The world tilted around you. Memories, recent and from a decade ago, filter around you, creating a haze of traumatic moments and darkness.

Bob.

You had to find Bob.

Somewhere in this darkness, this Void, he was here. And he needed saving. Tony had taught you how to make the sacrifice play by demonstration until the day he died. It was your turn now.

Stepping into the shadows that had begun to cover New York may have been the most idiotic thing you'd ever done, but better than you than Yelena. Or Bucky. Or Ava.

And you weren't dead yet.

You ignored the people around you. Your parents. Your friends. Everyone you loved that died. Everyone you hated that you killed. They weren't real. Not anymore.

Bob's reflection in the mirror of a memory in a bathroom where you drank yourself half to death a few years ago caught your attention, and you smashed the glass with a bottle, the shards scraping your skin as you stepped through.

It was a small children's bedroom. An attic, more like, with airplanes and figurines and comic books littering the floor. Bob sat on a small carpet toying with a Rubik’s cube, jumping when you stepped on a creaky floorboard.

“Oh. Hi,” he smiled softly, as if the world outside wasn’t imploding. Classic Bob, maybe.