RIFTS OF DOMINION: THE OMEGA CONVERGENCE

The Stark Tower penthouse sprawled like a high-tech aerie above the Manhattan skyline—floor-to-ceiling windows framing the glittering city lights, open-plan living area flowing seamless from kitchen to lounge, forty feet of polished marble and chrome with holographic interfaces flickering on walls, nursery tucked in a warded alcove off the main space. The air hummed with FRIDAY's subtle presence, mixed with the warm milk-and-powder scent of the twins' recent feeding, undercut by Tony's ozone-bourbon Omega aroma—now laced with the maternal sweetness that came from nursing, breasts still tender under his loose tank top. James and Rebecca cooed from their play mat in the center, five months old and already reaching for holographic toys that danced just out of grasp, dark curls and bright eyes mirroring their absent father's in ways Tony tried not to dwell on.

Tony Stark paced the lounge, arc reactor glowing steady blue through his shirt, coffee in hand black and bitter to chase the exhaustion. Sleep was sporadic—pups demanding feeds at odd hours, SI crises via holo-call, Avengers alerts pinging constant. The gold mark on his left arm burned warm for Bucky, a persistent reminder of the Alpha ghost who'd knotted him and vanished, leaving twins as legacy. Pepper managed the corporate front, her Alpha citrus-steel a grounding force during visits; Rhodey patrolled in War Machine, leather-jet fuel musk protective over comms. The Avengers buzzed in orbit—speculation on the "mystery sire" hushed but present, Nat's covert glances, Clint's dad-jokes about diaper duty.

Anomalous energy readings had spiked that morning—FRIDAY's scans lighting red across the boards, rifts in reality that tasted wrong: gold-threaded, pulling like bonds but vast. "Boss," FRIDAY had said, Irish lilt concerned, "This isn't tech. Not even yours."

Tony rubbed his temples, mind spinning diagnostics. The door chimed—unexpected, security bypassed. "Incoming visitor," FRIDAY announced. "Doctor Stephen Strange. Sorcerer Supreme. Cleared by SHIELD protocols."

Tony arched a brow, setting coffee down. "The wizard? What, did I order a magic show for the kids?"

The elevator opened, Stephen Strange stepping out—cloak settling around his shoulders like living fabric, tunic crisp red and black, goatee trimmed precise, Alpha scent soft like aged leather and mystic incense, calm and observant without intrusion. He scanned the space in one sweep—eyes lingering on the twins' play mat, then Tony—thirty seconds of quiet assessment, blue gaze piercing but kind.

Tony crossed arms, suspicion flickering—gentleness wasn't his norm, armors built against it. "Doc. To what do I owe the house call? Run out of rabbits for your hat?"

Strange's lips twitched faint amusement, but his voice stayed even. "Mr. Stark. Or should I say, Iron Man. I've been monitoring energy anomalies—rifts in the dimensional fabric. Your AI flagged similar readings. I thought a consultation might be... prudent."

Tony gestured to the couch, holographic scans blooming in the air between them. "Prudent. Cute. What's your take, Gandalf?"

Strange sat graceful, eyes drifting to the twins again—James gurgling at a floating star, Rebecca batting tiny hands. He watched thirty seconds more, expression softening genuine. "They're beautiful," he said careful, kind—voice low, no pity, just observation. "Strong, like their mother. You've done well protecting them in this chaos."

Tony's gaze sharpened, suspicion deepening—not used to unarmored words, especially from Alphas. Gentleness felt like a trap, Howard's echoes sneering "soft." But Strange's tone held no edge, just availability—staying nearby without pressure, cloak folding neat as he leaned forward to study the scans.

Tony filed it—another Alpha orbiting, but different. Soft. The gold mark under Strange's sleeve burned hot, unrecognized—pull toward Tony ignored for now. "Yeah, well. World's full of threats. What's new with these rifts?"

Strange traced a sigil, green energy overlaying FRIDAY's data. "They're not magical. Not entirely. Something older—corrective. Like the universe mending a tear from long ago."

Tony's mind flashed to Howard's secrets—the rumored discarded son, Omega like him. Coincidence? Filed that too.

Strange lingered post-consult—available, no push. "If you need assistance... with anything," he said departing, eyes on the twins once more.

Tony nodded wary, door closing. Gold mark for Bucky warm, grey for Steve dim, now a faint pull toward Strange? Filed.

The anomalies pulsed—rifts stirring.

Convergence neared.