Awakening Kryptonian Bloodline In Marvel.

"It's there! We're here," Malrick's voice pulled Natasha out of her thoughts.

She shifted her gaze. Clouds and fog were rushing past them in layers.

Dark clouds filled the night sky, stacked like a storm waiting to break loose.

Natasha glanced around. All she could see were dense black clouds swirling upward.

Malrick moved at such high speed that his motion seemed to melt into the clouds themselves.

But soon, the fog began to thin.

Natasha's instincts kicked in. She focused.

First, a steel runway hundreds of meters long cut through the clouds.

Then, emerging from the mist, came a colossal structure.

The dark skies lit up in an instant.

A massive sky fortress loomed before them—an aircraft carrier shaped like a towering monolith, with three tiers, four fighter jets per level, and a total of twelve runways.

Its lights bathed the surrounding clouds in a radiant glow.

It hovered here, hidden away, like a forgotten jewel suspended in the sky.

"So this is the Red Room… It's really here," Natasha whispered, her eyes reflecting the fortress's gleaming lights.

Malrick hovered beside her, taking in the sight. "It's impressive," he admitted. "But its anti-gravity system? Just a bunch of oversized fans?"

He squinted. "Who designed this thing—a caveman from the future? Still… it's clever."

"And seriously, no energy-based defense system? This thing's a sitting duck," he added. Then, almost as an afterthought, "But Tony would love it. Steel, flashy, kind of obnoxious. Right up his alley."

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You really know your brother."

"Of course," Malrick replied smoothly. "Which is why I need a new plan."

He soared higher to get a better view of the entire fortress.

"This can't be destroyed," he decided. "After a few upgrades, it'd make a great birthday gift. Tony turns forty next year."

"Wow. Your birthday gifts are... excessive," Natasha muttered, a weight tightening in her chest.

Malrick activated his X-ray vision, scanning the interior. "Not always. But Tony gave me a spaceship for my eighteenth birthday. I can't exactly hand him a sweater."

Natasha leaned back slightly. For a moment, she imagined a mountain of dollar bills crashing down on her.

"You brothers are… definitely something else," she said dryly.

Most rich kids hand out yachts or supercars.

These two were gifting spaceships and airborne fortresses—like they were prepping for an interstellar road trip.

"Alright. Let's get started." Malrick studied the fortress layout for a few seconds.

Then, carrying Natasha, he dropped onto the top runway without a sound—his landing as quiet as falling rain.

"Take these and follow my lead," he said, handing her a case full of inhibitors.

"I'll knock everyone out. If you think it's appropriate, use the inhibitors. If not, take them out quietly. No hesitation."

Natasha nodded. "Understood."

She knew her role. She was the backup—support and cleanup.

"I'll wait in the central control room," Malrick said, lifting into the air again, runway lights painting his suit in a reddish glow.

As he rose, alarms inside the fortress suddenly blared.

Deck soldiers snapped to attention, weapons aimed skyward.

Natasha scanned for an opportunity to help ease the pressure.

But before she could act, Malrick moved.

She blinked—and saw swirling lines encircling the fortress, like rings through the mist.

She shut her eyes tight.

When she opened them again, the lines were gone.

Malrick hovered midair, untouched. All the targeting laser dots had vanished from his body.

"I'm going in. Don't make me wait," he called out, then shot through the air like a bolt of lightning.

Natasha remained frozen for a second—until she heard the unmistakable thuds of bodies collapsing to the deck.

Eyes wide, she turned.

The entrance was lined with unconscious soldiers—dozens of them.

"Oh my God..."

So that blur from earlier... that was Malrick.

In the blink of an eye, he'd disabled them all—lining them up like trophies.

"Is this what it's like to see Superman in real life?" Natasha whispered, stunned but quick to act.

The fight didn't need her, not really.

Her job was simple: administer inhibitors to every Black Widow operative she could find—known or unknown.

The other soldiers? A clean bullet to the head.

In the Red Room's twisted hierarchy, there were only two kinds of people: the controlled and the controllers.

Anyone who wasn't a Widow was an enforcer—part of the oppressive system. None of them deserved mercy.

After delivering the inhibitors, Natasha ran deeper into the fortress, following Malrick's trail.

He hadn't held back—she found unconscious Widows and soldiers sprawled across doorways and passage decks.

All wore peaceful expressions. No injuries. No blood. As if they'd fallen asleep mid-step.

Natasha imagined Malrick moving through the fortress like a ghost—unstoppable, untouchable.

She injected inhibitors as she went, left hand steady, right hand quick. Then she sprinted for the command room.

Still, the sheer number of unconscious bodies slowed her down.

It took nearly ten minutes before she reached the central chamber.

Before she could open the door, a voice reached her from inside.

"I apologize to you, honorable Superman. Please forgive my rudeness. I swear, I had no idea you were connected to Mr. Tony Stark!"

Dreykov.

"Save the groveling," Malrick replied coldly. "You just spent ten minutes ranting about how the Widows shape the world and enforce peace—and now you're pretending you didn't know who I am?"

"I—I can say something else!" Dreykov stammered. "Want to hear about Gorbachev's most embarrassing moments?"

"Say whatever you want," Malrick interrupted, "but you're still going to meet God. You knew about Tony and me, and you still thought you'd walk out alive?"

Silence.

Then Dreykov began to laugh—a shrill, mocking sound.

"Heh... Superman, you've been played."

"Why do you think I've been stalling?

My pheromones affect those around me. They suppress aggression. You've already inhaled a lot—you won't be able to lay a finger on me!"

At that moment, Natasha burst through the door.

There he was—General Dreykov. Short, balding, in a suit and black-rimmed glasses, lying across the table.

He stared at Malrick with wide, smug eyes, his mouth twisted into a sneer.

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