The MCU- the veil of realities

The before

A dark and dreary night stretched out, cloaked in the fury of a relentless storm. The wind howled, a fierce and unyielding force, whipping the rain sideways across the landscape. Trees bent and swayed under the assault, their branches clattering and snapping, the sounds echoing through the desolate, soaked streets. The sky, a deep, foreboding grey, was occasionally split by the jagged forks of lightning, illuminating the chaotic scene in stark, brilliant flashes.

In the midst of this tempest, a sleek, jet-black Bentley navigated the rain-slicked road. Its polished exterior shimmered under the sporadic bursts of lightning, the contours of the newest model accentuated by the fleeting illumination. The powerful engine growled, a low, resonant hum that barely rose above the cacophony of the storm. The tires hissed against the wet pavement, sending up sprays of water in their wake.

Inside the Bentley, the world seemed almost serene in stark contrast to the turmoil outside. The luxurious interior was a sanctuary of refined elegance. Plush, leather seats, supple and perfectly contoured, offered unmatched comfort. Soft, ambient lighting bathed the cabin in a warm, inviting glow. The dashboard, a masterpiece of craftsmanship, blended advanced technology with classic sophistication. Polished wood trim and brushed metal accents added a touch of timeless beauty to the state-of-the-art interface.

Amid this opulence, a solitary figure sat, her silhouette barely discernible in the muted light. She was an enigma, her presence as mysterious as the storm that raged outside. She stared at the glowing screen in her hand, her fingers moving in an almost mechanical rhythm, swiping and tapping with a practiced, mindless ease. Her face, partially obscured by shadows, revealed little of her thoughts or emotions, the light from the device casting an eerie glow on her features.

The woman, an overworked doctor, bore the signs of her demanding profession. Her eyes, though sharp, carried a hint of weariness, a testament to the long hours and the relentless pace of her work. Her posture, slightly slouched, betrayed her exhaustion, but also a certain resilience, a quiet strength that belied her tiredness. She continued to scroll, lost in the motions, her mind adrift, disconnected from the world around her.

The screen's soft glow illuminated the woman's face, her eyes now fully drawn into the world beyond the Bentley's walls. She was scrolling through an article about the Avengers, her interest piqued despite the weariness that lingered at the edges of her mind. A notification popped up, an obtrusive bubble that read:

"Today is the day Tony Stark snapped and sacrificed himself for the greater good. Click here to read more."

Her thumb hesitated for a moment, then tapped the bubble. The screen flickered, the loading icon spinning lazily as the page struggled to load against the storm's interference. As she waited, her thoughts drifted, pulling her back into the final moments of Tony Stark, his last words echoing in her mind, *"I am Iron Man."* The weight of those words pressed down on her, a stark reminder of the cost of heroism, both on the screen and in her own life.

She shook her head lightly, pushing away the melancholy that threatened to settle in. With a sigh, she glanced back at the screen just as the page finished loading. An in-depth review of Tony Stark's character arc filled the display, the headline catching her attention.

The review was meticulous, a detailed analysis of Tony's journey from a self-absorbed billionaire to a selfless hero. It spoke of his transformation, the way his character evolved from a man driven by ego and personal gain to someone who understood the true meaning of sacrifice. The reviewer highlighted his vulnerabilities, his failures, and his ultimate redemption, painting a portrait of a flawed but deeply human hero who had resonated with audiences across the world. They delved into the nuances of his relationships, his struggles with guilt, and the internal battles that shaped his decisions, especially the final one that led to his ultimate act of heroism.

As she read, her heart grew heavy, the words on the screen stirring something deep within her. It was more than just the end of a character; it felt like the end of an era, a piece of her childhood slipping away. The Avengers had been a constant in her life, a symbol of hope and resilience, and with their end, a part of her own story seemed to fade into the background, leaving a hollow ache in its place.

The article's words blurred slightly as she became lost in thought, the weight of Tony Stark's sacrifice and the end of an era settling heavily on her. She sighed, the melancholy seeping into her bones as she lingered on the idea of heroes, of endings, of the inevitable passage of time.

The soft purr of the Bentley's engine and the rhythmic patter of rain against the windows were the only sounds, cocooning her in a moment of solitude. Just as the ache in her chest began to intensify, a voice cut through the silence, gentle yet grounding.

"Dr., we're home."

She blinked, the spell of her thoughts broken. The driver's voice had brought her back to the present, away from the world of superheroes and sacrifices. She glanced up, realizing they had arrived, the imposing silhouette of her home just visible through the rain-streaked windows.

With a final, heavy sigh, she closed the article, the screen darkening as she let go of the past, at least for tonight.

-somewhere else-

The air was thick, almost suffocating, as if the very atmosphere was steeped in an ancient darkness. Shadows twisted and danced in the flickering light of candles, their flames struggling to pierce the heavy gloom that filled the room. The walls were draped in deep, velvety hues, and the scent of burning incense lingered in the air, mingling with the musty odor of old, forgotten things.

In the center of this ominous space, a figure stood, her face obscured by the shadows, the dim light revealing only the silhouette of her form. Her hands, however, were clearly visible—gnarled and withered, the skin stretched taut over bones that seemed almost skeletal. Her fingers were as black as the void, the color of night itself, with nails that were long, jagged, and sharp. These hands, though aged and worn, emanated an unsettling power, an aura that suggested a lifetime spent mastering the dark arts.

Clutched within these twisted fingers was a book, its cover a deep, almost blood-like red that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. The book was ancient, its leather worn and cracked, but it glowed with an inner light, as if containing untold secrets of immense power. The figure's rings, set with dark stones that glimmered faintly, adorned her fingers, each one a symbol of the arcane, their presence adding to the palpable sense of dread that permeated the room.

The figure began to chant, her voice low and guttural, the words flowing in a language as old as time itself.

"Disperde, liber maledictus. Eo ad eum qui potestatem tenet."
*(Disappear, cursed book. Go to the one who holds power.)*

The chant grew louder, the words echoing off the walls, as if the room itself was alive with the power of the spell. The book in her hands began to vibrate, its glow intensifying until it was almost blinding. The air around it shimmered, distorting the space as the power within the book sought release.

Then, with a sudden, violent flash, the book vanished. It didn't simply disappear—it was as if it had been pulled from existence, leaving behind a void, a lingering echo of the power it had once contained. The figure's hands, now empty, slowly lowered, her task complete.

A low, malicious laugh echoed through the room, reverberating off the walls, a sound that was both triumphant and terrifying. The figure remained shrouded in darkness, her presence more of a force than a person, her laughter fading into the oppressive silence that followed.