You wake up on a rooftop. Not your rooftop. Cold concrete under your back, the distant wail of a siren, and a skyline you don't recognize. Your head throbs.

The last thing you remember is dust. Ash. The silence after the snap. Tony's face. And then—nothing.

You sit up. Your hands are shaking. You're still wearing your torn, battle-worn clothes. The air smells wrong. Cleaner. No smoke.

Below, the streets are alive. People walking. Laughing. No one looking up at the sky in fear.

A door creaks open behind you.

A figure steps out of the stairwell, silhouetted by a flickering light. He's holding a cup of coffee. He freezes when he sees you.