UNKNOWN GUEST

#105 Taskmaster And Aunt Lena

I dragged myself out from under the wreckage, every muscle in my body protesting with dull aches. The truck was a mess—twisted metal and shattered glass littered the ground. As I got to my feet, I noticed Mom doing the same, brushing debris off her black hoodie. She moved like it was just another Tuesday, completely unfazed.

I glanced back toward the sinister figure—the same one with that eerie, scratched shield, the bow slung across his back, and now... claws? Metallic claws, sharp as razors, extended from his fists, glinting under the dim sky. My heart skipped a beat. Claws? Just like Black Panther's?

I sighed, rolling my shoulders. "Alright," I muttered under my breath, shifting into a combat stance. "Hand-to-hand it is."

But before I could take a step toward him, Mom grabbed me by the collar, yanking me backward with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. I stumbled behind the wrecked truck, landing in a crouch beside her.

"Mom! What the—"

She silenced me with a look, drawing her gun in one smooth motion. Without hesitation, she peeked over the edge of the ruined truck and fired three precise shots toward the figure. The sound of her pistol echoed across the bridge, but the figure dodged with unnatural agility, slipping into the shadows like a ghost.

Then I heard it—a distant but familiar roar of a motorbike cutting through the still air, growing louder by the second. Gunfire crackled from the approaching bike, forcing the masked figure to retreat further into the dark.

Mom exhaled in visible relief, lowering her gun as she glanced toward the incoming bike. "Yelena's here," she murmured, more to herself than to me, as if the whole situation had just shifted from a dangerous mission to an inconvenient family reunion.

I stood and scanned the area, but the masked figure had already vanished, as if he'd melted into the night. That... thing was gone. For now.

The motorbike screeched to a halt beside us, kicking up dust. Aunt Lena hopped off in one smooth motion, her gun still drawn and her eyes sharp as daggers. She moved like a coiled spring, ready to strike. And, of course, her eyes landed right on me.

She narrowed her gaze, her gun hand twitching. "Who the hell is this?" Her thick Russian accent cut through the air like a whip.

Mom stood up, brushing herself off, and sighed—that tired, exasperated sigh I knew so well, like she couldn't believe she had to explain this. "Put it down, Lena," she said flatly, flicking her hand toward the gun.

Aunt Lena didn't lower it right away. She just kept glaring at me with suspicion, her grip steady. Fair, I guess. I'd be suspicious too if some random guy climbed out of a wreck with my sister.

I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Hi... nice to meet you?"

Mom rolled her eyes at both of us. "He's from America. My junior," she said, clearing her throat awkwardly, obviously improvising.

I shot her a sideways glance, raising a brow. Junior? Seriously? That's what we're going with?

She gave me a look that said, Just roll with it.

Aunt Lena finally—finally—lowered her gun, but she still didn't look entirely convinced. "I knew something was up with you," she said, her voice low and suspicious. "That's why I followed."

Mom gave a short, unimpressed sigh, crossing her arms. "I would've managed just fine."

I stepped forward, dusting off my pants. "No. We needed backup," I said, my tone casual but firm.