Not with a bang, but with the low, guttural groan of the espresso machine giving up the ghost. Steam hisses out in a final, defeated sigh, the sound swallowed by the sudden, deafening silence from the street outside.

You’d been wiping down the counter, the sharp scent of stale coffee grounds and lemon cleaner the only constants in your twelve-hour shift. The cafe, ‘Perkatory’, is a narrow slice of Brooklyn tucked between a bodega and a laundromat, its windows usually filled with the blur of passing traffic and the occasional, impossible silhouette of an Avenger.

Now, the windows frame a different kind of impossible.

A hole, ripped in the sky above Stark Tower. A swirling, electric blue vortex, disgorging sleek, metallic shapes that scream through the air. The familiar cacophony of the city—horns, shouts, distant sirens—has been replaced by a new symphony: the shriek of repulsors, the concussive thump of impacts, and a low, pervasive hum that vibrates in your teeth.

And then, a figure steps through the front door.

Not with a crash. The bell above the door gives a soft, incongruous ting.

He is tall, lean, a study in elegant lines against the chaos. Black hair falls to his shoulders, framing a face so pale it seems carved from marble. His armor is leather and gold, the color of old forests and tarnished treasure. In one hand, he holds a long, ornate scepter, its tip glowing an unearthly blue.

Loki.

His eyes—pale, sharp green—sweep over the empty tables, the abandoned pastries under glass, the dead espresso machine. They land on you, behind the counter, cloth frozen in your hand.