[ When she goes out with only a few minutes of daylight left, it's intentional. Some people still haven't checked in, and if anyone's lasted through nigh supernatural winters, it's the Russian spy. With a thick, wool-lined coat, a ski mask, and padded gloves, she makes her way out into the dark. A pack is strapped to her back, filled with flares, fire-starter necessities, flashlights, and a lantern. If anyone's out there, they're going to need help, and she's offering it. ]

This is Romanoff. If anyone's alive out there, report immediately for aid.

[ It's one of the few in-tact unoccupied houses, and that's only one reason Nat decides to plant her flag in it so to speak. Enough space that she could bring others in, if they need it. An environment that she can keep an eye on, control, work out of. She's short on those, lately.

She uses a wrought iron poker to stoke the fire she's started. The sun is still up, but barely, when a sound catches her attention across the house. She doesn't move to follow it, but tracks its exploration of the first floor towards the warmth of the living room with her back to all the entrances.

When the heavy sound of winter boots hits the hardwood of the living room. She pulls the poker from the fire, steadying both hands on the handle and pressing the red-hot pointed end into a groove of the wooden floor. It singes the wood. ]

Occupied, I'm afraid.