For the first few months—January to April—he did nothing. He sat in a small apartment in a reality where Asgard had fallen but New York still stood. He drank cheap coffee and stared at the ceiling. The TVA was gone. He Who Remains was dead. The loom of fate was unspooling into infinite, beautiful chaos. And Loki was… tired.

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

He was Loki. God of Stories. And he had lived an entire lifetime in twelve months.

He left before Thor could ask his name.