The room was bathed in the pale light of the night sky, a chaotic landscape of books strewn across the floor. In the midst of the disarray, a fifteen-year-old boy slept fitfully on his bed. He tossed and turned, his face contorted as if plagued by a nightmare.
Suddenly, he shot upright, a cold sweat clinging to his body. His chest heaved with ragged breaths as his hand flew to his heart.
"I didn't die?" he whispered, confusion clouding his mind.
His eyes darted around the unfamiliar room. This wasn't where he was supposed to be. "Shouldn't I be on a road? Whose house is this?"
His disorientation deepened when he noticed his hands, they were smaller, younger. Spotting a mirror across the room, he scrambled from the bed, only to tumble out and land face-first on the floor. The impact was dull, barely hurting.
"Argh," he grumbled in annoyance, pushing himself up and stumbling to the mirror. The face staring back was not his own. It was younger, framed by an unfortunate "butt" haircut, and completely unfamiliar.
'Who am I?' He spun around, taking in the alien room. 'What is going on?'
Driven by a need for answers, he began rifling through the room's clutter. His search led him to a wallet. Flipping it open, he froze. The ID card bore a name that sent a jolt through his system: Peter Parker.
"What the..." The words died in his throat, his brain stalling for a second as it tried to process the impossible. "Is this some kind of joke?" He dropped the wallet onto a table. "Probably." He tapped his forehead with his fist, over and over, as if to jump-start his thoughts.
'I've been transmigrated... and I became the unluckiest person in the Marvel Universe. If that's the case, which Earth am I on?' His survival depended on the answer. He found himself accepting the situation almost casually; it was easier than fighting the reality and risking a mental breakdown.
"Do I have the spider powers?" he wondered aloud.
He pressed his palm flat against the wall, concentrating on making it stick. When he tried to pull away, his hand remained firmly attached.
"Calm down," he muttered to himself. After a moment of focused relaxation, his hand released.
"I need to figure out my relationships." He found a flip phone and scrolled through the contacts: Aunt May, Uncle Ben, Harry Osborn, and a few other non-prominent names.
'I must be a day after I got my powers,' he deduced, formulating a plan. 'But I need to confirm if Uncle Ben is still alive. I can find out tomorrow morning.'
"I also have other things to confirm, but that will require the internet," he muttered. He looked back at his reflection in the mirror. "I guess I have to live as Peter Parker from now on. But let's go to sleep first."
For now, the new Peter Parker succumbed to exhaustion.
— The Next Day —
"Ergh." Peter woke up, his face pressed into the pillow. He sat up and stared blankly at the ceiling.
"It's not a dream," he muttered to himself, a sinking feeling in his stomach confirming the reality he wished was just a nightmare.
"Spider-Man." He released the word in a heavy breath.
Clenching his fist, he pushed himself out of bed. His eyes fell on the closet, where a towel was slung over a hanger on the door. He grabbed it and headed for the bathroom.
Under the spray of the shower, he stood motionless, staring as the water streamed over his face.
"I need money," Peter whispered to the tiled walls. "And I need to learn magic."
Those two objectives crystallized in his mind. Money would fund the tech he needed to build, and magic would offer power he couldn't yet comprehend, a path to becoming strong enough to survive.
He stepped out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Just then, an elderly woman emerged from the room across the hall.
It was his Aunt, May Parker.
"Peter, good morning," she said, her voice warm.
"Good morning," Peter replied, the words feeling awkward on his tongue. Pretending to be a stranger's nephew felt wrong, but this was his life now, and the memory of his death was a potent motivator to play the part.
"Breakfast is on the table, okay?" Aunt May said before heading downstairs.
Peter retreated to his room, locking the door. He dried off and rummaged through his closet, pulling on the first comfortable clothes he found. He shoved his feet into his shoes.
'I need to have my own house, asap,' he thought, annoyed by the custom of wearing shoes indoors.
Scooping up his flip phone and wallet, he headed down. He grabbed a piece of toast from the breakfast table, where an elderly man was already eating.
"Oh, Peter. Good morning," the man said. It was his Uncle, Ben Parker.
"Morning," Peter said, taking a seat and trying to mask his slight awkwardness as he ate.
"Where are you off to?" Uncle Ben asked, noting Peter's unusually neat attire.
"Just meeting with a friend," Peter said.
"Do you want me to drive you?" Uncle Ben offered.
"If you're free, sure. Could you take me to Bleecker Street in New York?"
"Alright. And... you can see fine without your glasses?" Uncle Ben asked, his tone laced with concern.
"Yes," Peter said firmly. "I'm fine without them."
"Okay," Uncle Ben conceded, though a slight worry lingered in his eyes. If Peter said he was fine, he wouldn't push.
After breakfast, Uncle Ben drove him to Bleecker Street. As Peter stepped out of the car, Uncle Ben called out, "Be careful, okay?"
Peter flashed an okay sign before Uncle Ben drove off, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. He turned and began scanning the buildings, searching for a specific, ancient facade.
'The Sanctum Sanctorum should be around here somewhere,' Peter thought.
After half an hour of walking, he matched the address he'd memorized. While he didn't remember the exact number, the location felt right.
This had to be the place.
But the building in front of him was just a normal, unremarkable apartment.
'Huh? This doesn't make any sense,' Peter thought, his confidence faltering. 'So, I'm not in 616. What Marvel world am I in, then?'
Scratching his head in frustration, he decided to be sure. He knocked sharply on the door.
"Sorcerer Supreme!" he called out.
There was no answer. When no one came, he tried the knob; it was unlocked. Pushing the door open, he was met with the mundane interior of a perfectly ordinary apartment.
Peter sighed in defeat and stepped back outside, pulling the door shut behind him.
As he descended the steps, he turned for one last look at the unassuming building.
'Did the Sorcerer Supreme put a veil on the building? Is it hidden from me?' It was the only logical conclusion. "Well, fuck," he muttered under his breath.
"If this doesn't work, I just have to find a dojo that can teach me martial arts," he reasoned aloud, shifting to his backup plan. 'Colleen Wing or Shang-Chi, that's my only way. Or maybe Iron Fist.'
"Chinatown, it is," he decided, turning away from Bleecker Street. "But where is it?"
After stopping a few pedestrians for directions, he was relieved to learn Chinatown was a straight shot down the avenue. With a new destination in mind, he set off, hoping to find the martial artists he knew resided there.
The walk took a while, but Peter found himself enjoying the stroll. The city was alive with a comforting normalcy—the distant yell of a cab driver, the chatter of crowds, the simple, unremarkable rhythm of daily life.
'One day, this place won't be so calm,' Peter thought, a familiar weight settling on his shoulders.
When he finally arrived in Chinatown, the vibrant sights and smells washing over him, he took a deep breath.
'No time to be embarrassed,' he steeled himself, moving from shop to shop, asking after the three names he held onto like a lifeline: Colleen Wing, Shang-Chi, Danny Rand.
But at every turn, he was met with shrugs or shakes of the head. No one recognized the names.
Frustrated and weary, he bought a cream puff and a drink and found an empty bench to rest on.
'My knowledge is useless here,' Peter sighed, the realization a bitter pill to swallow.
Just then, a young Chinese man, older than Peter and with an athletic build, sat down beside him. He wore a simple cleaner's uniform and didn't look at Peter, his gaze fixed ahead.
"What is your purpose in looking for me?" the man asked, his voice low and even.
Peter, who had just taken a bite of his cream puff, froze. "Shang-Chi?"
"That's me," Shang-Chi confirmed, his surprise subtle but present. He had expected someone who knew his face. He turned to study Peter, his posture relaxing slightly as he assessed the teenager. "Let's talk elsewhere. Someone is following you."
"Who?" Peter whispered, the simple question suddenly making the bustling street feel dangerous. 'Who could be following me? Did I accidentally show my powers to someone?'
"Just follow me," Shang-Chi said, rising smoothly. From the corner of his eye, he had noted a bald white man in dark clothing watching Peter from a distance, a tail Peter had completely missed.
Peter followed him into a small, steamy noodle shop. They took a booth against the wall, within clear sight of the entrance.
"Alright, kid," Shang-Chi said, his voice calm but firm. "Why were you looking for me?"
"Can you teach me martial arts?" Peter asked, his genuineness clear. "And now that you say someone's watching me... it just proves I need to learn from someone who's trained their whole life."
As if on cue, the man from the street entered the shop and took a seat near the door, his presence a silent confirmation of Shang-Chi's warning.
"You know of me, but you didn't know what I looked like," Shang-Chi observed, his brow furrowed. "That doesn't make sense."
"I know... the general story of you," Peter said, choosing his words carefully. "I sought you out because I was told you're a good person."
Shang-Chi watched him, his sharp eyes seeing past the awkwardness to the raw, desperate need to survive lurking beneath.
"Alright, kid. I'll teach you," Shang-Chi said after a moment. "But you have to help out here at the shop sometimes." He raised his voice slightly, catching the attention of the elderly owner behind the counter. "Boss! I found you a new worker."
The old Chinese man smiled, first at Shang-Chi, then with a kind, appraising look at Peter.