Carlos woke up with a splitting headache.
It felt like someone had clubbed his temples with a blunt object, every heartbeat intensifying the pain.
He pried his eyelids open and stared at the low, water-stained ceiling, the springs of the mattress beneath him creaking. The air was thick with a mixture of mold from the walls, sour overnight alcohol, and a faint, cloying perfume.
The scent made him pause. Fragments of the original owner's memory surfaced: deafening music, flashing lights, a wild graduation party, a blonde named Sarah Miller, a heated entanglement, and the unspoken agreement that graduation meant goodbye.
"…What the hell."
"No, I've crossed over."
He pushed his aching body upright, rubbed his throbbing forehead, and shuffled to the full-length mirror.
In the reflection stood a young, mixed-race face—black hair, dark-brown eyes, features more angular than pure greeks. Good-looking, second only to the reader. But the eyes were clouded with hangover and dawning shock.
Memories of his past life flooded back: a newly promoted IT team lead, the last thing he remembered was the chest pain after days of crunch.
Now he was Carlos Diaz, latino orphan, bounced around Brooklyn foster homes, fresh from the academy.
Today he was due at the 78th Precinct. No time to digest anything; the clock read 08:00.
He inhaled the stale air and forced himself calm. Inside the closet hung a brand-new NYPD uniform.
He dressed. The fabric felt alien, but when he buckled the heavy belt, a sense of duty—and restraint—settled on him.
He stared at the mirror: a clean-cut officer.
Ding!
A metallic chime rang inside his skull.
[High-soul compatibility detected… system binding…]
[Core protocol verified. Mission system loaded.]
Carlos froze, fingers on his belt.
[Tutorial mission initializing.]
Blue text scrolled across his vision.
I crossed over… and got a cheat system?
Carlos grinned.
Crossing over really does come with perks.
No wonder everyone loves it.
Then the next line wiped the smile away.
[Mission: Deal in the Dark]
[Tonight a low-level drug swap will go down behind an abandoned garage at Maple & Seventh. Two bottom-feeders, $6k cash, low-grade stuff.]
[Task: intervene unseen, non-lethal takedown, seize cash and drugs. Cash to pocket, drugs to system mall. No witnesses.]
[Reward: 100 points, mall unlock.
Failure: none.
Timer: 14:59:58]
Rob and skim?
Carlos clenched his belt. The system wanted him to black-eat-black.
In the mirror, confusion gave way to calm.
If black-eats-black keeps Brooklyn safer, so be it.
He left, drove the owner's second-hand sedan to the Precinct.
The 78th was a slab of weather-stained concrete.
Inside: coffee, sweat, disinfectant.
Officers already busy.
He found the queue for new rookies.
Halfway up the line stood Sarah Miller.
She wore the same navy uniform, hair twisted up, chatting with another officer.
She glanced back, met his eyes, smiled politely.
He smiled back. No words: mutual agreement to let graduation mean goodbye.
Carlos: Patrol Officer. Sarah: desk job via family.
When his turn came, he was handed forms.
He filled them standing, then upstairs to equipment.
Behind bulletproof glass an officer slid out a tray.
"glock 19, two mags, cuffs, baton, radio, spray, first-aid. Sign here."
"Rule one, rookie: never lose your gun or badge."
Carlos cleared the weapon, safed it, holstered everything with practiced calm.
Ready for duty.
Precinct parking lot. Carlos found his assigned patrol car.
Beside a weather-beaten Ford Crown Vic sat an aging Patrol Officer, hair thinning, eye-bags heavy. His uniform was rumpled; he sipped coffee in small gulps.
"Carlos?"
He looked Carlos up and down, voice hoarse. "Frank Mosley, your partner."
Before Carlos could answer, Frank jerked his chin toward the trunk. "Stash your gear. Today you learn the route—talk less, watch more."
"Got it, Frank."
Carlos smiled, tossed his satchel into the trunk, and climbed into the passenger seat.
The car reeked of strong coffee and stale cigarette smoke.
Frank tuned the radio to a rock-and-news station—low volume, clear enough—and rolled out of the lot.
He drove steady, almost lazy: one hand on the wheel, the other lifting a coffee cup every so often.
"See that intersection?" Frank nodded ahead at a messy crossroads. "After four, don't walk it alone. Not deadly, just trouble. Idling punks love to test you."
Carlos watched Brooklyn slide past—shops open or boarded, clusters on corners eyeing the cruiser.
Then a newsflash cracked from the radio:
"…Stark Industries stock surged again today on a new high-tier Military contract. Meanwhile, CEO and billionaire philanthropist Tony Stark was photographed on a private yacht with a Hollywood starlet, the pair looking intimate…"
Stark Industries?
Tony Stark?
Huh—?! Carlos's pupils shrank.
The name, the gossip about the genius-playboy, snapped open a door between two lives.
In this World the Stark name loomed large—defense deals, tech headlines, gossip pages—yet in his past life it had meant the Iron Man of the Marvel Universe.
He'd thought he'd simply reincarnated into a plain old World.
Now the water of this "parallel World" looked deeper, deadlier. Captain America, Avengers, little Spidey—faces from Marvel plotlines surfaced.
"We're not comic-book capes, rookie."
Frank's voice cut in, flat as weather chat. He'd heard the broadcast too and snorted. "See that? Another World. Guys like Stark sip champagne over Manhattan; we sniff Brooklyn garbage and bust drunks."
He went on, "Sure, step in when it's bad—but know when to look away. Especially you, kid. Heroes die young. A safe end-of-shift beats everything. Here, 'going home alive' is victory. Gang bounties scare more than our warrants. We stay clean, that's enough."
Carlos's heart sank, but he only nodded. Frank sounded jaded, yet it told how rough the Precinct was.
They rolled through blocks. Frank ticked off trouble spots like chores: a 24-hr market for shoplifting, a park where teens stirred trouble, abandoned houses flagged for dope.
By a newsstand Carlos caught a tabloid: blurry photo, headline screaming "Stark's New Flame."
"Most of patrol is this," Frank summed up. "Drive, watch, listen. Answer dispatch—neighbor gripes, domestics, lost cats."
"Uh…" Carlos gestured at the quietly crackling radio.
Frank grinned. "Turned it low. Today we skip calls—rookie cover. Saves the Precinct grief, eh?"
"Right. No hot chases or shoot-outs—at least not ours. Gang war? Keep clear. Staying breathing beats glory."
Carlos nodded, gaze drifting over Brooklyn's ragged streets.
His mind locked on the countdown: 13:22:17.
Before, the system's quests had felt imposed; now they felt like luck. Points bought gear, maybe powers.
Finish tasks, grow stronger—face this World's dangers and seize his own wild life.
Plan set:
Days—play quiet rookie, learning the dark; nights—shed the badge, chase quests, grow strong.
After shift Carlos grabbed fast food, returned to his chilly flat, changed, and slipped out again.
Hood up, cap low, he strolled mapped blocks, casing Maple Street Quick Fix Garage and every camera blind spot.
The yard brimmed with bald tires and rusted parts, one narrow entry, bad light, no neighbors—perfect for shady deals.
And for rip-offs.
Late night, only corner punks remained. Carlos tugged his cap low and headed home.
In this perilous World, the system's grim starter quest had become his edge—and hope.
The night was deep, and Brooklyn's streets looked mottled yet hushed under the sparse streetlamps.
Carlos did a final check in the apartment's full-length mirror: anonymous charcoal-gray sweats, soft-soled sneakers, a baseball cap pulled low, and finally a mask.
Tonight's operation had to stay completely untraceable to his Police identity.
The countdown in his head kept ticking: 00:29:32.
At 23:20 Carlos slipped out of the apartment and melted into the alley's darkness.
By now the street thugs had thinned, though here and there you could still spot staggering or stiff silhouettes in the shadows.
On the way to the garage he called up the system interface in his mind.
A translucent panel unfolded before his eyes, revealing a new option—[personal status]. He focused on it and it opened:
[personal status]
Name: Carlos Diaz
Identity: NYPD Patrol Officer
Strength: 15 (baseline adult male = 10)
Agility: 11 (slightly above average)
spirit: 12 (boosted by soul-merge)
Skills: none
Items: none
Points: 0
"Strength at 15?" Carlos clenched a fist, feeling the surge inside; the edge from his student-era training gave huge confidence for finishing the rookie quest.
At 23:45 he had already circled the rear of the "garage" and hidden behind a stack of discarded tires near the entrance.
Within five minutes he heard scattered footsteps, then a second, quicker pair following.
Both sides were in place; the deal started on schedule.
Carlos crept out, soft and careful.
"Freeze!" a sudden roar cracked through the quiet night.
The two dealers jumped in terror, souls nearly scared out of them.
Carlos charged.
In the dark the panicked pair almost collided with him.
He used the chaos, darting in to chop one on the neck; the man dropped unconscious.
The other reached for a gun, but Carlos was faster, kicking him.
The guy screamed and rolled on the ground clutching his groin; the gun skittered away.
Ten seconds—both down.
Carlos kicked the groaning one in the head to keep him quiet, then scooped up their cash and a fat bag of powdered contraband; he tossed the two pistols far off.
After making sure no traces were left, he ghosted away.
Back in the apartment he locked the door.
Carlos laid five crumpled wads of dollars on the table—mostly twenties, about six grand.
Holding the bag of contraband, he leaned on the sofa and thought: System—hand it in.
The contraband vanished as if it had never existed.
Whoa!
Carlos perked up.
[Ding! Rookie quest "Deal under the Moonlight" completed.]
[Evaluation: A-. Efficient action, average cleanup.]
[Reward: Points ×100.]
[First-time clear, A-rank performance: Shop tab unlocked plus rookie bonus—choose one of three.]
A prompt echoed in his head; three softly glowing virtual cards floated before him:
[Skill Card · Basic Stealth (30 min timer)]
The card showed a shadow-blended figure, captioned: Effect: master Basic Stealth and concealment, lowers detection chance. Note: Walker in the shadows.
[Item Card · desert eagle]
The card displayed a black-metallic desert eagle, captioned: Effect: summon an untraceable, record-free handgun with infinite ammo. Note: Rookie essential, upgradeable. Exchange cost: 100 points.
[Attribute · Strength +1]
The card pictured a power-bursting fist, captioned: Effect: permanently raise Strength by 1. Note: More than muscle. Exchange cost: 100 points.
Carlos's gaze swept the cards; each cost 100 points and looked tempting. Yet the attribute boost, while nice, wasn't urgent. The skill was cool but timed—single-use and low value.
His eyes locked on the second card.
"Untraceable, infinite ammo… and upgradeable…"
A perfect black-market piece, solving his gun-shortage for system quests. Cliché in games and films, yet seeing a real desert eagle still thrilled him.
"I choose the item card!"
[Item card chosen; card sent to system space.]
[Ding! First system item acquired; rookie bonus active—storage function unlocked!]
[Current storage: 1 m³. Note: system space holds only system items; expandable later.]
He sensed a 1-cubic-meter pocket in his mind; the desert eagle card hovered inside.
The card zoomed, the pistol enlarged into solid form, and the card dissolved.
His 100 points were spent.
"Handgun!"
At his mental call the big, weighty pistol appeared in his hand—solid metal, irresistible.
A classic from films and games, now real in his grip.
Yet… it weighed only a hair more than his glock duty sidearm.
A system-tuned desert eagle trimmed to about a kilogram would handle and shoot far better than the original.
He popped out the mag, flicked the safety, checked the rounds—unlimited ammo—and toyed with it until dawnlight hinted through the window. Time to sleep; shift in three hours.
He stashed the cash, dismissed the Eagle, and crashed into bed.
But after such a wild night, sleep was elusive. Visions of system screens, quests, the Marvel world swirled until he forced himself to count sheep—thousands—before drifting off.
Half-awake, the morning alarm blared.
Carlos rose with panda eyes, praying the next mission wouldn't land at midnight again.