𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗡 | 𝗡. 𝗥𝗢𝗠𝗔𝗡𝗢𝗙𝗙

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𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧, 𝐄𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝

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Natasha Romanoff hadn't been wrong when she'd told Anfisa Frolova how easy it'd be to sneak out of the Carter Estate.

It wasn't that the teen had doubted the spy—Anfisa had been well aware of her many points of escape, her intrusive thoughts whispering to her, telling her that she'd only need a few seconds, that no one would even notice that she was gone before she was already too far away, lost with no certain direction but a yearning to carve out her freedom.

These were only split-second ideas, however—a paranoia that many assassins carried to combat the many "what if" scenarios that circled through their hyperactive brains. It was nothing intended to follow up on with preparations or stealth, not unless she felt it absolutely necessary where she could no longer ignore the warning signs.

But, under the care of Liz Carter, her belly full, her body warm and safe and healing, that urge was the quietest it's been in years. Noticeable, a shallow puddle of unease that simmered within her gut, but insignificant.

Anfisa knew that, if she were allowed, she might have grown comfortable with the idea of staying with the Carters for a time.

At least, that was before the Siren and the Black Widow had showed up at their door.

Because, now, they were going to destroy the Red Room.

And Anfisa wanted to be there when they did.

After watching their car drive away in the harsh weather, the headlights becoming a blur in the distance, Anfisa lowered her hand, letting the beige curtain fall closed. Returning to the sink, she finished washing the last of the dishes, placing the bowls upside down on a hand cloth for them to dry. She didn't touch the huge pot of soup still sitting on the stove, unsure of how to best pack it away, afraid that she'd do something wrong. Instead, she wiped down the dining table where they'd eaten, taking care not to disturb any of the items that laid across it haphazardly, leaving it just as she'd found it, albeit a little cleaner.

Cleaning wasn't a strong suit of hers—she was much more proficient in withstanding torture and killing her targets—but the Madame had made sure each of her girls had kept a standard ability to keep tidy. There were always missions where they may have to pose as a servant or caretaker, the roles women were expected to be able to perform. Before Dreykov's death, they were always instructed to clean up after themselves after mealtimes. Any crumb or spill left behind resulted in physical punishment or labor, depending on how well liked you were.

It was only another small thing to add onto the multitude of teachings they had ingrained into their students. Certainly not the worst of the worst, which was a small blessing, but they often took whatever reprieve they could get.

Time passed while Anfisa thought, her body taking over her self-imposed task as she entered a reflective state, her mind calm and soothing. It was her way of escaping, of retreating to a part of herself that no one else could reach.