Chapter Text
The room was dimly lit, the bluish flicker of the projector and a single, softly glowing lamp the only sources of light in the room, their glow casting shadows that danced across Wanda’s face as she stared at the ever-changing images on the screen. She was sat forward in an old, worn chair—hers, or at least the one she’d often claimed for herself when she was contacted for situations like this. Hands steepled beneath her chin, she glanced at the file on the table in front of her; the same one she’d been staring at for the last three days.
Case file: (Y/L/N), (Y/N). Suspect Age: 20s to 30s. Gender: Female. Body Count: 10 (Confirmed), more suspected. All male. Preferred Method: Knife.
The projector whirred. On screen, a grainy black-and-white image showed you—cuffed, expression unreadable, leaning back in a chair like you were lounging at a party instead of being processed at Quantico. The agents were visibly furious by your lack of cooperation as you stared through them, like they were invisible—or not worth your time.
You never spoke a word during intake. Face impassive… cold. Like it was beneath you. Not reacting when one of the agents threw a pen after twenty minutes of silence and stormed out of the room. Not a single flicker of recognition, even as Agent Rumlow’s face was mere inches from yours as he screamed.
Wanda hit rewind, then play.
There it was again—the look. That flicker in your eye. Not defiance. Not boredom. Something… performative. Calculated. Like you were playing a role no one else had quite caught on to. An unspoken taunt as you waited for the next person to give up and storm away.
Another screen showed crime scene photographs. A man—early 40s, priest collar still intact—slumped in front of a marble altar. His eyes had been closed post-mortem. Peaceful, almost reverent… if not for the clean line across his neck, ear to ear, and a black rose petal stuffed into the bloodied line.
Wanda’s throat tightened.
Victim #6: Father Donovan. Location: St. Cecilia’s Cathedral. Means of Death: Single slice across the throat. Time of Death: 3:14 AM.
Wanda reached for the evidence photo again. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she let it out through her nose, eyes scanning every piece of information documented from the crime scenes—all with one common theme.
“Why?” she whispered into the silence of the room. “Why only men?”
Flipping through the photos once more, she chewed on her bottom lip thoughtfully as she took in the scenes surrounding the body. Not the men—where they were placed. How clean the scenes had been left. The lack of fury… only showmanship.
“She's not psychotic,” she murmured, more to herself than the recorder on the table. “Not delusional. Too precise. Too... theatrical.”
She clicked open the audio logs next—
[Audio Interview—Day 2]
Agent Barton: “Is there a reason you chose public spaces for the bodies, Ms. (Y/N)? Do they hold some significant meaning to you?
You: silence .
Agent Barton: “Some of them had children. One had a wife.”
You: silence, quiet exhale.
Agent Barton: “You’re not going to talk to me, are you?”
You: silence .
Agent Barton: “Let the record show the suspect has been staring at the same point behind me on the wall for the last thirty minutes… I don’t know what fucking else to do.”
[Audio Interview—Day 10]
Agent Romanoff: “You’ve been here for ten days and not a single person has heard you speak… it’s time to give us something, (Y/N). You don’t want to see what happens when people like you get stuck in general population. We’ve been nice, keeping you separate. That can change.”
You: silence.
Agent Romanoff: “Do you think this is funny, (Y/L/N)? That this is all just one big game?
You: “…are you afraid I think this is a game? Or are you afraid that I’m winning, agent?”
Wanda’s breath hitched at the sound of your voice for the first time, pausing the audio tape. Low. Calm. Confident. Not mocking—a simple question and yet, it made Wanda’s heart pound in her chest for a moment. Like every inflection was handpicked from a dark romance book she’d read in the dark and swear she’d never heard of come morning.
Exhaling softly, she flipped the projector off and stared at the now-darkened screen for a moment. Tomorrow… tomorrow would be her first moments with you. Acting as the bureau’s psychologist in hopes of cracking you open. To learn your secrets and uncover the bodies you’d hidden beneath the bones of your choices. She was meant to profile you—learn every twisted, fucked-up inch of your soul—so she could present it to the agents and lawyers who wanted nothing more than to see you in the chair.
But all she could think was:
“…I want to understand you.”
-X-
The interview room smelled like old paint and disinfectant. It was small—deliberately so. The kind of space designed to strip down defenses. One table, two chairs. A single camera already recording in the corner of the room, the little red light blinking as it pointed at you. You were alone in the room, hands cuffed to the table, feet chained to your chair, but you didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word, even as the door swung open.
Wanda stepped in slowly, a manila folder clutched loosely in one hand, the other sliding the door shut with a soft click. She was alone, but you both knew there were at least four agents on the other side of the two-way mirror just waiting for you to fuck up.
Her heels were simple and understated, a matte black that seemed befit a psychologist and not a federal liaison meant to pick you apart. Her blouse was a matching black, sleeves rolled up just below the elbows. Professional enough, but meant to be casual in hopes of putting you at ease. But her eyes gave her away—the kind of too-long stare that didn’t come from curiosity, but fixation. She wasn’t just studying you…
She was absorbing you. Every micro-expression, every tick of your jaw and twitch of your mouth.
“(Y/N) (Y/L/N)… I think I’ve watched you on tape more than I’ve watched my own family’s home videos.” She smiled, but it was cool. Brittle. Like she wanted you at ease but couldn’t quite bring herself to smile at a murderer with the same kindness she would a stranger. “I’m Doctor Maximoff, psychologist for the bureau.”
Settling into the chair across from you, she placed the folder on the table but didn’t open it, choosing to keep her eyes trained on you. “You don’t speak to men… and you’ve only said a few words to Agent Romanoff. Staying quiet even when someone is inches from your face screaming… I’ve seen people break from less.”
She folded her hands together, looking at you thoughtfully. “You’ve kept quiet for a long time but… I’d like it if you spoke to me.”
Your head tilted, the tip of your tongue peeking out from behind your teeth as you slowly ran it along your bottom lip and for a moment, she didn’t expect you to speak—even as her eyes followed the slow movement of your tongue—before you asked quietly, “That so, doctor?”
And Wanda’s grin deepened into something genuine as she watched you. “Yes. Because I don’t want to ask why. That’s too easy…”
She leaned forward slightly, letting her eyes trail over you slowly. “No, (Y/N)… I want to understand everything. From the beginning. Why you chose the victims, why you sit here acting like this is all an inconvenience… I want to know the woman beneath the blood.”
Locking eyes with her, an eerie smile passed over your lips and both of you knew, in that moment—
Nothing was ever going to be the same.