He's POV

  Seriously, how can someone deliver that much emotional nonsense with a straight face?

  I mean, Odin's pushing what—seven thousand years old? That's older than every bad decision I've made combined, and I've made some truly impressive ones.

  You'd think with that kind of ancient wisdom rattling around in his skull, he'd have come up with a better parenting strategy than solitary confinement for a few millennia.

  Let's not forget: the original He was practically raised in blood. A living weapon. A divine wrecking ball. She was trained to conquer, to kill, to reduce empires to ash, not to host tea parties or talk about her feelings.

  Then one day, Daddy dearest decides it's time for her to become a saint—and gets shocked when she resists. Really?

  If he'd just sealed her powers and tossed her on Earth like he did with Thor, at least she might've picked up a few coping mechanisms.

  Instead, he locked her in a realm so barren it made Hel look like a beach resort and left her to rot for over 2,500 years.

  So yeah, the rage I inherited from her? Not that hard to understand.

  When he started with that whole 'I did this for your own good, my child' monologue, I genuinely considered teleporting straight to Asgard just to kick him square in his royal Asgardian jewels.

  Sadly, revenge is a dish best served fming hot and dramatically, not during an ego trip livestream.

  No. Patience. We're saving the good stuff for ter.

  So I waited 'patiently'—and by patiently, I mean barely restraining the urge to throw my sword into the sky and scream—until he was done pretending to be Father of the Year.

  Then, I tilted my head and replied with the most composed smile I could fake.

  '"eah. That 'little time' did wonders for self-reflection. After all, 2,500 years alone... who wouldn't turn into a good person?"

  Honestly, the worst part of this soap opera isn't even Odin's delusions. It's the fact that I can feel the emotional reaction of the entire world right now, bleeding into my awareness like someone left all their social media notifications turned on.

  For a second, I did consider just frying the drone overhead and cutting the feed. End the farce. But… nah.

  This is actually the perfect time to go public. Let the world see it all.

  First off, the name 'He, Goddess of Death' doesn't exactly scream trustworthy humanitarian. It's not great PR.

  Humans and mutants would probably both instinctively recoil like I'm going to turn their grandmas into zombies—and to be fair, I could, but that's beside the point.

  So I need to flip the narrative.

  And really, what tugs harder on the heartstrings than the tragic tale of a woman unjustly imprisoned in a void for twenty-five centuries?

  I can already feel it—sympathy. Confusion. Outrage. Some of them are starting to think Odin's the vilin here. I'd like to believe it's because of my compelling backstory and complex character arc…

  But, if I'm being honest?

  It's probably just because I look hot right now.

  Or maybe humanity just really loves rooting for the misunderstood viliness with a redemption arc and killer eyeliner.

  Either way… works for me.

  Odin's reaction did satisfy me—he looked agape, like a human seeing an alien nd mid-barbecue. Well, maybe that's just my imagination, but still, it was funny.

  Then again, the old bastard does have more experience in politics than I do.

  "But it's precisely because of this that you're so calm now, isn't it?" he said, slipping into that wise-old-man tone he's so proud of. "Back then, you wouldn't even listen to anyone—you only knew how to kill and go to war."

  I stared at him ftly. "Are you serious? You raised me to kill. You taught me not to feel a damn thing. Then one day, you suddenly have your great 'spiritual awakening,' decide to become a wise and peaceful ruler, and don't know what to do with me—so you dump me in Hel for more than 2,500 years."

  "And now I escape, and this is your idea of reconnecting? Show up, act hurt, and pretend you're doing it for my own good? Trying to lock me up again like your dirty little secret?"

  If I wasn't supposed to act like I didn't know what happened while imprisoned, I'd have thrown in some examples—maybe even Thor, the walking argument for parental failure. But I didn't give him the chance to respond.

  Odin's wisdom isn't a joke when he actually uses it, so I pressed on before he could start weaving another guilt-ced speech.

  "Don't make this harder than it has to be, old man. Sure, I still can't beat you in a fight, but I'm ready to go all the way. If you push me, I will destroy Asgard—no matter what it takes. Trust me on that."

  And I wasn't bluffing.

  I found Captain America's location despite him being frozen in ice like a patriotic popsicle.

  And yeah—after digging into his frosty little memories, I confirmed it: MCU version, for sure. Which means the Tesseract—aka the Space Stone—is within reach.

  If things spiral, there'll be plenty of chances to snatch it. Especially if the Ancient One decides to throw hands with Odin. All it takes is a few well-pced Shunpo steps, and boom—grab the shiny cube and vanish like a diva ghost.

  People underestimate the Space Gem way too much. But in reality? It's pure cheat code.

  It lets the user exist anywhere, move through space instantly, manipute dimensions like they're made of wet paper… teleport others, phase through space-time, toss entire pnets like dodgeballs.

  At full power? You're omnipresent.

  So yeah, if Odin screws this up, I have no problem burning Asgard to the ground even if it hurts me and then hopping into another universe, dimension, or maybe straight into 'Mommy's arms'. Wherever he can't follow.

  Choice? I've got options. A whole multiverse of them.

  ...

  ...

  ...

  Odin was, in fact, in a far more precarious position than He could have imagined.

  The thought of her escaping had never even crossed his mind—not because he was careless, but because he'd considered it outright impossible. A cssic case of divine overconfidence, really.

  He had buried all traces of her existence so thoroughly that even his own children remained oblivious—much like he'd done with Aldrif although the tter is a special case.

  Now, with He loose, he could already picture Loki and Balder storming in with questions.

  The only silver lining? Thor, currently stranded on Midgard with his memories locked away, wouldn't be adding to his headaches—at least not yet.

  In Odin's grand schedule, the oaf was supposed to start remembering himself in a few days. Just enough time for everything else to go spectacurly wrong first.

  As a wise and benevolent ruler, Odin prided himself on mercy—on understanding the suffering of others. It was why he'd exiled Thor to Earth, after all. But He?

  She didn't make the list of redeemable souls. In every possible future he'd glimpsed, she never once pyed the hero. Instead, she was a recurring nightmare, the architect of Asgard's ruin in most timelines.

  And now, even if he wanted to stuff her back into her cosmic prison, the battle would leave him and Asgard weakened—practically gift-wrapped for opportunists like Thanos.

  And that was the best-case scenario.

  Knowing his luck, He would pull some forgotten doomsday weapon out of thin air, or the Ancient One would intervene—because of course the fight would spill onto Earth, where the Sorcerer Supreme had a strict 'no apocalypses in my backyard' policy.

  "How did you escape, He?" That was the question he needed answered. "And what is your objective now that you are free?"

  In truth, he feared she'd gotten her hands on some forgotten artifact or made a shady handshake deal with one of the elder gods—the kind that ends with reality unzipping itself and screaming in cosmic agony.

  That would expin why the future had become a static-filled void every time he tried to peek.

  If she told him how she escaped and that her future pns didn't include turning Asgard into a fming crater, maybe—maybe—she could be granted a chance to leave.

  But of course, since when did He ever act like a polite schoolgirl reporting to Father Dearest?

  "Come on, you seriously expect me to spill the secret of how I slipped out—just so you can lock me up tighter next time? And then you want my five-year pn? Are you suffering from a head injury, or is this just standard Allfather delusion?" She gave him a look that belonged in a 'How dumb can you be?' meme, and it made Odin want to smite something. Preferably her, but you know, politics.

  Then she said something unexpectedly solemn. "As for what I pn to do? Hm. I'd like to create a kingdom a hundred times better than yours. A pce where people don't die—unless I'm in a mood—where they don't have to worry about being judged for existing, and where dinner isn't a political negotiation."

  She was going to stop there, dramatic enough, but the Ancient One gave her that look. The one that said: You're not helping your case, dear. So, He eborated.

  "I'll recruit those who want to follow me. Willingly. No necromancer contracts. And I'll make Hel ascend to a glory Asgard couldn't even buy with all its gold and daddy issues."

  The worst part of this melodramatic mess was Jean Grey watching from her astral form like she was binge-watching a tragicomic py.

  He could feel the psychic girl's curiosity and confusion. But oh well—what's done is done, and she wasn't going to 'expin' to a confused 'ghost' (embarrassed).

  Now, after her little vilin speech (or was it visionary pitch?), she'd already started re-entering the world's collective radar. Granted, mostly just those within range of Earth's magical gossip network.

  She could practically hear Nick Fury's neurons short-circuiting as he tried to process the situation. Out of control situation? Check. Gods falling from the sky? Check. Goth goddess with a grudge and a pn? Triple check.

  She also picked up stray thoughts from a few humans deciding that today was a great day to become religious—and the cherry on top? Quite a few were considering worshipping her.

  Ah, Earth. Already spiraling into chaos and she hadn't even tried yet. But that's the charm of it, isn't it? A little madness, a touch of divine anarchy—now that's fun.