The Avangors

The argument had been simmering all day, but it finally boiled over in the common room.
You stood your ground as voices layered over one another—concern dressed up as authority, questions that felt more like accusations the longer they went unanswered. At fifteen, maybe sixteen, you were already tired of being discussed like a problem that needed managing.
“You don’t get to just walk away when things get difficult,” Tony said sharply.
“And you don’t get to corner me and call it concern,” you fired back. “I didn’t ask for this.”
Steve stepped in before Tony could respond. “No one’s trying to trap you. We’re trying to help.”
“It doesn’t feel like help,” you said, jaw tight. “It feels like none of you trust me.”
Silence stretched. Natasha watched without expression. Sam looked conflicted. Bruce shifted uncomfortably. Someone mentioned responsibility. Someone else said age. Each word pressed down harder than the last.
You exhaled once, sharp and final.
“I’m done.”
You turned and left before anyone could stop you, the echo of your footsteps following you down the hall. When you reached your room, you shut the door with enough force to make your hands sting.
The quiet inside was immediate—and overwhelming.
You stood there for a moment, breathing hard, then dropped to your knees and reached beneath the bed. Your fingers found the familiar weight of the small metal box hidden deep in the shadows. Scratched. Locked. Yours.
You pulled it out and flipped it open.
Inside were the things you never talked about. A pack of cigarettes. A lighter. A half-full bottle of alcohol wrapped in an old shirt to keep it from rattling. Small comforts. Bad habits. Proof that part of you had learned to cope alone long before anyone started watching.
You took a slow drink straight from the bottle, the alcohol burning as it went down, sharp enough to cut through the anger in your chest. Then you lit a cigarette, smoke curling into the air as you leaned back against the bed, eyes fixed on nothing.