The King: T'Challa.

Chapter 4: Thaddeus Ross

Emily hesitated outside Wanda's door, knuckles tapping gently against the wood.

"Wanda?" she called.

The muffled drone of the television reached her first, a woman's voice reporting over images of smoke and chaos. When she entered, Wanda sat perched on the bed, her eyes fixed to the screen, though her expression betrayed little. Emily joined her, sitting close, watching the broadcast with half her mind absent.

"...killing dozens of Nigerians and eleven Wakandans..."

Emily's head snapped toward the screen. The words hit her like a sudden fracture in the air. Wakandans? In Lagos? Her stomach tightened as her thoughts raced through names and faces, silently praying none she had known were among the dead.

Wanda noticed. Her gaze flicked to Emily, careful, probing.
"Did you know them?"

Emily shook her head, though too quickly. "No. I don't think so. Why?"

"Because the moment Wakanda was mentioned, you changed. I thought perhaps you—"

But Wanda's sentence dissolved as Vision phased silently through the wall. Emily flinched, pulse leaping. She still wasn't accustomed to him—this strange, ethereal being who looked human but moved like no living thing. Even Wakanda, with all its brilliance, had never produced anything so uncanny.

Wanda's voice carried the weariness of repetition. "Vis, we talked about this."

Her tone was the same one a mother might use with a pup that had tracked mud across polished floors.

Vision blinked, momentarily chastened. "Yes, but the door was open, and I assumed—" He sighed, as though correcting himself mid-thought. "Mr. Stark requests your presence downstairs. He has brought a guest."

And with that, he vanished the way he had come.

Emily exchanged a look with Wanda. Neither spoke, but both carried the same silent question: who?

Shrugging, Emily rose, and together they followed.

***

The conference room was already filled when they entered. Every Avenger sat around the polished table, the weight of expectation in their faces. Steve Rogers looked carved from granite, his expression telling Emily what his words had not: something decisive, something divisive, was about to begin.

She slid into the seat beside him. Across the table, Wanda lowered herself into a chair, her face pale under the fluorescent light.

Tony stood in the corner, arms folded. His expression was stripped of irony, unsoftened by wit. For the first time since Emily had known him, he looked entirely serious. That, more than anything, unsettled her.

Then the guest spoke. Secretary of State Thaddeus Ross.

He began with the confidence of a man used to commanding attention. "Five years ago, I had a heart attack. Collapsed in the middle of my backswing. Thirteen hours of surgery later, with a triple bypass in my chest, I learned something the Army never taught me in forty years. Perspective. The world owes you—" his gaze moved deliberately across the table "—an unpayable debt. You have fought, risked your lives, bled for us. Many call you heroes. But not all. Some prefer vigilantes."

Natasha's voice cut into the pause. "And what word would you use, Mr. Secretary?"

Ross didn't hesitate. "Dangerous."

The word landed heavy in the air.

He pressed forward, relentless. "What would you call a group of enhanced individuals, operating beyond borders, beyond law, deciding for themselves when and where to intervene, leaving destruction in their wake? Vigilantes? A private army?"