I woke up on a park bench in Central Park with a squirrel poking my nose like it owed him rent. My first thought was, Damn, even in the Marvel Universe I'm broke. My second thought was, Wait—is that squirrel wearing sunglasses?
It wasn't. I was just severely dehydrated.
After chasing the squirrel off with all the elegance of a drunk mime, I sat up and tried to get my bearings. The good news? I hadn't died again in my sleep. The bad news? My stomach was singing "Les Misérables" and I still had no idea what year it was—or if I was going to be recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D., hunted by Hydra, or sued by Disney.
I needed answers.
And food. Mostly food.
Step 1: Survive New York.
In Marvel's New York, you have a 33% chance of being mugged, 33% chance of being saved by Spider-Man, and 100% chance of being collateral damage during a superhero showdown.
The first hour, I saw three dudes get webbed up by Spidey for trying to rob a bodega. I walked right past them like a true local, nodded at Spidey, and said, "Yo." He nodded back mid-swing like it was just another Tuesday. I was simultaneously starstruck and mildly annoyed that this universe made me the NPC.
I wandered until I stumbled into a subway station. Why? Because food stalls. What I found instead were rats. And not the cute Remy-from-Ratatouille kind. These were 12-pound subway goblins in training.
One of them made eye contact with me.
I blinked.
It blinked back.
Then it stood up.
"Nope."
I noped all the way up the stairs and ran into a man selling hot dogs. Glorious, steaming, over-processed tubes of joy. I ordered two with the pocket change I found in my reincarnated jeans (why did they reincarnate me with lint?) and nearly cried tears of nitrated joy.
That was when I saw the news screen outside a shop window.
Tony Stark was hosting a press conference.
The man, the myth, the metal-clad billionaire narcissist. I pressed my face against the glass like a raccoon spotting a leftover cheeseburger.
He was standing behind a podium, looking smug as usual.
"…and that's why I've decided to open the Stark Internship Program to anyone, regardless of college education, as long as they show promise in innovation and technology."
I raised a brow. "Internship? Bro, I'm innovating my survival with hot dogs and avoiding rabid rats."
But then—then—he said the golden words.
"Applicants will receive a full scholarship, free housing, and the chance to work with the brightest minds at Stark Industries."
My brain short-circuited. Me? A Stark intern? I could barely work the toaster back home. But I had watched every Iron Man movie at least 37 times. That had to count for something.
Right?
Right??
Step 2: Apply for the Stark Internship Without Dying.
Now, applying should've been easy. But this is Marvel. So of course I had to dodge:
A Hydra agent disguised as a street magician.
A Skrull who thought I was also a Skrull.
And a malfunctioning Ultron-bot leftover from a scrapyard.
I accidentally defeated it with a hot dog.
Don't ask.
Eventually, I found the Stark building. It was tall, shiny, and had enough security to make Fort Knox look like a public restroom.
I walked up to the front desk like I had business.
"Hi," I said, trying to look smart. "I'm here to apply for the internship."
The lady at the desk didn't even look up. "Do you have an appointment?"
I pulled out a napkin with "Let me in pls – future genius" scrawled on it in ketchup.
She slowly looked up.
"…Sir, this is a napkin."
"Correct. But if you tilt it to the left, it's abstract genius."
She stared at me long enough to download my entire browser history.
And then—miraculously—I got in.
Okay, not to the real internship yet. But a slightly balding, overwhelmed assistant named Murray felt bad for me and let me sit in the Stark Building cafeteria after I made a passionate speech about American innovation and hot dog-based technology.
I even met Peter Parker.
He spilled his chocolate milk on me.
Which I'm 90% sure gives me partial Spider-Man powers, but we'll circle back to that.
Step 3: Figure Out My Place in This Insane Universe.
After surviving two near-deaths, one elevator panic attack, and an accidental run-in with Happy Hogan (who tackled me thinking I was a spy), I sat in the corner of the Stark lobby and finally asked the big question:
Why was I reincarnated here?
No system. No missions. No glowing tattoos or anime status bars.
Just me, a brain full of comic book lore, and a digestive system powered entirely by questionable street meat.
I stared up at a giant hologram of Iron Man soaring through the sky.
Was I supposed to become a hero?
A sidekick?
A guy who just keeps surviving because plot armor?
I didn't know.
But I did know this:
If I was stuck in Marvel… I wasn't going to be a background character.
I'd be someone.
Even if it meant fighting evil with nothing but sarcasm, street smarts, and a half-eaten hot dog.