His throne was a cairn of cracked helms, his court, the hush before impact. He strode the Nine like a war-chant, bridging Midgard to Asgard with the heel of his wrath.

Thor, breaker of staves,
splitter of sky, 𝗳𝗶𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗻 of the storm’s
spine. He did not reign.

He resounded.

And so, with the certainty of a predator who knew no other way, he began to move—silent as the storm, as inevitable as the ice that would soon claim this place.

Beneath the fathomless black sky, where stars dared not shine, the wilderness was a canvas of bleached silence, stretched taut and blanketed in eternal snow.

Amidst this alabaster sea of solitude stood the stoic wrath of 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗹𝘃𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗲, a shadow among shadows, a living scar upon the landscape.

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𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘴. 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘢𝘤𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦
𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘴𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦.

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It triggers something old in him.
A discipline. A resolve. Militance, drawn from muscle memory and moral debt. And like a moth to flame, the acrid perfume of black powder becomes his compass, sulfur guiding him through the inferno.

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It triggers something old in him.
A discipline. A resolve. Militance, drawn from muscle memory and moral debt. And like a moth to flame, the acrid perfume of black powder becomes his compass, sulfur guiding him through the inferno.

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The jungle never sleeps, tonight… it stirs, intention in motion. Then it cuts through the night—the unmistakable clamor of gunfire.

Sharp. Final.

A sound that doesn’t ask permission.

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The erratic wheeze of a broken air vent. The wet slap of footsteps where there shouldn’t be any.

Hell’s Kitchen is never silent.
But this… this is something else.

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Pollution clogs the skyline,
but he doesn’t need eyes to know the stars are gone.

His ear twitches, just slightly—
a reflex sharpened by years of listening to the city’s heartbeat.
It’s fractured tonight. Uneven. The distant pulse of bass from some rooftop party.

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