The chair complained the moment his weight hit it.
The café tried to look Parisian and landed somewhere closer to tired. Two crooked tables. A pastry case that had seen better centuries. A heater that clicked like it wanted applause for doing its job. Outside, December pressed its wet palm against the windows and left smears where people brushed past.
He set his phone on the table, face down, as it might bite. It was already evening.
A Caramel Macchiato arrived, foam sitting on top like a white lie, just like his diploma and the endless job opportunities supposed to be out there. He stirred it anyway. The spoon clinked. Sugar and burnt coffee hit his tongue. Not good. Not terrible. Mediocre, which was a theme.
He was twenty three. A fresh bioengineering graduate. A diploma that felt heavier than it looked. A stack of applications that had disappeared into corporate voids all week. He still had the day's aftertaste in his mouth, a mix of stale métro air and that fake optimism recruiters wore like cologne.
A résumé review.
A video call.
A promise.
We will call you later.
He rubbed his eyes until sparks danced behind his lids. The sparks did not pay rent; he did, and it was approaching like a truck.
He unlocked his phone and opened the news out of habit, then regretted it before the feed even loaded.
As an American, he had never cared much about Europe's daily news. The US has its own dramas, even melodramas, on a whole different level. But at least back home, he had options. A state line meant something. A permit meant something. If someone tried to hurt an innocent person as it was happening here daily, he could shoot the bastards and be rewarded for it. Not even the officers were allowed to do that here.
"Shame." He thought. All the cultural heritage, the world they built, was sacrificed on a silver platter to a bunch of apes. The idea of being helpless tasted wrong.
Here, the rules were different. Better healthcare, check. His French was advancing as well. He was able to say, baget, oui, non and fromage, so another proud check.
But the reality of political correctness was something else. 'Worse' was not enough to describe it, triple check on a cucked nation.
The date on the top bar read December 22. He stared at it for a second, like it might change if he looked hard enough.
A headline flashed by about vandalism at a Christmas market. Broken lights and torn decorations. People were injured in the panic. Another headline about a knife attack on a train. Another about police announcing there was no 'motive' behind the attack and asking for calm, which always sounded like a joke written by someone who lived behind gates.
His gaze went to the 'new decorations' of Christmas markets. Small concrete blocks painted in the colours of the date. They were put in place to prevent the trucks' entry. Trucks of Peace, Doctors and Engineers.
He inhaled tiredly, scrolled with his thumb and felt the familiar anger rise.
He wanted a clean world. Not perfect. Just clean. Clear lines and logical consequences.
Instead, he got a continent that talked about values while it kept importing problems and then acting shocked when the problems did what problems did.
He closed the app with a sharp flick, like slamming a door.
His coffee sat there. Sweet and warm.
Social media opened with a familiar icon. 9GAG. His guilty pleasure. The place where people still measured length in bananas. Such refined gentlemen from all over the globe. He called them gentlemen because there were no women on 9GAG.
A meme is loaded. Something about office life. He exhaled through his nose. Dry amusement. The kind that lasted half a second.
Then a notification popped up.
Neither an app ping nor an email.
An SMS.
His thumb hovered.
Who even sends SMS anymore, besides banks, spam, and whatever scammer has decided he looks profitable?
He tapped it.
The message had no name. No number. Just text.
If you had the chance, which universe would you like to live in?
Marvel Cinematic Universe
DC
Solo Leveling
High school DxD
He blinked.
The café noise faded a little, replaced by the stupid certainty that this was a prank. Someone from college. Someone bored. Someone from engineering, most probably.
He looked around.
A couple argued in French near the window. A student typed on a laptop with a cracked corner. A barista wiped the counter with slow hatred.
No one watched him.
He looked back at the options.
He knew the basics. Capes. Spandex. Underwear on the outside. A reporter fooled by glasses.
High school DxD. The only thing he knew about it came from fanfiction rabbit holes.
Solo Levelling had been fun. Clean in progression. Power was earned exp point by exp point. A system that made sense, at least to him. Not the ending, it was pure and solid bad, 2 out of 10.
Marvel, on the other hand. Marvel had scale. It was pure chaos. A world where science and magic punched each other in the face and called it teamwork.
His fingers moved. He typed Marvel Cinematic Universe.
He hit send.
Another SMS appeared almost immediately.
What superpower would you have in the MCU?
Physical Enhancements (e.g., Strength, speed, healing)
Energy/Magic Manipulation (e.g., Mystic arts, elemental control)
Technological Powers (e.g., Armour, cybernetics, weapons)
Innate Species Traits (e.g., Alien physiology, mutation)
He snorted.
A menu of survival.
Technological powers went straight into the trash. If it could be stolen, it was not a power. It was a toy with no warranty.
Physical enhancements tempted him for one reason.
Healing.
In a world with aliens, gods, and city sized accidents, regeneration was not a luxury. It was basic hygiene.
Magic tempted him because magic meant options. Escape routes. The ability to break rules that were written by people who expected everyone and everything else to follow them.
Innate traits tempted him for the same reason healing did. Built in and personal. Not something can be pickpocketed.
His reply went out.
Energy and magic manipulation.
Innate species traits.
He stared at the screen, half expecting the bubble to vanish and a normal explanation to appear.
Another message arrived.
What powers would you like to have?
There were no options on this one.
Of course.
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. The wobble bothered him. He set his wrist on the edge to steady it while he typed.
Sentry serum, with no side effects, please.
Psychic powers of Jean Grey at her peak.
A classical mage skill set with alchemy and rituals included.
If possible, something similar to Jin Woo's skill set.
His thumb hovered for a second. Was he being greedy? Yes. Did he care? No. Then he read and noticed there were no limitations on what he could write in.
He added one more line because he could not help himself.
And a way to not die like an extra.
Send.
The reply came back so fast it felt like it had been waiting.
You will have to find a way to travel to the Solo Levelling Universe to get that power. Oh, and check your left side.
His stomach tightened. That last sentence did not read like a prank.
He turned his head.
A man stood too close to the next table.
Not ordering, simply sitting and doing nothing.
A heavy jacket hung open. One hand stayed hidden inside, pressed against his chest. His eyes looked past the barista, past the pastry case, like he was not in the room at all.
The air changed.
A scent hit him, sharp and chemical, like fireworks stored in a closet.
His brain tried to label it. Tried to make it normal.
His body ignored the attempt.
He pushed his chair back. The legs screeched. Heads turned. The arguing couple paused. The student stopped typing.
The man's lips moved.
A phrase came out, garbled and loud, the kind of shout people only made when they wanted the whole world to hear them. He caught a syllable that sounded like snack bar, then the sound broke into something louder, much louder.
His phone buzzed again in his hand.
The screen stayed bright.
Merry Christmas.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
His mind fired off a curse anyway: May your balls itch forever and your hands always be stuck somewhere.
He lunged sideways, knocking his chair into the table. Coffee sloshed. The glass tipped and shattered on the floor. Sticky foam sprayed across his jeans.
The man stood up.
A flash bloomed. White, bright white was all he saw.
Then came the heat.
Pressure punched the air out of his lungs. He wished he were in a VW Polo; that advertisement was assuring.
A glitter storm of glass that slapped his cheek and neck. A scream cut the café in half. Another followed, higher and raw.
He hit the floor hard. His shoulder slammed into the tile. The world rang like a bell.
Sound came back in pieces. A baby is crying somewhere outside. The barista is yelling.
His ears roared, a constant, furious hiss.
He tried to breathe and tasted sugar, dust, and something metallic.
He lifted his head.
Smoke rolled across the ceiling. The pastry case lay on its side, shattered. The arguing couple were on the ground, tangled together, one of them not moving.
His phone had flown out of his hand. It lay screen up near a broken table leg, still lit, still showing that last message like it wanted credit.
He crawled toward it.
His palms slid on coffee and glass.
Pain flared. Warm blood ran down his fingers.
He grabbed the phone and stared at the messages.
Check your left side.
He looked there. Not for the man. For what the moron had become.
The spot where he had stood was a torn smear of smoke and debris, a hole punched through space where a cursed coward had been a second ago. Hopefully, he was in his heaven now. With forty virgins, each one two meters tall, built like Hulk Hogan. Oh, how he loved his shows when he was a kid. May his soul rest in peace.
His consciousness was fading.
"Priorities..." he muttered, and the last tingle of life left his body.