In Manhattan, New York City, just a few blocks away from Hell's Kitchen and nestled between the shadows of towering skyscrapers, a pizzeria with an old-school signboard reading Old York Pizza was bustling with business. The scent of melting mozzarella and spicy pepperoni wafted down the street, drawing in crowds of locals and tourists alike.
Among the lunch-hour chaos, a lean and sharp-eyed young man with jet-black hair and eyes the color of obsidian pushed his way through the small mob outside the shop. Clutching a stack of steaming pizzas in expertly balanced arms, he weaved through the crowd and hurried toward a parked delivery bike emblazoned with a quirky "Eat Like a New Yorker" logo. He swiftly loaded the pizzas into a heat-insulated compartment fixed to the bike's rear.
"Whew~ I guess booming business has its downsides too," muttered Ethan Cole, formerly known as Chen Lin'an, as he glanced back at the packed pizzeria. A small grin crept onto his face. It hadn't always been like this—not even close.
Just a year ago, Old York Pizza had been struggling to stay open, buried under the shadow of franchises like Famous Ben's or even the ever-iconic Joe's Pizza—yes, the same Joe's that Spider-Man himself once worked for. Back then, the place barely saw ten customers a day. Remembering that bleak sight, Ethan couldn't help but feel proud. His modern rebranding strategies, borrowed from his past life's memories, had revolutionized Old York's recipes. By experimenting endlessly and adjusting flavor profiles to fit Manhattan's fast-food sensibilities—blending artisan crusts with New York-style slices—Ethan gave the place a well-earned culinary makeover.
This pizzeria was more than just a place of work. For Ethan, it was symbolic.
He had arrived in this world exactly four years ago, his soul forcefully pulled across dimensions. In his previous life, Ethan had been an orphan—a frail, asthmatic boy who never got the chance to see adulthood. Raised in a rundown orphanage in Guangzhou, he spent his entire life either bedridden or flipping through books under threadbare sheets. On his eighteenth birthday, after years of pain and terminal illness, he finally succumbed, exhaling one last breath under a dim nightlight.
And yet, instead of silence, there had been a blinding white light.
When he next opened his eyes, Ethan found himself inside the body of a teenager, barely fourteen years old, lying unconscious in a back alley near Times Square. His appearance had changed completely—his body felt stronger, taller, and definitely more Americanized. But more importantly, memories came crashing into his mind like a meteor shower: flashes of this world's technology, culture, and, most disturbingly, its dangerous inhabitants.
He had landed in none other than Earth-199999—the Marvel Cinematic Universe timeline, albeit with scattered anomalies from Earth-616. The moment he recognized a Daily Bugle newspaper cover featuring a blurry photo of Spider-Man mid-swing, he realized he was somewhere between Spider-Man: Homecoming and Avengers: Infinity War. Stark Tower had already been converted to an unknown private company, suggesting Tony had sold it—another timeline clue.
And to make matters even more complicated… something inside him was different.
When he'd first awoken in that alley, he suffered a massive migraine. Black tendrils oozed momentarily from beneath his skin before retreating. It was subtle, but real. The symbiote—Venom—had bonded with him, though neither of them fully understood how or why at the time. The memories of that night were fragmented and fuzzy, like trying to watch a TV channel through static. All he knew was that the being inside him was alive, ancient, and ravenous.
Without an identity, money, or even a way to speak English fluently, Ethan had wandered the streets in the chilly autumn air, barely surviving by scavenging leftovers near bodegas and pizza joints. If not for Old York—an irritable but soft-hearted veteran with a crusty mustache and WWII tattoos—Ethan might have died again, this time curled up behind a trash bin. York had found him burning with fever, collapsed beside a garbage barrel near Midtown, and dragged him home without asking questions.
That act of kindness saved Ethan's life.
"Brat! How many times do I have to tell you not to stack so much pizza at once? You wanna die on the streets again?" a gravelly voice barked just as Ethan was about to mount his delivery bike.
Startled, Ethan turned to find Old York storming out of the pizzeria, apron still tied haphazardly and flour smeared across his temple. The old man reached into the incubator with a disapproving frown and yanked out one of the orders.
Ethan sighed, lowering the kickstand again. "C'mon, old man. My driving's solid. One trip with more orders means better efficiency and fewer trips. It's math and logistics."
Old York snorted. "Efficiency, huh? That's how cocky kids talk right before crashing into lamp posts."
"I'm not a kid—" Ethan began.
"When I was your age," York interrupted, "I knew a guy, real hotshot. Said he could ride anything, anytime. It was 1982, and he was tearing up Brooklyn on a Kawasaki with three dames riding with him. One up front, two in the back—looked like a goddamn rock band."
Ethan blinked, then smirked. "Let me guess, you were the guy?"
Old York kicked his shin lightly with a scowl. "Don't interrupt your elders, punk!"
He leaned in, face serious now. "But yeah… that was me. And five minutes later? We all met God. Or at least we nearly did."
"What? What happened?" Ethan asked, eyes wide.
"The weight threw the balance. Couldn't turn right fast enough. We went flying off a bend down near Queensboro Bridge. Straight into the East River. Bike totaled. One girl broke her arm. I lost two teeth and my dignity."
York finished stuffing the adjusted load into the incubator, making sure it fit within safe capacity limits. He slammed the lid shut.
"That's why you don't show off, kid. One mistake and you're either roadkill or front-page news. And trust me, you don't wanna be on the front page in this city. That spot's already reserved for lunatics like Daredevil, Moon Knight, or worse."
Ethan gave a mock salute and mounted the bike properly this time. "Yes, sir. Message received."
Old York grunted but said nothing more, already turning back toward the shop.
As Ethan revved the engine and pulled out onto the avenue, the shadows in his eyes stirred. Deep within his bloodstream, something ancient stirred and whispered:
"Hungry…"
That guy also borrowed fifty bucks from me for motorcycle parts," Old York muttered with a snort, closing the incubator with a firm snap. "Poor bastard. Guess I'll never get that money back."
"The weight of pizza and people are a lot different," Ethan Cole—formerly Chen Lin'an—replied with a thoughtful tone, still processing the abrupt end to York's story. Though the image of a motorcycle crash wasn't new to him—especially in a city full of masked vigilantes with little regard for traffic laws—it left him pensive. His own deliveries couldn't be compared to that wild ride, but the warning lingered.
Hearing his muttering, Old York gave him a solid pat on the back. "Listen, kid. Accidents don't skip you just 'cause you're hauling pepperoni instead of passengers. Doesn't matter if it's a six-pack of soda or an extra slice—it's all about balance. Overload your ride, and you're begging for a meeting with the asphalt gods."
Ethan nodded, stepping back onto the motorcycle with renewed caution.
Buzz! The moment he twisted the key and throttle, the bike let out a growl that echoed faintly off the brownstone walls lining the avenue.
"And the helmet!" Old York's gravel-thick voice cut through the air again before Ethan could roll off.
With practiced ease, Ethan snatched the helmet from the handlebar and strapped it on, giving York a glance through the visor. He waited patiently, knowing the routine. York would never let him leave until he was satisfied every strap, order, and detail was just right.
"Alright," the old man grunted after one last check. "Go. Watch the road. Ain't worth dyin' over tips. Get there late, fine. Get there dead, and I gotta find a new delivery guy. That's a pain."
"Got it. Head back inside before the oven throws a tantrum," Ethan quipped with a lazy wave.
Twisting the throttle, he sped off into the Manhattan streets, weaving seamlessly between taxis and delivery vans. Old York watched him disappear down the block, the roar of the engine growing faint.
For a second, the old veteran's face softened. His usual gruffness gave way to quiet warmth.
In these past four years, they had come to depend on each other more than either would admit. Ethan had given Old York something he hadn't felt in decades—a sense of family. A reason to yell, nag, and even care. And in return, Old York had given Ethan shelter, warmth, and the first sense of belonging in a world that should've swallowed him whole.
Old York had grown up with nothing. His childhood memories were filled with cigarette smoke, creaky floorboards, and a mother whose addiction was stronger than any love for her son. He'd stayed useful only by scrubbing floors and scraping gum from under bar tables. If he hadn't been so helpful at a young age, the woman probably would've sold him to some sleazy dealer for cash and another hit.
He still remembered the way she looked at him in the weeks before he ran—like a used couch at a pawn shop, wondering what price she could fetch.
He escaped that night with nothing but a stolen Zippo and a peanut butter sandwich wrapped in newspaper. Maybe Ethan's sudden appearance years later was the universe fulfilling the wish he'd made that night, when he lit the lighter and whispered his birthday hope under a cardboard roof. The wish came half a century late, but it came.
With Ethan out on deliveries, Old York returned to the pizza ovens. The store wasn't going to run itself.
We're getting busier, he thought, watching the ticket machine spit out another four orders. Might need to hire some help soon.
Ethan would be starting college next week. He'd already crushed high school academically, landing among the top ten in his district. Now, he was enrolled at Empire State University, Peter Parker's old alma mater—though Peter had already graduated by this point in the current timeline. The workload was only going to get heavier.
Old York had no intention of holding Ethan back. The kid was too smart. Not just with books, but with people. Strategy. Instincts. His ability to absorb information was uncanny—as if his brain operated on an entirely different frequency from those around him.
Ethan himself chalked it up to being a transmigrator—someone whose soul had been reshaped, reforged by cosmic forces. He often mused that time-travel or dimension-hopping might've enhanced his cognitive abilities. Maybe it was just the symbiote, too. Whatever the reason, he found calculus and physics as easy as breathing.
That brilliance brought Old York a kind of pride he hadn't felt in decades.
Back in the kitchen, one of the apprentices had fallen behind. He stood spacing out while the oven timer blared.
"You brat! What're you thinkin'? That pizza's darker than your grandma's funeral shawl!"
The apprentice snapped out of it, scrambling to pull the burnt disc from the oven, muttering apologies as he fumbled.
"I'm docking that dough from your pay!" Old York bellowed. "You think pizza makes itself?! If you wanna play around, take your talents home and see if your eggs hatch into pancakes!"
Despite the scolding, the boy straightened up and smiled. It wasn't just the volume of the yelling. It was the rhythm—the passion. It gave the whole place a pulse.
This is it, the kid thought. This is what real kitchens sound like.