Poison | Wanda Maximoff

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In the quiet town of Westview, Ivy Stark's eyes flutter open, her gaze immediately falling upon the unfamiliar surroundings. The room she finds herself in is quaint and charming, adorned with furniture and decorations that hold no memories for her. A feeling of disorientation washes over Ivy as she sits up, her mind racing to piece together how she arrived here and why everything feels so unsettlingly perfect.

The soft morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting an ethereal glow over the room. Ivy's heart pounds in her chest as she surveys the space, her fingers trembling slightly. There is an eerie stillness, an unspoken emptiness that lingers in the air. She swings her legs over the side of the bed and stands up, her bare feet sinking into the plush carpet beneath her.

Her steps are hesitant as she explores the room, her fingers brushing against the unfamiliar objects that line the shelves. Trinkets and photographs capture frozen moments of a life she doesn't recognize, faces she can't place. She studies each image, hoping for a spark of recognition, but the memories remain elusive.

As Ivy makes her way through the house, a creeping sense of unease settles over her. The creaking floorboards beneath her feet seem to whisper secrets, and the muted sounds of the outside world only serve to amplify her confusion. She approaches the front door and hesitates, her hand hovering over the handle.

With a deep breath, Ivy steps outside into the quiet streets of Westview. The town unfolds before her, picturesque and idyllic, but there is an undercurrent of something darker. The townsfolk move about their day with an eerie precision, their smiles frozen in place, their eyes vacant.

Ivy's pace quickens as she weaves through the streets, her gaze darting from one person to another. She tries to engage in conversation, desperate for answers, but the townspeople respond with rehearsed pleasantries, their words hollow and lacking substance. A sense of isolation washes over Ivy, a feeling that she is trapped in a web of deceit and illusion.

Her footsteps lead her to a small park nestled within the heart of Westview. The once vibrant greenspace now emanates a somber aura, as if even nature itself mourns the distortion of reality that has taken hold. Ivy's eyes scan the surroundings, searching for any semblance of familiarity, a clue to her past.

Her gaze lands on a figure sitting on a bench, her scarlet hair catching the sunlight. It is Wanda Maximoff, the woman Ivy vaguely recognizes but cannot fully place. Confusion gnaws at her insides as she approaches, her footsteps hesitant and cautious.

"Wanda," Ivy whispers, her voice filled with both uncertainty and a glimmer of hope, "Do you... do you know who I am?"

Wanda's eyes meet Ivy's, and a flicker of recognition passes between them. But it is quickly replaced by a distant gaze, as if Wanda herself is trapped within the same perplexing web that ensnares Ivy.

"We're married," Wanda says, her voice tinged with an eerie detachment, "Ivy Stark, my love. Don't you remember?"

Ivy's breath catches in her throat, disbelief washing over her like a chilling wave. Married? The concept feels alien, impossible. She searches her mind for any trace of memories, but finds only an unsettling void.

"I don't... I don't remember," Ivy stammers, her voice trembling.

She raises her hand to her face, fingers brushing against her temple, as if physical touch could summon the lost fragments of her past.

Wanda's gaze softens, a flicker of concern breaking through the mask of tranquility she wears.

"It's... complicated," She says, her voice laced with both sorrow and hesitation, "There are things we've lost, things I can't explain. But we belong together, Ivy. This is our home."

As if on cue, Ivy's eyes drift down to her left hand. There, on her ring finger, rests a simple band of gold. She stares at it, a mix of wonder and confusion swirling within her. The weight of the ring is both comforting and suffocating, a symbol of a life she can't recall.

A surge of panic courses through Ivy's veins, urging her to break free from the enchantment that binds her. She tears at the ring, trying to pry it off her finger, but it refuses to budge, as if fused to her very being. Desperation wells up inside her, fueling a determination to unravel the truth, no matter the cost.

The realization dawns upon Ivy, a realization both terrifying and inevitable. The idyllic facade of Westview, the spell that keeps its inhabitants trapped, it is all a lie—a creation of Wanda's grief and longing. And Ivy, in her unknowing state, is an integral part of this twisted reality.

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