Skyl and the others drifted downstairs on unsteady feet.
Stan was standing in front of the oven, clutching a glowing slab of lasagna and crying his eyes out. Anyone who didn't know better might've thought he was moved by his own cooking—but really, he hadn't put on sunglasses and the blast of light had wrecked his eyes. This special-effects-loaded dish was basically a flashbang. The old man had no idea someone upstairs had been messing around, so he didn't look away in time.
People always say great food should hit you with color, aroma, and flavor. This meat lasagna had the full audio-visual package too. Invisible shockwaves kept bursting from the pan, fluttering clothes and sending hair whipping around. Only after it was set on the table did it gradually calm down. The mist and glow faded, revealing a perfectly baked top—cheese browned and crisp.
Gali cheered and launched herself at the table.
"Go wash your hands," the old man called out, fumbling everywhere for a handkerchief to wipe his tears.
Skyl stepped forward with an apologetic look. "I'm really sorry. I used your brush without asking."
"Oh, that's what it was." Stan waved it off and grinned, playful as ever. "It's fine. Sometimes I mess around like that too."
The three of them sat around the small square table. Gali gripped her fork and knife, her little feet tap-dancing happily on the floor while she kept chanting under her breath: lasagna, lasagna, lasagna… mm, I love it so much!
Stan cut a huge piece onto a plate and handed it to her, then ruffled her head. "Eat up, eat up, you little glutton."
Gali ate like she'd been possessed by a hundred tigers, and her expressions were so exaggerated they belonged in an anime—every bite tasted like heaven.
Stan said that just watching her eat was enough to make the old ladies at the nursing home put away three whole pizzas.
Skyl was excited too. This weirdly illustrated, over-the-top lasagna had him curious—but before he could get the first bite to his lips, there was a knock at the door. Since he was the only young guy in the house, he had no choice but to answer it.
It was the neighbors, drawn in by the smell. They swallowed hard and asked if the family needed any help.
Skyl told them no. When he saw the crowd getting bigger, he quietly cast a Confundus Charm and sent the Muggles back to their homes.
He was thinking about the food, so he hurried back to the table.
Lasagna wasn't complicated—one layer of pasta, one layer of meat sauce, one layer of cheese, repeating until the pan was full. It was the kind of down-to-earth dish you could make fancy or cheap depending on what you had.
He'd craved it ages ago while watching Garfield and Friends and Friends. It wasn't even just the dish—it was the feeling behind it. Like a homey pot roast, it was the kind of food you had to put care into, the kind that could fill both you and the people you fed.
Stan and Gali were already eating so hard their eyebrows looked like they were dancing.
Skyl lifted his fork. The bite still hadn't touched his lips when, in the living room, a ring-shaped portal suddenly opened.
Tony popped his head through, completely at ease. "Skyl! So you're here…" He sniffed the air, eyes lighting up. "What smells that good? C'mon, man—give me a bite."
Skyl set his fork down. "Mr. Stark. What do you need?"
Tony shrugged. "Nothing big. You vanished, so I came to say hi." Then, like it was an afterthought, he added, "I just made a major decision. I'm shutting down Stark Industries' weapons division."
"Yeah. That's a good call." Skyl had always supported anything that kept the peace.
Stan rolled his eyes at the sudden intruder. "Young man, I did not invite you to trespass in my home."
Tony looked like he didn't recognize Stan at all—despite the fact the old man had just been at the memorial service. With a shameless grin, Tony helped himself to a bite and immediately started singing praise. "Sir, you made this? It's incredible. Want to be my personal chef? Fifty grand a month. What do you say?"
If this were a cooking anime, the next arc would be the legendary Elder Chef God rising from obscurity, sweeping the Michelin rankings, Tony hosting the World's Number One Chef Tournament, Stan Lee defeating master chefs from every nation, and claiming the crown in a glorious, ridiculous saga.
Stan clearly wasn't planning to share—this whole tray wouldn't even be enough to get stuck between Gali's teeth. He fired off a few lines and shooed Tony out. The playboy reluctantly crawled back through the portal, and before leaving, he said to Skyl, "Skyl, I've got an idea—gonna build some really cool stuff. If you're interested, come find me in Malibu."
Malibu was in California, out on the West Coast—New York was on the East. He'd really traveled. Stark Industries' main production lines and departments were in California anyway, so Tony would have better support there. He was obviously going back to work on the Iron Man armor—and he'd definitely turn it into a magical artifact. A magic-powered suit of armor could be a lot of fun.
Skyl thought of Neloth's brass mech. Turns out even wizards dreamed of piloting their own giant machines. And since Brelyna had already invited Neloth into the Tower of Tomes, that cranky old mage might actually hit it off with Tony. They'd probably find plenty to argue about.
With the irrelevant visitor gone, Skyl picked up his fork again.
Ding-dong. The doorbell rang.
Skyl sighed. These back-to-back visitors seriously had no sense of timing.
"Go answer it," Stan urged with a grin.
The Confundus Charm wasn't all-powerful. If someone really set their mind against the suggestion, an ordinary person could push through it.
A group of agents stood outside. The lead man had a friendly face and a polished smile—Agent Phil Coulson, a familiar Marvel regular whose screen time rivaled a World War II documentary's obsession with MacArthur.
"Hello. I'm Phil Coulson, with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. I have some security questions I need to ask you." Coulson flashed his credentials. "May we come in?"
By local law, without a warrant, officers couldn't enter a private home unless invited—though that rule mainly mattered to cops. Agents like these wouldn't hesitate if they decided they wanted to walk in.
Skyl told them he was eating and that they could wait at a coffee shop.
Coulson sniffed the air. "Smells amazing. Family cooking?" The agents behind him swallowed discreetly, eyes drifting—clearly, the scent had hooked them.
Skyl glanced back into the house. "Stan, there's an agent named Coulson out here trying to mooch dinner. You okay with that?"
"Tell him to get out!"
Skyl shrugged, snapped his fingers, and Coulson and the agents turned and filed away in a neat little line, wandering the street aimlessly for half an hour.
Then they suddenly snapped awake.
Coulson blinked, disoriented. Somehow he and his coworkers were squatting on the curb, eating sandwiches and sipping instant coffee.
Skyl walked over from down the street. "Mr. Coulson. What did you want to ask me?"
Coulson tensed. He'd already realized there was a chance he'd been mentally influenced. The agents around him shifted like they were facing a threat.
"Sir, I need your name. Why did you appear alongside the missing Tony Stark? And what did you do to us just now?"
Skyl answered calmly. "I'm a traveler. I don't belong to this world. Just call me Skyl. I ran into Tony by chance—he's the one who latched onto me and refused to leave. What I used on you was magic. Like this."
He snapped his fingers. Every pistol at the agents' waists turned into a balloon toy, popping and crackling as they burst.
Coulson kept his face steady, eyes locked on Skyl, trying to analyze his temperament and psychology.
"You're thinking I'm dangerous, right?" Skyl smiled faintly. "You're free to think that. But dust mites don't need to debate whether humans are good or evil. They just need to get through the life right in front of them."
"In your eyes, are ordinary people just dust mites?"
"I needed a metaphor. If it hurt your pride, I apologize." Skyl looked at the agents, all of them braced for impact. "In my eyes, every person is a treasure—never dirt, never ants. But I do sincerely suggest you ignore my existence."
Coulson went quiet for a moment, then suddenly extended his hand. "Or… we could be friends."
"That takes time to prove." Skyl ignored the offered handshake. "Next time—if you're prepared—you can stand in front of me again. You give the choices. I give the answers."
Watching Skyl walk away, Coulson felt a chill rise in his chest. He shouted after the wizard's back, "We'll meet again! Soon!"
Skyl lifted a hand slightly, and didn't look back.
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