Loki - -2021-2021

“To 2021,” he said to the void. “The year I learned to stop running. The year I learned to stay.”

He smiled, stepped into the new year, and became the version of himself he had always pretended to be. Loki -2021-2021

He was Loki. God of Stories. And he had lived an entire lifetime in twelve months. “To 2021,” he said to the void

In July, he pruned a rogue timeline himself. Not because the TVA ordered it—there was no TVA—but because some branches grew thorns. A reality where a mad scientist weaponized grief into a plague. Loki stood at the epicenter, held the detonation in his hands, and whispered, “Glorious purpose.” Then he let it go. The branch dissolved. No one cheered. He was fine with that. He was Loki

December 31, 2021. Midnight. Loki sat alone on the roof of the apartment building in the dying branch. Fireworks erupted across a dozen timelines at once, visible only to him. He raised a glass of champagne that didn’t exist—a phantom glass, a trick of light.