The first thing he noticed was the smell. Wet brick, sour trash, and the faint sting of gasoline. When he opened his eyes, he was staring at a wall. Red brick, damp, water dripping from a pipe. He sat up too fast, heart hammering. The alley around him was narrow, boxed in by dumpsters. His shirt was damp, his jeans dirty like he had been lying there for hours.
"This isn't… home," he muttered.
Cars honked somewhere beyond the alley. A city. Big. Loud. The skyline over the roofline wasn't familiar. He scrambled to his feet, brushing himself off. His phone was in his pocket, cracked screen lighting up for a second before dying. No signal. His wallet was there, too, but the bills inside weren't right. Different colors, different faces. His pulse kicked harder.
He stumbled out of the alley into blinding light. New York. It had to be New York. The buildings were huge, glass and steel towers. Yellow cabs streamed past, horns bleating. People walked fast, staring at their phones, ignoring him. He spun in place, trying to find something, anything that made sense. A billboard showed Tony Stark's face. STARK INDUSTRIES: TOMORROW'S TECHNOLOGY, TODAY. His mouth went dry.
"That's… no. That's not real. He's not real."
The crowd flowed around him. Someone bumped his shoulder and swore. He stepped aside, chest tight. Stark was a movie character. This couldn't be real.
His head throbbed. He pushed through the sidewalk until he found a diner, glass windows fogged with steam. He slid inside. The waitress gave him a look when he fumbled with the wrong bills, but she shrugged and poured him coffee anyway. He sat by the window, staring out. His reflection in the glass looked the same: messy black hair, tired eyes. Just him.
He lifted the mug. His hands were shaking so bad the coffee sloshed onto the table.
Breathe. Slow down. Think. Last thing he remembered: leaving work late, walking across the street, a horn blaring—then nothing. No car, no pain. Just… waking up here.
The TV in the corner of the diner pulled his eyes up. News anchor, voice tight. "…Stark Industries confirms an incident at their research facility. Witnesses report an unidentified armored figure engaged Tony Stark himself." The screen cut to shaky footage: a giant suit of metal stomping down a street, people screaming. Another figure, smaller, red-and-gold, flew at it. Iron Man. Not a movie. Not CGI. Real. Fighting for his life.
The mug slipped from his fingers and shattered. The waitress cursed. He stood without paying, stumbling out of the diner. His body felt hot, like his blood had turned into electricity. His ears rang, not with pain, but with noise. The city grew louder: conversations blocks away, the screech of tires, even the hum of power lines. He clutched his head, staggering into the street.
He needed to run. But instead, his feet carried him toward the smoke rising above the buildings. Toward Stark's fight.
The closer he got, the worse it became. Sirens wailed, police cordons struggled to keep people back. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the shouts. His stomach hurt. He could see the giant, an iron giant tearing through cars. Stark in the Iron Man suit darted like a wasp, repulsors flashing. Sparks lit the sky when metal slammed against metal.
The ground shook. A bus flipped onto its side, people screaming inside. Without thinking, he sprinted forward. A cop tried to hold him back, but he shoved past like the man weighed nothing. His hands gripped the bus's frame. It was hot, metal screaming, glass cracking. And then—he lifted. Not a strain. Not impossible. His muscles burned, but the bus shifted, rolled back onto its wheels. The passengers scrambled out, staring at him in shock. He stared back, heart pounding.
"I shouldn't… I shouldn't be able to do that."
A shadow fell over him. The Iron Monger turned, glowing eyes locking onto him. A missile pod unfolded. The world slowed. His body moved on its own. He jumped and didn't come back down.
The wind tore at his face, the city shrinking below. Panic ripped through him. He wasn't falling. He was flying.
"No, no, no...."
A missile screamed toward him. Instinct flared. He swung his arm and smashed it aside. The explosion lit the sky. He blinked, stunned. Stark's voice crackled over comms he wasn't supposed to hear:
"Who the hell is that?"
The Iron Monger fired again. He twisted mid-air, dodging clumsily, nearly slamming into a billboard. His body obeyed thoughts faster than he could process. He dove, shoulder-first, into the Monger's chest. Metal shrieked. The giant staggered back, leaving Stark an opening. Stark surged forward, blasting his reactor core.
The explosion rattled every window in sight. The Monger collapsed, burning. Silence, except for car alarms. He hovered above the wreckage, chest heaving, smoke curling around him.
Cameras pointed up. People stared. A woman whispered, loud enough for his new ears to hear:
"He flies. Like Superman."
Reporters shouted. Phones recorded. His stomach dropped. He wasn't Superman. He wasn't anyone. He didn't belong here.
Stark landed hard, mask sliding open, eyes locked on him. Suspicion burned there, but also calculation. He raised a hand, not in thanks, not in threat—just marking him. Claiming him.
The crowd chanted, half in awe, half in fear. "Superman! Superman!"
He couldn't breathe. He rocketed skyward, higher than rooftops, higher than sound. The cheers faded, the city dimmed, and he was alone in the clouds.
Alone, and terrified.