2008 – Malibu, California
Night pressed softly against the glass walls of Tony Stark's coastal mansion. Waves sighed against the cliffside below, dark water glimmering in the fractured moonlight. Inside, the hum of machinery was the only heartbeat the house had left. Jarvis had dimmed the lights hours ago, but Tony hadn't slept.
He stood by the open balcony doors, a tumbler of scotch in his hand, staring at the vastness of the Pacific. The alcohol burned less than the silence. His nightmares had become indistinguishable from his waking thoughts — shadows of fire, sand, and screams looping behind his eyelids.
He'd escaped the cave, yes. But in the quiet, he could still hear the hammer striking metal. His prison had followed him home.
When he finally set the glass down and let his body sink into the chair, exhaustion dragged him under faster than he expected.
And that's when he came.
There was no rush of wind, no change in the air. The world did not resist his arrival because it could not — he was written into its foundation. The gentle roll of the tide continued, the stars shimmered undisturbed, and the ocean breeze brushed through Tony's hair as if nothing at all had changed.
But something had.
Tony's dream began simply: the sea before him had stilled, its horizon perfectly flat. Then the moonlight seemed to pool together, coalescing into a figure standing on the water's surface.
A man — or something wearing the shape of one. Pale skin, hair black as a night without stars, eyes holding the soft shimmer of a thousand stories. When he spoke, his voice carried the stillness of a world before time began.
"You've seen your own mortality," the figure said. "And now you're awake."
Tony blinked, unsure if this was another fever dream. "Yeah, well, I'd prefer a little less introspection and a little more sleep."
The stranger smiled faintly, a ripple of warmth in an otherwise infinite calm. "Sleep comes for those who trust it. You do not."
Tony snorted. "You sound like my therapist. You charging by the hour?"
"No," Dream said gently, "I charge in truth. And you owe yourself quite a bit of it."
Tony rose from the chair, though he wasn't sure when it had vanished — now he stood barefoot on a dream-version of his balcony that extended endlessly over the sea. "Who the hell are you?"
Dream tilted his head, as if considering the question anew. "I have been called many names. To some, I am Morpheus. To others, Kaikhosru. In your myths, I am the shadow that carries the first thought into rest. You may call me Dream."
"Right," Tony muttered. "Dream. Figures. I finally go nuts and my hallucination's got a better sense of branding than I do."
He expected a smirk, but the figure simply watched him — calm, ancient, impossibly understanding.
"You were changed," Dream said. "Not by fire, or iron, or fear. But by the dream that nearly died in you. The dream of who you could be."
Tony laughed bitterly. "You think I dream of being a better man? I build things. I fix things. I drink, I talk too much, and I make mistakes. That's me. There's no poetry there, pal."
"And yet," Dream replied, "it was poetry that brought you back from the desert. The poetry of survival. The rhythm of creation. You built a heart for yourself when yours was broken."
Tony's expression faltered. "That wasn't… it wasn't about that."
"It was," Dream said softly. "Every act of creation begins with defiance. You defied death. You defied your own apathy. You built something that could save, not destroy."
Silence fell. The waves below shimmered faintly, catching colors Tony couldn't name.
He rubbed his eyes. "This is one hell of a dream."
"It is," Dream said. "And it is also a door."
Tony frowned. "A door to what?"
Dream stepped closer, and the stars seemed to draw in around him — not in submission, but in reverence. "A door to the part of you that believes again. You stand at the edge of something greater, Anthony Stark. A world reshaping itself, and it will need dreamers — even the reluctant kind."
Tony stared at him for a long moment. There was no threat in the being's tone, no divine judgment. Just quiet truth. The kind that lodged itself somewhere deeper than the heart.
He exhaled shakily. "You're saying I'm part of some big cosmic plan?"
Dream smiled — a small, almost wistful thing. "No plan. Merely consequence. You dreamed of being a hero once, before cynicism taught you that only fools save the world. I am only here to remind you: dreams never die. They wait."
The scene began to fade — not like a dream collapsing, but like a tide pulling away.
Tony looked out at the sea again. "So what happens when I wake up?"
Dream turned toward the horizon. "Then you build again. And maybe, this time, you build something worthy of the dream."
Tony blinked. The ocean returned, the night sounds resumed, and his eyes opened. The chair beneath him was solid again, the air real.
He didn't remember falling asleep — only the voice, the stillness, the words.
Down below, the waves glimmered faintly in the moonlight, and for the first time in months, Tony felt the weight in his chest ease just enough to breathe.
He poured the scotch down the sink.
In the reflection of the glass, just for a heartbeat, he thought he saw a figure standing on the water — tall, dark, and calm, watching the shore.
Then it was gone.
And Tony Stark, the man who had seen death and dreamed again, whispered to the empty night:
"Guess I'll build something better."