The morning sun filtered softly through thin curtains, painting streaks of gold across the modest bedroom. Adrian lay still beneath the covers, his breath slow and even. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that came only after years of exhaustion and forced peace.
Then came the voice.
"Adrian! Are you awake yet?"
Helen's call echoed up the stairs like a chime of memory. Adrian stirred, groaning quietly as the present came crashing back. It had been three years since Mike Richards' death. Three years since the night of the warehouse. Three years of running from what he once was.
But duty had its own gravity. When the grief was too heavy to bear alone, Adrian made a choice: to sell the house, leave the Seer's path behind, and move in with Helen. To take care of her. To keep a promise to a dead man.
He rose from the bed slowly, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. The mirror caught him mid-motion. The man who looked back was different now—his eyes steadier, his shoulders more resigned. No longer a Seer. Just a bartender with a past.
After washing up and dressing in his usual white shirt and slacks, he descended the creaky staircase. The smell of toasted bread and brewed tea greeted him like a small comfort.
At the kitchen table, Adrian picked absently at his breakfast while Helen joined him, her movements gentle but worn. The weight of age and sorrow sat quietly in her posture, but she still smiled.
"How's the job going?" she asked, pouring a cup of tea. "Still finding your way behind that bar?"
Adrian returned her smile, faint but sincere. "It's going fine. A bit dull, honestly. One of the other bartenders is out on holiday, so I've got the late shift tonight."
Helen nodded thoughtfully. "Don't work yourself too hard, dear."
"I won't."
He rose, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder before heading back upstairs to prepare for the day. The motions were routine. Easy. Safe. The life he had chosen—quiet, ordinary, human.
But the world had other plans.
As soon as Adrian stepped outside, a chill ran down his spine. It wasn't the wind. It was that old instinct—the one he had buried, silenced, ignored. The Seer's sixth sense, flickering back to life like a match struck in the dark.
He tried to shake it off.
But with each step down the cobbled street, the feeling grew sharper. Shadows shifted where they shouldn't. A rhythmic crunch of footsteps behind him mirrored his own. Not one. Multiple.
Someone was following him.
Adrian picked up his pace, weaving through side streets and alleys with silent precision. The years hadn't dulled his muscle memory. But whoever was behind him was trained—and gaining.
He turned sharply into an alleyway, hoping to lose whoever was tracking him, only to skid to a stop.
A dead end.
Brick walls loomed around him, cracked and stained. No fire escape. No window. No exit.
He turned to face the pursuers.
Three figures emerged from the fog, dressed in ancient-looking black cloaks over rigid armor that shimmered faintly with enchantment. Their weapons were hybrids—part spear, part rifle. Strange and deadly. Emblems glinted on their chests—ones Adrian recognized from deep Marvel lore.
Nova Roma.
A hidden Roman civilization twisted by dark magic and sorcery. A name so buried in myth and obscurity, few would have believed it was real. But Adrian knew better. He had long accepted that this was the Marvel Universe. And anything was possible.
One of them stepped forward. "You need to come with us. To Nova Roma."
Adrian's heart skipped a beat. The Seer inside him screamed.
"How do you know about me?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
They didn't answer.
They raised their weapons.
But before they could act, the air behind them tore open—blue lightning crackling outward in a spinning vortex.
A portal.
A man stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing body armor laced with tech decades beyond the current era. His face was grim, eyes locked on the Nova Roma soldiers—and then, on Adrian.
He raised his weapon and fired.
The first shot dropped one of the soldiers.
The second streaked past Adrian's head—so close he felt the heat.
Adrian ducked instinctively, rolling to the side as another blast scorched the bricks behind him. The world had erupted into chaos in seconds.
And then he saw the shooter's face.
Recognition hit like a hammer.
Lucas Bishop. Soldier of the future. Veteran of apocalyptic timelines. X-Man.
Adrian barely had time to think before horror settled in.
Bishop wasn't aiming for the Nova Roma soldiers anymore.
He was aiming at him.
Adrian scrambled for cover, breath ragged, heart pounding. He ducked behind a stack of old crates and broken barrels, their wood splintering under the impact of another shot. The alley stank of dust and gunpowder, the battle between past and future playing out in its narrow confines.
He peeked out, catching a glimpse of Bishop reloading—not with panic, but with grim determination. Like a man fulfilling a mission he didn't want to complete. Like a man who had no choice.
"What the hell are you doing!?" Adrian shouted, voice echoing.
Bishop didn't answer. But his eyes narrowed. And that silence told Adrian more than words could.
He wasn't here to talk.
Adrian's instincts screamed for him to run. But something held him back. Not fear—clarity. The Seer's sense, the faint connection to the threads of fate, whispered that this moment was more than it seemed.
More soldiers were down. The last Nova Roma warrior charged Bishop with a spear-like blade, but was gunned down before he got two steps in. Smoke rose from the impact.
Adrian had no weapon. No allies. No idea why the hell Bishop was trying to kill him.
But he had to survive.
He sprinted for the alley wall, leapt for the narrow window ledge, and climbed, scrambling up the wall with adrenaline surging through every limb. Shots rang out below, cracking brick just inches from his boots.
With one final push, Adrian threw himself over the ledge and tumbled onto the roof beyond.
He didn't stop to breathe.
He ran.