The morning began with the sound of a fan that had long since given up on life. Its blades spun lazily, making more noise than wind, but the young man lying beneath it didn't care. He wasn't listening to the fan. He wasn't listening to the street outside. He wasn't listening to the world at all.
Because in his hands was the latest Marvel comic.
He flipped the pages with reverence, eyes wide, grin stretching across his face. "Beautiful," he whispered. "Absolutely beautiful. Look at this panel. Spider‑Man bleeding out, still cracking jokes. Peak writing. Peak art. This is why Marvel will never die."
He sat up, holding the comic like it was a sacred relic. "Mutants, gods, aliens, billionaires in tin cans — nobody does it like Marvel. Nobody."
Another page. Another grin. Another whispered praise.
Then the grin faltered.
"…Except when they don't."
He slammed the comic shut, glaring at the cover like it had betrayed him. "What the hell was that ending? Who thought that was a good idea? Do the writers even read their own comics? Do they even care?!"
He threw his hands up, pacing the room like a preacher mid‑sermon. "Every time! Every single time! They build up something amazing, and then—bam!—ruined by nonsense. Kill off a character for shock value. Reset the timeline because they ran out of ideas. Make Spider‑Man miserable forever because apparently happiness is illegal."
He pointed at the comic like it was a rival. "If it were me in charge, I'd fix everything. No delays. No filler arcs. No waiting months for the next issue. I'd drop content so fast readers wouldn't even have time to demand the next chapter. They'd drown in greatness. Marvel would be unstoppable."
He flopped back onto the bed, comic resting on his chest, sighing dramatically. "But no. Instead, I'm stuck here, reading about heroes while the world outside is boring. Typical."
The alarm clock buzzed. He groaned. Work.
Dragging himself out of bed, he dressed quickly, muttering curses at the clock, the fan, the comic, and the universe in general. His workplace was a cramped office where the only thing louder than the printers was the sound of his boss yelling.
And sure enough, the moment he walked in, the berating began.
"You're late again!" his superior barked. "Do you think this company runs on your schedule? Do you think deadlines wait for you?"
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax, boss. I was just… appreciating art."
"Art doesn't pay bills!"
"Neither does yelling, but here we are."
The office groaned collectively. He smirked, sat at his desk, and pretended to work while actually scrolling through comic forums on his phone. Every few minutes, his boss would storm past, muttering about incompetence, deadlines, and how one employee could cause so many headaches.
The time came for his presentation, he walked into the conference hall with as much enthusiasm as a man dragging himself to his own execution, clutching his notes like they were a shield against the inevitable barrage of questions, criticisms, and the silent judgment of colleagues who had already decided whether he would sink or swim before he even opened his mouth.
He forced a smile, adjusted his tie, and stepped up to the podium, trying to convince himself that confidence could be faked if you sold it hard enough. The lights were too bright, the room too quiet, and every pair of eyes seemed to weigh him down. Still, he cleared his throat, tapped the microphone, and began—because no matter how little enthusiasm he had, the show had to go on.
"Let's get this over with" he muttered under his breath. He started his presentation with an expression that literally spelt 'Darn I hate this place'.
A few minutes into his presentation his supervisor was already getting on his nerves, asking questions on is presentation wearing those lenses that made him look like a socialite when he was just a degenerate.
The young man answered his superior's question with a rehearsed smile while inwardly swearing 'you don't know shit about this presentation then what the hell are you doing here'.
He ended his presentation managing to avoid repeating the f-bombs that he scribbled all over his presentation sheet during the presentation.
By the end of the day, his head was pounding. He left the office with the kind of exhaustion that wasn't physical but spiritual.
So he went to the bar.
The bartender knew him well. Too well. "Rough day?"
"Same as always," he muttered, sliding onto a stool. "Boss thinks I'm useless. I think he's allergic to joy. The usual."
The bartender poured him a drink. He took a long sip, sighed, and began nagging.
"You know what the problem is? Writers. Not just comic writers. All writers. They think they're gods. They think they can toy with us, drag us along, and we'll just keep buying issues. But if I were in charge? Oh, I'd show them. I'd drop content so fast the internet wouldn't even keep up. Readers wouldn't demand the next chapter because the next chapter would already be there. I'd make Marvel unstoppable."
The bartender nodded politely, used to these rants.
He finished his drink, stood, and stretched. "Alright. Enough nagging. Time to head home."
He stepped out of the bar, the night air cool against his skin.
Then came the whistle.
High. Sharp. Terrifying.
His eyes widened. He knew that sound. Everyone did.
A missile.
He looked up, saw the streak of fire descending, and laughed bitterly.
"Fuck," he muttered, "I'm gonna miss the internet."
The explosion tore through the street, fire and debris swallowing everything.
The world went white.
Then black.
Then something else entirely.
His body was gone, but his soul remained, drifting in a void that felt both endless and intimate.
And then, from the darkness, a figure appeared.
An old man. Glasses. Mustache. Warm smile.
Stan Lee.
He chuckled, voice echoing through the void. "Let's see how well you do, kid."
The laugh lingered as he faded away, leaving only the promise of chaos and stories yet to be written.