The last thing I remembered was the soul-crushing glow of my laptop in the uni library. I was 18, fueled by cheap ramen and the looming dread of an architectural degree that felt like a death sentence. I was an orphan; if I didn't get this degree and a high-paying job, I was cooked.
Then, the world blinked.
I woke up on a mattress that felt like it was stuffed with clouds. I sat up, expecting to hear my roommate snoring or the sound of city traffic. Instead, it was quiet. Really quiet.
I looked at my hands. They were tiny. "No way," I whispered. My voice was high-pitched.
I scrambled out of bed—tripping over a plush rug that probably cost more than my previous life's net worth—and ran to the mirror.
A twelve-year-old kid looked back at me. He looked like a pampered version of my younger self. Better skin, better hair, and definitely better fed.
"Julian? Sweetie, breakfast is ready! Don't make your father wait, he's excited about the new sketches!"
The voice came from downstairs. My heart did a literal backflip. A mom? I have a mom? I practically flew down the stairs. The house was massive—an Upper East Side townhouse with the kind of crown molding I'd spent three weeks studying in "History of Architecture."
In the kitchen, a woman was pouring orange juice and a man was reading a physical newspaper. They looked up and beamed at me. The warmth in the room was almost overwhelming. For an orphan who spent eighteen years looking out for himself, this was better than winning the lottery.
"Morning, kiddo," my dad said, ruffling my hair as I sat down. "Ready to come to the firm today? We've got the preliminary layouts for the new Stark corporate campus. Tony is being a pain, but the budget is infinite."
I shoved a piece of perfectly toasted sourdough into my mouth, grinning like an idiot. "Infinite budget? Dad, I love you."
He laughed. "That's the spirit!"
I looked at the newspaper on the table. December 18, 1992. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. 1992. New York. Stark. Wait. This was the Marvel Universe.
The toast suddenly felt a bit heavier in my stomach. I wasn't just in the past; I was in the world where aliens fly through portals, purple giants snap their fingers, and cities regularly get dropped from the sky.
Okay, Julian, stay calm, I told myself. You're twelve. You've got, like, sixteen years before Tony Stark builds a suit in a cave. You have plenty of time to build a bunker. Or a moon base. Or just... a really, really strong basement.
But looking at my new parents laughing over coffee, the fear was secondary. I had a family. I had money. I had the knowledge of 2026 architecture.
"So," I said, leaning back in my chair with a carefree grin. "This Stark guy. Is he as much of a disaster as the tabloids say? Because I have some ideas for his office that might involve a lot of reinforced titanium. You know... for 'aesthetic' reasons."
My mom giggled. "You and your 'aesthetics,' Jules. Eat your eggs."
I grinned. Survival could wait until after breakfast.