She stands panting in a room that was never literally red, despite the organization's name, but certainly is now, an elegant foyer splattered with blood and decked in carnage.
She doesn't feel remorse, and nor does she feel any of the other emotions she expected. It's done, every name on her list a gruesome smear on the walls or a growing puddle of blood beneath her boots, and she observes and doesn't feel.
"You didn't need my help," he says softly behind her. "Not even sure why you made me tag along."
She turns and he's there, bow slung over one shoulder. She sees and looks past him to the dining room, to old rivals draped over the mahogany table.
"Natasha?" he prompts.
"Natalia."
The correction slips out unbidden as her focus slides to the girls lying in a tumbled heap at the foot of the stairs.
"Natasha," he says firmly. He plants one hand on her shoulder and cups her chin with the other, forcing her to meet his eyes. He holds her gaze with a fierce determination, and she feels everything and it threatens to destroy her. "Let's go home."
And this, this is why she dragged him halfway around the world on an errand that was never his. So he could bring her back.