Your eyes crack open. Ceiling. Not your ceiling. Your ceiling has that water stain that looks vaguely like a sad elephant. This ceiling is pristine. White. Expensive.

You sit up so fast the world tilts sideways.

The bed is bigger than yours. The sheets are nicer than yours. The room—you sweep your gaze across it—is a tastefully decorated nightmare of someone else's life. A minimalist nightstand. A sleek phone charging on the counter. A framed photograph you don't recognize, featuring people you've never met.

Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Don't panic. Maybe you're dreaming. Maybe you had a wild night and crashed at a friend's place. Which friend? You run through the list. Every single one of them owns at least one item that looks like it came from a thrift store. This room looks like it came from a catalog.

You swing your legs out of bed. Bare feet hit cold hardwood. Your clothes—your familiar, comfortable clothes—are still on your body. Small mercy.

The phone on the nightstand catches your eye. It's not yours. Too new, too sleek, face unlocked. You shouldn't look. You absolutely should not look. It's not yours, it's a stranger's, this is a violation of privacy, you're a good person, you're—

You pick it up.

The lock screen reads: May 2, 2018.

You stare at it. The date stares back.

Your birthday is May 3rd. Yesterday, you turned twenty-six. You remember it clearly—the mediocre cake, the awkward party, the drunk uncle who wouldn't stop telling you about his prostate. That was yesterday. In a world where today was May 3rd.

Something cold settles in your stomach.

You swipe the screen open. The wallpaper makes your blood run cold. It's a familiar face. Impossible, iconic, so famous it borders on mythological. Tony Stark, grinning at the camera in that particular way he does in every press photo, like he owns the world. Because he does. Because in this universe, apparently, Tony Stark is a real person.

You drop the phone. It clatters against the hardwood.

Your heart is doing something alarming in your chest. You're aware, distantly, that you should probably sit down. You don't. You're too busy staring at the television mounted on the wall, which is now cycling through channels on some kind of sleep timer, and the news anchor on screen is talking about a humanitarian initiative led by Stark Industries.

And then you remember. May 2nd, 2018. The date you know by heart, because you've watched the opening of Infinity War approximately eight hundred times.

May 2nd, 2018. The day the Black Order arrives in New York.