Skull-splitting headache.
Felix Ragnell pressed a hand to his forehead and sat up from a silk king-size bed big enough for him to sprawl across like a human asterisk.
Everywhere his eyes landed screamed extravagance.
Beyond the wall-sized windows stretched a manicured lawn and a sapphire pool. Sunlight poured through the glass and broke into crisp, bright patches on the floor.
A crystal chandelier scattered seven-colored haloes across the room. Abstract oil paintings he couldn't make heads or tails of—but that definitely looked expensive—hung on the walls.
This bedroom alone was over two hundred square meters.
And the whole villa? North of two thousand.
Felix pinched his arm. The sharp sting told him this wasn't a dream.
He—an ordinary guy who grew up in an orphanage—had transmigrated.
And judging from the setup, he'd landed in the life of a top-tier rich kid.
Gruel last life, champagne this life?
Elation surged through him so hard he nearly burst out laughing.
He flung off the covers, padded barefoot onto a plush wool rug, and hurried to the window, throwing his arms wide to embrace the sun.
"Mine. All of this is mine."
Starting today, he'd be waking up in a two-thousand-square-meter mansion, agonizing over which supercar to take out for a spin. What a gloriously decadent problem set.
He couldn't wait to learn about this new world—about whoever he was now.
In the living room, Felix grabbed a remote at random and switched on the comically large flat-panel TV on the wall.
He melted into the sofa, ready to sip something from the fridge and sample whatever this world called entertainment.
The screen flickered; a news channel logo appeared.
"…latest update: Chairman of Stark Industries and famed playboy Tony Stark disappeared after a weapons demonstration in the Middle East and has been missing for over thirty-six hours. The military is conducting an all-out search…"
The anchor's crisp diction nearly made Felix spit his drink.
Tony Stark?
Why did that name ring so many bells?
Before he could chase the thought, the image cut to a solemn memorial hall.
"…today marks the sixty-seventh anniversary of Captain America Steve Rogers' heroic sacrifice. Across the country, people are visiting memorials to honor this great war hero…"
Boom.
It was like a bomb went off in Felix's head.
Tony Stark.
Captain America.
Put those together and it pointed to a universe he knew all too well—
A world where superheroes and supervillains crisscrossed the sky, where alien invasions and city-ending catastrophes were Tuesday.
Marvel.
He'd actually crossed into the Marvel universe.
One second he's in paradise. The next, free-fall into hell.
The joy curdled on Felix's face, cracked, and dropped away, leaving only dread and denial.
Being rich was great—if you lived long enough to enjoy it.
In New York, you might step out to buy groceries and get pancaked by a giant green rage monster. Or an alien particle beam could vaporize you and your produce in one neat pulse.
How was anyone supposed to live like this?
He'd rather go back to being a hungry orphan; at least he didn't have to worry about death by random cosmic event.
As claustrophobic fear swelled to the breaking point, a flood of memories that weren't his crashed through his skull like a breached dam.
The pain was so intense he curled up on the sofa, clutching his head.
Faces, voices, feelings—alien and violent—whirled through his awareness.
A hard-eyed middle-aged man with a bristling beard.
Mountains of weapons crates.
A clandestine deal on a shadowed pier.
Contraband of every stripe—from advanced weapons components to enriched uranium—the stuff that births nukes.
He had no idea how long the torrent lasted. When the agony finally ebbed, Felix was drenched in cold sweat like he'd been hauled from a river.
He stared, blank and thoughtless.
Now he knew who he'd become.
Rich kid?
Not even close.
Try "terror heir."
He was the scion of a sprawling criminal empire.
His new father—the "pepsied" one—had been a world-class smuggler whose name curdled blood in both black and white markets.
And three days ago, this kingpin got Swiss-cheesed in a double-cross and died on the spot.
As his only son, Felix "naturally" inherited the estate—
Meaning the entire smuggling syndicate, plus a Rolodex of "partners" and enemies scattered across the globe.
This villa? Just the tip of the illicit iceberg.
The room swayed.
What was this, some cosmic joke?
He'd heard of deadbeat dads. This was a dad who booby-trapped the will.
He'd been a law-abiding civilian five minutes ago. Now he was the newly minted head of a globally wanted crime syndicate?
If S.H.I.E.L.D. or any random cape clocked that, wouldn't they farm him for boss loot?
They'd scatter his ashes for him.
Collapse. Despair. A bitter pinch of absurdity.
Felix lay on the sofa, eyes fixed on the ceiling, seeing nothing but gray.
After a long time, he forced himself upright.
What's done is done. Panic wouldn't fix it.
He needed a survival plan.
Disband the organization? No chance. The psychos under him would be first in line to put him down.
Turn himself in? Worse. His father's enemies would carve him up long before the courts could.
One road remained: grit his teeth, take the wheel, and somehow launder this mess—drag the whole outfit into legitimacy.
Leverage the channels and assets to do actual business.
Hard? Absolutely. Better than waiting to die.
Just as Felix set his jaw and started sketching a path to the straight and narrow, an emotionless mechanical voice rang directly in his mind.
[Host soul stability confirmed. Binding conditions met.]
[SCP Proliferation System now online.]
[This system is dedicated to bringing the greatness of Containment Objects to every corner of the multiverse.]
[Kind reminder: in the future, you may be labeled "Calamity Spreader," "Source of All Catastrophes," or "Walking Apocalypse." Please prepare yourself mentally.]
Felix: "???"
A system?
He had a system after all?
Why did this one sound so wrong?
Containment objects?
Proliferating containment objects?
Calamity Spreader?
Three letters surged up his spine, ice-cold and familiar: SCP.
The SCP Foundation's numbered anomalies—things eerie, lethal, and beyond reason—each a vector of danger and the unknown.
And this system wanted to popularize those things?
That wasn't outreach. That was weaponized disaster.
"Please consult the system manual to better fulfill your mission."
The voice returned as a translucent blue panel bloomed in front of Felix's eyes.
(End of Chapter)
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