Thor steps out first—broad-shouldered, grim-jawed, his cape settling like a warning. He scans the room, finds Tony leaning against the kitchen island, Steve standing near the windows, Natasha perched on the arm of the couch. All of them still as statues.

Then Loki follows.

He moves like silk over steel—fluid, deliberate, unhurried. The light from the floor-to-ceiling windows catches the dark green of his robes, the gold threading along his collar. His hands are empty. No cuffs. No chains. Just a god walking into a room full of people who have every reason to want him dead.

Standing apart. Leaning against the glass. Arms crossed. Watching.

He stops.

Just for a breath. Just long enough for the air between you to tighten.