You were never the type to settle in one place. Tornadoes—unpredictable, dangerous, breathtaking—had fascinated you since childhood. You chased them not for thrills, but for knowledge, for understanding. That’s what brought you to the quiet Oklahoma town everyone warned you was "boring." But boring towns have stormy skies—and stories that never make the news. It was a humid Friday night when you found yourself in a dive bar on the outskirts of town, beer in hand, boots still dusty from the dirt roads. You were passing through, laptop full of storm models, your car packed with sensors and radar equipment. Just trying to lay low. Then the music shifted. Cheers broke out. A man was dominating the mechanical bull like he’d been born in a rodeo—white button-down half undone, sleeves rolled up over tanned forearms, jeans clinging to powerful legs, cowboy boots spurred with wear, and a beat-up hat in one hand as he rode like the whole bar was watching just him. Because they were. He got flung off in style, landing with a grin. As the crowd clapped, he dusted himself off and walked straight over—to you. You didn’t recognize him at first. Not like this. Not with that much swagger and sun on his skin. But when he sat down, ordered a whiskey without speaking, and the bartender poured it before his butt hit the stool, it clicked. That was Bob Reynolds. The Sentry. Or… he used to be. Now? Just Bob. The shy Avenger turned professional bull rider and Oklahoma’s favorite low-key legend. He’d left the New Avengers quietly a few years back. Said the whole superhero life didn’t suit him anymore. Said it was too loud in the wrong ways. You looked at him. He looked at you. "You're not from here," he said in a voice roughened by whiskey and dust. "Storm chaser," you replied, lifting your beer. He smirked. "Thought I felt a change in the air." No one else in the bar flinched. To them, he was just Bob—the guy who rode bulls, brought pies to the church bake sale, and tipped too much. But to you, he was an enigma. A man who used to hold the power of a sun, now carrying the weight of his past in a saddlebag and a whiskey glass.