Into The Red

.Training room.

.

Chapter 1: The Training Begins

The Red Room was suffocating. Natasha Romanoff knew it well—had lived with it, breathed it for longer than she cared to count. Every inch of the place screamed control. It didn't matter what they did to her—what they tried to make her into—Natasha remained, well, Natasha. But even she had to admit there was something about the walls today that felt... different.

Today, they were bringing in a new trainer.

Bucky Barnes.

She'd heard the name, of course. Everyone had. The Winter Soldier. One of Hydra's ghosts. His reputation was one of fear and brutality, whispered about in corridors, exaggerated by the people who feared him, idolized by the ones who wanted to be him. He was just another weapon in a room full of them.

But what pissed Natasha off was that they thought they could bring in someone like him to "teach" her. Like she needed training. The idea was laughable.

The door to the training room creaked open. Natasha didn't even glance up at first. She was always the first to arrive, the first to set the pace. But when she finally looked, when she saw him standing there—tall, broad-shouldered, eyes cold as hell—her heartbeat skipped, just for a second.

He was the kind of guy who owned a room just by walking in, even if he didn't try. And he wasn't trying to impress anyone. He wasn't here for small talk, and that's exactly what Natasha hated and admired about him.

Bucky didn't bother with pleasantries. "Romanoff," he said, voice low and rough, cutting through the room like a blade. His gaze swept over her, but there was something else there too—something that made her wonder if he recognized her, or maybe he didn't care enough to. Either way, she wasn't going to let it show.

"Yeah?" she replied, not bothering to stand at attention like the others. She was done playing their games. "What do you want?"

His lip curled into a half-smile, but it was more like a warning than an invitation. "I'm here to train you. You can call it whatever you want, but it's not up for negotiation."

Her jaw tightened. She wasn't interested in playing along, not with him. She was good—damn good—and this whole situation felt like a waste of her time. "I don't need training," she snapped. "You're wasting your time."

Bucky's smile never reached his eyes, those cold, stormy eyes that she couldn't look away from, no matter how hard she tried. "We'll see about that," he muttered, and his tone was deadly serious.

Without another word, he moved, fast as a predator. Before Natasha even registered what was happening, he was on her, moving like someone who had lived through years of killing and surviving. His speed was unreal—there was no hesitation in his movements, just raw, brutal efficiency.

She barely dodged his first strike, the air moving as his fist cut through it, but she didn't miss the calculation in his eyes. He wasn't just fighting her—he was studying her. And she could feel it. He was making her work harder than anyone had in a long time.

"You think you can handle me?" he grunted as she went for a hit that barely skimmed his ribs. His hands were like steel, and when they caught her wrist, she felt the weight of it, the crushing pressure.

She wrenched free, glaring at him. "I don't need you," she said, voice a little too sharp. "You think you can control me, but you can't."

His eyes narrowed. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "You think I'm here to control you, Romanoff?" he asked, his voice lowering, dangerous. "No. I'm here to make sure you don't get yourself killed, like the rest of the fools who think they're invincible."