The tavern reeked of fried fish, cheap beer, and that sour tang of soaked sweaters left too long in a corner. Cozy, if you squinted hard enough. I stepped inside, letting the door close softly behind me, the wet soles of my boots whispering against the wooden floor was nearly drowned out by the chatter of patrons, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter. I wasn't here for the company, though. I had a job to do.
It had only been a few hours since I woke up here—wherever here was—and I still wasn't entirely sure I hadn't lost my mind. No blinding light, no truck barreling down the street, no dramatic death. One moment I was lying in bed in my shoebox of an apartment in Paris, heart fluttering like it always did… and the next, I was standing on a rocky shoreline in the rain, soaked to the bone, with nothing but the clothes on my back and two old notebooks tucked into my coat.
No explanation. Just… here.
I glanced around. No one seemed to notice me, which was fine. I wasn't here to make friends.
The notebooks were the only consistent thing I had. One of them was normal—or at least, it let me write in it. The other was… something else. It looked ordinary, sure. Same leather cover, same number of pages. But every pen I tried glided over its pages like a ghost. Nothing stuck. No ink, no scratch, nothing.
So obviously, I tested it. Not eating though. I wasn't that crazy. Yet.
I had written a few things in the usable notebook earlier, just to see if anything would happen. Some basic details coming straight from my imagination :
—————
Arthur Curry
Age: 21
Address: 1081 Riverside Ave, Manhattan, NY
Occupation: Financial investor (independent)
Hobby: Traveling far more than I should be allowed to
—————
It was a weird thing to do, I'll admit. Especially choosing that name. Arthur Curry. Yeah, I know. Not subtle. But honestly? It was a joke. I didn't believe anything would come of it.
And now, sitting in a corner booth, watching the room, I was about to find out if that joke was about to become very real.
I wasn't looking for just anyone. No. For this to work, I needed someone believable. Local. Known. Harmless. Preferably someone with just enough credibility to be taken seriously… but just enough eccentricity that no one would question a wild story coming from his mouth.
And there he was. Sitting alone at the far end of the room, a mug cradled in weathered hands, half-asleep and occasionally grumbling to himself. People greeted him in passing. A regular. A character. A retired sailor, judging by the cap and the permanently sunburnt face. Perfect.
When he finally got up to shuffle to the bathroom, I moved. Slid over to his table, pulled out the unwritable notebook, and set it down, open to a very specific page.
The story I'd written had taken me almost an hour to craft in my own journal—rewritten again and again until it sounded just right. A bit dramatic, but not too far-fetched. Something you'd believe if an old man told it, slurring slightly over his beer.
—————
"Last night was insane. There was this old man, probably 70, clinging to the edge of a cliff during the storm. I don't even remember how I reached him in time, but I did. Guess that stupid cardio finally paid off.
I mean, I've never stepped foot in a gym. Not once. But I've always had this freakishly strong body, no idea why. People used to ask me if I was some kind of athlete or model or whatever. I just laughed. I wasn't handsome enough to be a model, after all. I was just okay.
Anyway, I grabbed his wrist and pulled with everything I had. The wind almost took us both, but I didn't let go. Not for a second. We collapsed together in the mud, and he thanked me like I'd saved his life. Maybe I did. I didn't even get his name. I hope he's okay.
Honestly, I just wanted a quiet vacation. Not more drama. Especially not after all those annoying investors trying to buy my portfolio out last month…"
—————
The man returned, grumbling as he sat down. His eyes immediately went to the notebook. He picked it up, flipping through the pages with a frown.
I stood and approached, acting surprised.
"Oh! My diary... I was looking for it. I knew I left it here earlier. I've been looking for it for an hour."
The man squinted at me. "Didn't think it was mine. But I read a bit... you keep a journal?"
"Yeah, kinda," I said, my voice slightly off. The words were smooth—no hesitation. Just... natural. "I write down memories, things I've lived through... or things I wish I could've lived. Helps clear my head."
He gave me a grin, closed the book, and handed it back. "Well, hold on to it, kid. Those stories—when you get older, you'll want to remember them. Don't lose it again."
I nodded, clutching the notebook to my chest as I watched him drift back into his foggy memories.
I watched him read it. He believed it. Now I just needed to see if it actually worked.
I left the tavern soon after. The wind had calmed, the rain now nothing more than a fine drizzle. I walked along the edge of the sea, my boots squishing in the wet sand, heart pounding with something more than just nerves.
If anything's going to happen, it should be now…
And it came quickly
And the first thing I noticed?
I wasn't cold.
Not even a little.
My breath was steady. My heart was calm. No skipping beats. No tightness in my chest. For the first time in… ever… I felt fine.
Then came the phone. Brand new, tucked neatly into my pocket like it had always been there. Fingerprint scan worked. The wallpaper showed Manhattan at night. Contacts, messages, everything.
A wallet, too. New York State ID. Arthur Curry. My face. My birthday. The same fake address. Credit cards. A MetroCard. A passport. Even the leather smelled real.
It had worked.
I sat down on a bench and pulled out the phone again, scrolling through the contact list. Some names were unfamiliar. Gabe—Broker. Lena—PR. My brain tried to tell me they were strangers, but the moment I focused on a name, memories rushed in like a flood. Conversations. Emotions. Familiarity.
They weren't mine.
But now they were.
And then came the weirdest part: the knowledge.
And the strangest part? I knew things. Things I shouldn't. Things I'd never learned. I knew English, fluently. My brain spit out details about stock markets and investment strategies like I'd lived on Wall Street since I was five. I could remember yelling at a fund manager over a portfolio screw-up. Late-night strategy meetings. My first million. The kind of stuff you don't just absorb by watching YouTube videos. But I'd never set foot in New York. Not until now.
None of it had happened. But my mind didn't care.
I was no longer just pretending to be Arthur Curry.
I was him.
I stared at the ID again, at the name I'd written as a joke. The name that now belonged to me.
And then I saw it. Tucked inside the passport. A shareholder certificate.
Stark Industries.
I almost dropped it.
It had my name. My ID. My face.
I swallowed hard. "No way…" But I already knew. The clues had been stacking. This wasn't just a different version of Earth.
This was the MCU.
I sank back against the bench, staring at the sea. The wind tugged at my coat, but I barely noticed. Everything had changed.
Because I had written it.
And someone had believed.
I didn't feel special. I didn't feel chosen. I hadn't been bitten by a radioactive anything. I'd just… died. Probably. Quietly. Alone. A twenty-one-year-old kid from France with a weak heart and a notebook he didn't understand.
"Okay… What now?" I murmured to myself.
Now?
Now I was someone else. In a world that didn't belong to me. I wasn't just a guy. I was Arthur Curry now. A rich financial investor from Manhattan with ties to Stark Industries. But this wasn't my life. It was a story. A story I had written. And it was real.
And I wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse.
I needed to sit. Or lie down. Or maybe pass out in dramatic fashion like the Victorian heroines I used to mock in literature class.
I found a bench that looked like it hadn't collapsed under a body in the last five minutes and dropped onto it, trying to catch my breath. Except it wasn't just my breath I needed to catch—it was reality. Mine had clearly jumped off the nearest cliff and was now doing cartwheels at the bottom.
The memories were still coming in bursts, like emails from a past I hadn't signed up for. I now remembered things like how to negotiate real estate deals in Manhattan. Which fork to use at a Stark Industries gala. And that I apparently owned a Tesla boat. A what?
But beneath all the absurdity and the fancy lifestyle flashbacks, a darker thought started to creep in.
If the notebook could do all this... what else could it do?
I mean, I'd faked a page—just one stupid, scribbled page—and an old man believed in it so hard that reality bent over backwards to accommodate me. It changed my language, my accent, even my backstory. That wasn't a prank-level ability. That was world-shattering.
And that's when it hit me.
If I could write things into existence... I could survive. Reallysurvive. In this world.
Because this wasn't just any world.
This was the MCU.
The realization hit like a truck made of vibranium.
Aliens. Gods. Thanos snapping half of existence like expired leftovers. Mutants. Monsters. And somewhere out there, a teenage kid could climb walls, a billionaire was probably building a space suit in his sleep, and a gamma accident was just one lab mistake away from creating the next kaiju.
If I wanted to live past the next intergalactic event... I'd need more than a private jet and a six-pack of tailored suits.
I'd need powers. Superpowers.
My heart pounded, a strange blend of fear and excitement curling in my gut.
But I couldn't just write "I can fly" in the notebook and expect to take off like Superman. That's not how it worked. It needed someone to read it. Someone to believe it. The stronger the belief, the stronger the effect. That old man at the bar? He believed I was a rich heir because the story fit the look.
So... if I wanted powers... I had to make the story believable.
I could be a mutant. Maybe one that just awakened. Or a secret government experiment. Or—better yet—a long-lost Atlantean hybrid whose powers were finally surfacing. That had a nice ring to it. Exotic. Cool. Slightly mysterious. And definitely in the realm of MCU possibilities.
I pulled out the second notebook, the fake one, and stared at the blank pages.
The possibilities were endless.
But I had to play it smart. Plan every word. Every phrase. Because if the wrong person read it—or worse, believed it too much—who knew what might happen?
I wasn't a god.
Not yet. And probably never will.
But I was holding something that could get me dangerously close to it.