Dying doesn't hurt.
There's no dramatic last line, no grand replay of my life flashing in perfect detail. Just headlights, the screech of brakes, the weightless jolt of my body leaving the ground, and the quiet thought: oh, so this is it. Then black.
I expect nothing after that. Darkness. Oblivion. End credits.
Instead, I open my eyes to buzzing fluorescent lights.
The ceiling above me is off-white, water-stained, vibrating faintly with the hum of bad wiring. The air reeks of burnt coffee and printer ink. Somewhere nearby, a machine clatters and spits out paper.
I sit up too fast, chest tight. A desk stretches in front of me, a swivel chair squeaks under my weight, and clipped to my chest is a laminated badge:
Stark Industries – Research Intern. Jordan Brooks.
I freeze.
That isn't my name. Not the one I lived with before.
Dream. Coma. Hallucination. The excuses tumble through my head, but nothing sticks. My pulse hammers too loud to be fake.
Before I can spiral, another intern drops into the chair beside me with a stack of folders. "You good? You look like you saw a ghost."
"Yeah," I mutter, voice dry. "Something like that."
They laugh and turn back to their work, completely oblivious to the panic tearing through me.
The rest of the day crawls by. Phones ring, papers shuffle, people argue about deadlines in jargon I only half understand. I copy what others do, praying no one notices how lost I am. But the dread builds with every passing hour
Someone casually mentions Stark in Afghanistan. I glimpse an arc reactor schematic glowing on a monitor. Names drift in conversation as if they're nothing: Pepper, Obadiah, Rhodey
Each one is a nail in the coffin of denial.
Iron Man. The Avengers. The Chitauri invasion. Thanos. The Snap.
I stumble into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. A stranger stares back at me from the mirror. Jordan Brooks. Black hair, unfamiliar eyes wide with fear. Not me, but moving when I move.
"This isn't possible," I whisper. The reflection doesn't argue.
That night, in a small apartment that feels borrowed instead of lived in, I lie awake staring at the ceiling. The sheets smell like detergent, the bed is too stiff, the silence too heavy. My heart refuses to settle. The only plan I can manage is simple: stay quiet, don't interfere, just survive.
For a while, it works.
I fetch coffee, sort files, pretend to understand schematics Tony Stark would laugh at. Every day is a performance, every night a battle to sleep. Survival is the only thing I cling to.
Until the whispers start.
The first time, I'm walking through the lab. Something tugs at my gut, nudging me left. I obey without thinking. A heartbeat later, a tower of metal casings crashes exactly where I was about to step.
My pulse spikes. I tell myself it's luck, a nervous twitch, a random flinch. But luck doesn't move you before steel hits the ground. Luck doesn't whisper.
It happens again. A sudden urge to hold my breath, followed seconds later by the hiss of a gas leak. Everyone else staggers and coughs. I walk straight to the alarm, lungs clear.
I tell myself lies. Instinct, coincidence, adrenaline, but each excuse shatters faster than the last.
The breaking point comes late one night when I nod off at my desk.
I dream of a forest that isn't a forest. Roots as wide as skyscrapers twine into stars. Branches stretch across galaxies. The trunk hums with a sound that rattles my bones.
And a voice whispers:
"Every universe remembers you differently. Which one will you become?"
I jolt awake, gasping. The lab is empty, the fluorescents buzzing like nothing has changed. My hands tremble on the desk.
No glow. No sparks. Just silence. But something has started. I can feel it deep in my chest.
The ripples are only beginning.
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First Chapter 🔥🔥