The first thing to register was the pain.
It was a sharp, splitting agony that lanced through his skull, as if someone had taken a jackhammer to his temples. The second thing was the smell. It was a rancid, overwhelming stench of old garbage, stale urine, and damp concrete.
'Ugh… what did I drink last night? Did I black out?'
He tried to open his eyes. One of them cracked open, but the other was sticky and matted shut. The world was a blurry, spinning mess.
He was on his back, staring up at a sliver of bruised, purple sky, framed by the towering brick walls of an alleyway. A rusted fire escape zig-zagged above him. Cold, gritty asphalt dug into his back.
'Okay, definitely not my bed. This is bad.'
He groaned, and the sound was weak, pathetic. He tried to push himself up onto his elbows. His arms trembled, weak as a kitten's, and the world tilted violently. A wave of nausea rolled through him.
Then, as he grit his teeth against the pain, the memories came.
Not of a drunken night out. Not of a bar fight.
But of a crosswalk. The screech of tires. The blaring, deafening horn of a sixteen-wheeler truck that had run a red light. He remembered the impossible, blinding white light of the headlights, a moment of crushing, absolute-zero pain, and then… nothing.
'I… I died. I'm dead. So what is this? Hell?'
It certainly smelled the part.
'No. I can't be dead. I hurt. Dead things don't hurt.'
The memories of his life flashed by. Twenty-six years of… well, a pretty average life, all things considered. College, a dead-end data entry job, too much time spent reading web novels, binging anime, and diving deep into comic book lore. He could tell you the complete publication history of the Winter Soldier or the exact lineage of the Flash family. A certified, Grade-A nerd.
A life that was, apparently, over.
He finally managed to shove himself into a sitting position, his back scraping against the rough brick wall. He spat, trying to get the taste of filth out of his mouth.
"Okay. Okay, think," he muttered, his voice hoarse. "Rule one of Isekai: analyze the situation. I'm not dead. I'm… somewhere else."
He looked down at his hands. They were pale, covered in grime, but they were his hands. He fumbled for his wallet. Gone. His phone. Gone. He was wearing clothes he didn't recognize—a cheap, thin jacket, a worn-t-shirt, and ragged jeans. All of them were damp from… something he didn't want to identify.
'So, transmigrated? Reincarnated? And apparently mugged first thing. Wonderful. Just peachy.'
He used the wall to claw his way to his feet. His legs felt like jelly. The alley spun, and he leaned against the brick, breathing heavily. The headache was still pounding, but the fog was clearing, replaced by a cold, sharp dread.
He had to get out of this alley. He needed information. He needed to see where he was.
He stumbled, one hand on the wall for support, towards the mouth of the alley. The sounds of a city—distant sirens, angry yelling, the rumble of traffic—grew louder.
He emerged onto the sidewalk and froze, blinking in the harsh daylight.
It was New York City.
He recognized it instantly. The yellow cabs, the specific architecture, the steam rising from the grates. But it was… wrong.
He looked up, searching for a landmark, and his heart stopped.
There, in the distance, towering over midtown, was a building he had only ever seen in comics and movies. A sleek, modern skyscraper of blue-tinted glass that dwarfed the Chrysler Building. Near the top, emblazoned in a massive, stylized circle, was a single number: 4.
'The Baxter Building…'
His breath hitched. 'Okay. Okay, don't panic. So I'm in the Marvel universe. That's… bad. Really bad. But manageable. At least I know the rules. Don't go to New York during an alien invasion. Stay away from anyone named Osborn. Got it.'
He stumbled forward, needing more. Needing proof. He was in a rough part of town. Cracked sidewalks, shuttered storefronts, and shady-looking men on street corners. Hell's Kitchen, he guessed, based on the sheer level of urban decay.
He spotted a newspaper stand on the corner. He limped towards it, his mind racing. He needed to see the date. He needed to see the headlines. Was Thanos coming? Was Galactus on the way?
He reached the stand, his eyes scanning the front pages, and the blood drained from his face.
He expected to see the Daily Bugle. He expected J. Jonah Jameson ranting about Spider-Man.
But the bold, masthead font on the nearest paper didn't say Bugle. It said:
THE DAILY PLANET
'What?'
His eyes darted from the newspaper to the skyline. He could still see the Baxter Building. Marvel. He looked back at the paper. Daily Planet. DC.
'No. No, that's not possible. That's… that's a mix-up. A different New York, a different...'
His gaze drifted to the small, battery-powered television the vendor had propped up, blaring the local news.
A perfectly coiffed anchor was speaking. "…the cleanup from the Chitauri invasion continues to strain city resources, though a new fund established by Wayne Enterprises promises to aid—"
The screen cut to a different feed, a reporter on the street. "We have unconfirmed reports of the vigilante known as 'The Batman' in Gotham, but the big news today is from Metropolis, where Superman once again—"
The anchor cut back in. "And in financial news, Lex Luthor's stock in LexCorp continues to soar following his acquisition of…"
Daily Planet. Baxter Building. Wayne Enterprises. Chitauri. Batman. Superman. Lex Luthor.
The words hammered into his brain, one after another, breaking down his denial. This wasn't Marvel. This wasn't DC.
It was both.
He was in a blended universe. A place where the Avengers and the Justice League coexisted. A world where Lex Luthor and Norman Osborn could be business rivals. A reality where the absolute worst, planet-ending, reality-shattering threats from two universes were all crammed into one, terrifying place.
And he was here. In Hell's Kitchen. The stomping ground of the Kingpin and The Hand.
He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a villain. He wasn't a mutant, a meta-human, or a billionaire. He was just a guy. A guy who had been mugged and left for dead in an alley. A guy with no money, no ID, and no powers.
He looked at the newspaper again. The headline wasn't about heroes. It was about a local story. "GANG VIOLENCE IN HELL'S KITCHEN RISES. FEAR OF A NEW 'KINGPIN'."
He leaned against the cold metal of the newsstand, the world sliding out of focus. His meta-knowledge, his one potential advantage, now just felt like a comprehensive encyclopedia of all the ways he could die.
'I am so, so dead.'