A young man of average height sat at the bar, staring into his glass as if the answers he needed were hiding inside the whiskey, stubbornly refusing to surface.
The woman serving his drink watched him with a tilted, amused smile.
Just a few minutes ago he had been charming, even a little flirtatious… and then, suddenly, his gaze had gone distant, as if his mind had been ripped away in an instant.
She shook her head and went back to work, convinced the guy in front of her was nothing more than another loser drowning his sorrows in cheap alcohol.
But Eric could not care less about what she thought.
Because at that moment, he was trapped in a body he did not recognize, in a place he did not understand… with a certainty that froze his blood.
That was not his body.
"Our beloved playboy was spotted once again on his way to his mansion with two new models…"
"Stark never disappoints…"
The small LCD screen above the bar kept chattering, but those words alone were enough to leave him completely blank.
Eric slowly raised his gaze.
"…Damn it," he whispered. "I'm in Marvel."
His thoughts exploded like a stampede out of control.
He wanted to cry, scream, laugh… but his body did not respond. Everything had happened far too fast.
Hours earlier, or what he believed had been hours, he had lived in Queens, New York. A construction worker, rough hands, a tired back.
A hard life, but a real one.
He had gone to work like any other day when a shooting, something sadly common, forced him to throw himself to the ground.
He searched for cover.
It was not enough.
A bullet went straight through his head.
Sirens. Red and blue lights.
The distant sound of patrol cars before everything went dark.
And then… this.
Before dying, Eric had been an ordinary man.
No special talents, no luck.
He worked from a young age, took care of himself, and survived however he could.
His only escape had been movies, comics, and stories where an average person was given a second chance.
He never imagined he would become one of them.
He woke up abruptly in a young body, twenty-six years old, causing the waitress to step back in surprise.
He was still trying to process what was happening when he heard the last name Stark on the news.
Stark.
Tony Stark.
A name any superhero movie fan knew by heart.
Eric's heart began to pound violently.
He had never truly believed in reincarnation. In stories, it always seemed simple: wake up calmly, accept the change, adapt.
"Pure bullshit," he thought, breathing deeply to avoid a heart attack.
"Hey, are you okay?" the woman asked when she noticed how pale he looked.
"Don't worry," he replied, waving a hand with false calm.
As he regained control of his breathing, information that did not belong to him began to settle into his mind.
Eric Smith.
American citizen.
An ordinary-looking face, but attractive in a discreet way: a defined jawline, blue eyes, long jet-black hair, light stubble, a straight nose, and always-alert brown eyes.
An athletic body, shaped more by a harsh life than by the gym: broad shoulders, strong arms, and several small scars on his hands and forearms.
He wore worn, simple clothes, and although he tried to go unnoticed, there was something in his posture, a mix of exhaustion and determination, that made him stand out.
Abandoned by his parents at eight years old.
He grew up in a Brooklyn orphanage until sixteen, the age at which the system abandoned him as well.
The streets became his home.
Petty theft. Pickpocketing. Arrests.
Five times detained.
He had even sold stolen Captain America posters to kids leaving school.
Ten years living like that.
"What a shitty life…" he muttered before finishing his last drink.
His current assets: one thousand dollars.
And he was wasting them in a run-down bar.
The light flickered as if the place itself wanted to die.
The counter was sticky, the air thick with old sweat and cheap tobacco, and the distorted sound of the television was the only thing not trying to crush him.
He had been drinking for hours. Not to celebrate, but to avoid thinking.
That was when time seemed to stop.
His phone, dead from lack of battery, lit up on its own.
A white flash.
A strange beep.
Then the message appeared:
> [CARD TRADE AND TRAFFIC SYSTEM – ACTIVATED] <
>[DO YOU WISH TO BIND THE HOST?]<
>[YES / NO]<
"What the hell…?" he muttered, convinced he was hallucinating.
But he wasn't.
It even had Terms and Conditions.
As if someone actually expected him to read them.
Without thinking any further, he pressed Yes.
Eric knew how to seize opportunities, because otherwise they vanished as quickly as they appeared.
The air in the bar grew heavy, dense.
> [Confirmed. User: Eric.] <
>[Assets: 1000 USD.]<
>[Objective: Generate wealth through cards.]<
A blue light condensed over the table, forming a small sealed envelope marked with an unknown symbol.
Eric panicked again.
He looked at the waitress.
She winked at him and kept working.
No one saw it.
No one noticed.
"Okay… either I'm way drunker than I thought… or my life just changed forever."
He was still holding the envelope when someone sat down beside him.
He didn't pay it much attention… until he noticed a different scent. Clean. Precise. Dangerous.
"You're sitting in my seat," a female voice said, low and firm.
"Well, I didn't know this place offered reservations," he replied mockingly.
But then…
Eric turned his head.
And almost stopped breathing.
Red hair pulled back with professional carelessness.
Green eyes that analyzed him in a single second.
The posture of someone trained to kill.
Even though she was well made up to avoid easy recognition, Eric identified her instantly.
Natasha Romanoff.
Black Widow.
The atmosphere tightened.
Natasha watched him closely.
Too closely.
As an elite agent, she immediately noticed that Eric recognized her, or at least seemed to know who she was.
And that… was not good.