The first thing Marcus registered was the warmth of her skin against his lips. A soft, absent-minded forehead kiss, more instinct than thought, before he pulled away from the redhead still tangled in the hotel sheets. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep, shifting slightly, but didn't wake.
He stood there for a second, watching the faint rise and fall of her chest. Her hair spilled across the pillow like streaks of molten copper, catching stray threads of moonlight leaking through the curtain. She'd told him her name the night before. He remembered it, of course; Marcus always remembered names, but he doubted he'd ever see her again.
Slipping into his jeans, boots, and jacket with the precision of someone trained to move without noise, he pocketed his phone and left without looking back.
The coastal night air was crisp, salted by the ocean breeze. The streets were still alive, this city didn't really sleep, it just… paused between drinks. Neon lights reflected in the damp asphalt as Marcus walked the few blocks back to his apartment.
The lock clicked behind him, and his little sanctuary greeted him with silence. No clutter, no mess. Just clean lines, muted colors, and the faint hum of hidden tech.
He moved straight to his workstation, a matte black laptop sat in the center of a custom desk, its screen glowing faintly. He tapped the biometric reader with his thumb and the secure system came to life, bypassing the kind of encryption most people didn't even know existed.
His fingers danced across the keys.
"Search for a table at my stakes," he murmured, voice activating the gambling algorithm he'd coded himself.
Some people played for fun. He played because he was good at it. Because the math, the patterns, the reading of people even through screens… it all sang to him like a second language.
As the algorithm went to work, Marcus leaned back in his chair. His eyes drifted toward the bookshelf against the wall, where a dusty stack of old sketchpads sat wedged between engineering manuals and a few battered sci-fi paperbacks.
He pulled the top pad free and flipped it open.
God… these were old.
Early in his other life, the one that began after the reincarnation, when he still half-expected some "system" or magical boon to suddenly drop into his lap. Back then, he didn't know if he'd wake up one morning able to level mountains, bend time, or punch through reality itself. He'd prepared, just in case.
Page after page revealed sketches of potential hero costumes, each more practical than flashy. No capes. No skintight spandex. That stuff was for people who didn't expect to get stabbed or burned or thrown through walls.
Instead, his designs leaned toward survival and adaptability:
Reinforced combat pants with armor plating over the thighs and shins.
Heavy boots, steel-toed, tread built for traction on wet rooftops.
A compression shirt for flexibility, layered under a ballistic jacket with concealed compartments for gear.
And the helmet, always the helmet. Inspired by Snake Eyes from G.I. Joe, with hints of the Lion Ranger from Power Rangers Jungle Fury. No exposed jaw. No weak points. A voice modulator. An uplink to his secure systems. Built-in optics for night vision, thermal, and zoom.
On the last page, a crude emblem stared back at him, an early attempt at a symbol, scrawled in black ink. He remembered spending hours on it, trying to make it something iconic but not ostentatious. Even as a kid in Gotham, Marcus had been thinking long-term.
He let the pad fall shut, exhaling through his nose. Different time. Different mindset.
A soft chime from his watch pulled him back. He glanced at the display.
11:59:48 PM.
Twenty-one seconds until his twenty-first birthday.
Marcus reached for the whiskey bottle he'd left on the counter earlier. No ice, just the burn of the pour splashing into a short glass. He took a slow sip, letting the taste linger as the seconds ticked away.
11:59:59…
The digital numbers rolled over. 00:00.
That's when it happened.
The air in the room seemed to shift, heavier, charged, as if the atmosphere itself had been waiting for this moment.
And then he heard it.
A voice. Deep, resonant, almost amused.
"Congratulations, Marcus. Twenty-one years… in a world of gods, eldritch beings, and monsters… you've made it here as an ant."
The glass in his hand stilled. His pulse didn't quicken, not yet, but a familiar, razor-edged awareness settled in. It was like limbo in a way, but not quite. He was still there physically, but his mind felt like it was invaded and drawn somewhere else all at once. It was almost overwhelming.
Whoever, whatever that voice was… it wasn't talking to him like prey.