo said, her voice cutting through the chaos. She needed to know who did this—who she needed to make pay.
Steve didn't look at her, his gaze fixed on the window where Fury's condition was deteriorating before their eyes. "He's fast and strong," Steve said flatly. His voice wavered only slightly as he continued, "Had a metal arm."
