Clint Barton is lying, bruised and bloodied, on the floor of a sparse yet expensive looking studio apartment.
His head is pounding, something that is not helped by that music. Is that his phone? Yeah, it’s his phone.
With a groan he opens his eyes.
Looking down at him from the sofa is a girl in a purple sweater and a mangy looking yellow lab.
"Someone named Natasha keeps calling," the girl explains as she hands the phone down to him. "And texting."
Clint takes the phone. Fifty two missed calls. Futz.
"Ok," he mutters. "This looks bad."