And then, in the distance, the first boom.

The sky flickered silver, like lightning caught in a jar. It wasn't thunder. It was wrong. A pulse, a heartbeat, a scream made of light.

The sirens started within seconds. Car alarms, then shouting, then the unmistakable sound of something massive crashing through concrete and glass. The air smelled like ozone and burned copper.

Somewhere above the skyline, a figure was tearing the city apart. Not with chaos—no, this was surgical. Targeted. Each silver thread it spun ripped through buildings like a scalpel. The Avengers were already in the air, Iron Man's repulsors blazing, Thor's hammer crackling with lightning.

And in the middle of it all, on a rooftop half a mile from the fight, a boy stood at the edge, watching silver magic arc across the sky like falling stars.

His phone vibrated.