Bang! Bang!
Two sharp gunshots split the air, each echoing off the grimy walls of a narrow New York alley. In an instant, a young man—Stephen—was hit. Amid the chaos, he could barely register what was happening. All he knew was that his world was collapsing as security guards rushed in, and his so-called friends scattered without a backward glance. His mind went blank as he felt the searing pain and the cold rush of blood flowing out. In that brutal moment, Stephen died.
Later, in a modest New York apartment, a sudden, piercing scream shattered the silence.
"KAAAAAAAA!"
A 15-year-old boy bolted upright in bed, eyes wide with terror. He frantically patted his chest. "I…I just got shot. Was that a dream?" he stammered. His heart pounded as he looked around, confusion etched on his face. The room was unfamiliar, the surroundings oddly clean—nothing like the gritty streets he remembered. It wasn't until he got out of the bed and approached the door that a startling reflection caught his eye.
There, mounted on the back of the door, was a mirror.
Compelled by a mix of curiosity and dread, Stephen stepped closer. In the reflection he saw a figure that could have leaped straight from a comic book: sleek, slick black hair and piercing green eyes. The face in the mirror was strikingly handsome—nothing like his old self, with messy black hair and dull black eyes. He stared, disbelief creeping in as he whispered, "This…this is really my face?"
After a moment, he hesitated and tugged at his pants, checking to see if any details had changed further. A slow smile spread across his new face as he noticed that his snake Has transformed into a mighty Dragon. Laughter bubbled up inside him.
"Hahahahahaha!" he exclaimed, the sound echoing oddly in the quiet room.
Stephen felt a thrill of excitement. He had read plenty of reincarnation stories: an ordinary person dies, wakes up in a new world with extraordinary looks and powers that exceed everything they once imagined. And now, here he was.
He raised his hand, a determined glint in his eyes, and said, "System, activate!" Yet nothing happened. He waved his hand again, clapped, and tried a few more gestures—each attempt met with silence.
"Okay… no system," he muttered, disappointment briefly touching his voice. But he shrugged it off. He'd get his powers eventually. For now, he had to understand this new life.
Stepping out of his room, Stephen—still clinging to his old name for the moment—looked around the modest apartment. It appeared he was alone; there was no sign of family or roommates. Seeking some clue about where he was, he moved to the TV and turned it on.
The screen flickered to life, displaying a video clip. A calm, authoritative voice narrated the latest happenings—a discussion about Iron Man and several recently active vigilantes. As images of the iconic armored hero flashed across the screen, something in his head clicked and he remembered everything about his new body
A chill of understanding settled in his bones.
He was in Marvel.
Stephen sat frozen, his breath shallow, heart hammering against his ribs. A moment ago, he had accepted the idea of reincarnation with an eerie kind of ease—just rolling with it, as if it were some isekai story. But now? Now that he understood where he had been reborn?
Marvel.
His stomach twisted in pure terror.
This wasn't some fantasy world where he could coast through life with a cheat system and overpower his enemies with some overpowered skill. No, this was a universe where the stakes were insane—where world-ending catastrophes were just another Tuesday and people could snap reality in half with a single thought.
And he was stuck in it.
His mind raced, scrambling for any useful information he had about this world. The problem was, he barely knew anything concrete.
Most of what he remembered about Marvel came from bits and pieces—half-watched movies while drunk, random comic panels from issues he'd stolen, and YouTube Shorts explaining characters in absurd power-scaling debates. But even with that tiny amount of knowledge, he knew enough to be terrified.
Heaven and hell were real here.
God and the Devil existed.
And worst of all?
The absurdity of comic book logic.
Power scaling in Marvel was a joke. One minute, someone could be the strongest being in existence, and the next, Hawkeye—a dude with a bow—could somehow surpass them through sheer willpower or a new writer's whim.
What if that happened to him?
Not that it mattered—he was pretty sure he didn't have a system. But even if he did, this wasn't the kind of world where he could just grind XP, level up, and call it a day.
This world didn't work like that.
Stephen's thoughts took a darker turn, spiraling down into something far worse than just surviving in a dangerous universe.
Because beyond the chaos, beyond the danger of living in Marvel…
He was going to hell.
His hands clenched into fists. He felt sick.
In his last life, he hadn't been some innocent guy who got dealt a bad hand. He was a criminal.
He started running with a bad crowd when he was just 14. At first, it was just stupid kid stuff—graffiti, stealing from corner stores, trying to act tough. But then things escalated. More gangs got involved. Adults took notice. The crimes got worse.
And Stephen chose to stay in it.
He could've left. He should've left. But he didn't. Because he was cocky. Because he thought he'd never get caught. Because he thought none of it mattered.
He didn't believe in consequences.
Not from the law. Not from some higher power.
He didn't care if he died, because as far as he was concerned, that was it. Game over. No heaven, no hell, just nothing.
And then he did die—young, at 18. he was stupid, and he was bleeding out in a jewelry store heist gone wrong.
But there was something worse than dying young.
Waking up and realizing he had been wrong.
His breath came faster, more uneven. His chest tightened. He gripped his face, feeling the panic crawl up his spine. If his sins followed him, if they still counted, then there was only one place he was going when he died again.
Straight to hell.
His breathing grew ragged. His vision blurred. He felt like he was drowning in his own thoughts, spiraling into a pit of fear and regret.
Then—
Whooosh
Whoooshof.
His body tensed as he felt something stir around him. The air in the room shifted, a soft breeze brushing against his skin even though the windows were shut. He could feel it, though he couldn't see it—something moving, responding to him. And his body reacted and produced the same sense but different like it's coming out of him
His breathing slowed.
His hands lowered from his face.
The panic in his chest was still there, but something new burned beneath it.
Hope.
He flexed his fingers, focusing on the sensation. The wind reacted to him.
I have wind powers.
The thought sent a shiver through him. He wasn't powerless. He had something. And that meant…
Maybe he had a chance.
Maybe he could do something with this.
A spark ignited in his chest, something unfamiliar. He thought back to everything he had done—every mistake, every crime, every moment he had wasted in his past life.
He couldn't erase it. He couldn't take it back.
But maybe—just maybe—he could make up for it.
His jaw tightened as the thought settled. He could repent.
Save people. Do good. Help others.
But deep down, he knew it wasn't that simple. If he only saved people for selfish reasons, it wouldn't mean anything.
Redemption wasn't just about what you did. It was about who you become.
Stephen frowned.
"…Then I guess I have to change."
It wouldn't be easy. He didn't even know how to be a good person.
But if he actually tried—if he became someone better, someone good—then maybe, just maybe…
He could truly redeem himself.
He exhaled slowly. The wind in the room settled with him.
And just like that, he took his first step forward.
"The old me is dead," he muttered to himself.
Stephen was gone.
From now on—
"I am Luke Wilson."