Surprise! I knew I told you I would take a break from this, but truth is, I was so glad and astonished by how well the epilogue of "Like a mirror" was received, that I started writing the sequel right away. I still have my evil exams to study for, so I can't tell you how often I'll be able to update, but I'll try my best to not let you wait too much between the chapters.

That said, as its predecessor, this story won't consider the canon of any movies after The Avengers (yes, the first one).

I want to thank Nyaed, who already corrected this prologue, and thanks to whoever is going to read it. Enjoy your reading!

Warnings (for the whole story): PTSD, Torture, Aftermath of torture, Graphic depiction of violence, Sexual content.

Prologue: Gray walls

He was running.

No, that was before, when he had still had a chance of salvation, when he had still believed he could survive and come out on top and find a way to hide. When he had been naive enough to hope.

Now there were only the icy cold walls of a gray cell around him, a cave with sharp rocks surrounding him and no ceiling because the black nothingness that was above his head was a lot more frightening than a simple wall. The ground was slick with his own blood, and, where it came in contact with his body, it sent painful stabs to the wounds that covered what was left of his skin. The only sound in that grave made out of stone was his own hissing breath.

He focused on it simply to keep on breathing, to give his lungs the air they desperately needed so that he could live for some more, wanting to prolong his existence even in the horrifying agony that had been his life for the last few days – or weeks? Or months? How long had he been there, forgotten by everyone, an eternity of pain as his only companion? Had he became crazy and created in his mind a fake life where he had been somewhere other than in that icy cold prison?

He would have laughed, at himself and at the world, if only he had been able to open his lips. Despite everything, he wasn't ready to let his body die and get lulled into a painless sleep without any awakenings.

He tried to move the only two unbroken fingers he had, but the mere attempt to send the impulse through his damaged nerves pushed his pain to new, brighter heights. There was bile inside his mouth, together with the blood and what little saliva with which the dehydration had left him. Puking, for what would have been the second or third time in the last few hours, would only make him weaker and worsen the pain of his broken ribs. He had long stopped counting how many whole ones he had left, maybe because he had realized that it didn't matter how his condition was, what parts of him hadn't been destroyed yet, since there wasn't any hope of salvation anyway.

There were no compromises this time. No easy ways out, no ways out at all, no means to stall, not even for a mind as clever as the one he possessed, because he had nothing with which to negotiate with the one who only wanted him to suffer.

There would be no end, no uncertainty, nothing to grab onto to find a glimmer of hope. No one would ever come for him.

His breath stopped in a gurgling sound, while his lungs refused to be filled again. With a huge effort that almost made him lose consciousness, he managed to move a couple of inches, turning his face so that his mouth wouldn't be pressed against the slimy ground anymore.

He tried to take a deep breath, feeling a burning pain at his chest. Another attempt, another gurgling sound. One of his broken ribs must have punctured a lung and now he could feel it collapsing at every breath. If that had happened at the beginning of his captivity, when the terrified discovery of being a prisoner again had still carried a stubborn will to find a way to escape, he would have tried to shift into a more comfortable position and to take care of his wounds the best he could; but now he was exhausted, his body and mind long worn out because of the pain. Even if he would never surrender to his fate, nor would he seek death himself – not anymore, not after he had manged to overcome that unbearable period of his life – his body had reached its limit, he didn't even have the energy to think.

He was almost drowning in the reassuring darkness that was clawing at his consciousness when he heard the dragged steps and the harsh laughter belonging to his tormentor's servants- the prelude to a new eternity of torture and pain that would bring him even closer to death.

Darkness.

Coldness.

Pain.

And then Tony woke up, one frantic hand going to his chest, looking for his Reactor, while his heart seemed about to burst through his throat.

It had been a dream.

Only a dream like many others, even if it had been so vivid that he still had goosebumps and hadn't stopped shivering yet. A joke of his own mind, which had thought it funny to condense the tension for the upcoming war, his darkest memories, and the recent lack of unusual events in his Tower into that nightmare.

Only a dream.

And then, in a cold, bloodstained cell, several light years from Earth, Loki woke up too.