Stephen Strange pressed two fingers to the scar on his own hand and felt nothing but the old numbness. He had been the best surgeon in the city once. A car crash had ruined his hands and ended that life. Now he was the Sorcerer Supreme, the one man who stood between Earth and the things that never showed on any government screen. But the hands still shook. He still wanted them back. Tonight the shaking did not matter. A breach he had sealed years ago had torn open again. Strange knelt in his study, tracing a glowing circle on the floor. Through the tear in the air came a cold that dimmed every candle in the room. He stepped through, and the world went wrong. The floor became water that did not wet him. The ceiling became a sky full of falling teeth. This was not a place. It was a dream, and it belonged to someone. "You keep coming back, healer." The voice slid from every direction. Then the master of this realm walked out of the dark. Nightmare stood tall and pale, his red eyes burning above a torn black cloak. Gold marks glowed on his chest. He was the ruler of the dream dimension, and he fed on human fear. Strange had faced him before. Strange had lost before. "I sealed your door," Strange said. "I will seal it again." Nightmare smiled and raised a thin hand. The falling teeth turned into surgical knives. They spun toward Strange in a bright storm. He threw up a shield of light. The knives shattered it. One cut his cheek. He fell back into the false water. Nightmare crouched over him. "I know your dream, healer. You dream of steady hands." The floor showed Strange an operating table. On it lay a patient, and Strange's own hands hovered above, calm and sure. The old life. The thing he wanted most. "Stay," Nightmare whispered. "Cut. Be who you were." Strange reached for the vision. His fingers were steady in the dream. Then he understood. The dream was the trap. Nightmare grew strong on longing, and Strange had just fed him. He closed his eyes and let the vision go. "My hands are ruined," he said. "I will not lie to myself for you." Nightmare screamed. Without Strange's hunger, the villain thinned like smoke. Strange stood, raised both shaking hands, and drew the sealing circle in the air. Light poured from his palms. The dream folded shut. Nightmare's red eyes shrank to two sparks and vanished. Strange fell back into his study. The candles burned again. The breach was closed. His cheek bled where the knife had cut him. He looked at his hands. Still shaking. Still ruined. He had beaten Nightmare by refusing the cure he chased in the waking world. That refusal had cost him. And on the floor, where the circle had been, a single surgical knife lay smoking, carried back from the other side.