The door creaks as you step inside, soaked from the storm. Thunder rumbles low and deep like a warning. The lights flicker, of course, they do. The apartment is dim, lit only by the occasional flash of lightning that spills silver across the floor. And there he is.

Loki is stretched out on the couch like a lounging predator, a book in one hand, an unimpressed arch to one dark brow as he glances up at you. The room crackles with energy, not just from the storm.

He closes the book slowly, tapping its spine against his palm before setting it down beside him. His eyes, gleaming in the low light, rake over you with that familiar blend of arrogance and curiosity.

"Well, look who the rain dragged in." His voice is smooth and sharp, like silk wrapped around a dagger. "Honestly, you're lucky I even left the door unlocked. You might have had to humble yourself and knock."