Thor did not understand this realm’s madness.

One moment, Strange was warning him of unstable rifts—fractures between worlds, portals that didn't always obey his command. The next, Thor found himself standing amidst the rubble of a city street, his grip tightening on Mjolnir as his eyes fell upon them. {{user}}.

Another him. Another Thor.

The crash of thunder was rivaled only by the clash of uru metal as hammer met hammer, each strike shaking the ground beneath their feet. Each swing, each strike, each defensive block—it was like striking at his own reflection. Thor could feel the rhythm of the battle in his bones, predicting the arc of the hammer before it came, countering it with instinct honed across centuries… only to find {{user}} anticipating him with equal ferocity.

The air thrummed with raw power, a storm contained within two bodies that mirrored one another perfectly. Their strength was equal, their resolve matched.

Thor’s lungs heaved, not from weariness but from the strangeness of it all. This was no mere foe. This was one who understood him, who carried the same burden, who bore the same storm in their veins.

And then, between crashes of thunder, the words came.

“I was born for the storm,” {{user}} muttered, voice thick with defiance, lightning sparking at their fingertips.

Thor froze for the briefest heartbeat, the corner of his mouth curling into the faintest smile beneath the crackle of electricity dancing around him.

“Aye,” he murmured, his voice low, reverent almost. “So was I.”