Evan Mercer was a man without a name, without a past, and without a future—at least, in the eyes of this world. That had to change.
He had woken up in 1963, a time of power, paranoia, and secrets, where having the right identity meant the difference between blending in and being erased.
The wallet in his pocket belonged to Michael Carter, a gambler and drunk. A man unimportant enough that his disappearance wouldn't send alarm bells ringing. That made him the perfect cover—temporary, disposable.
Inside that wallet was more than just money.
It held a key and an address.
Evan had used it to walk straight into Michael Carter's apartment, where he had spent the last few days analyzing, planning, and preparing.
The landlord hadn't stopped him. No one cared.
That was the beauty of 1963—confidence was verification.
But he knew he couldn't stay there forever.
Michael Carter had debts, bad habits, and an identity that would crumble under scrutiny.
Evan needed something real. A name that would stand up to government records, banks, and future investigations.
For that, he needed money.
And for money, he needed a place where wealth flowed without consequence.
That place?
The Black Oak Club.
The club catered to high-stakes gamblers, criminals, and men with too much money and not enough self-control.
It was a hub of power, and, most importantly—a place where questions weren't asked if you had the right credentials.
Michael Carter had a membership card.
And tonight, Evan Mercer would wear his skin.
But there was a problem.
Evan didn't look exactly like Michael Carter.
Not enough for someone who knew him well to be fooled.
The two men shared some general similarities—both had dark hair, were of similar height, and had an average build. That was just enough for casual acquaintances to overlook details, especially in dim lighting.
But the doorman?
He had recognized Carter instantly.
That meant Evan had to think fast.
Walking up to the entrance, he barely paused before showing the card to the doorman, a large man with a permanent scowl.
The man squinted at him, then at the card.
"Carter, huh? Thought you drank yourself to death last week."
Evan didn't react. No hesitation, no twitch, no sign of discomfort.
A weak liar would deny or try to explain.
A smart one? They leaned into the assumption.
"Rumors of my demise were exaggerated."
The doorman exhaled through his nose, clearly used to dealing with drunkards who disappeared for days.
"Figures," the man muttered. "Get inside before someone takes your seat."
He stepped aside.
Evan walked in as if he belonged.
Inside, the smell of money, smoke, and alcohol filled the air. The room was a mix of red velvet, polished wood, and golden chandeliers, with men in tailored suits sitting at round tables, betting away small fortunes.
Gambling was the soul of this place.
And it was his next step.
He had only $20 in his pocket. A joke in a place like this.
But he wasn't planning on leaving with just $20.
He sat at a high-stakes poker table, rolling his shoulders, surveying the table like a battlefield.
The dealer, a grizzled man with shark-like eyes, raised an eyebrow.
"New to the table?"
"Just visiting," Evan replied smoothly.
The buy-in was $100, but he only had $20.
He placed the money down, meeting the dealer's gaze.
"Give me two hands. If I don't double it, I'll walk."
The men at the table chuckled. Someone muttered, "Another idiot."
But Evan wasn't here for luck.
He had something better—a mind built to win.
His Enhanced Neural Processing had already kicked in, breaking down everything at an impossible speed.
He tracked the card distribution with mathematical precision. He analyzed each player's betting habits, their microexpressions, their breathing. He saw patterns in how they played—who bluffed, who hesitated, who was overconfident.
The first hand?
He won with minimal effort.
The second?
He baited a middle-aged businessman with shaking fingers into overcommitting. The man had a weak hand but an aggressive bluff.
Evan played into it. Let him feel safe. Then crushed him.
In ten minutes, his $20 turned into $200.
In one hour, it became $2,500.
Enough to buy what he needed.
Winning was easy.
Finding the right man?
That was the real challenge.
He scanned the room, filtering through potential contacts.
Some men were too loud. Bragging, boasting, useless.
Some were too dangerous. Loan sharks, enforcers—they wouldn't sell a clean identity.
Then, he saw him.
A quiet man in the corner, sipping whiskey, listening rather than talking. Not gambling. Just watching.
He fit the profile perfectly. Someone who brokered deals rather than played in them.
Evan approached and sat down without invitation.
The man didn't look surprised.
"You're bold, kid," he said, voice smooth.
"I'm smart," Evan countered.
The man smirked. "What do you need?"
"A name," Evan replied. "A clean one."
The man leaned back, studying him. "That's expensive."
Evan placed $2,000 on the table.
The man barely glanced at it. "And?"
Evan smiled slightly. "And I can tell you which of the men in this room will be bankrupt in six months."
Now he had the man's attention.
"You a psychic?" the man asked, amused.
"Better." Evan nodded toward a well-dressed businessman at the bar. "That guy? Betting too hard, compensating. He's either diverting company funds or already in debt. He'll be gone in four months."
The man raised an eyebrow.
Evan continued. "The guy at the far table? He keeps checking his watch. Twice in the last two minutes. He's waiting for someone. Nervous. That means a side deal, something illegal."
The man was now fully engaged.
Evan leaned in. "Give me an ID, and I'll keep feeding you insights. People lie. But numbers? Patterns? They don't."
A slow grin spread across the man's face.
"I like you, kid." He took the money and pocketed it. "Come back in two days. You'll have your identity."
He extended a hand.
"Name's Vincent Costa."
Evan shook it.
"Evan Mercer," he said smoothly. "At least, I will be in two days."
Two days later, Evan received:
A birth certificate A social security number A driver's license under the name Evan Mercer A bank account
For all legal purposes, Evan Mercer had always existed.
He had a clean record, a verifiable past.
And best of all?
No loose ends.
Evan sat in his new apartment, flipping his newly acquired ID card between his fingers.
He had money.
He had a name.
But he still had no abilities.
The system wouldn't evolve nothing. If he wanted to use Passive Evolution, he needed something to evolve.
Which meant it was time to find mutants.
His next step?
Finding the first mutation that would set his evolution into motion.
And he already had a target.