"Anton, wake up! Anton!"
Betty Brant's voice hit like an overly familiar alarm clock—a mix of impatience and routine. Her echo filled the office as the Daily Bugle's lights buzzed overhead, casting that particular brand of soul-crushing fluorescent white.
Anton Jameson, half-glued to his desk, blinked like he'd just come out of anesthesia.
"What…?" he mumbled, tongue dry, brain worse.
He sat up slowly, peeling a slightly crumpled, slightly drooled-on sheet off his cheek. The Daily Bugle logo greeted him from the header.
Betty—his grandfather's personal assistant and arguably the most efficient woman to ever walk New York without a cape—stood in front of him. Folder in hand. Impeccable outfit. That neutral-but-exhausted expression that screamed, "This happens more often than it should."
"Tomorrow's front page," she said flatly. She handed him the document. "Sign."
Anton, still not thinking, grabbed a pen, scrawled something vaguely name-shaped, and handed it back. Betty didn't blink. She spun on her heels and left without a goodbye. She didn't need one.
He watched her go, still motionless. The office was big. Cold. Expensive in that sterile corporate way. Way too much space for someone who had no clue what he was doing there.
Editor-in-chief, he thought. The words felt... borrowed.
And then something clicked in his head.
An image.
A headline.
The one he just signed off on.
"TONY STARK — Hero or Threat?"
The cover he hadn't even glanced at came back to him with terrifying precision. The font, the red-and-black layout, the photo of Tony—immaculate, sunglasses on, smirking like a man who knew his net worth to the decimal.
He hadn't really read it. Hadn't analyzed it. But his mind had recorded it, detail by detail, like someone had installed photographic memory while he was asleep.
Had he always had that kind of memory?
And suddenly, it all started making sense. In a quiet, terrifying way.
He looked down.
On the desk, another memo. DAILY BUGLE, in all-caps red ink.
Beside it, a photo frame: J. Jonah Jameson and a familiar astronaut—John Jameson.
He knew them. Of course he knew them. They were characters. Fiction.
Part of the MCU. Or the comics. Or… something else.
But now they were here. Framed. Alive. Tangible.
The air felt heavier.
"This isn't just expensive cosplay..." he whispered.
He wasn't sure what was worse: that he was inside the Marvel universe…
Or that it didn't feel like a dream.
And then the headline flashed again.
"TONY STARK — Hero or Threat?"
That smirk. That damn smirk. Like Stark was watching him from inside his own skull.
Anton rubbed his temples.
"Why does your face piss me off so much, Stark...?" he muttered. "You're just a character. Or… you were."
But the irritation stayed.
Like someone else inside him had fought this battle with Tony before.
And then, without warning, the world changed.
No dream fade. No transition. One second he was in the office—
—and the next, he wasn't.
He opened his eyes to find himself somewhere else.
A massive, white void. No walls. No ceiling. No floor, yet somehow he was standing. Not floating. Not falling. Just... existing, like his body understood rules his brain didn't.
Around him, glass cases hovered in mid-air. Aligned with obsessive precision, like a perfectionist AI had arranged them alphabetically.
Inside them: armor.
He walked up to the nearest case.
Black. Sharp. Elegant but menacing. Not Stark tech. Not anything he recognized from the MCU—or even his most unhinged cosplay daydreams.
This was something else.
Then more cases. Dozens. With logos he never expected to see here: the Flash's lightning bolt. Green Lantern's emerald emblem. Cyborg's implants. Wonder Woman's tiara.
They weren't just costumes. They were legacies. Weapons.
Some versions he only knew from video games, concept art, or obscure comics remembered by three Reddit users and a YouTube video with 2K views.
He tried to touch one.
A transparent barrier rejected him gently, like a polite forcefield saying "nope."
Then the text appeared—suspended in mid-air, white-on-white yet perfectly readable:
Welcome. Please select your primary hero template.
Anton squinted.
"Template...?" he muttered. "What is this, a simulator? A psychological test for DC Fanboys Anonymous?"
No response. Just him. The armors. The silence.
He found himself walking back to the black suit. He didn't know why—but that one. That one felt like his.
No LEDs. No flashy chrome. No "look what I can do."
Just presence. Shadow. Purpose.
A name surfaced.
Bruce.
The thought echoed. Private. Like a prayer he'd said before.
He exhaled.
And then—
—a memory.
Sharp. Brutal.
A street. Empty.
A body. Motionless.
Police, arriving too late.
His brother.
Someone, somewhere, had pulled a trigger on a random day. Changed everything.
Anton had done nothing. Just watched. Just shook.
After that, comics weren't just escape. They were survival.
Batman.
A human among gods.
Pain turned into purpose.
A man who arrived late once... and swore it'd never happen again.
Anton didn't hesitate.
"You," he said to the suit. "If I have to be someone, I'll be you."
A new line appeared:
Hero Template Selected: BATMAN
Special discount activated.
Multiversal transmigration offer!
Base armor: 50 million Fan Points — Now only 9.98 million!
No refunds. No resurrections.
Anton laughed. Dry. Brief. But it was laughter.
"Is this a system or a storefront?" he muttered. "Who wrote this, Deadpool?"
And for the first time since waking up, he didn't feel fear.
He felt curiosity.
The glass cases began to shift. Not suddenly—but with solemn grace. Like soldiers forming a corridor.
First came the icons:
Hellbat—built to fight planetary threats.
Anti-Superman—crafted from lead and kryptonite.
Thermal suit—for extreme environments.
Slam—reinforced for kinetic impacts.
...Bunny suit. A bizarre relic. With ears.
And then—the dark ones.
The ones that shouldn't exist.
The Batman Who Laughs.
The Destroyer.
The Final Judge.
Twisted echoes of Bruce Wayne. Born from worlds where morality was optional. Each suit stared at him like they were waiting for Anton to take the next step.
A new text appeared:
Each suit contains the full abilities of its corresponding hero.
Some unlock with Fan Points.
Special versions require Justice Points.
Anton read silently.
The system kept feeding him menus.
Fan Points: earned through fame, public recognition, media impact.
Justice Points: gained by doing good, fighting crime, saving innocent lives.
"So… if I want the cool suit, I have to become an influencer," he whispered. "But if I want the badass ones, I have to actually be Batman."
He approached the Hellbat. The air around it didn't feel mechanical. It pulsed. Like it was evaluating him. He reached out to confirm his choice.
A faint tremor pulsed through the air. Subtle. Like the system was processing.
Then—
[TRANSACTION ERROR]
Insufficient balance.
A notification popped up like a passive-aggressive chuckle:
Available Fan Points: 222
Required: 9,980,000
Anton blinked.
"Two hundred twenty-two? Seriously?"
A submenu unfolded without him asking:
Current Point Sources:
– Grandson of J. Jonah Jameson [+100]
– Friend of Tony Stark [+50]
– Viral appearance at charity gala [+32]
– Minor scandal at charity event [+21]
– 'Leader' of the Daily Bugle on paper, not in practice [+15]
– That weird boss at the Daily Bugle [+4]
Anton frowned.
"Friend of Tony Stark…?" he read aloud. "Since when?"
It felt like a line written by someone else. Like the system knew things about his new life he hadn't caught up to yet.
"Perfect," he muttered. "Famous for my last name, viral by accident, and the boss no one respects."
The Hellbat waited. Unmoving. Patient. But untouchable.
Not yet.
Anton lowered his hand. Not defeated—just slapped by reality. This wasn't a game where you picked your skin and started punching crime. No freebies. No destined protagonists. Just work. Strategy. Time.
And maybe...
...something worth fighting for.
"Alright," he said, half-smiling. "Then let's go earn those points."