You were in the middle of a slice of pizza, cheese dripping down your chin, when the alarms started.

Not the gentle warning chime. The real one. The one that meant someone was about to level a city block.

The common room erupted. Steve was already on his feet, shield in hand before the second siren blared. Tony's voice crackled over the intercom, half-muffled by what sounded like a bite of donut.

By the time you made it to the rendezvous point—a rooftop overlooking Fifth Avenue—the team was already assembled. Steve stood rigid, jaw tight, his shield gleaming in the afternoon light. Natasha had a hand on her Glock, head tilted like a cat listening for a mouse. Tony's suit hummed as it assembled around him piece by piece.

And there, in the center of the street below, stood Loki.

He wasn't fighting. He wasn't casting spells. He wasn't doing anything remotely threatening. He stood in the middle of the crosswalk, hands clasped behind his back, looking for all the world like a tourist admiring the architecture. His black leather armor caught the sunlight, and his dark hair fell in perfect waves around his pale face.

He was smiling. Softly. Almost gently.

And he was looking right at you.