UNKNOWN GUEST

#131 Doppelganger

The building loomed tall and elegant in the soft glow of Capitol Hill's streetlights, with a polished stone façade and large glass doors that hinted at the luxury within. Sharon Carter had recently become a Capitol insider, making waves in all the right circles.

Overnight, she'd gone from a fugitive to a White House favorite—a feat that still didn't sit right with me. Knowing what I knew, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to her "rehabilitation" than met the eye.

The lobby was pristine, with glossy floors, chic lighting, and a security desk that was thankfully unmanned at this late hour. Her apartment was in one of the upper floors, and I made my way to her door with a sense of purpose.

I inspected it carefully, searching for any weaknesses in the lock. Trespassing was a crime, sure—but right now, that felt like the least of my concerns. Uncle Sam's call from last night had changed everything.

My mind replayed his call, his voice tense as he recounted what he'd seen. He'd gone to check on Ross after hearing strange sounds, only to find Sharon already there, administering something via syringe. 

The strangest part? Just before Sharon injected him, Sam had caught a glimpse of Ross's eyes. They'd glowed red—a deep, unnatural red. Sam, as experienced as he was, had been spooked. And now he suspected that Ross wasn't just ill; he might be something far worse.

But I knew better. I'd seen the red eyed monster already, very closely. 

I pulled out a small nail cutter, glancing around one last time. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open under my hand. Well, I was Natasha Romanoff's son, after all. 

The apartment was dark, lit only by the faint glow from the streetlights outside seeping through the half-closed blinds. It was quiet, unsettlingly so. No hum of electronics, no signs of movement. I moved through the entryway into the living area, my eyes adjusting to the low light as I scanned the room.

Everything was meticulously arranged, almost sterile in its neatness. A glass coffee table sat in front of a plush couch, magazines and folders stacked neatly on top of it. The space was minimalist, almost impersonal—too organized for someone living here full-time. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle, sensing I was in a carefully curated environment rather than a true home.

I let out a slow breath, sinking onto the couch in the hall, keeping my posture relaxed, my ears tuned to any sound from the hallway or beyond. She was bound to come back sooner or later, and when she did, I wanted to be the first thing she saw. "Come on in, Sharon Carter," I murmured to the empty room. "I've got you."

I stayed motionless on the couch, listening for the telltale signs of someone approaching. Sure enough, the door clicked open, and I heard a sharp intake of breath—a surprised gasp. I glanced up, and there was Sharon Carter, standing in the doorway, her eyes wide. 

She tried to hide her surprise, masking her expression almost immediately, but I saw the shock ripple through her before she could rein it in. She swallowed, composing herself, and narrowed her eyes at me, stepping into the room with an air of authority.

"How did you find this place?" she asked, her voice steady but edged with irritation.

I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. "It wasn't exactly difficult. You're practically a White House celebrity now." I watched her eyes flick across the room, scanning her apartment for any sign of disturbance. She was wary, cautious, like a fox assessing the lay of a trap.

"Relax," I said, rolling my eyes. "I didn't touch anything. I was just sitting here, waiting for you to show up."

She exhaled, a shaky breath that betrayed her nerves, though she masked it with a stiff posture and that familiar look of calculated calm. She fixed me with a level stare, one hand still resting by the doorframe. "Why?"