[Review] Avengers: Twilight – When the Dream Dies Loudly

What happens when the dream is over?

That’s the haunting question at the heart of Avengers: Twilight, Marvel’s latest dystopian saga, penned by the always-provocative Chip Zdarsky and gorgeously illustrated by Daniel Acuña. Set in a chilling future where the Avengers have been disbanded, disgraced, or simply disappeared, the six-issue series offers something rarely seen in Marvel canon: a funeral for superhero idealism, played with a mix of sorrow, fury, and uncomfortable introspection.

It’s not the first time Marvel has asked what happens after the end. Old Man Logan, Marvels, and Ruins have all dabbled in similar territory. But where those stories looked outward at the destruction of the world around the heroes, Avengers: Twilight turns inward. It’s about what happens when the world keeps going but leaves its champions behind. And more than anything, it’s about Steve Rogers an icon who wakes up not just in the wrong time, but in the wrong truth.

This review contains light spoilers for Avengers: Twilight. While major twists and character fates are avoided, this piece does explore key story developments, themes, and shifts that are better experienced firsthand. Proceed with some caution if you’re spoiler-sensitive.

The America of Avengers: Twilight is unrecognizable. The streets are clean. The citizens are safe. The future looks efficient and ordered. But underneath the surface lies the rot: a controlled state where superheroics are outlawed, policed, and mythologized into compliance. Heroes are remembered not for what they stood for, but for how they were co-opted, neutralized, or erased. At the center of it all is Steve Rogers. No longer the super soldier, Steve is just a man, stripped of his serum, age catching up with him, reduced to a symbol with no place to belong. He’s a relic living in quiet obscurity until a public tragedy forces him to intervene. That act sets off a chain of consequences that reignites the embers of rebellion in a world desperate for meaning but terrified of resistance. What follows is part detective story, part political thriller, and part personal reckoning. As Steve searches for the truth about what happened to his fellow Avengers, he’s faced with ghosts of the past, both literal and ideological. Some have adapted to this world, some are long dead. And some… have become something else entirely.

The plot moves at quite a slow pace, which works in its favor. Zdarsky isn’t here to dazzle with an action packed spectacle, instead he’s pulling a thread of quiet tension until it eventually snaps in a glorious crescendo. While it’s ultimately a story about courage, it’s also about the trauma of waking up to find the war you fought didn’t end in victory, but in slow eventual surrender.

Where Avengers: Twilight really earns its place is with its thematic weight. It’s not a story that’s built on nostalgia or fan service, instead the narrative is one about legacy, specifically what happens when legacy is rewritten by those in power. The Avengers, once a symbol of unity and resilience, have become cautionary tales or outright propaganda. Their iconography has been sanitised and twisted. And Steve, the eternal optimist, is forced to confront the fact that the ideals he fought for have been quietly dismantled in his absence. There’s also a deep sense of moral ambiguity woven into every page. Who are the real villains here? The government that outlawed superheroes in the name of peace? The corporations that commodified power and influence? Or the heroes themselves, who failed to stop it when they had the chance?

Unlike a lot of dystopian superhero stories, this one doesn’t hinge on a singular cataclysm. There’s no world-ending battle or sudden collapse. Instead, it’s a death by a thousand cuts. Laws passed quietly. Public opinion turned with slick campaigns. Heroes taken down one scandal at a time. That realism makes the horror land harder. Zdarsky isn’t asking “what if we lost?” he’s asking “what if we gave up without realising it?”. The tone reflects that dread. There’s almost no levity here, which may put off fans used to Marvel’s normal style. But it works. The silence in this book is deafening. Characters pause before speaking. Panels linger on faces burdened by guilt. And through it all, there’s a persistent question: What does it mean to still believe in something when no one else does?

At the story’s emotional core is Steve Rogers, and Zdarsky writes him with a delicate mix of strength and sorrow. This is not the commanding Cap we know from the battlefront. He’s older, slower, and haunted by irrelevance. But that humanity—his confusion, his anger, his humility—makes him more compelling than ever. It’s a Steve who knows the world has moved on without him, and who must find the will to stand up anyway. Other characters are introduced slowly, and each carries weight. Having Tony Stark’s son as an antagonist is also one of the most fascinating choices in the book—not because it’s flashy, but because it’s complicated. He’s no villain, but he’s not a saviour either. His compromises, his vision of control through order, clash powerfully with Steve’s ideals. Their dynamic becomes a quiet ideological war between two families members who once bled together for the same ideals. Kamala Khan has also has quite the character remodel with the hero finding herself in a chilling role which represents one of the conflicted turns in the story. Once a symbol of youthful hope and diversity, Kamala has been weaponised by the system she once would’ve fought against. Her transformation is not played for shock, but for sadness. It’s a commentary on how even the brightest flames can be broken. Each character brings a different perspective on what it means to inherit a legacy that has failed. There are no easy redemptions, but there is emotional payoff. The characters matter, even when the world tells them they no longer do.

Visually, Avengers: Twilight is gorgeous. Daniel Acuña delivers plenty  of emotionally resonant art work. His style, a blend of digital painting and moody realism, bathes the entire story in a melancholic haze. The cityscapes are sterile. The underground hideouts feel decayed and desperate. The costumes—when they appear—feel out of place, like museum relics worn by ghosts. Acuña’s colour palette also plays a heavy role in the book’s atmosphere. Muted blues, tarnished golds, and deep reds, don’t just signal emotion, they weigh the panels down. Everything feels heavy. And that’s the point. The world of Twilight isn’t dynamic or energised. It’s tired. It’s waiting to die. And Acuña captures that exhaustion beautifully. His panel work is also incredibly expressive. Long silences. Tight close-ups. Wide, panoramic shots that isolate characters in sterile public spaces. Action scenes are brutal and deliberately unsatisfying. There’s no stylish choreography or slow-motion glory, just people fighting like they don’t want to, because there’s no other choice. There’s a quietness to his work that forces you to slow down. You don’t race through the pages, you sit with them. And in a story like this, that’s a gift.

It’s impossible to talk about Avengers: Twilight without referencing its spiritual predecessors. Zdarsky and Acuña are clearly nodding to comics like The Dark Knight Returns, Kingdom Come, Watchmen, and even Old Man Logan. But Twilight earns its voice by leaning into Marvel’s particular strengths: flawed characters, emotional realism, and the idea that even gods bleed. It doesn’t mythologize its heroes. It mourns them. It doesn’t ask what would happen if they went too far. It asks what happens when they don’t go far enough. This isn’t some far-flung alternate Earth or multiverse remix. This could be the real future of the Marvel Universe, if it all just slid sideways a little.

Overall, Avengers: Twilight is not a comic for everyone. It’s dense. It’s emotionally draining. It strips away the Marvel gloss to reveal the rusted machinery underneath. But for readers willing to sit in that discomfort, it offers one of the most powerful meditations on heroism, legacy, and belief that Marvel has published in years. Zdarsky’s writing is deliberate, mournful, and painfully aware of its place in the superhero conversation. Acuña’s art elevates that vision into something almost sacred. Together, they haven’t just written a “what if?” tale, they’ve written a warning.

This is not a celebration of the Avengers. It’s a reckoning. A book that asks, “What if the dream really is dead? And what do we do now?”

Rating: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Rob Lake - For more comic book and video game chat why not follow us on TikTok, Facebook, and Bluesky.