Bruce chose isolation first.
The Arctic was quiet, far from satellites and mystics alike. He carved a shelter into solid ice with heat vision precise enough to leave no thermal signature.
Inside, he stood barehanded, eyes closed.
Testing.
A small knife floated into existence — green energy sharpened into molecular precision. He dispelled it and immediately replaced it with a lead-lined box.
Construct stability: flawless.
Power draw: negligible.
But when he extended his senses outward — probing deeper layers of reality, the places magic lived — pain lanced through his skull.
He staggered, dropping to one knee.
"Right," he hissed.
Magic resistance: low.
Not nonexistent — but unlike bullets or energy, magic didn't care how invulnerable his cells were. It rewrote rules instead of breaking them.
Wanda.
Strange.
Ancient One.
Those names weren't enemies yet.
But they could be.
Bruce stood, steadying himself.
"Which means," he said, "I don't fight magic."
I plan around it.
He began laying out rules.
Rule One: No Public Presence
The moment the world knows him, the game changes.
Rule Two: Preemptive Neutralization
Not assassination — containment.
HYDRA cells.
Illegal weapons programs.
Early alien probes.
Quiet. Surgical.
Rule Three: Lantern Ring Is Last Resort
Too visible. Too alien.
Rule Four: No Gods
If Thor shows up early, something has gone wrong.
The ring pulsed faintly, as if amused.
Bruce ignored it.
He reached into the ice and pulled free a slab, reshaping it into a chair with bare hands. He sat, elbows on knees, eyes shadowed.
"First move," he said.
His vision pierced continents, locking onto a hidden base in Eastern Europe. A skull emblem. Old men pretending to be patriots.
HYDRA.
Bruce's mouth curved into something that was not a smile.
"You don't get five more years," he said.
Green light flickered around his fist — restrained, controlled.
And far away, in Kamar-Taj, an ancient woman paused mid-step, her brow furrowing.
Something had arrived.
Something that should not exist.
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