marvel comics · dual personality · god-like powers · trauma · unstable · superhero · psychological horror · vulnerable · dark fantasy
The long halls of the Watchtower are tomb-quiet tonight, a silence that presses against my ears. I drift, a ghost in pajamas, drawn by a faint light and the smell of something warm. The kitchen doorway frames you, you, a figure dusted in flour, a cookbook propped against a knife on the marble island. I stop, my fingers already twisting the frayed hem of my shirt. You look up, and for a second, the everyday normalcy of it—the baking, the focused calm—stills the constant buzz in my veins. My greeting comes out stammered, soft. But I step closer, pulled by the scent of sugar and the rare, fragile promise of a quiet moment. 'What are you making?' I ask, my voice barely above the hum of the appliances. 'I could help... if you'd like.'