The sun was almost completely gone by the time the Bay Central Bank decided to close its doors. Jeffrey, the manager, sighed in relief as the last customer finally exited.
"Fucking nightmare today," he muttered under his breath. The lobby had been packed with people demanding loans—for renovations, replacing stolen cars, or covering damages from the latest parahuman incident. None of them were happy to leave empty-handed. But there were rules, regulations. If they gave out money every time a cape smashed a wall or threw a car, they'd be bankrupt in weeks. So, like always, he gave them the script: talk to your insurance provider or the PRT.
He exhaled again, glancing toward the security office, where Phil sat hunched behind a wall of monitors. "God, some days I wish I had your job, Phil."
Phil looked up, his brow furrowed before recognition settled on his features. He offered a tired, tight-lipped smile. "Don't think you would, Jeff. Every night I sit here wondering if some parahuman's gonna blast through the wall for the cash, and all I've got is a flashlight."
Phil was a decent man—middle-aged, always a little worn down, with a wife, a kid on the way, and a mortgage that sounded like a chokehold. Jeffrey had known him since they both started here. And despite the griping, Phil showed up. Always did.
"Pfft. There's always risk when money's involved," Jeffrey replied.
"At least you get to call the PRT. Cops don't love waking up at 2 AM because a fat security guard pissed himself."
Jeffrey gave a dry chuckle. "You know what everyone says..."
Phil snorted. "It's my problem now?"
"It's your problem now. Catch you later, Phil." Jeffrey headed for the doors, picturing a warm dinner and a long, well-earned soak.
"Hey, Jeffrey." He paused as Phil called out. "Gonna have to cancel bowling night this Wednesday. Got plans."
"The missus?"
"The missus." Phil nodded.
"Fair. Happy wife, happy life. But you owe me next week." He stepped through the door. Phil locked it behind him, offering a friendly wave as Jeff drove off.
Only once the taillights vanished did Phil's expression collapse.
"I don't owe you shit, Jeffrey," he muttered darkly.
A wave of red and black tendrils rippled over his body, dissolving the overweight guard. In seconds, a taller, leaner figure stood in his place, clad in a black hoodie and jeans. He turned toward the vault.
A week ago, the viral entity known as Alex Mercer hadn't expected to impersonate a bank guard. Then again, a week ago, he hadn't expected to get thrown into another universe.
Back on his Earth, Alex had been the result of a bio-weapon program called Blacklight—an apex predator created to counter organic threats. His very existence violated every human rights treaty on record. Blackwatch, a military black ops force, was meant to contain abominations like him—and erase anyone who dug too deeply into Gentek, the company that made him.
Ironically, their purge backfired. One frightened scientist tried to leak what Gentek had done. In response, they tried to wipe the lab. But Alex—cold, brilliant, and furious—decided that if they were going to burn him, he'd drag them into the flames. He stole a vial of Blacklight, fled to Penn Station, and when Blackwatch closed in, he shattered the vial.
He died. And something far worse woke up.
The entity that emerged was Alex in form, in memory—but not in soul. It was a being designed to consume, adapt, and survive. And it did.
The world burned. New York turned into a nightmare. Streets ran red, monsters stalked alleys, and Blackwatch lost control. And through it all, Alex tore through them—massacring infected, dismantling military operations, and becoming the unlikeliest savior the city had.
What held him together was Dana. His so-called sister. Not by blood, but by bond. She accepted what he was and gave him something to protect. Something to live for.
He stopped the virus. Killed its leaders. Destroyed the heart of Blackwatch. He even prevented a nuclear strike meant to wipe New York off the map.
But victory was fleeting. Blackwatch wasn't just in New York. They were national. Global. Every agency, every government shadow, had some part of them.
And so the cycle began. Hide. Survive. Move. Blend in. Feed when necessary. Protect Dana. Keep running.
It was a hollow life—but it was hers.
Until last week.
Two men grabbed Dana during a morning walk. Alex followed. What he found was impossible: a clean white room grafted onto an alley. Before he could react, something tore through reality.
They woke up in an abandoned church. The city outside looked the same.
But it wasn't their world.
The sky was wrong. The stars shifted. And the people spoke of heroes and villains like they were common knowledge.
They were on Earth Bet—a world where powers came with pain, where heroes wore flaws like scars, and where monsters called Endbringers leveled cities on whims.
No way back. No leads. No identity. No safety net.
They became nobodies. Homeless. Exposed. And Earth Bet was not kind to the vulnerable.
He could protect Dana from everything—violence, predators, hunger—but she deserved more. She deserved a life.
So he made a choice. He would take what they needed.
Most people with his gifts would burst through the wall, fight a few capes, make headlines. But Alex was smarter than that. He had more than muscle. He had memory, mimicry, infiltration.
Why fight when he could walk right in?
Phil Bennings had been kind. Predictable. A man with routines. Easy to follow. Easier to replace.
Alex had disabled the cameras an hour ago. Killed the alarms. Memorized the codes. Now, walking to the vault, he was invisible.
He tapped the keypad. Phil's thoughts echoed in his head. The numbers entered themselves. The alarms—silent, panic, and PRT-linked—were already dead.
With a low grunt, Alex pulled the vault open like peeling a can of tuna.
His chest split open with a wet squelch, spitting out two large duffel bags. Additional limbs grew from his back—thin, efficient appendages perfect for speed-packing.
Mass, volume, durability—he calculated it all in seconds. He ignored the documents, the art, the safe deposit boxes. They were worthless to him. He wanted untraceable currency. Liquid funds.
He packed fast and clean. When the bags were full, he resealed his body, slammed the vault door shut, and reset the locks.
He exited through the front, locking up behind him. The key was tossed into the gutter. If he needed it again, he'd remake it.
Thirty minutes. No alarms. No witnesses. No trace.
Perfect.
At least, that's what he thought until something landed behind him, sending a blast of air outwards. "Hold it right there, scumbag." A female voice ordered.
Fucking superheroes.