He woke up like a diver breaking the surface.
Air rushed into his lungs. The ceiling above him was wrong. Too high. Too clean. A crown moulding line ran along the edge like someone had paid for it on purpose. He lay still, waiting for the familiar weight of his cheap blanket, the sag of his old mattress, the distant bass of Paris traffic.
Instead, he felt silk.
His fingers slid over a sheet that was smooth enough to be insulting. The room smelled faintly of wood polish and something expensive, not incense or perfume, just money.
He pushed himself upright.
The bed was massive. The headboard looked like real leather. A thick carpet covered the floor, soft under his bare feet. Bare.
He blinked, then snorted.
A nightmare. A strange one, sure, but still a nightmare.
He tried to remember where he was while shuffling toward the bathroom, comparing his tiny rental's hallway, the cramped door that always stuck. Instead, he walked three steps and did not even reach the end of the room.
His brain tried to catch up.
The bathroom door opened with no resistance. Inside, there was a double sink, a mirror the size of his kitchen wall, and a shower that could fit a family's regrets.
He leaned over the sink and splashed water onto his face.
He lifted his head.
His reflection looked like him, but also not him. The same eyes, the same general shape, but the face was sharper. Like someone had edited out the years of bad sleep and bad food.
He wiped his cheeks and watched the water run down.
Such a strange nightmare.
The words came out soft, more habit than comfort. Another day, another round of handing out CVs, another round of polite rejection, another round of we will call you, Mr…
He froze.
The last word did not come.
He waited for it to appear in his head, like a file loading.
Nothing. He tried again. His name. First. Last. Anything.
Null.
Zilch.
Nullam.
He stared at himself in the mirror.
His mouth opened. "What in seven hells?"
The phrase sounded ridiculous and satisfying at the same time, like swearing with a costume on.
He gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles went pale.
He abandoned the idea of a shower. The thought of standing under water while his mind was falling apart felt like tempting fate. He walked back toward the bed. Did he use some drugs to mush his brain?
Halfway there, he finally registered the obvious.
This was his place.
No cheap Ikea dresser. No piles of laundry threatening to become a religion. No view of Paris rooftops.
He paused and turned in a slow circle.
The bedroom was lush. Big enough to fit his old rental inside it with room left over for a second poor decision. A sitting area stood near the window. Heavy curtains hung straight, not the kind that collected dust and gave up.
He tried to remember his old room. The stained ceiling corner. The smell of the stairwell. The café on the ground floor. It was in Paris, but where exactly?
"No! No, no, no."
The words rose like a panic cough.
Dementia made no sense. He was still young. He stopped again on the same thought and felt his jaw tighten. How old was he?
"Enough."
The shout bounced off the walls. No one answered. The room stayed calm, like it had seen worse.
He inhaled through his nose and forced his hands to unclench.
Wallet.
He needed something solid. An anchor.
He found it on a small table beside the bed. It looked new, clean leather, no scuffing, no cheap stitching. He flipped it open.
An ID stared back.
Lucius Noctis.
He read it twice.
Lucius.
Noctis.
A laugh escaped him, short and sharp.
Really. Were his parents Space Marines?
The thought slid into another track. Old games, old quotes and comfortable junk.
"Burn the heretic. Kill the mutant. Purge the unclean."
A grin tugged at his mouth. It felt wrong to smile, which made it better.
Phone.
He needed his phone.
He patted the bed, then the nightstand, then the table again, moving faster. His hands found something smooth and plastic.
Not his Samsung.
A Nokia N95.
He stared at it like it was a museum piece that had crawled out of its display.
His thumb slid the screen up; it lit up. The old interface looked familiar in a way that made his stomach drop.
He checked the date.
22 December 2007.
He read it again. His mouth went dry.
This was not just a nightmare.
Pain speared behind his eyes, sudden and hard. He hissed and clamped the heel of his hand against his forehead.
Images punched through.
An SMS.
A list of universes.
A warning.
Check your left side.
A shout that sounded like a snackbar and the world turning into white heat.
The explosion, glass shards slicing his hands.
His breath came short. He sucked in air and forced himself to look at the phone again.
An SMS arrived.
Sender: UNKNOWN.
The message filled the screen, tidy as a contract.
Welcome to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. You are in modified Earth 199999. As per your requests, you are hidden from the major powerhouses. Oh, put on some clothes.
He looked down. He was naked. But hey, he was good.
"Focus!" The last time a warning came from the damn SMS, it changed his life. Literally.
He swallowed a curse and glanced toward the curtains, as if someone might be watching. The room stayed silent.
His voice came out low.
"What about my other wishes. The sentry serum, the wizard powers. And the mutant powers?"
He wanted to throw the Nokia at the wall. He wanted to crush it, to stomp it, to demand a refund from whatever lunatic cosmic spammer thought this was funny.
Another SMS arrived, as if it had been listening through the air.
You are given the powers of a Wizard with Alchemical and Ritualistic knowledge recorded in your Grimoire. You are also a Homo Superior. Again, put on some clothes.
He stared at the screen.
"You are a wizard, Lucius."
Now, where the hell was this Grimoire? He is a Homo Superior. He wondered what ability he had?
His throat tightened. A part of him tried to be excited. Another part stayed stuck on one problem.
This was real. His hands shook.
He yanked open the top drawer of a dresser that looked like it cost more than his old life. Underwear sat folded in neat stacks, like a servant had prepared for his panic in advance.
He pulled on a pair without thinking too hard about why they fit.
He found jeans. A plain dark shirt. Everything smelled new.
He dressed fast, still feeling exposed, like clothes were only a suggestion against whatever had dragged him here.
When he looked up again, his reflection hit him properly.
Tall.
At least six nine.
Broad shoulders. Defined arms. A body that looked like it belonged to someone who had lived in a gym, not a lab.
He flexed his fingers and watched the tendons move.
What was Lucius Noctis doing with his life to have this?
He grabbed the ID and the Driving Licence.
28 December 1982.
San Antonio, Texas.
He held it closer, reading each line like it might change if he blinked. The numbers stayed.
Twenty five in six days, then. Not twenty three, and he was definitely not in Paris.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside two inches.
The Empire State Building was standing with all its glory. So he was in New York.
He let the curtain fall back. A sound hit the door. A harsh knock. Clearly not one of his neighbours.
Another knock followed, louder, faster. A voice cut through the wood.
"FBI, we have a warrant."
His head snapped toward the Nokia.
The screen lit, then changed.
Good luck with your new life.
He stared at it. The phone went dead. The knocks came again, now with impatience.
He stood there in the middle of a bedroom that was his and not at the same time. Holding an ID that had his new face on it, while the only thing that explained any of it had just turned itself off.
His breath went shallow.
He took one step toward the door, then stopped.
On the table beside the bed, something sat that had not been there a moment ago.
A thick book. Black cover with a material he was not sure he wanted to know. His fingers hovered above it. He started to hear whispers. The moment he touched the cover, he wanted to hide it, and the book disappeared.
There was a saying for such miracles. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
He went to the door and opened it. Multiple pistols were aimed at him, and the command came in a heartbeat.
"On your knees. Now!"
He hoped this was not some gay porn and complied.