Ian's Psoriasis Behavior

The agent did not know Ian.

But he knew that face was unmistakably the source of the current distortion in the timeline.

It was the face of a young man. Black hair, calm eyes, lips pressed together slightly. He wore an ordinary shirt and stood barefoot against some indescribable background—one that seemed to be an interweaving of light and darkness, a fusion of heaven and hell, some tangible manifestation of the origin of all things.

The rookie agent's heart skipped a beat.

He whipped his head toward his supervisor, then snapped it back to the statue, doing so several times in a row. A clacking sound came from his throat, but he could not get a single word out.

"How is this possible!"

The rookie agent realized something.

That face was clearly the man disrupting history, the man who had just erased Dormammu's existence, the guy who had caused the timeline to collapse and veer toward an unknown direction!

"Th-this is impossible—he—he's clearly changing history—he's clearly destroying the Sacred Timeline—why—why would his statue be here—" The rookie agent finally found his voice, but it was trembling so badly it was almost unrecognizable.

The supervisor said nothing.

He only gazed quietly at the statue, his eyes carrying an emotion that transcended time and space—not worship, not awe, but something far deeper.

Belonging.

Recognition.

The relief of "you've finally come back."

The rookie agent stood where he was, the statue's radiance spilling over him and stretching his shadow long, long behind him. He was still looking up, still openmouthed.

Still unable to comprehend everything before his eyes.

But deep within his heart, something far more ancient was awakening.

It was the mark engraved in the genes of every member of the Time Variance Authority, the ultimate secret of all timelines, all dimensions,