Chapter Text
The humid air of a New York August in 1995 clung to the brick-lined streets of Greenwich Village. It was a suffocating, vibrant heat—the kind that lingered long after the sun dipped below the Manhattan skyline. Tanya Jenkins stood in the small, cramped studio apartment she shared with her sister, Nia, watching Will pack his duffel bag. He moved with a precision that was almost hypnotic, folding his shirts with an efficiency that felt entirely out of place for a thirty-six-year-old graduate student.
"I don't understand," Tanya said, her voice small, cutting through the silence of the room. She stood by the kitchen counter, her grip firm, her dark eyes fixed on him. "You said the research program was for the full year. You told me we had the fall semester, at least." Will—the man she knew as Will Strong—stopped folding. He didn't look at her immediately. He stared at the floorboards, his jaw tight. When he finally turned to face her, his expression wasn't one of casual indifference; it was masked by a deep, weary sorrow she couldn't interpret. "Circumstances have changed, Tanya," he said, his voice low, that strange, melodic accent of his smoothing out the edges of his words. "My family... there is a situation at home that requires my immediate presence. I cannot stay." Tanya moved forward, crossing the short distance between them to place a hand on his arm. "Then take me with you. We can figure it out. I’m almost done with my credits, I can transfer—" "No," he said, and the finality in his voice was like a physical barrier. He pulled his arm back gently, his eyes searching hers with a desperate intensity, as if he were trying to memorize the way the light hit her face. "You don't understand the world I am returning to. It is not a place for you. It is not a place for... us." "You’re just going to leave?" she asked, tears blurring her vision. "After everything? Will, I love you." He flinched. It was a subtle movement, but it shattered the composure he had maintained all summer. He reached out, his hand hovering near her cheek before he pulled it back, clenching it into a fist at his side. "I never intended to hurt you," he whispered. "But some things are buried for a reason. Do not look for me, Tanya. Forget the summer. Forget the name."
He shouldered his bag, his posture shifting into something rigid and ancient. He looked like a stranger—a man who had been wearing a costume of "Will Strong" and was now finally stepping back into his own skin. Without another word, he walked to the door. He didn't look back. He couldn't. He stepped out into the New York rain, heading toward a life of vibranium, thrones, and a household that included a thirteen-year-old T’Challa—completely unaware that he was leaving behind a secret that would eventually bring his kingdom to its knees. Tanya stood in the doorway, watching the silhouette of the man she loved disappear into the city fog. She didn't know then that she was carrying his child. She only knew that the man she had fallen for was gone, and that the silence he left behind felt like the beginning of a very long, very quiet life.