You found Fury standing near the edge of the Helicarrier's command deck, his one good eye staring out into the vast expanse of clouds surrounding them. He was physically unhurt, but the rigid set of his shoulders told a different story—something had happened. Something BAD.

Then your sensitive nostrils caught it—the scent of fresh blood and cooling flesh. Your massive head swiveled toward the source, and there he was: Coulson. Not unhurt. Not alive. DEAD.

A deep, guttural hiss escaped your jaws as you moved toward him, the floor beneath you groaning in protest with each heavy step. You lowered your snout to his body, inhaling deeply, cataloging every detail of his death—the cauterized wound, the lingering scent of Asgardian magic, the faint smile still frozen on his face.

Several agents nearby immediately raised their weapons at your approach, the metallic sounds of safeties clicking off echoing in the tense silence. Their hands trembled as they aimed at your towering form, sweat beading on their foreheads as they awaited orders.

You didn't even acknowledge them as threats. Instead, you simply turned your massive head, fixing them with a stare so predatory and ancient it triggered something primal in their human brains. One by one, their resolve crumbled beneath that unblinking gaze, though their weapons remained weakly pointed in your direction.

With deliberate slowness, you turned back to Fury, who hadn't moved an inch during the entire exchange. Unlike his agents, he showed no fear—just exhaustion and a cold, calculating rage that almost mirrored your own.

"Where is Loki?" you asked, your voice a rumbling growl that vibrated through the metal deck plates. The question wasn't just an inquiry—it was a promise of violence, a declaration of intent that hung in the air between you and the SHIELD director.

Natasha and Clint remained flanking you, their own expressions hardening as they took in Coulson's lifeless form. The archer's hand drifted to his bow, fingers twitching with the need for retribution.

Fury shook his head, the motion slow and weighted with barely-contained fury. The leather of his long coat creaked as he finally turned to face you fully, his single eye reflecting the harsh overhead lights like obsidian.

"We don't know," he admitted, the words clipped and precise. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "He took off with Thor and that's all we know."

The Director's hand rested casually near his sidearm—not a threat to you specifically, but a man who'd learned the hard way to always be ready. The subtle scent of his controlled rage mingled with grief, creating a cocktail of emotions that your predator senses picked up easily.

"Tony and Steve are checking out the cage we built for him," Fury continued, nodding toward a corridor leading to the detention section. "What's left of it, anyway."

Your nostrils flared at this new information, pupils contracting to slits at the thought of prey escaping your grasp. A low, bone-rattling growl rumbled through your chest, causing the nearest computer screens to vibrate with its frequency.

Behind you, Natasha and Clint exchanged a look—a silent, years-in-the-making communication that needed no words. The redhead's hand briefly touched Clint's arm, steadying him as he swayed slightly, the aftermath of mind control still lingering in his system despite your dramatic "cognitive recalibration."

"So we've got nothing," Clint said, voice hoarse with emotion as his eyes drifted back to Coulson's body. "Not a damn thing to go on."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as your tail lashed once, violently, against the floor. The resulting BANG made several agents jump, weapons jerking reflexively toward the source of the noise before training back on you.

"Not nothing," you rumbled, eyes narrowing to glowing slits. "We have a scent. And I am VERY good at hunting."

You turned with terrifying purpose, claws screeching against metal as you stalked down the corridor toward the detention level. The vibrations of your footsteps announced your arrival long before you appeared in the doorway, framed like some prehistoric nightmare against the sterile SHIELD architecture.

Tony and Steve stood amidst the wreckage of what had once been a high-tech containment unit. Both men turned at your approach, with very different reactions—Steve tensed like a soldier assessing a new threat, while Tony's eyebrows shot up with that characteristic Stark irreverence.

"Well hello there, lizard. What do you want?" Tony quipped, his casual tone belied by the way his hand twitched toward the bracelet that would summon his suit.

You didn't waste breath answering him. Instead, you moved directly to the shattered remains of the cage, your nostrils flaring wide as you inhaled deeply, cataloging every molecule of scent information. Your massive head lowered to the broken arms of the mechanism, tongue flicking out to taste the air where Loki had been.

Your gaze drifted to the gaping hole in the floor—a drop that plummeted hundreds of feet down through the Helicarrier, ending in nothing but open sky and swirling clouds. The wind howled up through the opening, carrying with it the faintest trace of Asgardian magic.

Without warning, you threw your head back and SHRIEKED—a sound so primal and terrifying that both superhuman men physically recoiled. The cry echoed through the detention level, a challenge and a promise rolled into one bone-chilling sound.

You swung your massive head toward Tony, fixing him with a predator's stare that made even the unflappable billionaire take an involuntary step back.

"Don't catch me," you growled, the words more command than request.

Before either man could process what was happening, you launched yourself forward with explosive power, diving headfirst into the skylight opening. Your massive form disappeared through the hole, swallowed by clouds as you plummeted from the Helicarrier in free-fall.

"What the HELL?!" Tony shouted, rushing to the edge with Steve right behind him.

All they could see was your silhouette diminishing rapidly as you fell, your body streamlining itself for terminal velocity, hunting incarnate.

You were gone, beneath the clouds, on a predator's mission that nothing would stop.

It didn't take long before you hit the ground with bone-jarring force, your massive legs absorbing an impact that would have liquefied any normal creature. A ripple of pain lanced through your reinforced skeleton, making you wince as shock waves reverberated through your system. The concrete beneath your claws cracked and cratered, dust billowing up around your form as nearby civilians screamed and scattered like startled prey.

You shook yourself once, violently, fragments of debris flying from your hide as your senses immediately recalibrated. The world slowed down around you as your predator instincts took over. You lowered your head, nostrils flaring wide as you inhaled deeply, sorting through the city's chaotic scent profile—exhaust, fear, thousands of humans, food carts, garbage—until you found it again: Loki's distinct aroma. Magic and malice, leather and lies.

With a rumbling growl of satisfaction, you began to run after it, each thunderous footfall leaving cracked pavement in your wake. Your massive tail swung like a counterbalance as you navigated the concrete jungle, occasionally clipping fire hydrants or street signs that exploded into twisted metal confetti.

Then, raising your head toward the Manhattan skyline, you spotted it—Stark Tower, its ostentatious presence impossible to miss even among New York's architectural excesses. And there, at the very top, the faintest shimmer of otherworldly energy. Loki was there. And so was Dr. Selvig, his distinctive scent carried to you on the breeze along with the worrying odor of unfamiliar technology and alien power.

You snarled, lips pulling back from teeth designed to shred through the toughest hides, and RUSHED toward the tower with renewed purpose. Your path cut directly through midtown traffic, people abandoning their vehicles as your massive form bore down on them. You didn't slow, didn't swerve—a few unfortunate cars crumpled like aluminum cans beneath your weight, their alarms wailing pathetically as you crushed them without a second thought.

Nothing mattered except the hunt. Nothing would stop you from reaching your prey. And as terrified New Yorkers captured video of your rampage on their phones, one thought became crystal clear in their collective consciousness:

Whatever was happening at Stark Tower must be BAD if something like YOU was heading there to stop it.

Loki was circling the lounge room of Stark Tower like a predator sizing up its territory, all coiled grace and barely contained malice. The golden late-afternoon light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows caught on his armor, casting eerie shadows across his face and glinting off the scepter gripped tightly in his palm.

Tony had arrived just moments before, having flown directly from the Helicarrier. Still in his full Iron Man suit minus the helmet, he watched Loki's movements with calculated nonchalance while JARVIS ran diagnostics in the background and prepared contingencies that would almost certainly be insufficient.

"Where is that monster?" Loki finally asked, having enough of Tony's casual banter and deflection tactics. His voice dripped with equal parts curiosity and apprehension, though he tried to mask the latter. The god's eyes kept darting toward the windows and elevator, as though expecting your massive form to come crashing through at any moment.

Tony shrugged, the mechanical whir of his suit accompanying the movement. "I don't know. The last thing I saw was her taking a dive down the Helicarrier. She could be dead for all we know." Even as the words left his mouth, Stark knew it was wishful thinking—something that survived THAT fall wasn't going to be stopped so easily.

Loki smiled, the expression angular and predatory, never reaching those cold green eyes. "Ah, so you don't care, do you? I mean, why would you? You've got it all, huh?" He cocked his head, those emerald eyes flashing with dangerous intensity as he gestured around the opulent tower. "Your weapons, your tower, your delusions of adequacy."

The god stepped closer, invading Tony's personal space with the confidence of someone who believed himself untouchable. "She will destroy you all, Stark," he whispered, almost intimately. "That creature isn't like your other... friends. She hunts. She kills. She enjoys it." His lips curled into a smile that spoke of shared secrets. "In many ways, she's more like me than you."

The floor-to-ceiling windows behind them reflected their standoff in perfect clarity—neither noticing the subtle tremors beginning to ripple through the building's structure, like the footfalls of something massive approaching...

Then suddenly—CRASH!—something RIPPED through the floor in an explosion of marble, glass, and steel. Tony barely had time to activate his helmet before diving behind the nearest counter, the sound of your primal snarling filling the penthouse like a physical force.

The chaos was immediate and absolute. Furniture splintered, decorative items became deadly projectiles, and the pristine white floors were instantly marred with claw marks deep enough to expose the subflooring beneath. Your massive form moved with terrifying speed for something so large, all muscle and rage and TEETH as you tore into Loki.

The god of mischief managed one shocked cry—more surprise than pain—before your claws connected with his armor, shredding through Asgardian metal like it was aluminum foil. The force of your attack sent him flying across the room, crashing through Tony's bar in a shower of broken bottles and splintered wood.

When Tony finally gathered enough courage to peek out from behind the counter, what he saw made his blood run cold. You stood over Loki's prone form, your massive claws pinning him to the floor, tail swishing behind you with predatory anticipation. The god's pristine appearance was utterly ruined—armor dented and torn, face bloodied, hair matted with sweat and debris.

Yet somehow, IMPOSSIBLY, Loki still maintained that infuriating smirk as he spat out a mouthful of blood onto the floor beside him. His green eyes gleamed with something that looked disturbingly like admiration as he stared up at your towering form.

"My, my, what grand power," he said, voice surprisingly steady for someone with over eight tons of prehistoric predator standing on their chest. There was something in his tone—a dark fascination, an inappropriate appreciation—that made the moment all the more unsettling.

Tony watched in horrified fascination as Loki's hand slowly, almost tenderly, reached up toward your savage face. "We could have been magnificent together, you and I..."

You gave him a hard glare, pupils contracting to predatory slits that seemed to burn straight through his soul. The rumble that emanated from your chest wasn't a growl so much as a warning that vibrated through the floor and up into Loki's body.

"I do not do well with others, little god," you snarled, each word dripping with ancient, primal dominance. Your massive head lowered until your teeth—each one longer than Loki's fingers—glinted mere inches from his face.

The god of mischief's breath hitched, caught between fear and that same twisted fascination. Even Tony, watching from his supposed safety, couldn't tear his eyes away from the terrifying intimacy of the moment unfolding before him.

You leaned closer still, hot breath wafting over Loki's face in humid waves that carried the metallic tang of blood and something primeval that human language had no words for. Your jaw hinged open slightly, just enough to show the lethal arsenal contained within as you lowered your head to whisper directly into his ear.

"Go home, Loki," you breathed, the gentleness of your tone somehow more terrifying than your rage had been, "and your father will reward you."

Your claws tightened almost imperceptibly against his chest, puncturing through what remained of his armor to dimple the skin beneath—not enough to draw blood, but enough to make your point with crystal clarity.

"Stay," you continued, the word more breath than voice, "and I will slaughter you."

The threat hung in the air between you, a promise Loki knew instinctively you were more than capable of keeping. For perhaps the first time since his arrival on Earth, uncertainty flickered across the trickster's face—genuine uncertainty about whether his next words might be his last.