𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐒: 𝐋𝐎𝐊𝐈 𝐗 𝐅𝐄𝐌!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑
𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍: 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈
note: please do not use my work in any way, including sharing to external sites. always ask.
You had been dropped off at a remote location, away from the others, to avoid suspicion. Now, nestled in the plush leather of an expensive car, you watched the glittering city blur past. Stay calm. You weren't just Y/N anymore. You were Ida Neumann—heiress, socialite, untouchable.
As the vehicle slowed to a halt, you exhaled sharply. The venue towered over you, its grand marble pillars gleaming under golden floodlights. Massive glass windows framed the laughter and movement inside, a world of affluence untouched by hardship. The red carpet stretched out before you like an invitation—or a warning.
You stepped out, legs steady despite the tremor in your hands. The air was thick with expensive perfume, the clipped accents of high society floating around you in snippets of meaningless conversation. Men in tailored suits and women draped in silks clinked champagne glasses, their laughter dripping with the kind of ease only wealth could buy.
"Champagne?" A waiter materialized at your side, offering a delicate crystal flute.
You nodded, accepting it without a word. You had no intention of drinking, but it gave your hands something to do—something to ground you.
The soft sounds of a string quartet echoed through the vast hall, its soothing melody at odds with the tension thrumming beneath your skin. You forced yourself to relax, adjusting the weight of the diamonds at your ears. Looking nervous would make you a target. You couldn't afford that.
Guards lined the perimeter, but they weren't who you were watching. You needed someone else.
"Wunderschön," a voice murmured behind you, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin.
You turned just as a well-dressed man circled into view, his navy tie a stark contrast against his crisp black suit. His gaze raked over you appreciatively. "It means 'gorgeous' in my language," he continued, his smirk practiced. "Which is what you are. Breathtaking."
You gave a polite, measured smile, stepping away smoothly. Not the time, place, or person.
Keeping your posture effortless, you drifted toward the centre of the hall. Each movement was calculated—nod, smile, keep a safe distance. You passed a large stone tablet on display, its ancient carvings illuminated under museum lighting. You barely had time to register it before Phil's voice crackled in your ear.
"Staircase. Keep watch, little one."
You turned subtly, following his direction.
A tall, raven-haired figure descended the staircase, his emerald scarf shifting with each step. His presence demanded attention even though no one else seemed to notice him—except you. Your pulse quickened as you clocked the golden object in his hand.
You pressed a fingertip to your earpiece. "Phil, I have visual. Target has a gold cane and-"
"It's not a cane," Phil cut in. His voice was tense. "Be ready."
Your stomach tightened. Before you could ask what that meant, the man moved.
With a sharp swing, the golden sceptre—not a cane—slammed into a guard's chest, sending him flying. The impact echoed through the hall like a crack of thunder. Another strike, another body hitting the ground.
Screams erupted as guests stumbled over each other, rushing toward the exits. The elegant façade of the gala shattered in seconds. You stood still, focused. This is it. Stay sharp. Don't fail.
The target strode forward, gripping the host by the collar. You could see him clearly now—his chiseled features, the deep-set exhaustion in his sharp blue eyes. But there was something else, something unsettling. The slight tremor in his lips, the gleam of cruel satisfaction.
He threw the host onto the tablet, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a metallic device. The moment it activated, he pressed it against the man's face.
The hosts convulsed, his body seizing as he cried out in agony. The sound sent a chill through you.
"Phil, tell me you're seeing this." you whispered, begging for someone to tell you what to do.
But you had no time to wait for an answer.
A hand wrapped around your wrist, tight and burning.
"You," a voice snarled. You spun, heart hammering against your ribs. The man with the navy tie stood before you, his eyes blazing with fury.
"You're with him. I saw the way you watched him."
What? "No!" you protested, trying to yank yourself free without drawing attention.
His grip tightened. "My father—" His voice cracked, and your gaze darted past him to the host still writhing on the stone tablet. The realization hit you like ice in your veins. He's dead.
That brief moment of vulnerability was all you needed. You tore yourself free, stumbling backward before breaking into a sprint.
You stumbled outside, heart hammering, barely able to process what had just happened. People shoved past you in blind panic, desperate to flee the sadism unravelling inside. You could only watch as the raven-haired man emerged, his form shifting before your eyes. His crisp suit faded into regal gold and deep green, a flowing cape billowing behind him as a gleaming horned helmet materialized atop his head.
"Phil!" you gasped into your earpiece, your voice raw with panic. Static crackled in response. No reply.
You forced yourself to breathe. This was your job. You weren't supposed to run like the others. But God, you wanted to.
Where the hell was backup?
A fleet of police cars screeched to a halt at the edge of the square, hope flickered in your chest—until the villain raised his sceptre. A swirling blue mist erupted from its tip, striking the vehicles in an instant. They flipped through the air and crashed back down to earth. Dead, you presumed.
Your stomach lurched. You were helpless against him. Figures of the man—exact replicas—appeared in the crowd, trapping you like a maze of reflections. The terrified shrieks around you only grew louder, drowning out everything else.
His voice slithered through the air, smooth yet commanding. When no one obeyed, his expression darkened. He slammed his staff into the ground, a wave of energy rippling outward.
A crushing force slammed into your mind. Your vision blurred, a dizzying haze clouding your thoughts. The foundation of your willpower cracked, splintering under an unbearable pressure. Your knees buckled against your will, hitting the pavement with a painful thud.
You weren't alone, all around you, people crumpled like puppets with severed strings. Their faces were blank, hollow. Powerless.
You fought against it, tried to claw your way back to control, but the pain in your skull sharpened like white-hot needles. The mans voice became nothing more than an echo, distorted and distant.
Then—through the fog—you saw movement. An elderly man, trembling but resolute, forced himself upright. His voice cut through the heavy silence. You couldn't process his words, but Loki's expression faltered—if only for a second. No. Stop.
The sceptre rose again, its tip glowing with a deadly blue light. Another blast. You had to move, but your body remained locked in place, trapped in invisible chains.
The blast never met its mark. Instead, the blue warped in the air and was swallowed into nothing. Someone had stopped it, they did the job you couldn't.
The pressure in your skull eased as the world snapped back into focus. The frozen faces around you reanimated, looking around for their saviour.
A figure landed in front of you with a heavy thud, the pavement cracking beneath him. A silver star gleamed against dark navy, a shield raised in defence. Captain America. "You know, the last time I was in Germany and someone was forcing people to kneel," Steve said, voice cutting through the tension like a blade, "we ended up disagreeing."
The villain tilted his head, amused. "Ah," he drawled, lowering his sceptre slightly. "The soldier out of time."
A mechanical roar cut through the silence, and the jet that you had arrived in flew overhead. "He's not the one out of time." You croaked, widening your shoulders and drawing attention to yourself. Confusion flickered across the mans face, distracting him for a moment and allowing Steve to make a move.
You hurried people out the way, understanding that you were certainly no match for the fight taking place. You'd just cleared the square as music played from the jet's PA system, and a figure in red and gold shot through the sky.
"Make your move, Reindeer Games," Stark called, his voice dripping with mockery. Tony Stark.
