1990 — Birth (Age 0)
Evan Cross was born screaming.
Not because of pain.
Because the world was too loud.
Hospital lights cut through his vision like knives. The air felt heavier than it should have, as if gravity itself had a personality here—dense, layered, watching. He didn't understand language yet, but instinctively he knew something was wrong.
This wasn't his world.
There was no memory of dying. No accident. No dramatic end. Just exhaustion—heat crawling under his skin, a buzzing in his bones, the feeling of leaning against something solid and thinking, I can't do this anymore.
Then this.
As his cries filled the room, something else stirred.
Not a voice.
Not a presence.
A menu.
It wasn't intrusive. It didn't speak. It simply existed, as naturally as breath.
> [SHOP SYSTEM — ONLINE]
Evan didn't understand it.
But he felt safe.
---
1991 — Age 1
His parents were normal.
That was Evan's first relief.
No secret agents. No cultists. No glowing eyes or whispered prophecies. Just two overworked people in a small apartment, struggling but kind.
The System stayed quiet.
Not dormant—waiting.
Evan learned early that crying too much drew attention. So he didn't. He watched instead. Listened. Memorized patterns. His mind developed faster than it should have, not genius-level—but aware.
This world had rules.
And money mattered.
---
1992 — Age 2
The first time Evan noticed the difference, it wasn't the System.
It was the news.
A TV left on in the background. A report about a man who could lift cars. Something about enhanced soldiers, classified projects, rumors of weapons that didn't exist.
This wasn't fantasy.
This was Marvel.
The realization didn't terrify him.
It focused him.
---
1993 — Age 3
The Shop became clearer.
Not usable—yet.
But concepts surfaced. Categories. Pricing logic. Restrictions.
The most important rule crystallized early:
> Nothing is free.
No pity discounts. No "chosen one" privileges.
Just currency.
Evan smiled for the first time that year.
---
1994 — Age 4
He learned to lie.
Small lies. Safe ones.
"I don't know."
"I forgot."
"I'm just a kid."
Adults underestimated him. Teachers dismissed his quietness as shyness. Other kids ignored him.
That was perfect.
---
1995 — Age 5
The first bullies appeared.
They didn't hate him. They barely noticed him at all. He was the kind of kid people pushed because it felt natural to do so.
Backpacks kicked. Toys stolen. Lunch money taken.
Evan never fought back.
He counted.
---
1996 — Age 6
Christmas came.
A small tree. A few wrapped boxes.
A handheld gaming device. A toy set still in its packaging.
Evan waited three weeks.
Then quietly sold them.
Pawn shop. Cash only.
The System didn't react—but Evan felt it acknowledge the transaction, like a ledger updating somewhere unseen.
That night, he slept better than ever.
---
1997 — Age 7
School taught him something valuable.
Not math. Not reading.
Trends.
What kids wanted. What parents bought. What people discarded once something newer appeared.
He started flipping items.
Trading cards. Game cartridges. Toys still sealed.
Always discreet.
Always patient.
---
1998 — Age 8
The bullies escalated.
So did Evan's tolerance.
Bruises healed. Money accumulated.
He learned something critical that year:
Pain was temporary.
Profit was scalable.
---
1999 — Age 9
The internet arrived at home.
Slow. Noisy. Revolutionary.
Evan read everything.
Forums. Early market speculation. Tech predictions. Digital currencies whispered about by people who sounded insane—and brilliant.
He didn't buy yet.
He watched.
---
2000 — Age 10
Another Christmas.
Another sell-off.
Evan didn't feel guilty.
He felt prepared.
The Shop flickered briefly that night—just enough for him to see numbers where none should be.
Minimum purchase thresholds.
Bulk discounts.
Storage logistics.
Warehouses.
That was new.
---
2001 — Age 11
The world shook.
News filled with fear, anger, uncertainty.
Markets dipped. Governments tightened. People panicked.
Evan observed something crucial:
Fear made people predictable.
---
2002 — Age 12
Middle school.
Crueler bullies. Sharper words. Longer days.
Evan learned to disappear in plain sight.
Library lunches. Quiet classrooms. Teachers who forgot he was there.
His savings grew.
Slowly.
Relentlessly.
---
2003 — Age 13
He made his first digital investment.
Tiny.
Experimental.
Crypto was still a joke to most people.
To Evan, it was inevitability.
---
2004 — Age 14
The System responded for the first time in a noticeable way.
Not with words.
With confirmation.
His balance wasn't just money anymore.
It was recognized capital.
---
2005 — Age 15
He worked part-time.
Stocking shelves. Cleaning floors.
Janitorial work felt… fitting.
Nobody questioned a cleaner.
Nobody watched them closely.
---
2006 — Age 16
More investments.
More patience.
Evan stopped caring about bullies entirely.
They were noise.
The future wasn't.
---
2007 — Age 17
The market trembled again.
Evan adjusted.
He always adjusted.
He sold before crashes. Bought before booms. Never flashy. Never greedy.
The Shop's pricing fluctuated with his net worth.
That was important.
---
2008 — Age 18
The world burned financially.
Evan didn't.
His portfolio survived.
Then grew.
That year, he quietly incorporated shell entities. Paper companies. Nothing suspicious—just layers.
The System approved.
---
2009 — Age 19
Warehouses.
Empty ones.
Purchased cheaply.
No inventory yet.
Just space.
The Shop loved space.
---
2010 — Age 20
The paperwork cleared.
Every legal document approved.
Evan Cross existed on paper as a man with assets, holdings, and nothing remarkable enough to trigger alarms.
That morning, the news played in the background.
> "Weapons manufacturer Tony Stark reportedly attacked and possibly captured in Afghanistan…"
Another channel.
> "…military reports of a green, unidentified humanoid entity—"
Evan turned the TV off.
Not his problem.
He opened the Shop.
Two purchases.
No hesitation.
---
Purchase 1 — $1,000,000
Sage — Robotic AI Assistant (Dr. Eggman Variant)
Status: Loyal
Restrictions: None
---
Purchase 2 — $1,000,000
Stim Packs (500,000 Units)
Medical-grade. Universal compatibility.
---
The warehouses filled.
Crates stacked neatly, inventory logged, climate-controlled.
Sage activated.
"Good morning, Evan Cross," the AI said calmly. "I am operational."
Evan smiled.
He didn't care about heroes.
He didn't care about monsters.
He cared about margins.
And once those Stim Packs hit the right markets?
He was going to eat very, very well.