The city didn't sleep that night.
Not because of the sirens or the neon lights, but because something above it was awake.
King Toxic sat on the edge of the Chrysler Building, his boots dangling over a hundred stories of glass and indifference. The wind howled, but he was calmer than the night deserved. In his hand, a cracked smartphone played a voicemail loop from Director Fury himself:
> "We're not running a circus here, Toxic. If you're done bending space like origami, maybe try not to piss off half the multiverse this week."
King Toxic chuckled, dragging a fingertip through the air. The space before him rippled, showing distorted images of the city below—cars frozen mid-turn, pigeons flapping in slowed time. He flicked his wrist and the distortion snapped shut like a door.
"Fury," he murmured, smirking. "You say that like the circus isn't already mine."
He pulled a small cube from his coat pocket—black, humming with power. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Inside it, he could sense an impossible geometry trying to unfold itself. A Stark Industries prototype gone wrong, they said. But King Toxic could feel something older inside it. Something alive.
The cube whispered to him.
Not words—just intent. A hunger to stretch, to reach, to consume space itself.
"Relax," he said to it, like calming a stray animal. "You'll eat when I say you eat."
---
Across town, S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists stared at a series of impossible readings. The rift energy pattern King Toxic had left behind was growing—like a virus spreading through the city's geometry.
Street blocks subtly shifted in dimension, windows reflecting buildings that didn't exist, gravity thinning in random pockets.
One tech analyst whispered, "It's like the city's folding in on itself."
"Or," said Agent Hill grimly, "someone's rewriting the rules."
---
Back on the rooftop, a light blinked in the clouds—one… two… three. It wasn't lightning. It was a code.
King Toxic's grin widened. "So, the gods finally learned Morse code. Cute."
He snapped his fingers. Space bent beneath him, and he fell through a fold that wasn't really there—reappearing in the back alley of a shuttered cathedral downtown. The air here smelled wrong, like ozone and nostalgia.
Waiting for him was The Woman—the same manipulator he'd fought weeks ago. Now calmer, scarred, and with eyes that shimmered like fractured glass.
"You felt it too?" she asked.
"Oh yeah," he said, tapping his temple. "Hard not to notice when the fabric of existence starts having a panic attack."
She stepped closer. "It's the cube, isn't it? You've been keeping it."
King Toxic shrugged. "Can you blame me? It's like having a cosmic pet rock. Except this one hums jazz and occasionally tries to eat Manhattan."
Her jaw tightened. "That's not a joke."
"Everything's a joke," he said. "That's why I'm still alive."
---
Suddenly, the air cracked.
A beam of white light slammed into the street, warping the pavement into spiraling helixes. From it stepped three figures in sleek armor, their insignia shimmering faintly with alien runes.
King Toxic sighed. "Ah, great. Space cops. You boys lost, or just allergic to subtlety?"
The lead figure spoke in a calm, synthetic tone. "By order of the Celestial Enforcers, you will surrender the Rift Core. Its containment integrity has fallen below safe thresholds."
He blinked. "Containment integrity? You're talking about it like it's a nuclear smoothie."
"Noncompliance will result in dimensional neutralization."
"Neutralization," he repeated. "Wow. You guys rehearse that in front of mirrors?"
Before they could answer, he tossed the cube in the air—and the world exploded into fractals.
Reality around them shattered like glass, and the Enforcers found themselves suddenly suspended in midair, their armor crushed by invisible pressure. King Toxic caught the cube again and twirled it casually.
"Rule one about Earth," he said. "Never try to arrest someone who's already breaking physics."
He released them. They dropped like stones, vanishing through ripples of folded space before hitting the ground. Gone—not dead, just displaced. Somewhere inconvenient. Possibly Antarctica.
The Woman stared at him. "You shouldn't have done that."
"Why? They were rude. Besides, they'll thaw."
"You don't understand," she said. "Those weren't ordinary enforcers. They were probes. The real ones come after the probes."
King Toxic's smirk faltered. "Ah. So this is the prelude to divine customer service."
She didn't laugh. The street trembled again. Far above, a subtle glow began to spread across the clouds—shifting colors that weren't meant for human eyes.
King Toxic looked up, eyes reflecting the impossible light. "Huh. Guess the gods finally noticed their toys are missing."
The cube pulsed in his hand, stronger now. It wanted to open.
---
He crouched, whispering softly to it, like a mad priest consoling a star. "Easy, beautiful. We'll show them what happens when gods start looking down, yeah?"
The Woman took a step back. "What are you doing?"
He grinned, that feral, razor-edged grin that had made his name legend. "Leveling the playing field."
He slammed his hand into the pavement.
The cube detonated—not outward, but inward.
Space folded violently. The buildings around them twisted into spirals, time fractured into stuttering frames, and for one surreal instant, all of Manhattan looked at itself.
Then came the silence.
Not the absence of sound—silence, as in the pause before something decides whether to exist.
King Toxic stood at its center, coat fluttering, dreadlocks glowing faintly red from the reflected energy.
"Well," he muttered, brushing dust off his shoulder. "That escalated quickly."
He looked at the horizon. Every light in the city flickered once—then steadied.
Somewhere deep underground, S.H.I.E.L.D. sensors screamed.
The cube had vanished from their tracking systems.
But new coordinates appeared in its place—coordinates inside King Toxic himself.
---
Hours later, he sat at a late-night diner, sipping bad coffee as if the apocalypse hadn't just coughed politely at his door. The waitress asked if he wanted refills. He smiled.
"Sure," he said. "Reality's a bit thin tonight. Might as well top it off."
She blinked, smiled nervously, and left.
He stirred his coffee, watching tiny swirls form miniature black holes on the surface.
"They're watching me now," he whispered, half to himself. "Let 'em. I'll wave back."
He raised his mug toward the window, where the sky still shimmered faintly with cosmic color.
"To you, big guys," he said. "Hope you brought snacks."