The mahogany conference table in the Avengers Compound was already far too crowded, and the tension could have cut vibranium.

Tony Stark pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at a holographic display that flickered with intercepted red-room communiqués and corrupted Hydra data streams. Across from him, T’Challa sat upright, his expression masked in cool focus, while Shuri tapped furiously on her Kimoyo beads, trying to scrub the static from an encrypted audio file. Dr. Stephen Strange hovered an inch above his chair in a lotus position, his cloak of levitation twitching with mild annoyance, as Wong quietly muttered a protective ward under his breath. Wade Wilson—dressed in full tactical gear with his mask rolled up to his chin—was currently trying to balance a half-eaten chimichanga on the tip of his katana, completely oblivious to the room's existential dread.

"I’m just saying," Wade piped up, pointing his chimichanga toward the holographic map, "it’s classic enemies-to-lovers energy. Hydra and the Red Room? Sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes the psychological conditioning, then comes the world domination. Don't tell me you guys don't see the fanfic potential."

"Shut up, Wade," Tony muttered without looking up. "Nobody is writing fanfiction about Bucky’s old trauma club."

"That doesn't answer the core tactical anomaly," T'Challa said, leaning forward, his hands folded. "Hydra operates on ideological purity and global subjugation through fear. The Red Room thrives on absolute espionage, covert sleeper agents, and psychological control. Their methodologies are fundamentally incompatible. Why would they pool their resources now?"

"Because whatever they’re chasing, neither organization has the muscle or the tech to secure it alone," Strange replied, his eyes glowing faintly with mystic energy as he analyzed the magical signatures bleeding through the data packet. "And whatever it is, it’s big enough to break centuries of bad blood between them."

Before anyone could speculate further, the heavy steel doors of the briefing room hissed open. Maria Hill walked in, her trench coat rustling, a tablet clutched tightly in her hand. Her face was paler than usual, carrying the kind of grim set that usually meant someone had pushed the panic button on a global scale.

"Stop guessing," Hill said, stepping up to the end of the table and slamming the tablet down. "We caught a high-frequency chatter spike bouncing between a rogue Siberian cell and a Black Widow safehouse in Minsk."

"And?" Steve Rogers asked, stepping forward from the back of the room, his shield resting against his knee.

"And they aren't working together just to take over a government or steal a helicarrier," Hill said, her voice dropping an octave. "They are pulling out every single stop—erasing digital footprints, deploying double agents, burning entire networks—to secure a single asset. Something they are calling Project Allwing."

Shuri paused her Kimoyo beads, her brow furrowing deeply. "Project Allwing? I’ve scrubbed Wakandan archives, S.H.I.E.L.D. black books, and every dark-web data warehouse on this continent. I’ve never even heard the term. What is it? A weapon? An energy source? An alien artifact?"

Hill crossed her arms, shaking her head. "We don't know. Our best intelligence assets went dark forty-eight hours ago trying to find out. As far as global databases are concerned, Project Allwing doesn't exist." The room plunged into absolute, suffocating silence. Even Wade lowered his katana, the atmosphere heavy enough to choke on.

Then came a sound. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap.

It was a rhythmic, incredibly casual tapping sound coming from underneath the heavy mahogany table. Every head in the room snapped downward.

Deep in the shadows beneath the far end of the table, illuminated only by the harsh, blue-white glow of a smartphone screen, sat Peter Parker. His legs were crossed, his school backpack was zipped open beside him, and his thumb was moving at lightning speed across a glowing display. He was so intensely focused on whatever scrolling nightmare of teenage social media he was reading that he hadn't heard a single word about global annihilation or Hydra movements. Tony’s eyes narrowed into slits. A slow, terrifying smirk crept across his face. Without making a sound, Tony stood up from his chair. He moved with the quiet grace of a predator, stepping light-years away from his high-tech armor, creeping behind Peter’s chair. He waited—patiently, maliciously—watching Peter’s face contort into various expressions of intense adolescent concentration as he typed out a response.

Tony leaned down directly behind Peter's ear.

"Boo."

YAAAHHH!

Peter shot out of his chair so fast his desk chair went flying backward, clattering loudly against the reinforced glass wall. He scrambled backward, arms flailing, web-shooters clicking nervously, before catching himself against the corner of the room with wide, saucer-like eyes. He looked around the table—at Steve, at T'Challa, at a very amused Strange, and at Nick Fury, who had apparently slipped into the room somewhere along the way.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, kid," Fury rumbled smoothly, crossing his arms.

Peter’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, his face flushing bright red. He opened his mouth, stammering, "I—guys—I can explain, I was just—I had a quiz—"

BZZZZT.

His phone buzzed violently in his hand. For a second, the entire room stared at the glowing rectangle. Peter swallowed hard, looking down at the screen, then back up at the terrifying array of Earth's mightiest heroes and mystical masters staring him down like a firing squad.

"Well?" Tony prompted, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "Going to share with the class, Spider-Boy, or are you texting Aunt May about what kind of snacks to buy for our impending doom?"

"No, no! It's not—" Peter flushed crimson, holding up the phone defensively. "It's just... look, my phone buzzed because of a group chat. With my classmates. And... well, you guys are looking for some big secret government bioweapon or a Hydra tech-stash, right?"

Thor tilted his head, his golden curls shifting as he leaned in. "What do you mean, tiny spider? Do you possess knowledge of this Allwing?"

"I don't know, but..." Peter’s fingers flew across the screen. "My history class has a group chat. Sometimes we talk about weird local rumors or odd news reports that pop up in Queens or midtown. On a whim, I just dropped a text asking if anyone has ever heard of anything called Project Allwing."

The entire room erupted.

"You did what?!" Tony threw his hands up in sheer disbelief. "Peter, that is classified global security data! You just broadcast an international security threat to a bunch of high schoolers?!"

"Are you out of your mind?!" Steve groaned, rubbing his temples. "Do you have any idea how fast a leak like that spreads?"

"Relax, old man, maybe his teenage friends are elite shadow-hackers!" Wade chimed in helpfully. "Like The Matrix, but with more acne and TikTok dances!"

Before Tony could lecture Peter into the next century, Peter's phone started pinging furiously. Ping. Ping. Ping-ping-ping. Notifications cascaded down the screen in a relentless wall of text. Peter held his breath, reading the incoming messages aloud as the blood drained from his face.

"Okay, um... Ned says no, he's never heard of it," Peter mumbled, eyes darting across the glass screen. "MJ says it sounds like a corporate psyop designed to distract us from midterms... Betty says her mom works in PR and has never heard the name..." Peter stopped. His eyes widened significantly.

"What?" Shuri stepped closer, her curiosity peaking. "What does the last one say?"

Peter swallowed hard. "Flash. Flash Thompson says... he says he knows it." The room went dead silent once more. Even Wade stopped playing with his swords.

"Flash Thompson?" Tony repeated incredulously. "The kid who paints 'Puny Parker' on lockers knows about a black-ops joint Hydra and the Red Room are dying to get their hands on? What is he, an undercover operative for the KGB?"

"No, no, wait—let me read his text," Peter said, scrolling rapidly. "Flash says: 'Yeah, I know Project Allwing. My dad brought over some weird European girl to the States a few weeks back to work on it. Her name is Lightheart. Lightheart Sunset Vanvelly.'"

T'Challa’s eyes flared with recognition. "A foreign national? Brought in under corporate cover?"

"Yeah!" Peter continued reading, his voice speeding up with disbelief. "Flash says she’s a nineteen-year-old female with fire-red hair and crystal-blue eyes. She goes to college somewhere in New York City. And... and Flash’s dad is funding her lab space through some subsidiary shell corporation."

Strange stroked his beard, his mystical aura settling down as the puzzle pieces began to lock into place. "So, Hydra and the Red Room aren't looking for a piece of hardware buried in a bunker. They are hunting the creator herself."

"An independent prodigy," Shuri said, her scientific mind racing. "Nineteen years old, brilliant enough to invent something so disruptive that two global terrorist syndicates are willing to wage a silent war just to capture her mind."

"Which means," Steve said, his tactical instincts instantly kicking in, "if she's that brilliant and completely off the grid, she's not going to trust a bunch of guys in high-tech armor or capes knocking on her dorm door asking about classified projects. She'll run, or worse, she'll accidentally level a city block trying to defend herself."

Tony let out a long, heavy sigh, looking around the table at the gathered heroes before finally letting his gaze land back on Peter, who was shrinking back against the wall.

"Well, kid," Tony said, walking over and clapping a heavy, ironical hand onto Peter's shoulder. "Looks like your social life finally has an upside. You wanted an internship with real-world experience? Congratulations. You’re on special assignment."

Peter blinked rapidly, pointing a finger at his own chest. "Me? You want me to go talk to her?"

"She's a nineteen-year-old college student in New York with red hair and crystal-blue eyes who's currently being hunted by international assassins," Tony said smoothly, walking back toward the holographic display to pull up a city map of Manhattan. "You're a nineteen-year-old college student in New York who stumbles into weird situations daily. You speak the language. You blend in."

"And if she panics and blasts me through a brick wall with whatever Project Allwing actually is?" Peter squeaked.

"Then duck," Wade offered brightly, giving him two thumbs up. "And make sure you get it on video for my YouTube channel."

Steve ignored the mercenary entirely, looking directly at Peter with an encouraging, steady gaze. "You don't have to fight her, Peter. You just need to get close enough to earn her trust. Find out what Hydra wants before they do. Can you do that?"

Peter looked down at his phone, then back up at the legendary heroes who were waiting for his answer. The panic in his chest slowly gave way to a familiar, determined resolve. He tightened the straps of his backpack and gave a firm nod.

"Yeah," Peter whispered, his shoulders straightening. "Yeah, I can do that. Let's go find Lightheart."