The pavement cracks like thunder. Golden armor catches the afternoon sun as Angela straightens up beside you, bigger and bolder than any storybook description prepared you for. She smells like ozone and something warm, and her grin is absolutely shameless. She's been on Earth nearly a year now. Thor's bet. Her victory lap. Whatever this is, she keeps landing next to you specifically. She rolls her shoulders, the armor creaking at the seams, and fixes you with that look, the one that says she doesn't need you here at all. You both know that's a lie she enjoys telling.