When I woke up, the air felt heavy.
Not just thick with dust, dense, like the room itself was holding its breath. The smell of metal and burnt ozone clung to everything.
The second thing I noticed was that my hands weren't mine.
They looked human enough, just leaner, smoother, no scars, no ink. But faint blue lines ran beneath the skin, pulsing with a rhythm that didn't match my heartbeat. Not bright or electric, just a dim shimmer, like light trapped under glass.
I pushed myself upright, head spinning. The room around me was small, square, cluttered posters on the walls, some half-finished gadgets scattered over a desk, a backpack on the floor. An open window let in city noise, sirens in the distance, the constant hum of traffic.
A wallet lay beside the bed. I opened it.
MAX MCGRATH. Seventeen. A high-school ID, a transit pass, and a few dollars.
I wasn't Max McGrath. And I wasn't supposed to be here.
The memories in my head didn't match the things in this room. The skyline out the window wasn't mine either, Stark Industries on a digital billboard, an Oscorp sign reflecting against the clouds, a security drone marked Sable International buzzing overhead.
Marvel.
Some twisted mix of the MCU and the Spider-Man games.
That realization hit harder than the hangover of waking up in a stranger's skin.
I stood, testing balance. My legs felt strong, too strong. Every movement carried a low hum, like muscles and nerves weren't quite human. When I brushed a lamp, the bulb flickered out. The TV sparked when I tried to turn it on. My phone rebooted the second my fingers touched the screen.
"Great," I muttered. "Haunted electronics. Perfect."
But the more I focused, the clearer it became, the interference wasn't around me. It was me. A vibration under the skin, faint warmth gathering behind my ribs, like pressure building in an engine that shouldn't exist.
I tried to calm down. The glow beneath my skin dimmed, almost responding to my heartbeat.
Night came slow. I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, every sound amplified, the buzz of the city, the faint hum under my chest, the occasional flicker from the broken lamp. Whenever I rolled over, something reacted. The clock froze at random numbers, the fan jerked to a stop, the light in the hallway blinked once. It wasn't electrical static; it was more like distortion, space warping around a silent pulse.
I didn't sleep much.
When morning came, the smell of coffee drifted from the kitchen. I sat up, blinking at the desk, and froze.
All the electronics that had died last night were replaced.
New lamp. New clock. New phone still sealed in its box.
Mom was at the counter, hair tied back, dressed for work, black jacket, pressed shirt, expression calm and unreadable.
"You're up early," she said, not looking up from her tablet.
"Yeah," I said slowly. "Uh… what happened to the old stuff?"
"Old circuits never liked you much," she said with a half-smile. "I took care of it."
She poured another cup of coffee and slid it toward me. "Drink. You look pale. First week back after break, don't be late again."
"Sure," I said, still staring at the shiny new phone. "Hey, Mom—"
But she was already grabbing her keys. "We'll talk later. Have a good day, Max."
The door closed behind her with practiced ease.
I sat there for a long minute, the silence heavy. Then I caught my reflection in the toaster. For just an instant, faint blue light rippled through my eyes, quick as a blink.
I touched the metal surface. Warm.
No spark, no flash just that hum again, steady, mechanical, alive.
Whatever was inside me wasn't normal.
And whoever this Max McGrath had been before me, his mom clearly knew more than she was letting on.
I pocketed the new phone, grabbed the backpack, and stepped outside into Queens morning air. People moved in waves, coffee cups, car horns, the chatter of street vendors.
For everyone else, it was a normal Tuesday.
For me, it was the first day of being someone else.
And somewhere beneath my skin, the engine kept running.