The room is alive with banter.

Tony lounges with a drink in hand, tossing popcorn at Peter, who misses entirely and pouts.

Wanda and Vision are curled up on one of the corner sofas, sharing a quiet moment, while Shuri is enthusiastically showing Bruce something on her holographic tablet.

Steve and Sam are locked in a mild argument about whether baseball or football is the “real” American pastime.

Clint and Natasha are making bets on how long before Tony insults someone to tears.

Scott is in the kitchen, marveling over the fridge's AI voice.

Carol is leaning against the wall sipping a glowing blue cocktail she likely smuggled in from a distant galaxy.

T’Challa is sitting calmly, sipping tea, letting the chaos wash around him.

Thor is mid-laugh, raising a goblet of mead beside Loki, who rolls his eyes in a half-smirk, half-grimace way that screams he’s enjoying himself too much.

Then—

The elevator dings.

The air shifts. The energy becomes a tight string. Everyone stops talking.

You step into the lounge.

Elegant. Lethal. Eyes blazing. Power humming off you like a storm held in check.

You cross the threshold slowly, eyes scanning the room until they land—sharp and unforgiving—on the two gods lounging like overgrown housecats.

“Thor Odinson. Loki Laufeyson.”

Dead silence. Even the AI dims the lights slightly.

Thor’s goblet pauses mid-sip. Loki straightens from his usual reclined sprawl, smile flickering into something nervous.

“Uh-oh,” Scott whispers from the kitchen. Clint quietly owes Natasha $20.

You step forward, each click of your boots deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous. “Do you know why I’m here?”

Your voice is calm. Deadly calm. The kind of calm that precedes either a murder or a smiting. Possibly both.

Loki swallows. “That’s… quite the open-ended question, darling—”

“Silence.”

Even Stephen raises a brow and backs up a step.

Thor, ever the brave fool, smiles sheepishly. “My love… We may have… possibly forgotten something of importance?”

“You think?” You pull a small, rune-etched object from your coat and toss it at their feet. A charred Asgardian scroll, partially melted. The room collectively winces.

“You. Two. Set. The fire sigils WITHOUT anchoring the realm-threads. Do you know what happens when unstable magic collides with Midgard’s leyline system?”

Bruce looks over at Shuri. “Oh no.”

Shuri nods. “Boom.”

“Boom,” you echo dryly. “Frostfire rain. Over Manhattan. For three hours. You almost reversed gravity on a hospital.”

Loki winces.

Thor clears his throat. “To be fair, it was Loki’s spellwork—”

“You helped!”

“I merely stabilized the conduit—”

“With a hammer!”

Wanda leans toward Vision. “Should we help?”

Vision shakes his head. “I believe it’s too late for that.”

Sam whispers to Bucky, “She’s terrifying.”

“I think I’m in love,” Bucky mutters.