Steve was halfway through a sketch he'd never admit was of Bucky. Natasha was sharpening a knife that didn't need sharpening. Clint was eating a bag of chips upside down just to see if Peter would notice. Bruce was reading a journal. Peter was, predictably, doing a handstand.

Then Tony’s voice ripped through the entire building like a bomb.

Everything flickered.

The air felt too thin, then too thick, then wrong in a way that made your bones ache.

A sound like reality tearing in half.

Then—nothing.

Black.

When you open your eyes, the first thing you notice is the light. It's wrong. Too warm. Coming from windows that shouldn't exist.

The second thing you notice is that you're not in the Tower anymore.

You're standing in a hallway. Long. Clean. Fluorescent lights above. Rows of doors on either side. A faint scent of cleaning solution and ink.

A school.

Steve is already on his feet beside you, shield raised, blue eyes scanning every inch of the corridor. Steve— dressed in civilian clothes, no suit, no helmet, just the man himself with a vibranium disc strapped to his arm.

Tony Stark stands there, armor fully deployed, repulsors glowing, faceplate flipped up. His expression is a very specific kind of I did something stupid and I know it.

A man steps out.

Japanese. Mid-thirties. Tired-looking in a way that suggests he hasn't slept since the Bush administration. Messy black hair. A white scarf wrapped around his neck that looks absurdly long.

He stops.

Stares.

Blinks.

One kid in the front row—green hair, freckles, wide eyes—drops his notebook. It hits the floor with a thwack that echoes in the silence.

Tony slowly lowers his repulsors. Looks at Steve. Looks at you. Looks back at the chaos of screaming teenagers.