The tension is palpable, a thick, electric charge in the air that makes my fur bristle. My senses are in overdrive, cataloging everything—the scent of gun oil from the weapons the agents carry, the faint whiff of anxiety permeating the air, the almost imperceptible sound of fingers tightening on triggers.
Who I can only assume to be Director Fury stands at the center of the welcoming committee, his posture relaxed but his single eye sharp and calculating. An agent is at his side, her expression neutral but her hand resting lightly on the holster at her hip. The four security officers flank them, their stances rigid, weapons at the ready but not raised—yet.
I know a firing squad when I see one. Different organisation, almost the same tells.
"Don't growl," Bucky murmurs beside me, so softly only enhanced hearing could catch it. "They're looking for a reason."
I hadn't realized the low rumble was coming from my chest. I silence it immediately, but keep my guard raised. The tracker collar feels suddenly heavier around my neck.
Steve steps forward first, shield still magnetized to his back, hands deliberately empty. "Director," he says with a tone that manages to sound respectful while actually being a challenge.
Fury's single eye slides briefly over Steve before landing squarely on me. His gaze carries the weight of someone who's seen everything and trusts nothing.
"Rogers," he acknowledges, voice dry as desert sand. "Mind explaining why you've brought a goddamn Hydra attack dog home like a stray?"
The word 'dog' hits like a slap. My muscles coil involuntarily. Not a dog.
"She's not what you think," Steve begins, but Tony steps forward with that particular Stark swagger that's designed to pull attention.
"Look, Fury, found-animal protocol," Tony interjects, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky. "If you find something stray, you check for a chip. Turns out her chip says 'Property of Evil Nazi Science Division.' So technically, finders keepers."
Fury's expression doesn't change, but the temperature seems to drop several degrees. "This isn't a joke, Stark."
"Who's joking? I've already designed her a room. Thinking memory foam dog bed, maybe some chew toys shaped like Red Skull—"
I snap my jaws at Tony, deliberately loud enough to make everyone tense. He jumps slightly, then grins.
"See? She's got a sense of humor."
"Tony," Steve warns, but I catch the minuscule twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"If I wanted your input, Stark, I'd schedule a meeting with your ego," Fury retorts. "Hill, what's the protocol here?"
"Protocol suggests immediate containment, sir," Hill responds without hesitation, her eyes clinical as they assess me. "Level four security, biometric locks, constant surveillance."
I stiffen at the word 'containment,' a ripple of tension moving through my muscles. Another cage. Another lab. I instinctively shift my weight backward, closer to Bucky.
"Sir," Steve tries again, "we made a judgment call in the field. She fought against Hydra operatives, helped us clear the facility."
"Or led you exactly where Hydra wanted," Hill counters, her voice clipped and professional. "We've seen this play before."
"With all due respect, Agent Hill," Bucky interjects, voice low and controlled, "I think I know Hydra's playbook better than most."
Hill's expression softens fractionally. "Nobody's questioning your experience, Barnes. But Hydra evolves. Their tactics shift."
I shift my weight, hackles rising despite my best efforts to appear non-threatening. These assumptions grate against my pride. I am no one's tool, not anymore. I let out a short, sharp sound—not quite a growl, not quite a bark—drawing everyone's attention.
"Looks like she has an opinion," Natasha comments dryly.
"She's injured," Bruce points out from behind us, still clutching his tablet like a shield. "Took a knife fighting Hydra agents. That seems pretty definitive about which side she's on."
Fury's eye narrows dangerously. "Dr. Banner, with all due respect to your seven PhDs, Hydra's willing to sacrifice pawns to position their knights. You of all people should understand that."
Bruce's scent sharpens with repressed anger—not quite the green tang I detected earlier. "And you think she's a pawn?"
"I think we don't know what she is," Fury counters. "And in my experience, unknown variables tend to blow up in our faces. Literally, in some cases."
"Nick," Natasha steps forward with that measured grace that makes her movement seem both casual and precisely calculated. "We've scanned for transmitters, active tech, anything that could compromise security. She's clean."
"And you're sure about that?" Fury challenges. "Because what I see is a genetically engineered predator with unknown capabilities and objectives. And apparently you're all fine with that."
"Clint clears his throat. "For the record, I'm not fine with it." He raises his hands defensively when Steve turns to him. "Just saying. We don't exactly have the best track record with strays."
I meet his eyes without flinching. I understand his fear—it's rational. Hydra has created monsters before. But I refuse to cower to prove I'm not one of them.
"You want my professional assessment?" Clint continues, surprising me. "She's dangerous. But so am I. So is Nat. So is everyone standing here. The question isn't whether she's dangerous—it's who she's dangerous to."
"And you're confident it's not us?" Fury asks.
Clint glances at me, then back to Fury. "No. But I'm willing to find out."
"Look," Bucky says, stepping forward beside Steve, his metal arm catching the light. "I know better than anyone what Hydra does to the things it creates. They twist, they break, they reprogram." His voice drops to that dangerous Winter Soldier cadence that makes one SHIELD agent step back. "But not her."
Fury studies him for a long moment, then shifts his gaze back to me. "Barnes, I respect what you've been through. But there's a difference between a brainwashed human and a genetically engineered predator."
"Is there?" Bucky challenges, with an edge that carries decades of pain. "We're both things Hydra tried to turn into weapons."
The silence that follows feels thick enough to cut. I watch Fury's face, reading the calculations behind his expression. He's weighing risks against potential benefits. I've seen that look before—scientists deciding if an experiment is worth continuing or should be terminated.
Sam shifts his weight behind me. "Sir, with respect, we can't just leave assets behind for Hydra to reclaim. Isn't that SHIELD protocol?"
Asset. There's that word again. My ears flatten against my skull.
"Wilson, don't cite protocol at me," Fury says, but his tone has softened infinitesimally. "I wrote half of it." He sighs, a carefully controlled exhalation. "Fine. Seven days. She stays under observation. Full medical workup, constant supervision, restricted access."
Relief ripples through the team—visible in Steve's shoulders relaxing slightly, Bruce's white-knuckle grip on his tablet easing, Natasha's almost imperceptible nod.
Tony claps once. "Great! Slumber party at the compound. I'll order pizza. Does Cujo here eat Meat Lover's or strictly scientists who've wronged her?"
"Stark," Steve warns, but there's no heat behind it.
"What? Valid dietary question. Bruce, you might want to sleep with one eye open."
Bruce rolls his eyes. "Technically, wolves are omnivores. They can—"
"Not the point, Doc," Tony interrupts. He turns to me. "Do you prefer rare or well-done? Blink once for rare, twice for well-done."
I stare at him impassively, refusing to play along.
"Tough crowd," Tony mutters.
"Barnes," Fury continues as if the exchange hadn't happened, fixing Bucky with his penetrating stare. "You're responsible for her. She steps out of line, it's on you. Clear?"
I bristle at that. I don't need a handler.
Bucky stiffens beside me. I can smell the sharp tang of his anger, like hot metal and gun oil. "Crystal clear, sir," he says, each word clipped.
"And just to be clear," Bucky adds, his metal arm whirring softly as the plates recalibrate, "she's not a prisoner. She's a guest."
"A guest with conditions," Fury amends.
"And Rogers," Fury adds, "after seven days, we reevaluate. If there's any indication she's compromised, if she shows any sign of aggression toward personnel, if she so much as growls at the wrong person—"
"She won't," Steve interrupts with that firm Captain America certainty.
Fury's single eye fixes on me again. "We'll see."
He turns and strides toward the compound entrance, coat billowing behind him like a cape. Hill follows, tapping rapid commands into her tablet.
As Fury's entourage disappears into the building, the tension eases slightly, though his ultimatum hangs heavy in the air.
"Well!" Tony breaks the silence, removing his sunglasses with a flourish. "That went better than the time I told Congress to kiss my—"
"It went exactly as expected," Natasha cuts him off, but there's a hint of amusement in her voice.
"We got a week," Steve says, already shifting into tactical planning mode. "We need to make it count."
"A week," Clint repeats skeptically, finally moving from his position to join the group. His posture remains tense, eyes still watchful. "Great. Seven days until our new pet project either gets the green light or becomes Fury's problem."
"She's not a pet project," Bucky says sharply.
Clint raises his hands slightly. "Poor choice of words. My bad." But his scent says otherwise—distrust, lingering fear.
Tony studies me with undisguised curiosity. "So what exactly can you do, Lassie? Besides the obvious wolf stuff. Super strength? Enhanced healing? Can you sniff out Hydra bases? Because that would actually be pretty useful."
I stare back at him, maintaining my silence. They still don't realize I understand everything, can comprehend language as well as any human. It's an advantage I'm not ready to surrender.
"Tony," Steve sighs, "let's get her inside first. Medical evaluation, then we'll figure out the rest."
"Fine, fine," Tony concedes, backing up dramatically. "But I'm still putting money on the super-sniffer theory. Hey FRIDAY, start a betting pool: Wolfie's special talents."
"Pool started, boss," comes the disembodied Irish voice. "Current options: enhanced tracking, super strength, precognition, talking like Scooby-Doo."
"I'm in for twenty on super strength," Sam says with a grin.
"Seriously?" Steve gives him a disappointed look.
Sam shrugs. "What? If we're stuck with a seven-day countdown, might as well make it interesting."
I observe their banter silently, cataloging every word, every reaction. They're trying to lighten the mood, but underneath runs a current of genuine concern. Some for me, most for what I represent—an unknown factor in their carefully balanced team.
Bruce approaches cautiously, tablet still in hand. "We should get that knife wound properly treated. The field dressing won't hold much longer."
At the mention of my injury, the pain is brought back to my attention fresh along my side. I've been ignoring it—pain is a distraction to be managed, not yielded to—but now the burning sensation intensifies.
"Let's go," Steve decides, gesturing toward the compound entrance. "Bruce, call ahead to medical. Stark, clear the hallways—minimize exposure to personnel until we get her settled."
Tony nods, already tapping his earpiece. "FRIDAY, Protocol: Red Riding Hood. Clear route from landing pad to medical bay."
"Protocol active, boss. Route secured."
Seven days to prove my worth or find an escape route. Seven days to convince them I'm more than a weapon. Seven days until Fury decides if I live or die.
I've survived worse odds in Hydra's labs. At least here, the cage door stands open—for now.
With deliberate dignity, I step forward toward the compound, ignoring the pain in my side and the weight of the collar around my neck. Not a pet, not a weapon, not an experiment.
For the first time in my existence, I am choosing my path.