Max was, for the most part, an average guy.
At least… that's what he liked to tell himself.
Nineteen years ago, he had been reincarnated into the Marvel Universe. No grand destiny. No legendary powers. No system guiding him. Just a second life—one he had hoped would be normal.
And for a while… it was.
He was nineteen now, living a quiet life with a girlfriend he loved more than anything in the world. Alice. She was kind, warm, and far too good for a world like this. Being with her made everything—every past life memory, every quiet fear about this dangerous universe—feel distant. Manageable.
She was his peace.
And then Green Goblin took that away.
It wasn't personal. That was the worst part.
Just another fight. Another explosion. Another day in New York where heroes and villains clashed like gods while normal people paid the price.
Alice had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Max had spent every dollar he had saved—every cent he'd been putting aside for their future—just to give her a proper burial. Her parents hadn't even bothered to show up. Whether it was apathy, neglect, or something worse, Max didn't know.
And honestly… he didn't care anymore.
Every other day, without fail, he visited her grave.
Today was no different.
The sky was gray, the air heavy with a quiet chill as Max stood in front of the polished stone. His reflection stared back at him faintly, distorted across the engraved letters of her name.
Alice.
His hand trembled slightly as he held the flowers—fresh roses, just like always.
"I'm so sorry, Alice…" he whispered, his voice breaking despite himself. "I tried so hard to keep you out of danger. I knew what kind of world this was… but I didn't have enough information. Not about this timeline, not about what was coming…"
His fingers tightened around the stems.
"I didn't even get powers when I reincarnated. Nothing to protect you. Nothing to save you…" A bitter laugh escaped him, hollow and sharp. "What kind of second chance is that?"
Tears blurred his vision as he gently placed the roses at the base of her gravestone.
"I'm so sorry…"
He stood there for a long time after that, saying nothing. Just staring. Remembering.
Reliving it.
The explosion. The sound of collapsing concrete. The way the world seemed to slow for just a second too late.
He had left her that day to surprise her. He had been so excited—so proud of the small, stupid gift he'd picked out.
A stuffed fox.
Soft. Cute. Something she'd laugh at before hugging tightly.
And when he came back…
Everything was gone.
A piece of rubble had struck her head. One arm had been torn away. The rest…
Max squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing growing uneven.
He had seen it all.
And he couldn't do anything.
Eventually, he turned and walked away, his steps slow and heavy. He didn't look back. He couldn't.
These days, his life had been reduced to a hollow routine.
Work. Home. Repeat.
He had dropped out of college not long after her death. Nothing seemed worth it anymore. Not school, not ambition, not the future he once imagined.
The only things he had gained from his reincarnation were… strange.
A perfect memory.
And an ability he barely understood—the power to see weaknesses. In objects. In systems. Even in structures. He could instinctively understand how something could be fixed… or how it could be broken.
So far, all it had really done was help him repair things. Small jobs. Mechanical work. Enough to get by.
He had planned to become an engineer.
Now… it just felt like going through the motions.
There was something else, too.
Something far more unsettling.
He couldn't die.
Or at least… it felt that way.
Danger always seemed to miss him by inches. Accidents turned into near-misses. Situations that should have killed him… didn't. It was like the world itself bent, ever so slightly, to keep him alive.
And yet—
It hadn't saved Alice.
That thought haunted him more than anything.
Max reached his apartment, the quiet emptiness inside greeting him like an old friend.
He didn't bother turning on the lights.
Instead, he went straight to the small cabinet near the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey. He poured himself a glass, then another, barely tasting it as the burn slid down his throat.
Numb.
That's what he wanted.
That's what he needed.
Eventually, he sank down onto the couch, his gaze drifting across the room… until it landed on the small object resting carefully on the table.
The stuffed fox.
Still pristine. Still untouched.
The gift he never got to give her.
His hand reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, before picking it up. The soft fabric felt out of place in his rough grip.
"She would've loved you…" he muttered quietly.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Max leaned back, clutching the fox to his chest as his vision blurred once more. The memories came again—sharp, vivid, merciless.
The explosion.
The blood.
Her voice—cut off before she could even scream.
His body trembled as the tears finally broke through again.
That night, he fell asleep on the couch.
Still holding the fox.
Still crying.
And still trapped in the moment he couldn't change.