"What? This house is rented?"
"Yes, sir… If you wish to change your living environment, we have properties available all throughout Hell's Kitchen—"
"Wait a second." Ethan raised his hand to interrupt, staring in disbelief. "What did you just say this place was?"
"Hell's Kitchen, sir. Why?"
The man looked genuinely puzzled by Ethan's reaction. Ethan slowly stood up, ignoring the agent's attempt to stop him, and walked straight out of the real estate office.
Hearing that name jolted his memory—he wasn't in some random parallel world; he was in Marvel.
Back home, Ethan focused his thoughts and opened the interface in his mind.
On the glowing panel, four icons appeared: Inventory, Shop, Contract, and World. Only Inventory and World were lit; the others were locked.
Opening his inventory, Ethan immediately noticed a single card. As he focused on it, a line of text appeared:
> Divine Blessing: When used, shout "I am destiny itself!" to gain thirty minutes of godlike luck. (Usable once.)
Ethan's mind buzzed with bold ideas—like using it to win the lottery.
But after thinking it through, he shook his head. This thing was a last resort, not something to squander on a gamble.
Just then, a sharp knock knock knock came from the door. When Ethan opened it, he found an angry woman in her sixties glaring up at him.
"Uh… can I help you?"
"Ethan! When are you paying your rent?! You're two days late! I'm charging you fifty extra as compensation!"
Ethan instinctively leaned back from her flying spit, forcing a strained smile. Her burly son standing behind her didn't look friendly either.
After a heated, "righteous" debate, Mrs. Felicia finally accepted Ethan's old laptop as payment and—out of her infinite generosity—even said he didn't need to pay for the broken window.
So, wearing nothing but a T-shirt and shorts, Ethan was politely "escorted" out of the building by Mrs. Felicia and her linebacker-sized son.
Only after walking for a whole block did his fake smile fade. In just one day, he'd fallen this low—nothing left but a few IDs in his pocket.
As he watched the blonde, blue-eyed people pass by on the street, a deep loneliness crept into his chest. He wandered aimlessly for half an hour until he somehow ended up back near the hotel he'd woken up in yesterday. Looking up at the darkening sky, he sighed and headed into a nearby park.
A few homeless people were already lying on benches. Ethan sat down, dazed.
He had no idea what to do next—keep drifting like this, or start down the path of destruction he'd promised?
Just then, a few men in black suits approached him. One of them said in a low voice,
"Our organization's hiring shooters. Fifty grand a month—as long as you've got the guts to pull the trigger."
The words slithered into Ethan's ears like a devil's whisper. His throat went dry. He hesitated, then shook his head.
The men exchanged glances, then turned to the next homeless man.
Ten minutes later, the group of five left the park with twenty new recruits, loading them into three vans.
Watching the convoy drive away, Ethan felt a twinge of regret—but it faded quickly.
The next day, hunger gnawed at him as he stumbled through the streets looking for help. Not far away, a fifteen-year-old boy sat with a cardboard sign asking for money.
Ethan watched the kid sympathetically. He'd been sitting there for an hour and hadn't gotten a single coin—this kid had no chance.
"Poor child. May God bless you," a woman in a fur coat said as she bent down, patted the boy's head, and placed five Benjamins in his hand. Then she stood up and shot Ethan a look full of disgust.
"…Seriously? Even beggars are this competitive now?!" Ethan muttered in disbelief as, within thirty minutes, the boy had raised over a thousand dollars.
Every single do-gooder who walked by gave Ethan the same look of contempt—some even spat at him.
That night, weak and starving, Ethan dragged himself back to the park and collapsed onto a bench. His eyes fixed on the glowing World icon in his mind.
Like he'd once told himself: If staying alive means destroying the world… then so be it.
After all, he was just dealing with "story characters," wasn't he?
As Ethan hesitated over which world to pick, footsteps approached. The same group of men in black appeared.
He wavered. Crossing worlds was risky—but joining them sounded just as bad.
"I… I'll do it. I can shoot."
Ethan forced himself to stand. The leader, a burly Black man, smirked and waved two of his men over. They grabbed Ethan by the arms and carried him to a van.
The driver handed him half a bottle of water and a small bread roll—apparently his dinner.
"Thanks," Ethan muttered, scarfing it down. Warmth spread in his belly as he smiled faintly.
Ten minutes later, the vans stopped in front of an abandoned factory.
The men herded Ethan and three others inside. The stench of disinfectant filled the air.
Ethan's pupils constricted—organ trafficking.
Before he could act, the leader drew a handgun and gave him a cold look.
"Relax," the man said flatly. "We're not harvesting organs. You just need to cooperate with a little experiment. Then you're free to go."
That didn't help much. Human experimentation? That sounded even worse.
Still, with a gun pointed at him, Ethan had no choice but to walk forward.
Inside a glass chamber, he saw a man covered in bone spurs—his heart raced. Mutant.
Suddenly, his thoughts of world-hopping vanished. Instead of destroying worlds, maybe he could use this experiment… and awaken a superpower.
The idea calmed him. The burly man gave him an approving look and went to whisper something to a man in a white coat.
The white-coated man glanced at Ethan and nodded. "Marcus says you've got potential. I'm Ajax, the one in charge here."
As he spoke, Ajax studied Ethan's body, then took a syringe from a female assistant and injected a pale-blue liquid into Ethan's arm.
Watching Ethan's expression twist in agony, Ajax frowned slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes.
"AHHHHHHH!!"
Ethan's scream tore through the factory. The assistant quickly shoved a cloth between his teeth.
A minute later, Ethan's body began to swell, the straps binding him creaking under the pressure. Sweat poured down the assistant's forehead as she struggled to hold him still—no longer calm in the least.
Ajax's eyes, however, gleamed with a spark of excitement.