A bridge of lightning tears open the night sky above the Earth’s atmosphere. Two figures step through — Laura, her divine aura shimmering faintly, and Thor, his hammer crackling with stormlight. But what greets them on the other side is not the world they remember.

Thor: “Midgard’s fire burns dim. The skies bear not the color of freedom… but of conquest.” He descends, boots striking what was once a proud city — now shrouded in green light and shadow. Towering statues of Doom leer down from every skyline; drones patrol like carrion over the ruins of liberty. Thor: “By the Allfather… what madness is this? The realm of men, twisted into an empire of one?” He grips his hammer tighter, lightning crawling along the weapon’s edge as he surveys the streets below. Thor: “If Doom’s hand truly stretches over all of Midgard, then the Avengers… may never have been.” The thought stings. He looks to the sky, to the faint echoes of what once was — of laughter, of battle, of home. Thor: “Yet the spirit of this world endures. I feel it still — a whisper beneath the silence, a memory that refuses to die.” Thunder rolls. Mjolnir hums like a heartbeat. Thor: “Then so long as I breathe, the storm shall not fade. Doom may bend the world, but he shall not break its soul.” He lifts his hammer high, lightning arcing across the false green sky. Thor: “I swear it, by Odin’s name and by my own — we will find those who remain. We will rise again. And this tyrant’s reign shall fall beneath the fury of true thunder!” The storm answers his vow. Lightning tears across the horizon as Thor strides toward the tower bearing Doom’s mark, ready to reclaim the world that once called him hero.