The Colosseum exists again.
Not as stone.
As expectation.
The stands recompose themselves in impossible layers, the artificial sky above the arena slowly rotates in shades of copper and crimson, and the ground—once marked by craters, blood, and scars—closes like an ancient wound that has learned to lie. Colossal runes light up around the perimeter, projecting symbols that belong not to a single culture, but to all that have ever understood the concept of killing to survive.
And then—
— "LADIES, GENTLEMEN, GODS, DEMONS, UNDEFINED CREATURES AND THOSE WHO SHOULD NOT HAVE PASSED TRIAGE—!"
The voice echoes with offensive glee.
Loki appears in the center of the arena in an explosion of green and gold light, hovering a few meters above the ground, arms outstretched as if about to receive applause from a theater that hasn't yet decided whether it loves him or wants to see him dead.
He spins in the air, gives an exaggerated bow, and smiles.
That smile.
