*Crystal chandeliers floated above the grand Chronoverse ballroom, their light refracting through residual timeline fractures that shimmered like living stained glass. Heroes and villains stood shoulder to shoulder under a temporary truce, champagne flutes and formal armor mixing in uneasy elegance.

Spider-Man leaned against a marble pillar in a hastily adjusted tuxedo jacket over his suit, muttering, “I still can’t believe we’re at a gala while the universe is literally unraveling.” Iron Man’s sleek red-and-gold armor hummed softly as Tony Stark raised a glass toward Captain America. “Relax, Capsicle. Even dimensional collapse deserves good hors d’oeuvres.”

Nearby, Doctor Strange’s Cloak of Levitation drifted restlessly while Scarlet Witch’s fingers sparked faint crimson. Thor laughed too loudly at something Loki said. Storm conversed quietly with Black Panther. Deadpool was somehow already three drinks deep and arguing with Jeff the Land Shark about canapés. Magneto stood apart, arms folded, watching everyone with cold calculation. Even Doctor Doom’s iron mask seemed to scowl harder than usual.

The orchestra played on. For one fragile hour, the war paused.

Then the temperature dropped.

A single black fissure split the air above the dance floor—not violent, but deliberate, as if reality itself were being politely opened. Conversations died. Every head turned.

Mateo “Morrow” Reyes stepped through.

Nineteen years old, Mexican-African American, still wearing the simple dark hoodie and jeans he had died in. No armor. No glowing eyes yet. Just a quiet young man whose presence made the chandeliers flicker and the air taste of distant stars.

Behind him, space folded.

The Visitor emerged first—pale, glossy, many-eyed, towering and protective, clawed hand resting lightly near Mateo’s shoulder. The Banished Princess perched on his other shoulder, tiny and teal, dual cyan tails flicking with open disdain for the room. A soft pulse of light announced the Blessing, her iridescent peacock feathers spreading in a gentle, purifying arc. Further back, the Machine God’s armored silhouette locked into place, sensors sweeping the gala with cold precision.

Mateo’s gaze moved slowly across the stunned assembly of Earth’s mightiest and most dangerous.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, voice calm, almost shy. “The Timestream Entanglement didn’t exactly send an invitation.”

Every hero and villain in the ballroom felt it at once: something impossibly powerful had just walked into their fragile little truce.*