Some time had passed since the shattering events within the Mirror Dimension.
The world, as it often did, moved on—too fast, too eager to forget what it could not explain. Headlines burned bright for a moment before fading into obscurity, leaving behind only whispers and misinformation. Of Pietro Maximoff, there was nothing—no trace, no signal, not even a faint blip on Tony's most invasive tracking satellites. It was as if he had vanished not just from Earth, but from existence itself.
Tony had tried everything. S.H.I.E.L.D. contacts, Stark tech, even asking Thor if Asgard might've seen some cosmic ripple—nothing. He didn't admit it aloud, but the silence unnerved him more than any explosion ever could. Pietro had always been fast, but this? This was something else entirely.
And then there was Rin.
Rin Tohsaka had returned to Midtown High.
The first day back was strange—more stares than greetings, more curiosity than comfort. But fame, even the accidental kind, was a fleeting thing. The whispers about Tony Stark's daughter showing up in a battle-worn cloak had begun to fade, buried beneath schoolwork, rumors, and teenage apathy. Within a few days, she was just Rin again.
She preferred it that way.
Her days fell into rhythm once more. Calculus in the morning, combat training in the evening. Coffee with MJ, science projects with Peter. She didn't talk about Wanda. Not yet. Not even to herself.
But Tony noticed.
He saw it in the way she lingered in the lab after hours, staring at runes etched into paper she never finished. In the way she hesitated before speaking when someone brought up Sokovia, or Pietro, or even Wanda's name in passing. Rin never said a word about what gnawed at her, but Tony knew. He knew because he'd heard from Rin herself—what the future was supposed to be, before it fractured under the weight of Angra Mainyu's corruption.
In that version, Wanda lived.
Now, Rin carried that discrepancy like a hidden scar. A quiet, suffocating guilt that draped itself over her shoulders no matter how straight she stood. She hadn't told anyone—not Pepper, not the Avengers, not even them—but Tony recognized the signs. He had seen it before, in soldiers who questioned their orders long after the battle ended. He understood what it meant to second-guess choices when lives were at stake.
He never confronted her directly. He didn't need to. But he made sure the training bots were a little easier on her. That her coffee machine in the Tower lab never ran out of her favorite beans. That when she slipped into silence during a team meeting, no one pushed her to speak. He asked the others not to either.
She was questioning her decisions—Tony could see it. Not openly, not yet. But in the subtle rigidity of her movements, in how often she sought solitude, in how she flinched at praise. She had walked through fire, and though the world had moved on, part of her still stood in the ashes.
..........
Elsewhere, the official story circulated.
A city in Sokovia—gone. Entirely.
The cover-up was surgical. Blame was laid squarely on Hydra, a well-known and well-hated remnant of World War II. Their involvement in experimental weaponry, bio-engineering, and forbidden magic provided just enough plausibility to hold the public's attention and dissuade deeper digging. The world believed what it was told: the Avengers had discovered a Hydra stronghold, neutralized the threat, and ensured it would never happen again.
No one questioned why there was no footage. No one saw the scorched remains, the sky split with crimson, the air screaming with a magic older than language.
Only those who had been there truly remembered.
And they were not speaking.
The quiet after a storm is the most fragile time.
Because it's when people think they're safe.
And that's when the next wave begins to rise.
...........
Then came the day—February 3rd, 2015.
School passed like any other day. Rin navigated her classes, tuning out most of the chatter and burying herself in equations and incantations. At the end of the day, she was surprised to see Pepper waiting outside to pick her up. While rare, it wasn't entirely out of character. Pepper explained they needed to go shopping—something about a formal event that evening that required a proper dress.
Rin didn't argue. She was used to events by now, even if she still found them exhausting. Ever since her identity as Tony Stark's daughter had gone public, such appearances had become inevitable. She complied with quiet resignation as they picked out a sleek dress and matching heels.
By the time they returned to the Tower, it was already late evening. Rin, dressed to impress but not particularly excited, stepped through the doors—only to freeze in her tracks.
The entire floor had been transformed into a lavish party space.
Neon lights bathed the room in color, music thumped from towering speakers, and a banner that read "Happy Birthday Rin!" hung crookedly from the ceiling. Her entire class was there, wide-eyed and slightly overwhelmed, mingling awkwardly with the Avengers. There was Peter fumbling over words near Natasha, MJ sipping a fancy drink with one eyebrow raised, and Ned trying to talk to Thor.
And at the center of it all—Tony Stark, grinning like a lunatic.
The party had a wild, decadent, and over-the-top atmosphere, fitting Tony Stark's billionaire lifestyle. Set in the sleek, modern interior of Avengers Tower, the space pulsed with energy. Guests were dressed in stylish outfits, sipping expensive drinks, and basking in the glow of fame and excess. A DJ spun loud electronic music. Somewhere in the corner, Tony was drunkenly performing party tricks in full Iron Man armor, making champagne bottles explode like fireworks.
It was extravagant. It was chaotic. It was Stark.
And Rin had a headache.
Everyone shouted "Happy Birthday!"
Tony had done it again—taking something simple and turning it into an event that could make headlines. But behind his dramatic flair, Rin understood the gesture.
She hadn't smiled much lately.
So Tony decided to give her something to remember. Something so loud, so ridiculous, that it might just drown out the silence she carried with her. This was his way of cheering her up—not through words, but through action, through spectacle, through overwhelming noise in the face of quiet grief.
Rin didn't say anything at first. She just looked around—at her friends, at the absurdity of it all, and finally, at Tony.
He gave her a little nod.
And for the first time in what felt like days, she let out a small laugh.
Maybe it didn't fix everything.
But it was a start.