Jennifer woke up gasping, the taste of cheap vodka and regret still clinging to her tongue. Except it wasn't her tongue—not really. The body she inhabited felt wrong in every subtle way: lighter, curvier, younger.
Twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven. Dark hair spilling over shoulders that hadn't carried the weight of her old life. She sat up in the narrow bed of a rundown motel room on the outskirts of Los Angeles, the kind of place that charged by the hour and didn't ask questions.
Memories crashed in like a poorly edited montage. Her name had been something else once—something ordinary, forgettable.
A desk job, student loans, Netflix binges, and a quiet death in a hospital bed after a stupid car accident. Then nothing. Then this.
Reborn. No glowing interface, no voice in her head offering quests or stat points, no convenient pile of cash or superpower lottery ticket. Just Jennifer—her new name, stitched into the tag of the faded tank top she wore. No last name yet. No explanation.
Just a second chance in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, two days before Tony Stark would get himself blown up and start the whole circus.
She checked the cracked mirror above the dresser. Pretty enough. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, green eyes that looked like they knew too much. A stranger's face, but hers now. The wallet on the nightstand held a driver's license (Jennifer Marie Hale, 27, California), three crumpled singles, and a condom she definitely hadn't asked for.
Great start.
She needed money. Fast. No job history in this world, no skills that translated except the ones she'd carried over: street smarts, a decent poker face, and zero moral hang-ups about survival. This world was about to get very loud and very dangerous. She wasn't waiting around to be collateral damage.
By late afternoon she was downtown, dressed in yesterday's jeans and the tank top, hair pulled back. The city buzzed with pre-2008 energy, people still carrying flip phones, billboards advertising the new Indiana Jones movie.
She scanned the crowds outside a high-end hotel bar on Wilshire. Rich men in tailored suits, laughing too loud, flashing watches that cost more than most people's rent.
She picked her mark almost immediately.
Mid-forties, wedding ring tan line but no ring, expensive haircut, the kind of confidence that came from closing deals and never hearing no. He was standing outside the valet, lighting a cigarette, eyes already roaming.
Jennifer adjusted her posture, let her hips sway just enough. She walked past him slow, brushing his arm. "Got a light?" she asked, even though she didn't smoke.
He turned, smile instant. "For you? Always."
Ten minutes later they were in the shadowed corner of the hotel's outdoor patio, his hands on her waist, mouth on hers. Deep kiss, tongue aggressive, like he was claiming territory. She let him. Let him press her against the wall, let his fingers dig in. She kissed back hard enough to keep him distracted, one hand sliding inside his jacket while the other tangled in his hair.
His wallet was fat. She felt the bulge of cash, credit cards, the satisfying weight of privilege. Her fingers worked carefully—thumb and forefinger pinching a thick stack of hundreds.
Five thousand, easy. Maybe more. She pulled just enough, tucking the bills into the back pocket of her jeans while he groaned into her mouth, oblivious.
He finally pulled back, breathing heavy, pupils blown. "Your place or mine?"
She smiled, sweet and empty. "Rain check, handsome. I just remembered I have somewhere to be."
He blinked, confused, but she was already walking away, melting into the foot traffic. He didn't even check his wallet. Men like him never did until it was too late.
First stop: food. Real food. She found a steakhouse two blocks over, the kind with white tablecloths and waiters who didn't smirk at solo women. Ten dollars wouldn't cover much in 2008 Los Angeles, but inflation hadn't hit peak yet.
She ordered the cheapest appetizer that sounded decadent—seared scallops with some kind of truffle butter—and a glass of house red. The scallops melted on her tongue, rich and buttery, worlds away from the ramen she'd lived on in her old life. She savored every bite, letting the warmth settle in her stomach. For the first time since waking up, she felt almost human.
Next: clothes. Thirty dollars wouldn't buy designer, but it bought basics. A small boutique near the mall had a clearance rack. She picked slim black jeans that actually fit, a deep red V-neck tee that showed just enough cleavage to be useful, and a lightweight black jacket with enough pockets. New socks, new underwear. She changed in the fitting room, left the old clothes in the trash. The mirror showed someone who could blend in—or stand out, depending on what she needed.
Last stop was the hardest. Protection.
She'd overheard enough in her old life to know where to look. A dive bar in East LA, graffiti on the walls, the kind of place that smelled like stale beer and bad decisions. She nursed a soda at the counter until a skinny guy in a hoodie slid onto the stool next to her.
"You looking?" he muttered.
"Silenced pistol," she said quietly.
"Something reliable. Thirty rounds."
He eyed her. "That's not cheap."
"Sixty. Cash."
He laughed under his breath. "Girl, you got balls. Follow me."
In the back alley, under a flickering streetlight, he opened a duffel. A compact 9mm—looked like a Beretta with an aftermarket suppressor screwed on. Not pretty, but functional. Thirty rounds in two magazines. She counted out the bills, handed them over without haggling. He didn't ask questions. Neither did she.
The weight of the gun in her jacket pocket felt like insurance. In two days, Tony Stark would vanish in Afghanistan. The Ten Rings would make their move. Obadiah Stane would start scheming. SHIELD would poke around. And somewhere in the chaos, opportunities would open—dangerous ones.
Jennifer walked back toward her motel, night air cool against her skin. No cheat codes. No plot armor. Just her, five thousand minus a hundred, a full stomach, fresh clothes, and a loaded gun.
She didn't know if she wanted to stop bad things from happening or profit from them. Maybe both. Maybe neither. For now, survival was enough.
Tomorrow she'd figure out the rest.