Late at night, the city lay in silence. The noise and bustle that filled the streets during the day had long since faded, leaving behind only the occasional whisper of wind and the faint hum of neon signs. Shops that had been crowded and lively mere hours ago now stood shuttered, their doors locked, their windows dark. The only light came from the flickering glow of the neon advertisements hanging above, casting a dim, eerie afterglow across the street corners.
In one such corner, a pair of eyes gleamed cautiously in the shadows. Hidden by the dim light, a small figure crouched low, his gaze darting left and right with a wariness far beyond his years. Every sound made his body tense, ready to flee at the slightest hint of danger.
By the faint reflection of the neon glow, his silhouette became clear—a boy, no older than eight or nine. His hair was a tangled mess of black strands, his small face smeared with dirt, and his clothes were little more than rags, worn and filthy. His body was small, perhaps no taller than 1.2 meters, but his eyes were sharp and alert, shining like dark gems in the night.
He raised his hand ever so slightly, and something strange happened. Suspended above the nearby shop entrance was a security camera, its lens aimed squarely at the front door. Without any physical touch, the camera shifted, its angle twisting away, as if an invisible hand had forced it to turn.
The boy quickly slipped out from his hiding spot, moving across the street. His steps were light, almost soundless, his body tense like a cornered animal. Every few seconds, he paused, scanning his surroundings, ready to dive back into the shadows at the first sign of trouble.
Fortunately, the path to the shop door was uneventful. He arrived without incident and crouched before the lock. His small hand extended once more, and he closed his eyes. A faint pulse of energy rippled outward, unseen by the naked eye but tangible in the shift of the air. Within seconds, the sturdy lock clicked softly and sprang open.
The boy's lips curled into a fleeting smile. Success. He reached out to push the door open—
But a voice rang out from the darkness.
> "Theft is an immoral act."
The boy froze, his heart lurching into his throat. Instinctively, his hand shot up, and a small shard of broken glass hidden in his sleeve lifted into the air, ready to shoot backwards like a dagger.
Before he could strike, the voice came again—gentle, calm, reassuring.
> "Child, don't be nervous. We mean you no harm."
Something in the tone stilled him. The words carried a strange warmth, almost like a soothing lullaby. Against his better judgment, his instinct to attack faltered. Still, his body remained taut, his small frame quivering like a bowstring. Slowly, he turned around to face the source of the voice.
Two figures stood not far behind him, both of them adult men.
The first was tall and lean, with glasses perched on his nose. His refined appearance and gentle bearing made him look more like a scholar than someone out prowling in the dead of night.
Beside him was a man in a wheelchair. His long hair was the color of dark gold, his features handsome yet softened by kindness. He radiated an aura of calm authority, his elegant demeanor carrying an almost fatherly warmth. The sight of him instantly put people at ease, as if he were incapable of cruelty.
The boy's pupils contracted sharply. Recognition flashed across his dirt-smeared face.
The man in the wheelchair noticed this reaction and gave a small, knowing smile.
> "Child, you seem to know us?"
Know them? Of course he did. He didn't just know them—he knew them all too well.
Though his lips stayed sealed, the boy's eyes betrayed him. His gaze was fixed on the two men with a mixture of disbelief and tension, as though confirming a dream he had never thought possible.
The man in the wheelchair wheeled himself closer, his expression warm and open.
> "My name is Charles Xavier. I am the headmaster of a special school. And this,"—he gestured toward the bespectacled man standing beside him—"is Hank McCoy, one of the teachers at the school."
Charles's smile widened ever so slightly as he introduced himself.
The boy shifted his gaze to the man with glasses. Hank McCoy returned his look with a gentle smile, nodding in greeting.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then the boy finally spoke, his voice quiet but firm.
> "Aiden."
It was a simple introduction, but it was enough.
Charles leaned forward slightly in his wheelchair, his voice gentle, almost coaxing.
> "Aiden… The purpose of our school is to provide guidance and safety for children like you—children who possess extraordinary talents. At our school, you'll never go hungry again. You'll never have to sleep on the streets or wander in fear. Would you like to come with us?"
His tone was sincere, his expression kind. Everything about him radiated warmth, but to an outsider, the scene might have looked almost comical—a strange man in a wheelchair smiling warmly at a ragged child, speaking words that could easily be mistaken for the lure of a trafficker.
But Aiden knew better.
This was no ordinary man. This was Charles Xavier—Professor X himself. A man whose intellect was unmatched, whose compassion was renowned, and whose telepathic abilities made him one of the most formidable mutants alive.
And the man beside him? Hank McCoy—Beast. Brilliant, compassionate, and just as famous.
How did Aiden recognize them so easily? Because he wasn't truly of this world.
He was a transmigrator.
In his past life, he had lived in another world entirely—a normal world where mutants, superheroes, and villains existed only in comic books and movies. He remembered his death vividly: the blinding headlights of a truck barreling toward him, the last words he saw painted across its side—Dayun. Then everything had gone black.
When he awoke, he was no longer himself. His body was small, his surroundings unfamiliar. He was a nine-year-old boy living on the streets, hungry and desperate. Only now, seeing Charles Xavier and Hank McCoy standing before him, did he truly understand. He had not simply been reborn—he had crossed into the Marvel Universe itself.
The realization was overwhelming. In his old life, he had read about this world countless times. He had cheered for the X-Men, feared Magneto, admired heroes, and dreaded the countless villains. And now, he was here.
Aiden narrowed his eyes slightly, his thoughts whirling. After a brief silence, he spoke again.
> "I'll go with you. But you must promise me one thing."
Charles's brows rose in curiosity.
> "And what is that, Aiden?"
The boy met his gaze squarely. His expression was unusually solemn for someone so young.
> "Never try to look into my memories."
For the first time that night, Charles's smile faltered. His expression froze, caught off guard by the child's demand.
A moment later, he sighed softly, his tone tinged with embarrassment.
> "I'm sorry, Aiden. But the truth is… I already tried the moment I first saw you."
The boy stiffened, his frown deepening.
Charles raised a hand, almost in apology, his voice earnest.
> "I couldn't help it. It is my responsibility to protect children like you, and I needed to be sure. But… I couldn't see anything."
Aiden blinked, stunned.
Charles continued, "Your mind is… extraordinary. Your innate talent appears to block my telepathy entirely. No matter how I tried, I could not glimpse a single memory. That is something I have rarely encountered, even among mutants."
Relief washed over Aiden like a tide.
He hadn't been worried that Charles would expose him as a transmigrator. Knowing what he did about Xavier's character, Aiden was certain the man would never harm a child, let alone one in his care. What he had feared was something else entirely.
He remembered well the story of Deadpool in the comics. When Professor X glimpsed Deadpool's fragmented awareness—that he was a fictional character—it nearly shattered his mind. Aiden had worried that something similar might happen if Charles saw his past life's memories. If Xavier lost control, if the pillar of the X-Men collapsed, then the fragile lifeline Aiden had just found would crumble instantly.
But now… it seemed his mutant ability had spared them both.
He let out a quiet breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Charles smiled warmly once more, his earlier embarrassment fading.
> "Come, Aiden. Let us take you to your new home."
Hank stepped forward, gesturing toward an open square nearby. The three of them moved together through the empty streets until they reached the plaza.
Hank tapped the device strapped to his wrist, and with a soft whir, the air shimmered before them. Slowly, a massive aircraft appeared out of thin air, its sleek frame futuristic and imposing. Cloaked until now, it revealed itself only at Hank's command.
Aiden's eyes widened slightly at the sight. The X-Jet. He was seeing it with his own eyes for the first time.
"Welcome aboard," Hank said with a smile, motioning for him to enter.
Together, they stepped inside. The hatch sealed shut with a hiss, and as the engines roared to life, the great jet shimmered once more, fading from view as its cloaking systems engaged.
For the first time since his transmigration, Aiden allowed himself to relax.
He had found shelter.
He had found the X-Men.
And though his journey was only beginning, he knew one thing for certain—this world, this Marvel Universe, would never be the same.
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