The company is in chaos.
Engineers whisper in hallways, investors storm the phones, and everyone pretends to be calm while the ground shifts under their feet. Tony Stark shut down the weapons division, and Stark Industries is flailing like a ship without a captain.
I keep my head down, same as always. But whispers follow me, louder than ever.
They don't just nudge me away from falling boxes or gas leaks now. They're sharper. More insistent. My instincts scream at me to avoid certain rooms, certain conversations. Sometimes they even pulse when someone walks by, like the universe is trying to mark them.
It happens the first time I see Obadiah Stane up close.
I'm carrying a tray of coffee to one of the labs when he rounds the corner, larger than life in his immaculate suit. His laugh echoes as he charms a group of executives, but when his eyes sweep the hall, the whispers slam into me like a warning siren. My stomach knots, my palms sweat, and I know without question: this man is a threat.
He doesn't notice me. Not yet. But the whispers make sure I don't forget him.
The labs aren't the same either. Stark barely shows up, buried in whatever projects he's running behind closed doors. Rumors say he's building something new. Obadiah's people grumble about stalled contracts and restless buyers. And in the middle of it all, interns like me fetch coffee and file reports while the world tilts.
At night, I write.
I fill page after page in the notebook, mapping the timeline, clinging to what I remember from the films. Iron Man's suit. Obadiah's betrayal. The Gulmira village. S.H.I.E.L.D. closing in. I try to chart every domino, every ripple, as if writing it down could make it controllable.
It doesn't.
The whispers always creep in. Words I don't remember writing. Phrases that repeat across different pages: "Balance." "Choice." "Tree." "Remembered."
The handwriting is mine, but I don't remember the motion of the pen.
One night, I slam the notebook shut and shove it under the bed, too afraid to look at it.
The dreams don't stop either.
The cosmic tree returns again and again, roots glowing blue and purple as they burrow through stars, branches scraping against infinity. Sometimes I see shadows moving in its branches, figures half-formed, like echoes of myths and legends. Sometimes I hear the voice.
"Every universe remembers you differently. Which one will you become?"
I wake gasping every time, heart pounding, the words echoing in my chest.
And then the real world gets worse.
Two days after the press conference, Obadiah calls an emergency meeting. The atrium is packed with staff, interns shoved into corners. He stands at the center with his practiced smile, assuring everyone that Stark Industries is fine, that weapons contracts are still on the table, that "our founder just needs time to recover."
People nod, relieved, desperate for stability. But I can feel the lies dripping off him. The whispers coil like smoke in my ears, and my skin crawls.
For a second, I see him differently. Not in the suit, not smiling. I see him lit by firelight, face twisted, rage boiling in his eyes, a massive machine roaring around him.
Then the vision snaps away, leaving me dizzy.
Nobody else notices.
I push out of the crowd before I can collapse, my hands shaking, my chest tight. The whispers don't let up, circling in my head like a chant: not safe, not safe, not safe.
For the first time since waking up here, I wonder if survival is even possible.
The MCU isn't waiting for me. It's moving forward, piece by piece. And I can feel the storm building in the distance.
Obadiah is plotting. Tony is building. The whispers are sharpening.
And I am stuck in the middle, carrying a secret that feels heavier every day.
The ripples are spreading.
Soon, they'll reach me.