My grandfather came to this country looking for a better life.
They called it the Kingdom of God—too far from heaven, too close to the United States.
It was a country overrun by poverty, corruption, and drugs. Cartels ruled the streets. The government? Powerless. Or pretending to be.
In this place, if someone tried to clean up the drug trade, their body would be hanging from an overpass the next day.
My grandfather, trained in old Eastern martial arts and carrying the quiet wisdom of his homeland, carved out a living as a bodyguard and military advisor. His employer was Victor Hawk, one of the biggest cartel bosses in the country.
One day, Hawk got attacked. My grandfather shielded him, took the bullets meant for him, and died on the spot.
Out of guilt—or maybe some twisted sense of honor—Hawk made a promise: that his fallen bodyguard's family would be protected.
I was the recipient of that protection.
Victor Hawk let me live like an ordinary man. I ran a flower shop on the edge of the city. Unlike every other shop in this hellhole, I didn't pay extortion money. No gangsters smashed my windows or threatened my life. That kind of peace here was... unnatural. Which meant someone was maintaining it.
Then yesterday, Hawk himself showed up at my wedding.
It wasn't a flashy affair. Small guest list. Quiet venue. But when a man like Victor Hawk walks into the room, everything else fades. He toasted me with a smile. A warm, almost fatherly gesture.
This morning, I woke up to a different kind of message.
"Victor Hawk, the largest drug lord in the Kingdom of God, dies of a heart attack!"
The headline screamed from my phone in bold red text. His photo sat beneath it, still in the suit he wore to my wedding.
I didn't feel grief.
Hawk had sheltered me, yes. But it was blood for blood—my grandfather's death bought that protection. No debt remained.
And I had always hated what he stood for. What he did to this country. What he did to people.
But what chilled me wasn't the news itself.
It was who sat beside me last night.
Natasha Romanoff.
Black Widow.
She wasn't using that name, of course. When she came into my flower shop two weeks ago, she called herself Rowan. Just a woman buying lilies for her mother's grave. Or so she said.
She came back the next day.
Then again.
She smiled like sunshine, listened when I talked, and asked the right questions. Her laugh was soft. Her eyes were kind.
I didn't stand a chance.
We fell in love in a week. Or at least, that's what I thought. A week after we met, we got married. Fast, reckless, and head-over-heels.
But it was never about me.
Black Widow knew Hawk would come to the wedding. Knew he'd honor my grandfather by raising a glass. Even if he didn't drink it, she had other methods.
He never had a chance.
The perfume still lingered in the sheets beside me.
She was gone.
On the desk, a single piece of paper.
Elegant handwriting, all in English:
"Lock, don't come looking for me. None of this was real."
Next to it, a torn marriage certificate. Stamped by the local government. Our photo together—me, grinning like a fool. She, radiant in white.
Ding!
"Player has successfully bound to superhero: Black Widow. Luck value +60."
"First superhero bound. Reward: 1x Recovery Potion."
I blinked.
Game notifications.
So this was a transmigration.
The potion materialized in my inventory like an in-game reward. Standard green vial, glowing faintly.
I almost laughed.
In the Marvel Universe, a recovery potion might save your life once. Just once. Not when you're turned to dust by Thanos. Not when you're vaporized by a Chitauri warship.
But it was a start.
I stared at the torn certificate on the floor, then picked it up and carefully taped it back together.
"You're my wife now, Widow. You think you can just walk away?"
I spent the rest of the day liquidating everything I had.
The flower shop, the apartment, the furniture—everything was sold off. I exchanged the local currency for U.S. dollars through the black market, losing nearly half its value in the process.
Didn't matter.
Every second I waited here was a second wasted.
The Marvel Universe revolved around the United States. That's where the heroes were. The villains. The disasters. The opportunities.
Staying in the Kingdom of God was suicide.
I ended up with about $2,000.
Not much. But enough to make a move.
That night, I met the smuggler. A towering Westerner with brown skin, a square jaw, and eyes that had seen too much.
"You're Eastern, huh?" he asked, eyeing me like I was a rare bird. "That'll cost extra. Ten thousand."
I frowned. "I thought it was one thousand?"
"Not for someone like you. You stand out too much. More risk for me."
I hesitated. That felt like a shakedown. But what choice did I have?
I pulled out a fat roll of cash and handed it over.
The smuggler's eyes gleamed. "Good. Wait over there. We leave tonight."
Several hours later, as dusk turned to darkness, he called me again.
"You. Step forward."
"What is it now?" I asked, suspicious.
"Security check. You think this is tourism? Hand over the backpack. And strip."
I froze. "What? Why only me?"
He shrugged. "They're all locals. I know them. You? You're a stranger."
Before I could argue, a few of his men grabbed my pack, tossed its contents on the ground, and patted me down roughly.
They took another $1,000 from my inner pocket. Then grabbed anything they liked—my watch, my backup phone, even a silver ring.
I said nothing.
I wanted to fight, but this wasn't a fight I could win.
These weren't just smugglers. They were middlemen for cartels. For them, violence was business. I wasn't ready for that kind of world yet.
So I sat in silence, humiliated and broken, waiting for the next truck out.
By midnight, we were packed into a rusted transport truck and driven toward the border.
The checkpoint lights gleamed in the distance, cold and bright like the eyes of an enemy.
Underneath them, we were herded into a hidden tunnel. No words. Just gestures. A well-practiced system.
Twenty minutes later, I emerged into the night air.
Welcome to America.
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A/N: Please Leave A Comment Or Drop A powerstone.It'll mean a lot to me...