The penthouse guest room was too quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against Steven's ears. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress so soft it felt like it might swallow him whole. A glowing blue screen hovered inches from his face, its faint hum buzzing in his skull.
Social Manipulation? The words slipped out in a whisper, his eyes darting to the doorway. Please don't let Vanessa hear me. The last thing he needed was his generous host thinking he was muttering to himself like a lunatic.
[Please choose a nickname for the chat group.]
He flopped back, head sinking into the pillow. His fingers rubbed at his temples, trying to untangle the madness of the last few hours. One minute, he's watching Endgame on his couch. The next, he's standing under Stark Tower, dropped into the Marvel Universe like a bad comic crossover. And now this—a system straight out of a web novel, dangling a lifeline in the form of a glowing chat interface. It was too much. Way too much.
"Alright, fine," he muttered, voice rough with exhaustion. "Let's do this."
He propped himself up, staring at the screen. A nickname. Something that fit this insane new reality. Back home, he'd gone by "PopcornKing" on gaming platforms—stupid, but it worked for late-night Xbox sessions. Here, though? In a world of gods and super-soldiers? He needed something sharper. Something that didn't scream "I'm a nobody."
"How about… Tarnished?" he said, testing the word. It felt right—gritty, a nod to struggle, maybe even a little badass. Elden Ring vibes. Why not?
[Ding!]
The chime rang in his head, sharp and mechanical. The screen flickered.
[Nickname 'Tarnished' registered. Welcome to the Dimensional Chat Group, user!]
The interface shifted, sleek and modern, like a messaging app designed by Tony Stark himself. A blank text box waited at the bottom, but above it—nothing. No usernames. No welcome messages. Just an empty void staring back at him.
Steven's brow furrowed. "Wait, where's the group? Isn't this supposed to hook me up with, like, interdimensional buddies?"
[Ding!]
[Current group members: 1 (You). Additional members will be added as the system deems necessary.]
He groaned, collapsing back onto the bed. "So I'm talking to myself. Awesome." His voice dripped with sarcasm, but a tiny spark flickered in his chest. This could still be something. A chat group, even an empty one, was a start. A foothold in a world that could crush him without blinking.
He rolled off the bed and shuffled to the window, bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The city skyline glittered beyond the glass, a maze of lights and shadows. Stark Tower cut through the night, its bold letters mocking him with their familiarity. Somewhere out there, heroes were probably throwing punches—villains, too. And here he was, a nobody with a beginner-level scam skill and a borrowed bed.
This is fine, he thought, irony twisting his lips. Totally fine.
He tapped the air where the screen hovered, its glow casting faint blue across his face. "Alright, system. Hit me. How do I not die in the next 48 hours?"
[Ding!]
[Current Status: Temporary shelter secured. No money. No powers. No weapons. No connections.]
[Objective: Establish a stable foundation in this world. Suggested actions: Acquire resources, build connections, avoid danger.]
Steven snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Oh, wow. 'Avoid danger'? Genius. Why didn't I think of that?" He shook his head, pacing now, the carpet muffling his steps. The system clearly wasn't big on specifics—or sarcasm.
His mind churned. He'd bought himself one night of safety, maybe a free breakfast if Vanessa was feeling extra kind. But tomorrow? He'd be back on the streets, dodging muggers, mutants, or whatever else this world threw at him. He needed a plan. Something real.
First up: money. New York didn't care about his charm unless it came with a credit card. Back home, he'd slogged through retail—folding shirts, fake-smiling through customer complaints. It wasn't glamorous, but it kept the lights on. Here, though, he had nothing—no ID, no resume, no proof he even existed. Legit jobs were a pipe dream.
He paused mid-step, a thought sparking. What if I lean into this skill? Social Manipulation. The name made his stomach twist—he wasn't some con artist. But he'd already talked his way into this penthouse with a sob story and a grin. What if he could do it again? Not to hurt anyone—just to survive.
"Hey, system," he said, glancing at the screen. "Tell me about this skill."
[Ding!]
[Skill: Social Manipulation (Beginner) - Slightly enhances your ability to influence others through speech, body language, and emotional appeal. Effectiveness depends on target's personality and your delivery. Current proficiency: 5%.]
Steven let out a low whistle. "Five percent? And I pulled this off?" He gestured at the room—marble counters, floor-to-ceiling windows, a bed that probably cost more than his old apartment's rent. A grin tugged at his lips. Maybe I'm not half bad at this.
He sank into a chair by the window, the city's pulse thrumming beyond the glass. "Guess I'll figure it out," he murmured. Step one: food. Step two: don't die. His stomach growled, a sharp reminder of the popcorn he'd left behind in another world.
Vanessa's kitchen was probably loaded—fancy cheeses, organic whatever—but raiding it felt like tempting fate. She'd already done him a solid. Pushing his luck could land him back on the sidewalk.