The next morning
I groaned, slowly opening my eyes. The ceiling above me was cracked in one corner. A faint hum from an old fan stirred the stale air. A desk littered with papers. Faded posters on the wall of some old sci-fi movies.
I sat up slowly, clutching my head. My vision was blurry, but I could tell something was wrong. Not just with the room. With *me*.
I dragged myself to the mirror above a small sink in the bathroom. Still not used to this body
Tall. My body was skinny, like I hadn't eaten in days, and my skin was pale. Not sickly, just… drained.
"What the hell…" I muttered, my voice hoarse, as if I hadn't spoken in a long time.
I stumbled back toward the desk and found a stack of papers. On top of them: a small pile of cash, a worn leather wallet, and what looked like an ID card.
**ANDREW M. BUCK**
Age: 19
Address: Queens, New York
I blinked. The name felt right… but wrong. Like wearing shoes that were your size but didn't quite fit.
I opened the wallet—credit card, subway pass, and a crumpled photo of an elderly couple smiling in front of a house. Behind it, tucked into a folder, was a manila envelope. Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened it.
Newspaper clippings. Crime scene photos. Police reports.
**"Elderly Couple Murdered in Home Robbery Gone Wrong – Suspects Still at Large"**
My breath caught. The names were familiar—*too* familiar.
Margaret and Charles Blackthorn.
My… grandparents?
I didn't remember them. I didn't remember anything. And yet reading those names hit something in my chest like a silent echo.
"This isn't right," I whispered. "None of this is right."
The room. The body. The name. All of it felt like a dream. Or someone else's life that I'd been dropped into.
And the worst part?
I didn't know who I was before this.
--
The air outside hit me like a slap.
It was cold, dry, and smelled like exhaust fumes, hot dog water, and something faintly burnt. I stepped out onto the street and just stood there for a second, trying to process what I was seeing.
New York City. The year was 2000.**
Everything pointed to it—the dated ads, the fashion, the flip phones, the way people talked on TV, the music videos playing on some channel looping NSYNC and early Eminem. But it wasn't just any NYC.
It *felt* different. The air had that cinematic weight to it. And the newspaper headlines? Mentions of a new Stark prototype, strange seismic activity in Part of Africa , and a small article about The legend of Captain America Brooklyn's own .
I was in **Marvel's New York**.
And I was no one.
Not the New York I thought I knew from movies or vague memories, but the *year 2000* version. I was stuck in the early 2000s, and my headache wasn't making it easier to process any of it.
I spent the next few days trying to figure out what the hell to do with myself.
I walked the streets, hiding my eyes under a hoodie and keeping my head down. The city buzzed with life—yellow cabs honking like it was a competition, people rushing in all directions, street vendors shouting about pretzels and knockoff sunglasses.
I found my way to the **Captain America Museum**, located in Lower Manhattan. It felt surreal walking through a place dedicated to someone I once saw as a fictional character. Now, I stood face to face with his shield—well, a replica—and rows of exhibits detailing his life, the war, the serum, and his disappearance.
--
I asked the waitress if anyone was hiring. She pointed me down the block to a small convenience store. The owner was a grumpy guy named Louie who Said I could sweep floors, unpack boxes, watch the night shift .
It wasn't much, but it was *something*.
The job gave me just enough cover to keep walking around the city. Listening. Watching. I noticed things. The way guys in fancy coats handed off little packages to twitchy people in alleyways. The way certain corners had lookouts, eyes sharp, heads nodding at cars that didn't stop. I wasn't dumb. I knew what it was.
Drugs. Gang turf. Illegal trade. The underworld.
Even in a world of superheroes, the streets still belonged to shadows.
I stayed *far* away. I was tall but thin, my body still weak and aching. I couldn't fight anyone. If something went down, I'd be dead before I blinked. But I watched. Took mental notes. The red-eyed guy with hollow cheeks wasn't worth a second glance to them. I was invisible, and that was good.
job at a local convenience store. Night shifts. Mostly quiet. Old register, flickering lights, weird regulars.
Until the sixth night.
It was around 11 PM. I was restocking gum by the counter when this guy came in. Hoodie up, hands in his pocket. Didn't say a word. Just walked up, looked me dead in the eye, and pulled a gun out.
"Open the register."
I froze.
He cocked the gun.
"Now."
My hands shook. I couldn't breathe. I fumbled with the register and popped it open. He took everything. Cash, coins, even the rolled quarters.
He didn't shoot me. Didn't hurt me. Just backed out slowly and disappeared.
I stood there for like fifteen minutes before I called Terry and told him what happened. Cops came. Asked questions. I gave them vague answers. They left. I went home and didn't sleep.
The next morning, I looked in the mirror and didn't even recognize myself again.
Same red eyes. Same pale face. Same broken stare.
---
A week passed.
I cleaned floors. Watched dealers deal. Avoided dark alleys.Drank instant coffee. Read newspapers. Learned street names. Tried not to panic every second I was awake.
I was still weak. Still too skinny to fight or run. But I was surviving. Barely.
Then, on the seventh night, while I was closing up at the store, something changed.
Everything went silent. The humming of the cooler. The buzzing of the lights. Even the city outside.
And then, like it was waiting for the right moment—
**DING.**
> **\[ESSENCE SYSTEM ACTIVATED]**
Host : Andrew