Awakening Kryptonian Bloodline In Marvel.

For Malrick, once the cause was clear, finding the solution was just a matter of having the right tools.

Now that he'd confirmed Natasha was under chemical mind control, synthesizing a counter-agent was fairly straightforward. Using his enhanced intellect, Malrick ran rapid simulations in his mind, then transferred the promising results to Jarvis for computational analysis.

Within 20 minutes, he had produced a tube of bright red inhibitor serum.

"Success rate is eighty-seven percent, right?" Malrick asked as he loaded the serum into a syringe.

"Yes, Master Malrick," Jarvis confirmed. "Based on simulation data, there is a twelve percent chance the inhibitor will have no effect, and a one percent risk of neurochemical conflict that could result in brain death."

Malrick shrugged. "That's the limit of modern medical science. Ideally, we'd conduct a Phase III randomized, double-blind clinical trial. That's how drug development works."

He glanced over at Natasha, who had regained consciousness and was now struggling against her restraints.

"But given the patient's current condition, I doubt we have time to wait for FDA approval."

She was tugging furiously at the ropes, eyes wild, trying to break free.

Malrick calmly pressed the syringe plunger slightly, ejecting a fine spray from the needle.

"Relax, the injection's coming. Try not to thrash around and snap the needle."

"You tied me up once, now I've returned the favor. Seems fair, right?"

He looked down at her bloodshot eyes, ignoring the muffled sounds behind the tape over her mouth.

"Ah, excellent. The patient consents to treatment."

He flicked the syringe to eliminate any air bubbles. "Of course, I should warn you: I'm an amateur. There's a one percent chance of brain death, but if it works, great! If not... well, we call that survivor bias."

Despite his words, Malrick's expression was serious. He was clearly focused, not joking.

"The injection needs to go into your arm. What's it going to be—take off the uniform or tear the sleeve?"

He didn't wait for a reply. "Tear the sleeve it is."

Malrick ripped the fabric at her bicep, pressed a cotton swab soaked in alcohol to her skin, and steadied her arm.

"Okay, last chance. You've got one second to back out."

He paused theatrically. "One! Great! You're on board."

"No need for family consent either. If this goes wrong, we'll just cremate and ship your ashes back to the Red Room."

Her eyes widened in panic. She tried to say something through the tape.

"Huh? No anesthesia? That's good, because we don't have any."

He drove the needle in.

The red serum flowed smoothly into her bloodstream.

"All done! See? Barely felt a thing. Treatment's complete."

He placed the used syringe on a tray held by a robotic assistant and pressed gently on the injection site with a cotton swab.

Then, for the first time since the procedure began, Malrick fell quiet.

His playful tone vanished as he watched her intently.

Inside, he was thinking.

Natasha Romanoff—one of the core Avengers, a woman of iron will—wouldn't fall into that one percent. She couldn't.

And even if she did, Malrick had already done all he could. Even the best doctors in the world wouldn't significantly improve those odds.

The creators of this chemical agent hadn't planned for an antidote. They designed the formula to be irreversible—permanent mental control.

The chemicals were embedded in her brain's cellular fluid. Removing them would kill the cells. And killing enough brain cells would destroy the person entirely.

The fact that Malrick had crafted an antidote at all was nothing short of a miracle.

"One percent," he muttered. "Harmless… statistically."

He removed his gloves, sterilized his hands, and dried them with a towel offered by the robot assistant.

Then he looked at Natasha again. Her expression had softened, the struggle in her eyes fading.

"Jarvis," he said, still watching her, "if she does hit that one percent chance of brain death… would you say that's bad luck or good luck?"

Jarvis replied without hesitation. "From a probability standpoint, stepping into the one percent outcome is highly unlikely, and therefore could be considered bad luck. But from a results perspective—death—it is undeniably unfortunate."

Malrick nodded. "That's the logical way to put it."

He leaned back against the counter. "But humans don't think like that. When disaster hits you, even a one percent chance feels like destiny. It becomes absolute."

"I will take note of that, Master Malrick," Jarvis said. "I'll try to account for emotional perspective in the future."

"Don't bother. Your objectivity is your strength. Plenty of people like that in an AI... Oh—she's waking up."

Natasha's lashes trembled.

Malrick stepped forward to observe, peering closely.

Her amber eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused.

Malrick smiled. "The classic post-op stupor. Congratulations, Miss Romanoff. The surgery was a success."

But before he could say more, Natasha's instincts kicked in.

In a fluid, automatic motion honed by years of training, she looped her legs around Malrick's waist and rotated, catching him in a rear naked chokehold.

She squeezed.

Hard.

But Malrick didn't even flinch. Her arms felt like they were pressing against solid stone.

Natasha froze.

A flood of fragmented memories surged through her.

Her eyes lost focus. Her grip slackened.

Malrick gently pried her off and lifted her back onto the workbench.

"You… you saved me," she murmured, voice low and conflicted.

She lowered her head, hands resting at her sides. "What did I do...?"

Her mind was swirling. She'd been sure she'd spend the rest of her life under Red Room control—and yet here she was, conscious, herself again, saved by the very man she had been sent to eliminate.

Regret, confusion, guilt—all of it surged in her chest.

"You seem to be recovering well," Malrick observed.

She blinked and sat upright on the workbench, still disoriented.

"Thank you," she whispered. Then, louder, stumbling over the words: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—what I did... it wasn't me. It was reflex. I didn't mean to hurt you. Are you... are you alright?"

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Updating 5 a day is exhausting,since I try to keep patrons 60 chapters in advance. And that isn't even the only fiction I'm uploading.

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