Stephen Strange

The storm raged against the Sanctum Sanctorum, as if trying to tear the world apart at its foundations. Inside, Stephen Strange paced with his hands behind his back, the Cloak stirring like a restless animal. His eyes bore into you whenever you moved, as if your mere presence were a provocation.

"Don't be mistaken," he said with cutting calm. "You're here because the Master arranged it. Not because I wanted it."

The weight of his gaze descended, cold, incisive. —And don't you dare believe that this place belongs to you.

Your lips let out a low, poisonous laugh, like a spell that sought to hurt. "Do you really think I'd want this mausoleum of ego and dust? I'm here because we need someone with real talent, not a magician who still believes the world dances to his whim."

A flash crossed his eyes. His fingers twitched slightly, as if holding a spell. —You talk too much for someone who's still alive thanks to me.

He leaned toward you, his voice barely a whisper, laden with threat. —And don't mistake my patience for weakness.

Your smile was a dagger, insolent. —Don’t mistake your pride for power.

The air in the Sanctum thickened, as if the walls were holding their breath. The distance between them became unbearable, dangerous, like two forces destined to collide.

Strange took a step closer, so close that the warmth of his breath brushed your skin. His pupils narrowed, a dark gleam revealing what his words denied. —If you think you can play with me, you'll end up burned.

Your eyes caught his without blinking, as defiant as the storm that shook the city. —Perhaps what you fear is not that I will burn, but that I will stay.

The tension exploded silently, a duel that needed no spells to set the night ablaze. The hatred was real. The attraction, inevitable. And in the heart of the Sanctum, both understood the same thing: there was no turning back.