[Scene: Spread of the word...]
The doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum swung inward with a low, ancient creak, and Adult Luz Noceda stepped inside, the hum of New York fading behind her like a held breath finally released. The air within the Sanctum felt different—older, heavier, threaded with quiet magic that prickled at her skin. Light from floating sigils washed across polished stone floors and towering shelves of arcane relics. Luz rolled her electric scooter to a stop and kicked it up into rest, eyes already scanning the room. They were all there.
Anne Boonchuy stood near the center; arms crossed, posture solid and unyielding as ever. Marcy Wu hovered beside her, tablet in hand, fingers tapping nervously as she scrolled through half a dozen open data feeds at once. Iron Spider-Man leaned against a pillar, while Miles Morales stood nearby, the mask pulled up just enough to reveal an anxious crease in his brow. Black Panther stood apart from the rest—regal, still, the subtle silver accents of his suit catching the light—while Falcon, clad in his Captain America suit, adjusted the strap of his harness. Luz jogged over, breathless but focused. "Okay, so… what's going on?"
Behind him stood Wong, hands folded behind his back, expression grave. Wong spoke first. "We were monitoring global disturbances when a news report caught our attention. It involves Tony Stark."
Luz blinked. "Tony?"
Anne's eyes narrowed. "What about him?"
Wong inclined his head. "Earlier this evening, Mr. Stark forcibly removed a reporter and his camera crew from his Miami residence after a heated exchange."
Falcon let out a short huff, lifting an eyebrow behind his red-tinted goggles. "Are you kidding me? That's the emergency? Tony Stark yelled at a reporter? That's like a Tuesday....''
A few faint nods followed. Miles shrugged. "Yeah, I mean, love the guy, but that doesn't exactly scream world-ending threat to me. You called us down for this?''
Doctor Strange folded his hands behind his back, his tone calm—but razor-edged. "Ordinarily, I'd agree. But I had a meeting with Nick Fury shortly afterward."
That got their attention.
Strange continued, "A high-security database facility was attacked less than twenty-four hours ago. The assailant wiped personnel, bypassed defenses we didn't even know existed, and vanished. SHIELD recovered partial footage."
Black Panther stepped forward, voice steady and commanding. "And this reporter is connected?"
"Yes..." Strange replied. "The man who confronted Tony Stark is the same individual SHIELD believes orchestrated the attack...''
Black Panther's jaw tightened. "Then what are we waiting for? We find him, and we bring him to justice."
Marcy looked up from her tablet, confusion written across her face. "But—wait—why would a random reporter want anything to do with a global database? That doesn't make any sense. Unless he was after something specific...''
Anne cracked her knuckles, eyes sharp. "I don't really care why he did it. All I know is anyone who hits a place like that and walks away is bad news. And bad news needs to be stopped."
Wong finally stepped forward, his voice low. "There is… more."
The room fell silent.
"The footage..." Wong said, "does not only show a man...."
Strange flicked his wrist, and a projection bloomed into the air—a grainy, distorted image frozen mid-frame. The shape was tall and humanoid-like. Static crawled across its outline. Blue light pulsed where a face should have been. "A demon..." Wong finished quietly. "Masquerading as a human."
Miles sucked in a breath. "Okay. Yeah. That's… that's new."
Luz felt her stomach twist. "So, this guy's not just some angry journalist.''
''Something far more dangerous...' Strange said.
Miles glanced around the group, then back to Strange. "Alright. So, where is he now?''
[Scene: One night...]
The Miami night clung to them like sweat that wouldn't dry. Neon bled across the sidewalk in sickly blues and pinks, palm fronds rattling in a warm breeze that smelled faintly of salt and gasoline. Somewhere behind the music and laughter, the ocean breathed.
Bruce Banner walked with his shoulders slightly hunched, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. In human form, he looked exactly like what he was trying to be—controlled. Dark curls streaked with gray framed a thoughtful, worried face, eyes always calculating, always weighing consequences. Every step was measured, as if the pavement itself might provoke something he kept buried. Beside him, Bucky Barnes moved like the night had shaped him. Long brown hair hung loose around his face, catching the streetlights as they passed. His expression was guarded but sharp, blue eyes always scanning. Posture relaxed in a way that came from hard-earned confidence. He looked like someone who had survived worse....
"You really think Tony's gonna take this badly?" Bruce asked quietly. "The coverage. The questions. Everything being… dragged back up."
Bucky shrugged, hands in his jacket pockets. "Tony Stark lives in the blast radius of his own reputation," he said. "Bad press isn't new. He'll yell, throw a fit, maybe build something shiny to prove a point. He'll be fine...''
Bruce frowned. "That's not what I mean. It's not just him they're talking about now. It's the team."
They passed a narrow bar, its windows fogged, laughter spilling out every time the door opened. Bruce slowed. Inside, a television glowed too bright for the hour, the sound muted but the headline unmistakable.
He stopped.
The screen showed a man behind a polished desk, posture perfect, smile sharp enough to cut. A chyron burned beneath him: VINCENT WHITTMAN — SPECIAL REPORT.
Bruce stepped closer to the glass. Bucky joined him, leaning against the brick wall, jaw already tight.
The soundless broadcast cut to footage—Tony Stark at a press conference, eyes flashing, hands tense.
Then Whittman's voice came through the bar speakers as someone opened the door.
"…lost his temper..." Whittman was saying smoothly. When pressed about concerns...''
The screen rolled through images like accusations: the Battle of New York, alien wreckage; Ultron drones tearing through a city; rubble, smoke, people running.
"History matters...." Whittman continued. "New York. Sokovia. Ultron. These weren't accidents, they were failures of judgment....''
Bruce's reflection stared back at him in the glass.
"And now...." Whittman said, leaning forward. "Tony Stark wants us to trust the Avengers again. To believe that this new team assembled by the same man who built Ultron won't repeat the same mistakes....''
The chyron changed: QUESTIONS OF INTEGRITY.
"Stark's integrity...." Whittman pressed. "And the integrity of those who stand beside him deserves scrutiny. Power without accountability is not heroism. It's recklessness."
Bucky pushed off the wall sharply. "That's enough..." he muttered.
He turned away from the screen, irritated. "I'm not listening to some suit rewrite history....'' Bruce hesitated only a second before following. They moved on, footsteps echoing softly against the pavement. The noise of the bar faded behind them.
They passed a narrow alleyway, its mouth yawning black between two buildings. The streetlight flickered overhead, casting long, warped shadows. Something moved. A figure stood deep within the shadows, tall and still. Its head was a television screen, boxy, the glass suddenly flashing to life. Bright blue light pulsed across the alley walls, static crackling, illuminating twisted shapes for a heartbeat at a time. It flashed an evil grin for a moment. Then they heard it.
Footsteps of someone approaching. The footsteps stopped. Bruce and Bucky turned at the same time. He stood a few yards behind them, framed by flickering streetlight and neon spill—tall, sharp-edged, impossibly still. His body was dressed in sleek, angular attire that looked more like a broadcast executive's suit than combat gear, all dark panels and glowing accents. Where his head should have been was a television screen, glass curved and humming faintly, the display alive with a pulsing blue glow that crackled with static. The glow brightened. "Evening, gentlemen..." the figure said. His voice didn't come from one place—it echoed, layered. "Name's Vox...''
Bucky's stance shifted instantly. Feet planted. Right arm angled forward, metal fingers flexing with a soft whirr. His eyes locked onto the glowing screen. "Yeah?" He said coldly. "And where the hell did you come from?"
Vox tilted his head; the image on his screen briefly distorted into a jagged smile. He took one step forward. "That..." Vox replied, voice dropping into something sharp and amused. "Is none of your damn fucking business...''
The air snapped. The plug wrapped around Bucky's right arm like a constrictor, coils tightening around the titanium limb. With a violent yank, Vox hurled him sideways. Bucky slammed into the brick wall with a bone-rattling impact, cracking mortar as he hit the ground hard, breath knocked clean out of him. Bruce surged forward with a shout, abandoning caution. He wrapped his arms around Vox from behind, locking his hands together under the screen-head, muscles straining as he tried to drag the figure backward.
From Vox's back, something unfolded with a wet, mechanical hiss—a thick, cable-like tentacle tipped with a pronged plug, writhing with unnatural intent. It shot forward faster than either of them could react. ''Bucky—!" Bruce shouted. Too late.
For half a second, Vox didn't move. Then he laughed.
The sound crackled through his speakers as Vox shifted his weight, grabbed Bruce's arm, and twisted. In one fluid motion, he flipped Bruce over his shoulder. Bruce hit the pavement with a heavy thud, the world flashing white for a heartbeat.
He groaned, rolling, trying to push himself up—
A boot came down hard on his chest.
The impact drove the air from his lungs. Vox pinned him effortlessly, the sole pressing down with merciless precision. The blue glow of the screen leaned closer, filling Bruce's vision.
"You know..." Vox said conversationally, "for someone who can turn himself green and strong when he's angry …"
The screen flickered; the image sharpened into a cruel, amused expression. "…you seem to be losing your edge...''
Bruce struggled, hands gripping at Vox's leg, but the pressure only increased. Vox's head tilted again, almost thoughtful.
"But no worries..." he continued with a smirk. "That can be arranged. You and your friend can still prove useful to my cause....''
The screen suddenly flared bright red.
Bright. Blinding. Red light flooded Bruce's vision, pulsing in rhythmic waves. Symbols and static spiraled together, the glow boring straight into his eyes. Bruce gasped. His eyes widened—then stopped focusing. The tension drained from his face, expression going eerily blank as the light washed over him. His hands slackened, fingers loosening their grip. The struggle faded, replaced by stillness.
Vox cackled into the night.