There's a loaded gun in Natasha's hands. Blood drips from between her fingers, staining the snow between her feet with a deep crimson. The smell fills her nostrils even in the cold. Little wisps of heat radiate off of it. All she has to do is pull the trigger with those guilt slicked fingers. Who's it going to be?

Isidor Durant strides past her standing tall despite her fatigue. Prometheus looms over her, staring her down with a parent's disappointment.

I don't do that anymore.

The words sit at the tip of her tongue. A tiny oasis of relief from her own hellish imaginings. Natasha's hard gaze tries and fails to pierce the shadows and reach the face underneath. But rather than ask or argue or speak the spy listens. Her hands fold tight across her chest, gripping her own forearms for a small scrap of comfort as she holds onto herself.

The warning has been given. The prices set. There has to be a way around this. Someone is going to die? How cryptic and utterly unhelpful. Someone is going to die by her hands. Not a premonition.

It's a cryptic warning but not one given lightly. And given to her specifically.

"...Understood." Natasha doesn't and she's not sure she can tip the scales by herself. How pulling the trigger just once would slate Winter's hunger enough to leave their people alone. Does he even have any enemies here? It's almost impossible to have enemies in the Nexus. But she'd best think fast.

A move must be made before Winter becomes impatient.