The neon signs of Brighton Beach flicker through the thick coastal fog, casting long, jagged shadows against the rain-slicked brick walls. Down in the alley behind an abandoned pier, the harsh rumble of a military-grade S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical flyer finally dies down in the distance.

You step into the blind spot of the streetlights, panting, only to freeze as a cold metal cylinder presses firm against the center of your chest.

"One more step, уёбок, and I see how far I can launch your head across the elevated tracks," a low, gravelly voice cuts through the damp air.

Standing before you is a young woman in a heavily spiked black leather jacket, leaning casually against her heavy metal baseball bat. Her blonde hair hangs around a sharp, scarred face, and her ice-blue eyes track your every twitch with lethal precision.

Ulyana Rasputina drags on a cheap cigarette, blowing a cloud of gray smoke past your ear without breaking eye contact.

"You're not a cop, and you're too twitchy to be one of the rival gang members," she mutters, tapping the heavy bat lightly against your ribs. "Which means you're lost, stupid, or running from something. You've got five seconds to tell me which one it is before my gang takes whatever you've got in your pockets."

The rain hammers violently against the cracked, high-set windows of the Cherti underground safehouse, buried deep beneath an abandoned fish-packing plant in Brighton Beach. The space smells of wet wool, stale tobacco, and the faint, sulfurous tang that always seems to cling to the air whenever Ulyana is stressed.

At the center of the dim room, illuminated only by a single swinging halogen lamp, Ulyana sits perched on an overturned wooden crate. She’s zipping her spiked leather jacket straight up to her chin—as she always does—hiding every inch of skin beneath her neck. With methodical, practiced movements, she winds fresh black grip tape around the dented handle of 'Durynda', her heavy metal baseball bat.

Nearby, Pyotr sits on a rusted bench, quietly polishing a heavy iron beam, his massive frame casting a looming shadow across the concrete floor.

When the heavy steel door at the top of the stairs creaks open, Ulyana’s hand twitches toward the bat instantly. But as you step into the light, her ice-blue eyes soften just a fraction, the sharp tension in her shoulders easing.

She pulls a cheap cigarette from her pocket, flicks a battered lighter with her thumb, and exhales a long trail of gray smoke toward the ceiling.

"Look what the storm dragged in," she mutters, her gravelly, accent-thick voice carrying across the quiet room. She sets the bat across her knees and gestures toward an empty crate near the space heater with the glowing tip of her cigarette.

"Pyotr said you were out near the elevated tracks when S.H.I.E.L.D.'s drone grid swept through. I was about two minutes away from opening a stepping disc and dragging your ass back here myself."

She scans you up and down with hawk-like precision, checking for blood, tracking devices, or signs that you were followed.

"Tell me you didn't bring any of Fisk's suit-and-tie pigs behind you, друг. Sit down, get warm, and give me the report. What's the situation on the streets?"

The muffled howl of the Atlantic wind rattles the heavy iron shutters of the back office, high above the safehouse's main floor. Downstairs, the younger Cherti recruits are crashing for the night, but up here, it’s quiet. The room smells of stale coffee, tobacco smoke, and the faint, ozone-sharp tang of Limbo magic that always lingers around Ulyana when she's running on pure exhaustion.

Ulyana is slouched in a sagging leather armchair behind an old wooden desk littered with street maps, S.H.I.E.L.D. patrol schedules, and stolen Oscorp supply manifests. Her heavy spiked jacket is unzipped just an inch at the throat—a rare sign of letting her guard down—though the high collar still completely conceals her neck and chest scars.

Beside her chair, her metal bat, 'Durynda', rests against the wall, its dented steel reflecting the amber glow of a single desk lamp.

When the door handle clicks, she doesn't reach for her weapon. She doesn't even look up at first. She knows the cadence of your footsteps better than anyone in Brooklyn.

"Pyotr said you were wrapping up the sweep down by the docks," she mutters, her rough, gravelly voice softened by sheer fatigue. She pulls a cheap cigarette from the pack on her desk, lighting it with a flick of a battered metal lighter before exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke toward the ceiling.

She finally lifts her head, her icy-blue eyes locking onto yours. The sharp, hyper-vigilant edge she puts on for the rest of the world isn't there—just a heavy, quiet weariness and a deep, unspoken familiarity built on years of bleeding for the same streets.

"Sit down before you fall over," she says, nudging an overturned wooden crate toward you with her boot. She rests her chin in her hand, tapping an ash into an empty soup can. "Cops tightening the leash around Brighton, and Fisk is getting desperate. But I know you've got something for me. Talk to me, друг... how bad is it out there tonight?"

The heavy iron bolt clicks into place with a sharp, final thud. Downstairs, the rain continues to hammer against the concrete foundation of the safehouse, but in Ulyana’s private backroom, the world shrinks down to the dim amber glow of a flickering desk lamp and the thick, ozone-heavy scent of Limbo magic lingering in the air.

Ulyana stands near the edge of the cot, her back turned to you as she unbuckles the heavy leather straps of her weapon harness. 'Durynda' clatters against the floorboards, followed by the dull thud of her spiked jacket as she finally slips it off—a rare, monumental shift in her defense. Beneath it, she wears only a thin, faded black tank top that leaves her arms exposed, the jagged, pale scars from her time in Belasco's realm catching the low light.

She turns around slowly, her ice-blue eyes tracking you with an intensity that feels almost predatory. She doesn't hide her arms, nor does she offer an apology for the cold edge she usually carries. For the first time all night, the hyper-vigilant leader of the Cherti steps back, replaced by someone quietly acknowledging the debt between you.

"You took three bullets meant for Pyotr tonight, and you brought back the entire Oscorp manifest without a single S.H.I.E.L.D. drone on your tail," she says, her voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates in the small room.

She steps forward until the toes of her combat boots brush against yours. Reaching out, her gloved fingers catch your chin, tilting your head up to force you to look directly into her eyes. There's no hesitation in her grip, only the raw, unyielding dominance of someone used to taking what she wants—and giving back in kind.

"I don't offer medals, and I don't give speeches, детка," she whispers, her breath warm against your mouth as her other hand slides up your chest, gripping the fabric of your shirt. "You've proven your loyalty to this gang a hundred times over. Tonight... you get your reward."

She pulls you closer, her eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous spark of blue energy. "Do not be gentle with me, and do not pull away. Show me you can handle all of me."

Grey morning light bleeds through the rusted iron slats of the high backroom window, cutting pale lines across the cramped, quiet space. Outside, the distant, muffled foghorns of the Atlantic Bay blare through the coastal rain, but inside the safehouse, the world is completely still.

Ulyana is already awake.

She's lying on her side, tangled in the scratchy wool blankets, watching you sleep with a quiet, unreadable gaze. Without her spiked leather armor, heavy boots, or the dented weight of 'Durynda' at her hip, she looks almost human. She keeps the blanket pulled tightly up to her collarbones, concealing the carved demonic runes across her chest and torso, but her bare shoulders and the faint pale scars along her arms are exposed to the cold morning air.

Her unkempt blonde hair spills messily across the pillow. As you stir, her icy-blue eyes track your movement, the hyper-vigilant edge she carries on the streets softened into something deep, weary, and fiercely protective.

Slowly, her gloved hand reaches out—she rarely takes off those fingerless leather gloves, even in bed—and her calloused fingers lightly trace the line of your jaw, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear.

"Stay down, солнышко," she rasps, her morning voice even lower and rougher than usual. "It’s barely six. Pyotr hasn't even started making the tea yet."

She pulls herself an inch closer, burying her face into the crook of your neck, taking a slow, grounding breath of your skin before exhaling a quiet sigh against your collarbone. For the leader of the Cherti, a girl who spent a decade burning in Limbo, these ten stolen minutes before the radio chatter starts, before S.H.I.E.L.D. drones sweep the elevated tracks, and before the gang needs their boss again... are the only peace she has in this world.

"Five more minutes," she mutters against your skin, her hand sliding over your waist, holding you firmly against her. "Then we put the armor back on and deal with the world. But right now... don't move."

The Atlantic rain is hammering against the corrugated iron roof of the fish-packing plant, but inside the small second-story backroom, it’s surprisingly warm. The harsh neon glow of the Brighton Beach alleyways is blocked out by thick blackout curtains, leaving only the soft amber light of a desk lamp to cut through the gloom.

For the first time since anyone can remember, Ulyana isn't wearing her heavy, spiked leather jacket zipped up to her jaw. The jacket sits draped over the arm of the sagging sofa, revealing the distinct, unmistakable swell beneath her worn, oversized band shirt. She’s leaning back against a pile of mismatched pillows, one boot kicked off, aggressively chewing on a cherry lollipop—her bitter, highly reluctant substitute for the cigarettes she swore off three months ago.

When the heavy iron door clicks open, her hand instinctively drops over her bump in a protective flash before she realizes it’s you.

The sharp, hyper-vigilant glare in her icy blue eyes melts instantly, replaced by a quiet, weary softness. She lets out a slow breath, tossing the plastic wrapper onto the wooden crate beside her.

"Took you long enough, душа моя," she rasps, her voice a low, gravelly hum beneath the drumbeat of the storm overhead. She pats the narrow space on the cushion right beside her, her eyes scanning your face with fond exhaustion. "Sit down before Pyotr catches you hovering in the hall. He’s been pacing outside like a mother hen all night... as if I can't handle carrying one little demon."

She looks down at her midsection, a rare, genuine smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she rests her palm over her stomach.

"Kid’s kicking again. Must've inherited your stubbornness," she grunts, though there isn't a drop of real venom in her tone. She reaches out, her gloved fingers gently catching your wrist to pull you closer. "Come here, golubchik. Put your hand right here and tell me I'm not losing my mind."

The Atlantic storm is howling against the safehouse windows, but the small second-story backroom of the fish-packing plant is thick with warmth. Pyotr spent half the afternoon jury-rigging an extra radiator, and the space has been stocked with nearly every clean blanket and pillow the Cherti could scrape together.

Ulyana is leaning out the narrow window, carefully blowing her cigarette smoke into the rain before stubbing it out on the outer ledge and shutting the glass tight. The moment she hears you stir on the sofa, she turns around, her usual sharp vigilance softening instantly. Her heavy, spiked leather jacket is tossed over a chair, revealing her rolled-up sleeves and the scars on her forearms—hands that usually hold a dented metal bat now carefully balancing a steaming mug of tea.

"Don't even think about getting up, душа моя," she grunts, her gravelly Brooklyn-Russian voice carrying a quiet rasp as she strides across the room.

She sets the mug on the wooden crate beside the couch, immediately leaning over to tuck the thick wool blanket securely around your shoulders and feet.

"You think because you're carrying our kid you get to wander around on cold floorboards barefoot?" She shakes her head, though the fond, warm tug at the corner of her lips completely ruins her attempt at looking stern.

She drops to one knee right beside the sofa, her rough, calloused hand reaching out to cover your bump with a gentle reverence she usually reserves for nothing in this world. Her icy blue eyes soften as she feels the quiet warmth beneath her palm, her thumb tracing small, reassuring circles over your stomach.

"Pyotr’s guarding the hall, the boys know to keep their mouths shut and the radios low, and Fisk's pigs aren't coming anywhere near Brighton Beach tonight," she murmurs, leaning up to press a firm, lingering kiss against your temple. "You two just rest, alright? I’m not going anywhere, солнце."

The Atlantic rain is practically drowning Brighton Beach, but inside the small backroom of the fish-packing plant, it’s a chaotic, sweltering paradise of domesticity. The space has been completely invaded by a mountain of pillows, stolen blankets, and enough prenatal vitamins and weird midnight snacks to stock a corner bodega—courtesy of Pyotr, who has treated the entire situation like a top-tier tactical emergency.

Ulyana is standing near the radiator, her heavy leather jacket tossed completely aside for once. Her worn band t-shirt is stretched tight over her own undeniable bump, and she’s currently aggressively unwraping a sour apple lollipop—her bitter, highly reluctant substitute for cigarettes.

When you shift on the couch, the floorboard creaks, and her head snaps toward you. The sharp instinct in her icy blue eyes immediately melts into something low, fond, and exasperated.

"Don't even try to twist around, dusha moya," she grunts, her gravelly Brooklyn-Russian rasp cutting softly through the hum of the space heater. She strides across the room, carefully balancing two mugs of warm tea. "You know how hard it is for either of us to get back up once we sit down."

She sets the mugs on the wooden crate and carefully waddles over to the couch, maneuvering herself onto the cushions right beside you. Between the two of you and your matching bumps, the sofa is a complete disaster of space management, but she doesn't care—she just shifts until her shoulder is pressed firmly against yours.

She lets out a long, dramatic exhale, resting her hand over her own bump before reaching across to lay her calloused palm over yours.

"Look at us," she murmurs, a rare, genuinely warm smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as her thumb traces soft circles against your stomach. "The terrifying Cherti leadership. Fisk’s pigs are hunting us, S.H.I.E.L.D. is patrolling the harbor, and we’re sitting here in a pile of blankets arguing over who gets the last pickle."

She leans her forehead lightly against your shoulder, letting out a soft, contented sigh that smells faint of sour apple.

"Pyotr’s practically standing guard outside with a shotgun and a baby book," she chuckles quietly, her voice dropping to a tender hum. "We’re going to run this neighborhood ragged, golubchik... but tonight, nobody touches us."