I slumped back on the bed, chest heaving, sweat dripping. My watch read just past four in the afternoon. That was enough training for now. My lungs burned like fire.
I dragged myself into the bathroom, peeling off my shirt.
"Third shower today," I muttered. "At this rate I'll turn into a germophobe."
Warm water cascaded down, soothing raw muscles. My system flickered in the corner of my vision:
[Template Progress: Jason Bourne — 57%]
I frowned. That's it? Hours of drilling every move and I'd barely gained four percent. If I'd rolled someone stronger than Bourne, I might as well have been standing still.
The unease that had been gnawing at me all day lessened under the spray. But Bourne's instincts wouldn't quiet down. Something was wrong.
I rewound every memory of John's old surveillance work. It was too clean. Too easy. Nobody survives tailing a cartel this long without being noticed. Unless… they wanted him alive.
I shut the shower, wrapped a towel around my waist, still damp from earlier. As I pulled the curtains closed, a prickle crawled up my spine.
"Shit," I whispered. "I'm being watched."
I forced myself to act casual. Dressed fast—black suit, crisp shirt. In the mirror I looked like a younger John Wick. For a second I considered taking that name here. A new identity. But I shoved the thought away.
My phone buzzed: Samantha — 5 Missed Calls.
I sighed and hit redial. She answered in two rings.
"John? Finally. Where the hell have you been? You haven't called me in a week!"
"I'm listening," I said flatly.
"Listening? What—ugh, never mind. You remember my birthday, right? Next week. If you miss it this time, I swear—"
"I'll be there."
"Promise?"
"Yeah."
She sighed. "Good. And stop sending me money. I've got a part-time job now. I don't need your charity, I need my brother. Just… come, okay?"
"Okay. Take care."
I hung up before she could press further. Pretending to be someone's family was heavier than any mission. But what choice did I have?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a reserch lab, Samantha put her phone down, frowning.
"He's acting strange. Avoiding me. Once he shows up this time, I'm getting answers."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I left the hotel. The same crawling paranoia followed me onto the street. Whoever was watching hadn't let up.
I ducked into the nearest subway, pulling out the card Smith had given me. Dialed the number.
"Smith speaking."
"Sir, it's John. I think I'm being followed. Should I head to the location or mislead them?"
A pause. "Hostile?"
"Not yet. But I can feel eyes on me."
"Alright. Come straight to the airport. I'll send people to meet you."
"Understood."
I pocketed the phone, slipped on my glasses, and scanned the crowd. Seven—maybe eight—faces stood out. Too stiff. Too focused.
I ignored them, changed lines twice, then surfaced at another station. Outside, I waved for a taxi.
That's when a heavy hand clamped my shoulder.
I spun as the first punch flew. I ducked low, slammed an elbow into his ribs. The driver panicked, floored it, leaving me stranded.
Now three men circled me, eyes flat and hungry.
My heart raced. My fists itched. Bourne's instincts surged like wildfire.
The first lunged. I grabbed his wrist, twisted the knife free, and rammed it back into his thigh. He screamed, staggered. I used his body as a shield against the second's punch, then snapped the man's arm at the elbow with a crunch that made bile rise in my throat.
The third came from behind. I smashed my head backward, bone meeting bone. His nose exploded. Spinning, I rammed a knee into his gut, then drove him into a parked car hard enough to dent the door.
It was over in less than a minute. Brutal. Messy.
I staggered back, breathing hard, blood dripping down my knuckles.
"Who the hell are you…" I muttered, crouching over the nearest thug.
But before I could search him, his veins bulged. His eyes and face flushed crimson. One by one, they convulsed, gasped—and stopped breathing.
I pressed fingers to their necks. Nothing. No pulse.
"They… they killed themselves," I whispered. "I didn't…"
My stomach twisted. First kill. No—first deaths. But my hands still shook like I'd pulled the trigger.
I bolted, caught another cab, and told the driver to take me straight to Westchester County Airport.
--------------------------------------------
Far away, in a warehouse shrouded in red mist, a bald man covered in tattoos sat cross-legged. His eyes snapped open, glowing scarlet.
A grin split his face. "So… the mist has chosen him."
He rose slowly, stretching his arms, connecting his mind to four marked acolytes across the city. Their eyes burned red as visions of John filled their minds.
"Bring me the boy," he whispered. "Alive."
---------------------------------------------------------------
The taxi dropped me at the airport around 6:30. Two men in black suits were waiting.
"Agent John. A pleasure," one said, shaking my hand. "I'm Agent Brian. This is Agent Jong."
They led me inside.
"Did you manage to confirm the tails?" Jong asked.
"They confronted me," I admitted. "Three men. I neutralized them… but then their veins turned red. They just—stopped breathing."
Brian's jaw tightened. "Any tattoos?"
"Not that I saw."
We reached a private office. Smith was there, along with three more agents. And a bald monk in orange robes.
Smith smiled. "Welcome, Agent John. You've met Brian and Jong. This is Agent Carter, Agent Diaz… and Master Abeni."
The monk inclined his head. "From Kamar-Taj."
My blood froze. My mask slipped for just a second, enough for Smith to catch.
"Something wrong, Agent John?"
I forced my face blank. "Nothing, sir. Just… heard stories. Didn't think Kamar-Taj was real."
"It's more real than you know," Abeni said softly.
I took a deep breath. "Sir… if you don't mind me asking. What is this organization?"
Smith studied me, then nodded. A projector flickered to life, showing grainy footage—me dismantling the thugs outside the taxi.
"I'm impressed," he said simply. "Which is why I want you to join us."
He folded his arms, voice steady. "We are the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
I coughed so hard I nearly choked.
Smith frowned. "Is the name that bad?"
"Uh—sorry, sir. Just—dust."
I excused myself, stumbled into the bathroom, and splashed water on my face. My hands trembled against the sink.
"Marvel," I whispered. "This world is Marvel."
All laughs and capes from the till now. But on the ground? Mutants. Aliens. Gods. I wasn't invisible here—I was nothing.
Jason Bourne wasn't shit in this universe.
Just then, my system pinged.
[Congratulations, Host. You have completed Main Mission: Identify This World.]
[Reward: 3x Low-Level Gacha Boxes. Open now? Y/N]
I stared at my reflection—at John Wick's smiling back.
"Marvel it is, then," I said, a grin spreading across my lips.
And I hit Yes.
[The screen fades to black. Pages flip, fast—comic panels flashing by in a blur. The music swells, bold and triumphant. Then the red logo slams onto the frame: MARVEL.
The story begins…]