The apartment sat hushed, too still for comfort. Steven slumped deeper into the couch, the faint, buttery tang of popcorn lingering on his fingertips as he scooped another handful. The TV's glow danced across the room, jagged shadows twisting over the walls. Avengers: Endgame. He'd stopped counting rewatches somewhere around a dozen—maybe more. Didn't matter. The final battle still sank its claws into him, raw and unyielding. Thor's hammers sparked with lightning, Iron Man's repulsors thrummed, and Captain America stood defiant, shield cracked but whole. Grit and glory in every frame.
Never gets old, he thought, a crooked grin pulling at his mouth as Thor bellowed, Mjolnir and Stormbreaker carving arcs through the air.
Onscreen, Thanos towered, blood smearing his purple jaw, the gauntlet glinting like a dying star against the broken sky. His voice rolled out, heavy as stone. "I am… inevitable."
Snap.
The screen blinked to black.
Steven froze, popcorn half-chewed. What the—? His mind jumped to the wiring—landlord had been ducking complaints about it forever. He sighed, reaching for the remote, but his hand grazed nothing. No couch under him. No radiator's faint heat. No hum from the fridge down the hall.
A sharp gust stung his face.
He blinked, pulse spiking. The air hit him next—thick with gasoline, exhaust, and something oily, like street-cart hot dogs left too long on the grill. Voices buzzed nearby, weaving through honking cars and the low, electric thrum of a city that never slept.
What the hell is happening?
His eyes flicked open.
The world lurched. Above, a tower stabbed through the clouds, its steel letters blazing: S T A R K.
His breath snagged, popcorn spilling from his fingers. "What… the actual… hell?" The words came out brittle, like they might shatter.
He stood on a sidewalk, strangers streaming past—suits barking into phones, tourists snapping photos, kids lost in earbuds. Nobody looked twice. His heart pounded, loud enough to drown the noise. This isn't right. His T-shirt and jeans felt flimsy, too small against the city's gleam. He stumbled back, sneakers scraping pavement.
That's Stark Tower? His voice cracked, barely a whisper.
His thoughts scrambled, clawing for sense. I'm dreaming. Fell asleep mid-movie, and any minute I'll wake up, couch lines on my face. He slapped his cheek, the sting biting deep. Too sharp. Too real.
Not dreaming.
A cold knot tightened in his chest. "Oh, shit."
How was this possible? He'd read those stories—people yanked into fantasy realms, game worlds, comic books. Pure fiction. A way to kill time. But this… the air was too crisp, the city too loud. If this was real…
I'm in Marvel. Mutants. Villains. Gods with tempers. His legs wobbled. He was just Steven. No powers. No billionaire brain. No magic hammer. Just a guy who liked movies and could maybe talk his way out of a fine.
Dread coiled down his spine. This is bad. Really bad.
Then, something stranger sliced through the panic.
[Ding!]
A chime rang in his skull, sharp like a text alert but louder, closer. He flinched, glancing around—no one else twitched, no eyes met his. A glowing blue panel flickered into view, hovering inches from his face.
[Welcome to the Dimensional Chat Group!]
He stared, throat dry. Blinked hard. Rubbed his eyes. The screen didn't budge, its text clear as day.
No way… a system?
He knew the trope—chat groups linking people across worlds, swapping tips, skills, maybe even powers. A lifeline. A shortcut.
His pulse quickened, a flicker of hope cutting the fear. This could be good.
Another flash.
[Current Status: No shelter.]
[Chance of survival in the next 48 hours: 12%.]
The spark died. "Twelve percent?" he muttered, eyes darting to the towers looming overhead. That number wasn't playing around. This was Marvel—trouble didn't knock politely.
He shoved his hands in his pockets and started walking, sneakers scuffing concrete. Okay, think. No cash. No ID. Sleeping rough was a death sentence—mutants, muggers, or just New York's chaos could finish him. He needed a bed. Tonight. Free, if possible.
Steven wasn't a hero. He wasn't even scrappy. But he had one edge: people liked him. Back home, they'd called him charming—soft eyes, quick smile, a face that didn't scream danger. And when things got tight, he could lean into helpless like nobody's business. Not glamorous, but survival didn't care about ego.
Plan: Look pitiful, find help.
His gaze caught a bar across the street—not a thumping club, but a sleek lounge, all glass and dim glow. The kind of spot where people with money drank to forget their spreadsheets. Perfect.
Inside, jazz curled through the air, mingling with the clink of glasses. The scent of whiskey and waxed wood hit him softly. Steven glimpsed himself in the window—tousled hair, rumpled clothes, like he'd just crawled off a bad flight. It'd do.
He slid onto a barstool, letting out a sigh heavy enough to carry his whole day. The bartender, a woman with a tight ponytail and eyes that missed nothing, glanced over. "What's it gonna be?"
Steven gave a weary, lopsided grin. Showtime. "Honestly? Just needed a seat. Rough night—flight delayed, Airbnb fell through, phone's toast. Whole mess."
She arched a brow, scanning him. "Sounds like a streak of bad luck."
He chuckled, shoulders slumping. "You're telling me."
She nodded and moved off, busy with another order. Fine—he wasn't fishing for her. The trick was waiting.
It didn't take long.
"You alright there?" A woman's voice, smooth with a hint of curiosity.
Steven turned. Mid-30s, dressed sharp but not flashy, a glass of red wine in her hand. Her eyes were keen, sizing him up—not cold, but careful, like she was deciding if he was worth a second glance.
Gotcha.
"I'm okay," he said, tossing in a sheepish laugh. "Just… trying to figure out where I'm sleeping tonight."
"No hotel?" She tilted her head, wine swirling in her glass.
He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. "Had one, but my card's locked. Forgot to warn my bank I was traveling. Now I'm stuck hunting for something cheap 'til it's fixed."
Her gaze lingered, weighing him. She's considering it.
"New to the city?" she asked.
"First trip."
A beat. Then she smiled, warm but guarded. "Well, I might know a spot you can crash for the night."
Steven raised an eyebrow, keeping it easy. "Oh yeah?"
She laughed, sipping her wine. "Got a guest room at my place. You seem harmless, and I'd rather you not end up wandering the streets."
Score.
An hour later, Steven stood in a penthouse, the city's lights sprawling beyond massive windows. Marble counters gleamed under soft lamps, and the air carried a faint whiff of lavender. The woman—Vanessa—had brushed off his gratitude, saying she'd "rather help someone out than let them get stuck in some sketchy motel."
He wasn't arguing.
The guest room was ridiculous—plush bed, silk sheets, the kind of luxury that screamed wealth. No idea what Vanessa did, but it beat anything he'd ever known.
He flopped onto the bed, the mattress swallowing him like a warm tide. Then that chime rang again, sharp in his head. The blue screen flickered back.
[Skill Acquired: Social Manipulation (Beginner)]
[You've successfully talked your way into free shelter. Your ability to influence others has slightly improved.]
[Please choose a nickname for the chat group.]