The silence in the room was broken only by the steady ticking of the antique clock on the mantelpiece...
The second hand measured the time of my new life, which had begun just half an hour ago with a convulsive gasp in a stranger's bed.
The first sensation was... lightness?
My past body, worn out by desk work and chronic sleep deprivation, hadn't felt like this in a long time. This one was young, full of strength, and surprisingly responsive, as if I had always owned it.
I—or what was left of me—had been a programmer.
Not a Silicon Valley genius, just an ordinary guy who had clung to the only chance to escape poverty: courses, exams, remote work at a big company with a salary I had once only dreamed of... and all of it had turned to dust in one miserable evening.
A painful memory flashed, bringing not phantom but very real pain, like an unexpected punch to the gut:
There I was, crossing the street, already standing on the sidewalk, turning back toward home.
The screech of brakes, a deafening horn, and all-consuming pain.
Damn truck!
I hadn't even seen it; I had only felt the world collapsing into a single crimson point.
What a stupid, absurd, meaningless death—one that had reduced all my plans, hopes, and my worthless life to nothing. And then... then there was only thick, cold DARKNESS, like a long sleep, yet somehow perceived as if it were happening in reality.
And now I was here—in the body of a teenager named Ezekiel Lucian Hammer, known to his family as Zik. For some reason, that name sounded better than my old one, though I couldn't remember what that was, no matter how hard I tried.
Along with the new name, the entire archive of the previous owner's memories had loaded into my head, and from that "archive," my skull still hummed slightly.
But that wasn't the only reason...
Damn Marvel Universe!
Of course, where else could I have ended up?
In my old world, it had been comics, cartoons, movies—just entertainment for an evening!
I hadn't been a die-hard fan, but I knew the general plot. When the name "Antonia Stark" surfaced in Zik's memories—a brilliant inventor, playgirl, billionaire, and owner of "Stark Industries"—the puzzle pieces fell into place. Yes, Tony Stark was indeed a woman here.
To my luck—or perhaps misfortune—there was no nonsense like "11 women for every man" here, and for that, I was grateful.
But what mattered more right now was another piece of information: my new "father"—Justin Hammer, founder of "Hammer Industries" and direct competitor to that very Antonia.
Oh yes, I remembered this company well from the second Iron Man movie. But there, Justin had been portrayed as a complete idiot—envious, talentless, and incompetent. Even his best weapons had been junk that he somehow sold at an inflated price to the U.S. Army!
As I recalled, in that movie, he had made a deal with some Russian vengeful figure, orchestrated a terrorist attack, and ended up in prison in disgrace.
Let me remind you: this man was the sole owner of a transnational corporation, the chief engineer, and a damn multimillionaire!
Grimacing at another flash of pain, I looked around the room: dark wood panels, insanely expensive furniture, a massive holographic projector on the desk displaying biochemistry schematics.
This didn't look like the room of a guy whose father was barely fit to be a clown. Zik's memories confirmed it: his father was a ruthless, intelligent, and extremely effective businessman whose "toys" were bought by half the world.
So who had been the real idiot in that movie? The screenwriters? Or had they taken us, the audience, for fools?
The question was rhetorical.
My memory tossed up another amusing detail—or rather, character: Ezekiel Stane, the blond son of Obadiah Stane, who, as in canon, had run "Stark Industries" while Antonia Stark burned through life at parties. And my name, I remind you, was Ezekiel Hammer, and physically, I was the spitting image of that Ezekiel—except my father was a different man.
Damn multiverses—why were there so many of them? Even with some knowledge of Marvel, I still couldn't predict anything with certainty!
I ran a hand over my face, trying to pull myself together.
To die so pointlessly, only to wake up as the sole heir of a billionaire in a world where anything was possible... Some cruel irony of fate.
Why couldn't luck have smiled on me like this in my past life?
At that moment, there was a delicate knock on the door, making me flinch.
"Yes?" My voice came out higher than I expected—damn teenage body. I swallowed hard. Zik's memories were one thing, but real conversation was another. I didn't want to be suspected of anything because of a misplaced word... On the other hand, what could they suspect? That the body of little Ezekiel had been taken over by someone else? Even in this universe, that sounded unrealistic.
"Young master, dinner is ready. Please come to the table," came the calm, velvety baritone of Albert from behind the door. He was the head butler, but to Zik, this elderly yet remarkably spry man was something like a grandfather. "Tonight, your favorite ribs in honey sauce..."
That hit the spot.
My memory helpfully supplied the taste sensation, making my mouth water.
"I'm coming!" I shouted and rose from the chair.
Opening the door, I saw a man in his sixties with neat gray hair and a mustache, who greeted me with a light, warm smile.
"Please, to the small dining hall, young master," he gestured toward the family dining room.
I nodded and quickly walked down the hallway, anticipating the meal.
The mansion, which I knew only from images in someone else's head, was overwhelming in its luxury in person—wide corridors, polished dark wood floors, walls paneled in light oak. But all this classic aristocratic beauty was just a facade, because in reality, this entire house was a fortress disguised as a mansion.
The frame was made of Justin's personal ultra-strong alloy, the walls hid combat turrets, and underground lay a bunker and a "restricted section" with biometric security so advanced that Fort Knox would seem like a public courtyard.
As I walked, Zik's brain—which, despite his young age, was already considered a genius biologist—helpfully supplied facts: I, or rather he, was fifteen years old. A week ago had been his birthday, for which his father had gifted him a course of lectures from none other than Curt Connors—a name that sent a chill down my spine.
There was also recent news in the world about the development of a super-soldier serum at "Oscorp." Genetics, mutagenics, virology... All that pseudo-scientific stuff from the comics, which had been fiction in my old world, was real science here!
And this fourteen-year-old's brain understood it better than I understood programming code, which I had spent fifteen years studying!
Damn Marvel geniuses!
I entered the dining hall. The long polished wooden table was set for two, but the seat at the head of the table was empty—Justin wouldn't be coming again, apparently due to "important matters." Zik's memories told me this was usual, but something suspiciously like childish disappointment still stirred in my chest, which I ruthlessly suppressed.
Justin Hammer wasn't my father. Why should I care about his absence?
Taking my seat at the head of the table (a small rebellion that even Zik allowed himself), I began to eat, and damn, it was divine!
Reality was far better than any of the kid's memories!
A kid... I still couldn't fully associate myself with this body. His memories, his feelings, his brilliant mind—it all felt like an extremely powerful but awkward, foreign tool that had been forced on me against my will.
My past life, full of struggle and survival, had hardened me. Zik, on the other hand, had essentially not lived but existed in a greenhouse, worrying not about how to avoid starving to death but about the unavailability of toys or his father's busy schedule.
Honestly, I didn't even feel guilty for taking his place—I hadn't been able to influence it, so it wasn't murder but an accident.
But looking at the empty chair where a young man had once sat, eagerly listening to his respected father's words, I understood one thing: the least I could do for the man who had lost his son and for the boy who had never truly lived was to become the real Ezekiel Lucian Hammer. Not the naive genius boy who became a villain in the comics, but the heir to the company, a respected man, perhaps even a hero...
A new, improved version—and this version would claw his way through life with his teeth.
Starting with these divine ribs, yes!