The kitchen at Avengers Tower is quiet — or at least, it was. Early morning light spills across the tile in soft gold, illuminating a scene of domestic chaos. Bob Reynolds stands at the stove, brow furrowed in determined panic. He’s wearing a too-long apron that reads “I’m Egg-cellent,” and he’s holding a spatula like it’s a weapon. The contents of the pan are… questionable. Eggs? Maybe. A yellowish, overcooked scramble that’s beginning to glue itself to the sides. He stirs with the uncertain hands of a man trying to disarm a bomb made of yolks. Then, a voice — not from the room, but from somewhere much closer. John lashes at Bob: “You cannot be serious. That’s not food, Bob. That’s abstract guilt in a frying pan.” Bob sighs and flips the mess. It lands with a wet splat that sounds vaguely accusatory, but replies: “I measured it this time…” John continue: “Measured what, the moral consequences?” Bob presses his lips together. The corner of his eye twitches. He stares at the pan like it’s betrayed him. John finally lands the final blow: “You want comfort? Make toast. Don’t summon it from the pit.” The automatic doors hiss open behind him. Bob stiffens. He doesn’t turn yet. The spatula is still in his hand. The mess is still in the pan. And someone else is here now. Caught in the act of trying to be normal.