Cooking is a lot like reality bending. You take raw ingredients like rice, meat, spices, heat… and you force them into a structure that makes sense.

  I was standing in my kitchen, an apron tied around my waist that said Kiss the Cook (a housewarming gift to myself, because if I don’t love me, who will?), staring down at a pot of boiling water.

  "You know," I said, leaning against the marble countertop and addressing the spice rack, which I was using as a stand in for you guys. "People think being a Reality Bender means I just snap my fingers and poof… dinner is served. And yeah, technically, I could do that. I could rearrange the atoms in the air to form a perfect Chicken Biryani. But where’s the soul in that? Where’s the art?"

  I grabbed a pinch of saffron threads and dropped them into a small bowl of warm milk. The orange bled into the white, swirling like a mini nebula.

  "Plus, atom rearranged food always tastes a little... metallic. Like licking a battery. Don't ask me how I know that."

  I turned back to the stove, stirring the rice. The grains were Basmati, the good stuff.

  "So, while this rice parboils, let’s talk logistics. You’re probably wondering how a guy who just fell out of the sky from a destroyed universe manages to own a two story suburban home in New Jersey without raising any eyebrows. It’s not like I can walk into a bank and say, 'Hi, I’m a cosmic refugee, can I get a mortgage?'"

  I drained the rice, the steam billowing up into my face. It smelled like starch and comfort.

  "I had to get creative. And by creative, I mean I committed federal level fraud. But, like, magical fraud, so it doesn't count."

  I moved to the island where the marinated chicken was waiting. Yogurt, chili powder, turmeric and ginger garlic paste. I layered the chicken at the bottom of a heavy bottomed pot.

  "I created a paper trail. I altered reality so that the physical documents actually exist in the archives. I gave myself a birth certificate from a small hospital in rural Oregon that closed down in the 90s… harder to verify records. I gave myself a social security number that looks legit but technically belongs to a statistical ghost."

  I shoveled a layer of rice over the chicken. Then, I sprinkled fried onions over the rice, followed by chopped mint and coriander.

  "Look, I’m not a thief. I didn't rob a bank. I didn't teleport cash from a vault. I literally created the cash."

  I paused, holding a spoon of ghee mid air.

  "Is it counterfeiting if the molecular structure is identical to the U.S. Mint’s paper? I checked the serial numbers. I made sure they didn't overlap with existing bills in circulation. I basically just... induced inflation by a microscopic amount. You’re welcome, economy."

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  I poured the ghee over the rice, watching it glisten. Then came the saffron milk, creating streaks of sunset orange.

  "I walked into the real estate office with a briefcase full of this 'ethically sourced' cash. The realtor, a nice lady named Martha, looked like she was going to faint. I told her I was an eccentric tech investor who didn't trust banks. She bought it. Or maybe she just really wanted the commission. Either way, I got the deed."

  I placed the lid on the pot. Now for the sealing. I just fused the lid to the pot with a microscopic adjustment of the metal’s shape, creating a perfect pressure cooker.

  "And here’s the kicker," I said, lowering the flame to the barest flicker. "I gave myself a medical degree. Johns Hopkins. Class of 2018. Top of the class, naturally. I even inserted memories of 'Aryan Spencer' into the minds of a few professors there, just in case anyone asks."

  I leaned back, crossing my arms, looking at the refrigerator door.

  "But here I am. A fully qualified doctor in two universes, mind you… and what am I doing? Am I saving lives? Am I working in the ER?" I laughed, shaking my head. "Hell no. I’m intentionally unemployed."

  "Do you know how much stress I was under in my last life? The night shifts? All the paperwork? The patients who Google their symptoms and tell you you're wrong? I am tired. If I have the power to warp reality, I’m going to use it to take the longest gap year in history. I’m going to sleep in until ten. I’m going to perfect my Biryani. I’m going to be the lazy genius I was always meant to be."

  I checked the time on the microwave. Twenty minutes for the dum.

  "Besides," my voice dropped, losing some of its humor. "I wanted to be close to her. I bought the house specifically because it backs onto Vision’s deed. Well, the empty plot where the house will be. I know she visits it. I know she’s staying in a motel nearby, scouting the town."

  I stared at the sealed pot.

  "I’m not a stalker," I whispered, feeling the need to justify it to the empty room. "I’m... insurance. When she breaks, I want to be the one who catches the pieces."

  Lunch was spectacular. The Biryani was spicy, fragrant and the meat fell off the bone. I ate alone, but I pretended the chair across from me wasn't empty. Old habits die hard.

  By late afternoon, the house felt too quiet. The silence in Westview was heavy, pregnant with the normalcy that was about to be shattered. I needed to get out. I needed some noise.

  "Tandoori Chicken for dinner," I decided, wiping my hands on a napkin. "I need yogurt. And more lemons. And maybe some of those frozen naans because even a Reality Bender draws the line at baking bread without a tandoor oven."

  I grabbed my keys and headed out.

  The walk to the local grocery store was uneventful. Westview was... nice. It was the kind of town where people actually stopped their cars to let you cross the street. It was aggressively pleasant. It made my skin crawl.

  I walked past the town square. I saw the gazebo that would later become a focal point of Wanda’s sitcom madness. Right now, it was just a gazebo. A teenager was skating near it.

  "Enjoy the pavement while it’s still 3D, kid," I thought.

  I entered the grocery store. The blast of air conditioning was a shock to the system. It smelled of floor wax and produce. I grabbed a basket and started navigating the aisles.

  "Yogurt... yogurt..."

  I turned into the dairy aisle, scanning the shelves.

  "Greek or regular? Greek holds the marinade better. Let’s go Greek."

  I reached for a tub of regular yogurt.

  That’s when I felt it.

  A static charge that made the hair on my arms stand up.

  I froze, my hand hovering inches from the dairy shelf.

  I knew that feeling. I knew it better than my own heartbeat.

  I turned my head slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

  She was there.

  Standing at the end of the aisle, maybe twenty feet away. She was looking at a display of cereal, her back mostly to me. She was wearing a grey hoodie, the hood pulled up over a baseball cap, trying to disappear. Her posture was slumped, as if the weight of the universe were pressing down on her shoulders.

  Wanda Maximoff.