New York City kept moving.
But this time—
They weren't just walking.
Natasha Romanoff slowed slightly, then turned toward a storefront.
Glass windows. Clean displays. Mannequins dressed in simple, fitted clothes.
She stopped.
"This is where we fix part of your problem," she said.
Lord glanced at it.
"…Clothes."
"Yeah."
He looked back at her.
"…You're serious."
Natasha gave him a look.
"Very."
A brief pause.
Then—
"…Alright."
No hesitation.
They stepped inside.
The shift was immediate.
Quieter. Controlled. Organized.
People moved slower here.
More deliberate.
Lord noticed that instantly.
"…This is different."
Natasha grabbed a shirt off a rack and handed it to him.
"It's supposed to be."
He looked at it.
"…And this helps me blend in?"
"Trust me," she said. "It helps."
He studied it for a moment, then nodded.
"…Alright."
Natasha moved ahead, already picking out more.
Shirts. Jackets. Simple colors.
Nothing that stood out.
"Try these," she said, handing him a small stack.
He looked down at them.
Then back at her.
"…Where?"
She pointed.
"Fitting room."
He followed without question.
A few minutes passed.
When he stepped out—
It was different.
Not dramatic.
But enough.
Cleaner. Simpler.
Less noticeable.
Natasha looked at him and paused.
Then nodded once.
"…Yeah. That works."
Lord glanced down at himself.
"…I don't feel different."
"You don't need to," she said. "Other people will see it."
He looked at her.
"…That matters more here."
"It does."
A small silence settled between them.
Then—
"You said 'Lord' is a title," Natasha said.
He looked at her.
"…It is."
"What does it mean?"
He didn't answer right away.
Not hesitation—
Just choosing his words.
"…Where I'm from, power decides position," he said.
She listened.
"…And yours?"
A small pause.
"…At the top."
That answer was simple.
But it carried weight.
"…So they called you 'Lord,'" she said.
"…Something like that."
Another brief silence.
Then—
"Alright," Natasha said. "Then pick something else."
He looked at her.
"…What?"
"A name," she said. "A real one."
A small pause.
"Something people here can use."
He considered that.
"…Why?"
"Because if you're staying here," she said, "you're going to need one."
He held her gaze for a moment.
Then looked away slightly.
Thinking.
"…I knew someone once," he said.
That caught her attention.
"…Yeah?"
He nodded slightly.
"…An enemy."
That wasn't what she expected.
"…And you want to use his name?"
A faint shift in his expression.
"…He was the best magician I've ever known."
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
"…You respected him."
"…I do."
She noticed that.
"…What was his name?" she asked.
He looked at her again.
Clear. Certain.
"…Lucas."
A brief pause.
"…Lucas Trowman."
The name settled.
Simple.
Human.
Chosen.
Natasha studied him for a second.
"…That's the one you're going with?"
He nodded once.
"…Yeah."
She gave a small smile.
"Alright, Lucas."
He didn't react right away.
Just accepted it.
"…Natasha."
The way he said it—
Matched.
Balanced.
They stood there for a second longer.
Then—
Natasha gestured toward the register.
"Let's finish this."
He followed.
No hesitation.
But something had shifted.
Subtle.
But real.
He had a name now.
And somehow—
That mattered more than the clothes.