Chapter 1: The Grand Opening Disaster
I died on a Tuesday.
The irony wasn't lost on me then, and it's not lost on me now—three weeks later, standing in a body that isn't mine, in a comic book shop I apparently own, watching a delivery truck pull away from the curb.
The old me died choking on a piece of badly-cut steak in a mediocre restaurant. Thirty-two years of a boring life, ended by meat. The void that came after was... I don't have words for it. Time didn't exist there. Neither did I, really. Just consciousness floating in nothing, absorbing something I didn't understand.
Then I woke up here. In Stuart Bloom's body. In Pasadena, California. September 2007.
I know this because Stuart's memories are still here, layered underneath my own like a faded photograph. I remember his art school dropout. His string of failed relationships. The inheritance that barely covered this lease. And I remember—somehow—things that shouldn't be possible to remember.
Things that haven't happened yet.
The bell above the door chimes. I'm still staring at the first box the driver left, hands frozen on the cardboard flaps.
"Sign here." The driver shoves a clipboard at me.
My hands move. Stuart's hands. They're paler than mine were, fingers stained with old charcoal smudges. The signature that comes out is his, not mine—muscle memory written into this body.
"How many boxes?" My voice sounds wrong. Quieter. More defeated.
"Hundred and twelve."
The clipboard slips. I catch it before it hits the floor. "That's... that's not right."
"Says here you ordered a hundred-twelve boxes. Paid for 'em last week." He's already heading back to the truck. "Comics, right? Must be a big opening."
A hundred and twelve boxes.
I rip open the first one. Then the second. Then the third, increasingly frantic.
"The Immortal Iron Fist #19." Every. Single. Box.
My entire inventory budget—Stuart's entire life savings—is sitting here in cardboard cubes. One hundred and twelve boxes of a single comic book issue that nobody wants. Issue nineteen of a series that isn't even particularly popular.
I sink to the floor, back against the counter. The shop is tiny—maybe four hundred square feet. The boxes are already taking up half the space. Stacks and stacks of yellow and green covers, Danny Rand's masked face staring at me from a hundred different angles.
This is it. I got a second chance at life and I ruined it on day one.
But then—
A tingle. Sharp. Electric. Like my brain is trying to remember something important.
I close my eyes and the sensation sharpens. Not a memory. More like... an echo of one. A future one. Images flashing too fast to fully grasp: this comic, these boxes, but months from now. A price tag that makes my stomach flip. Collectors. Demand.
How do I know that?
The tingle fades, leaving a dull ache behind my eyes. I push it away and stand up. Doesn't matter how I know. Right now, I have sixty-seven dollars in my bank account and a shop full of unsellable inventory.
The original Stuart—the real Stuart—would probably just give up. I remember that about him, that bone-deep resignation. But I'm not him. Not entirely.
I grab a box cutter and start opening boxes.
By noon, I've created a monument to desperation in the front window.
Every Iron Fist comic is on display. I've arranged them in a pyramid, three feet tall, with hand-written signs propped around the edges: "OPENING WEEK SPECIAL - INVESTOR OPPORTUNITY" and "HOT NEW SERIES - STOCK UP NOW" and my personal favorite, born of pure panic: "RARE FIND - LIMITED PRINT RUN."
That last one is technically a lie. This isn't a rare print run. But someday it will be.
How do I know that?
The tingle comes back, stronger this time. I grip the edge of the display case and wait for it to pass. When it does, I'm left with the weird certainty that this will work. Somehow.
My hands arrange the last few copies without conscious thought, positioning them at angles that catch the afternoon light through the window. It looks professional. Deliberate. Like I planned this.
"Interesting display."
I spin around. A kid—early twenties, maybe—is standing in the doorway. He's thin, wearing a faded Captain America t-shirt, holding a skateboard under one arm.
"Yeah, uh..." I wipe my palms on my jeans. "Grand opening. Just got this series in."
"Iron Fist?" He steps closer, examining the window. "Is this any good?"
Say yes. Be confident.
"It's... it's going to be huge." The words come out steady. "Fraction and Brubaker are about to revolutionize the character. This run is going to be the definitive version."
I don't know where that came from. Stuart never read this series. I never read this series. But I know it's true, the same way I know water is wet.
The kid picks up a copy, flips through it. "How much?"
"Cover price is $2.99, but—" I hesitate. This is stupid. This is so stupid. "—I'm doing a bulk discount. Five for twelve dollars."
He considers this. Puts it back down. "Maybe next time."
The bell chimes as he leaves.
I slump against the counter. One customer. Zero sales. Sixty-seven dollars in the bank and a mountain of comics nobody wants.
The second customer comes at 2 PM. A woman in a business suit, on her lunch break, who buys one copy "for her nephew." Eight dollars total after tax.
Seventy-five dollars in the bank now. Only 111 boxes to go.
The third customer is a teenager who asks if I have any manga, doesn't even glance at the Iron Fist display, and leaves empty-handed when I point to my pathetic three-shelf collection.
At 4 PM, I flip the sign to "CLOSED" and sit on the floor behind the counter, surrounded by boxes. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Stuart's memories tell me he picked this location because the rent was cheap. That's it. No foot traffic analysis. No market research. Just cheap rent and desperate hope.
I died and woke up in a failure's body.
The thought should be crushing. Instead, I'm angry.
I didn't survive the void just to fail at selling comic books.
The man who saves my life walks in at 4:47 PM.
I'm supposed to be closed, but I never locked the door. He's older—mid-fifties, gray hair, expensive watch, leather jacket that's seen some miles. He moves through the shop like he's searching for something specific.
"We're actually closed," I start to say.
"You have Iron Fist #19."
It's not a question. I gesture weakly at the window display. "I have... many copies of Iron Fist #19."
He walks over, picks one up, examines it with the careful attention of someone who knows what they're looking for. Then he looks at me.
"How many do you have?"
"About a hundred." I clear my throat. "Well. Ninety-seven now."
"I'll take thirty-five copies."
The world stops.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Thirty-five copies." He's already pulling out his wallet. "I've been trying to complete my run. This issue's been impossible to find in good condition. Most stores only ordered one or two copies because it's mid-arc."
That tingle hits again, sharp enough to make me wince. Images flash: this issue, years from now, worth ten times what it costs today. Comic grading certifications. Auction listings. Collectors searching desperately for this exact issue to complete their sets.
I ordered a hundred copies by accident.
No. Not an accident.
"How much?" The man is already counting bills.
I do quick math. Cover price times thirty-five, plus a markup because he's buying in bulk and he clearly wants them badly. "Three-fifty."
He doesn't even blink. Counts out three hundred and fifty dollars in cash and sets it on the counter.
I stare at the money. More than I've seen in weeks. Enough to order actual diverse inventory. Enough to pay my electric bill.
"You have good instincts," he says, accepting the bag of comics I hastily stuff for him. "Most shop owners wouldn't stock deep on a mid-arc issue. But this run is going to be huge. Mark my words."
The door closes behind him.
I count the money three times to make sure it's real. Then I count the remaining boxes.
Sixty-two left. But I'm not broke anymore. I have enough to restock. Enough to survive another week.
I lock the door and sit in the empty shop, surrounded by boxes of comics that might somehow be worth something someday, and I think about that tingle in my brain. Those flashes of things I shouldn't know.
The void did something to me. Changed something. Gave me something.
I don't understand it yet. Don't know the rules. But I know—with the same strange certainty that saved my ass today—that this is just the beginning.
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