S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, Sector C, Lounge 404.
The walls were made of cold grey alloy, their surfaces smooth enough to reflect blurry figures, yet not so shiny as to be blinding.
One-way glass occupied an entire wall; looking out from the inside, it was pitch black, but Alice knew there were definitely eyes watching her every move from the outside.
In the center of the room stood a metal table, bolted to the floor and immovable.
The chairs were of the same design, their soft leather cushions hiding a rigid frame, as if to remind the person sitting there that this place was not for relaxation.
The climate control system hummed silently, maintaining a precise 22 degrees Celsius—neither cold nor hot, yet offering not a hint of warmth.
The air was filled with a cold, metallic scent that involuntarily reminded one of a hospital isolation ward, or worse, an interrogation room in a prison.
Alice sat in the chair, cradling a cup of hot cocoa.
She had already showered and changed into a grey sweatsuit provided by S.H.I.E.L.D.
Her wet blonde hair draped over her shoulders, and the shocking scrapes and scratches on her body had all been professionally treated.
At this moment, she looked like a girl next door who had just woken up from a nightmare, fragile enough to make one's heart ache.
"Click."
The sound of the electronic door lock opening.
Alice's body flinched instinctively; this was not just acting, but a stress response developed during her month on Skull Island.
She immediately adjusted her facial muscles, letting the flash of vigilance in her eyes be quickly masked by the fear of a startled deer.
The door opened.
The person who walked in was not the fierce-looking Rumlow, nor was it the scowling Director Nick Fury, who looked as if the whole World owed him money.
It was a woman.
With the crisp sound of high heels clicking against the floor, a faint scent of perfume drifted into Alice's nose.
Alice looked up, and what met her eyes was a head of fiery, reddish-brown curly hair.
Natasha Romanoff. Codename: Black Widow.
The top spy of S.H.I.E.L.D., and indeed the World; a master at weaving lies and breaking down psychological defenses.
She wore a tight-fitting black Agent uniform, the zipper pulled down to her collarbone, outlining curves that were breathtakingly graceful.
"Hi, Alice."
Natasha wore a smile with great affinity, a smile so warm it seemed capable of melting polar ice.
She held no documents or recorders, appearing just like a caring big sister coming to visit an injured younger sibling.
As she spoke, she pulled out the chair opposite Alice, sat down gracefully, crossed her legs, and leaned forward slightly, creating an intimate conversational atmosphere in this oppressive room.
"I am Natasha. Is the cocoa good? I specifically had them make it for you."
Her voice was gentle and rich, like the low hum of a cello.
"Although S.H.I.E.L.D. coffee always tastes like dishwater, the cocoa powder is decent. If you find it too bitter, I can have them add some marshmallows."
This was an extremely clever opening move.
In this cold environment, a hot drink and the image of a gentle female Elder were enough to make most traumatized children drop their defenses instantly.
"Thanks, no need." Alice replied softly, cupping the mug with both hands, seemingly drawing warmth from it.
Yet, in her heart, she was reliving the events of the past twenty-four hours.
From being rescued from Skull Island to the isolation check on the Helicarrier, everything felt like a dream.
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