The cursor blinked on the screen, a smug, tiny line of light mocking Karan's existence. His fingers flew across the keyboard, each clack a testament to his righteous nerd fury.
"Oh, 'ThanosHadAPoint92'?" he muttered to himself, his voice a dry monotone in the empty room. "Let me guess, you also think the ending of Game of Thrones was 'subversive and brilliant'? The only point Thanos had was that the universe desperately needs a better mathematician. Wiping out half of all life? That's a short-term solution at best, you cosmic-sized moron. You don't fix overpopulation by creating a universe-wide housing market crash and a logistical nightmare for the plumbing industry."
He hit 'post' with a satisfying thud, leaning back in his creaky chair. "There. Another day, another digital civilization saved from terminal stupidity."
He was about to dive into a rebuttal about the glaring plot holes in the Sokovia Accords when his monitor did something… weird. It didn't just freeze. It swallowed the light, the colors bleeding into a single, impossible point of darkness in the center of the screen.
"Great. A virus? Did 'ThanosHadAPoint92' just DDoS me with existential dread?" Karan tapped the monitor. "Hello? This isn't a cinematic universe, you know. Glitches are supposed to be boring blue screens, not… this."
The single point of darkness began to expand, not like an image, but like a hole being torn in reality itself. The air in his room hummed, a low frequency that vibrated his teeth. The posters of Iron Man and Captain America on his wall started to flutter as if caught in a silent wind.
"Okay, this is new," Karan said, standing up so fast his chair rolled back and hit the wall. "Is this a power surge? Did I finally blow a fuse by intellectually vaporizing too many internet trolls?"
The darkness wasn't just on the screen anymore. It was pouring out of it, a liquid shadow that consumed the light in his room. The hum became a roar.
"Alright, universe, very funny. Ha ha. The nerd who critiques reality-bending plots is now experiencing one. The irony is not lost on me, but I'd really like to opt-out now. I haven't even finished my bag of chips."
A force, cold and unimaginably powerful, grabbed him. It wasn't a physical hand; it was like reality itself had decided to fold him up and mail him elsewhere. There was a sensation of being pulled through a straw at the speed of regret.
"You have got to be kidding me!" his voice echoed, or maybe it just echoed in his head. "Isekai'd? Seriously? This is the most cliché thing that has ever happened to me! Did I get hit by a truck? A falling piano? No? Just… spontaneous dimensional tourism? Lazy writing! This is just lazy—"
The thought was cut off as he was unceremoniously spat out. The cosmic laundry chute ended abruptly, and he landed hard on something wet and unyielding. The roar was replaced by the distant wail of a siren and the pungent smell of garbage.
He lay there for a second, staring up at a sliver of night sky between two brick buildings.
"—writing," he finished, the word coming out as a groan. He pushed himself up, his clothes now damp. He was in a grimy alley. A rat scuttled past, giving him a look that seemed both judgmental and entirely unsurprised.
Karan brushed himself off, his sarcasm now his only shield against sheer, universe-sized bewilderment.
"Well," he said to the rat. "This is a distinct downgrade. Zero out of ten for the travel experience. The in-flight entertainment was non-existent, and the landing was frankly traumatic. I'm going to need to speak to the manager of this dimension."
Karan was busy contemplating the profound mysteries of his new existence—namely, whether the puddle he'd landed in was mostly water or something significantly more biohazardous—when reality glitched again.
This time, it wasn't a cosmic vortex. It was a pop-up ad.
A sleek, transparent blue interface materialized directly in his field of vision, hovering with the silent, obnoxious permanence of a software update notification you can't dismiss.
"Oh, fantastic," Karan muttered, swatting a hand in front of his face. The HUD didn't even flicker. "A hallucination. The garbage fumes have already claimed my higher brain functions. Or maybe this is hypoxia from the sheer absurdity of my situation."
He blinked hard. The interface remained, its text crisp and unnervingly clear against the backdrop of a dumpster.
Welcome, User Karan, to Universe-199999.
Karan froze. "199999? Wait a second…" His nerd-core knowledge booted up faster than his common sense. "That's the MCU designation! I'm not just in a random alley, I'm in the Marvel alley? Does this dumpster have a cameo in Daredevil? This is… actually kind of—"
His internal monologue was cut off as more text scrolled down the HUD.
Initializing Survival Package...
Gift 1: Absolute Immortality (Active). Description: You cannot be killed. All damage regenerated instantly.
Karan's jaw went slack. "Whoa. Hold on. Immortality? Like, unkillable, walk-off-a-cliff-for-fun, tickle-the-Hulk immortal?" A slow, manic grin spread across his face. "Yes! Finally! A proper cheat! Do you have any idea the things I can do with this? I could become the ultimate stuntman! The world's most reckless food critic! I could finally win an argument with a YouTube comments section by simply outliving everyone!"
He was practically vibrating with god-complex-fueled excitement. This was it. This was the power fantasy.
The HUD continued, blissfully unaware of his delusions of grandeur.
Gift 2: Peak Physical Enhancement (Active). Description: Strength, speed, senses elevated to superhuman tier.
"Peak physical condition? So, Captain America's body, but without the seventy years of freezer burn? Excellent. The ladies—or lads, I'm not picky—love a good metabolic mystery."
Gift 3: Annual Elemental Awakening (Scheduled). Next Awakening: Air Element. 364 days, 23 hours, 59 minutes.
"Ooh, a subscription service! One new element per year. A bit slow-roll, but hey, it's free DLC. I can work with this. Year one: Air. I'll be the master of awkward silences and really dramatic hair flips. Year two: Water? I can create the world's most powerful water balloon."
He was ready. He was pumped. He was the main character. The HUD had one final line.
Starter Package: Basic Identity, Residence Key (Third-Class Apartment, Queens), Legal Documentation. Funds: $0.00.
The triumphant music playing in Karan's head screeched to a halt.
He read it again. And again.
"Funds… zero?" he said, the words tasting like ash. "Zero dollars? Zero cents? Not even a single, measly Abraham Lincoln to rub together for luck?"
The grin vanished, replaced by a look of utter betrayal. He stared at the HUD as if it had just insulted his mother.
"You can bend the laws of physics to make me immortal," he seethed, gesturing wildly at the floating text. "You can forge a legal identity out of thin air! You can yank me across the multiverse! But you can't wire me twenty bucks for a goddamn slice of pizza?"
He kicked a loose pebble, which shot across the alley and embedded itself in the brick wall with a sharp crack. Right. Super-strength. Which was now useless because he couldn't afford the calories to fuel it.
"So, let me get this straight," he summarized, his voice dripping with sarcasm so thick you could build a wall with it. "I have the power to theoretically survive a direct hit from a nuclear bomb, but I might actually die of starvation before lunchtime. This isn't a survival package. This is the universe's most elaborate 'screw you'."
The HUD remained, silently displaying its cruel joke.As the text faded, there was a weight in his jacket pocket that hadn't been there a second before. He reached in and pulled out a single, cold key. "A key. To a 'third-class apartment.' That sounds… statistically likely to collapse."
He also found a folded scrap of paper with a smudged address scribbled on it. "Great. A treasure map. Let's see what 'third-class' really means."
.....
The address led him to a brick building that looked like it was leaning on its neighbor for support. The journey from the alley had been a short, depressing walk through streets that were a little too familiar from Netflix shows about street-level heroes. "Yep," Karan muttered, fumbling with the key that felt like it had been salvaged from a shipwreck. "This is definitely the place. The ambiance is 'pre-gentrified crime scene'."
The key, which felt like it had been salvaged from a shipwreck, actually turned in the lock of apartment 14B. Karan pushed the door open, and a wave of air hit him that was less a smell and more a physical assault.
"Whoa," he gagged, his newly enhanced senses dialing the stench up to eleven. "Okay. I'm getting notes of… despair, ancient Chinese takeout, and what I can only assume is the ghost of a rat who died of sheer disappointment."
The apartment was a masterpiece of misery. A single, naked bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow light on a stained mattress lying directly on the floor. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing layers of what Karan suspected were the tears of previous tenants. A symphony of dripping water played from a leaky faucet in the corner.
"Charming," he muttered, stepping inside. "Very 'industrial chic' meets 'condemned crackhouse'. The System really went all out on the interior design. I hope the roaches are at least friendly."
His stomach chose that moment to emit a low, guttural roar that echoed in the empty space. The enhanced metabolism wasn't just a cool power; it was a ravenous beast demanding tribute. Immortality, it turned out, was a useless party trick when your body was trying to digest its own spine.
"Right. Food," he said, stating the obvious to the one cockroach brave enough to scout him. "The one problem my awesome, universe-defying powers can't solve. I can't punch a sandwich into existence. Unless…" He looked at his fist, then at the wall. "No. Probably not."
He patted his pockets. Empty. The System's cruel joke of $0.00 was a reality more crushing than any supervillain's plan. He was the living embodiment of the phrase "broke as a joke."
Desperation, a far more potent motivator than any heroic impulse, began to set in. He needed a solution that was fast, required zero capital, and leveraged his specific skill set. A plan formed in his mind, so morally grey it was practically charcoal.
"Well, System," he sighed, stepping back out into the night. "You made me a thief. I hope you're happy."
He wandered until he found a bustling enough street. A hot dog vendor was serving up greasy salvation. A businessman in a suit was too engrossed in his expensive-looking smartphone to notice the world around him. Perfect targets.
Karan took a deep breath, feeling the strange new energy in his legs. "Okay. Let's see what 'peak physical enhancement' really means."
The world slowed down. Or, he sped up. It was hard to tell. The chatter of the crowd became a deep, drawn-out drone. The moving cars turned into sluggish metal slugs. To Karan, it was like wading through syrup.
He took two casual steps. As he passed the hot dog cart, his hand flickered out, snatching a freshly cooked dog from the grill without the vendor so much as blinking. A few steps later, he deftly plucked the smartphone from the businessman's hand, replacing it with a roughly phone-shaped piece of broken pavement he'd picked up from the gutter.
He ducked back into his alley, and time snapped back to its normal pace.
A second later, he heard the businessman's confused shout. "Hey! My phone! It's… a rock?"
Karan looked down at his prizes: a stolen hot dog and a stolen phone. A pang of guilt hit him, sharp and surprisingly human. He squashed it immediately with a layer of sarcasm so thick it could stop a bullet.
"Grand Theft Hot Dog," he said to himself, taking a massive bite. It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. "My superhero origin story is truly inspiring. A real beacon of hope for the common man."
He wiped mustard from his chin with the back of his hand. "Sorry, Mr. Vendor. I'll pay you back when I'm saving the universe from a purple titan. Probably." He looked at the smartphone. "And you, Mr. Suit… well, consider this an involuntary upgrade to a more rustic, mineral-based communication device. You're welcome.