The Birth of an Illusion
The back alley behind the restaurant was dark, damp, and narrow. A solitary streetlamp flickered, as if it too were tired of illuminating the misery of that forgotten corner. From the restaurant's back door, a loud thud echoed as a wrinkled, filthy white apron was hurled in fury toward an overflowing dumpster.
From the shadows emerged Braian, just another waiter to the world… but not to himself. His face was tense, his eyes bloodshot. He breathed heavily, as if each breath was feeding a fire of rage burning him from the inside.
"Damn bastard…" he spat through clenched teeth as he kicked an empty box. "Who the hell does that idiot think he is? Just a restaurant owner, and he dares look down on me like that? And with Natasha Romanoff, no less! Who the hell was that guy? Who?"
His voice cracked between fury and frustration. His words were knives thrown at the void, as if the world gave a damn about his complaints.
"Did I change the future? Was that encounter something that wasn't supposed to happen?" he whispered, eyes vacant as he clutched his head. "It's possible. It's called the butterfly effect for a reason, right? A simple flutter can cause a storm."
Silence returned, but only for a few seconds.
"Damn it… why haven't my powers awakened yet?" he groaned, his voice now tinged with desperation. "It's been twenty-five years since I reincarnated into this damn world. Reincarnators are supposed to get abilities, systems, blessings. A straight path to glory! To godhood! But me… I have nothing!"
He punched the wall with a clenched fist, a drop of blood sliding down his knuckles.
"I was supposed to become the most powerful hero. All the women of this world were supposed to be mine. Natasha would fall at my feet after I helped her with the Red Room. Then Wanda, Shuri, Yelena… Hope. I even considered Jessica Jones… though that drunk bitch isn't really my type. But…" he laughed bitterly, "I'm still here. Serving tables. Being humiliated. No system. No damn tutorial."
He gritted his teeth, and his eyes no longer held any humanity"just a dangerous blend of superiority and resentment.
Unlike Owen"another reincarnator like him"who had trained from day one, who had worked, fought, bled… Braian had done nothing but wait. Wait for the universe to realize he was special. That he deserved it. That the world should bow before him.
But no one bowed. No one saw him.
"This doesn't make sense!" he growled hoarsely. "Maybe… maybe the superhero era is just beginning. That has to be it. Tony Stark was rescued earlier than expected, I didn't have time to manipulate events properly. I lost everything. I went into debt. But… when I closed the factory, I thought it'd be later"not in ten damn days. Damn Stark! Always ruining my plans!"
He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Then his voice dropped to an icy whisper.
"I won't let this go on. Natasha must be mine. If that guy's in the way… I'll eliminate him. And if she's already with him… then she'll die too. I don't want leftovers. I don't want someone used."
Every word dripped with poison. A twisted logic fueled by self-pity and arrogance.
"I need to find a serum. There are plenty out there. Sentry's would be perfect… though I don't want a monster like The Void living in my head. Something more stable. Maybe Extremis… that one has potential. Strength. Heat. Regeneration. It could awaken my dormant genes. Or so I hope."
He fell silent for a few seconds, calculating.
"Spider-Man? Please. A spider bite? Pathetic. Radiation? Chemicals? You think I want to end up a failed mutant? No, thanks. Terrigen Mist? Where the hell would I find that? Magic? Nah… the Ancient One would sense me immediately. And magic always comes with chains. I wasn't born to serve… I was born to be served. I am the chosen one."
A sick grin curled his lips. The grin of someone who didn't understand the world didn't revolve around him. Of someone convinced that their madness was justice.
"This world was made for me. I will rewrite it. I'll become the most powerful superhero in Marvel. And every beautiful, strong woman will kneel before me. I'll be a god… and everyone will kneel. Even her."
The echo of his final words was swallowed by the alley's darkness. A hollow, cruel laugh followed, as if something inside him had broken… or been unleashed.
The streetlights flickered above his head, casting twitching shadows on the alley's wet walls. The stench of trash, damp, and old grease filled the air. Braian lifted his face toward the night sky, and for a moment, thought he saw a shooting star… but he didn't make a wish.
His expression hardened.
"All of this… it's the fault of this damned world that refuses to understand what I am."
His voice was barely a whisper, but it seethed with rabid arrogance, as if he were speaking to an invisible audience. As if he expected some cosmic entity to hear him and finally bestow the power he believed was only a matter of time.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old notebook. It was covered in scribbles, diagrams, theories, and delusions. He had filled it with ways to obtain power: genetic combinations, reincarnation theories, alternate timelines, multiversal rifts, stolen comic-book formulas, and supposed contacts from underground forums.
"What if I find some mad scientist? Maybe one desperate enough, like Killian before the Extremis serum…"
His eyes gleamed with a mixture of desperation and twisted hope.
"Or I could let Hydra capture me, yeah… pretend to be loyal until I gain power. Or better… infiltrate them. Use them. Then destroy them."
The echo of his own laugh vanished into the stillness of the night.
He walked through the alley, kicking a rusted can. Rats scurried away from his path, as if even they could sense the rot in his soul.
"If Steve Rogers got power through effort, so be it. I'll do it better… faster… without groveling. I'll become a legend."
He stopped in front of a puddle of dirty water. His reflection stared back with a mix of disdain and delusion.
"And when I become the most powerful hero… they will all kneel."
He drew a deep breath, as if making an irreversible decision.
"Yes… I need that serum. If I have to steal it, kill for it"I will. I deserve it. This world didn't give me what was mine. So I'll take it by force. I'll find Killian."
And with that twisted conviction, Braian turned around. His silhouette vanished into the fog beginning to descend over the city.
No one saw him. No one knew that at that moment, in that forgotten alley, a hero was not born.
But a shadow with delusions of godhood was.
A future monster…
Convinced he was the savior.
…
Hawt Mansion, 9:47 PM
In front of the grand iron gate, a line of luxury cars crawled forward as guests in formal attire stepped out one by one. Expensive suits, flashy dresses, gleaming watches. Everyone seemed to be competing over who had more money… or more secrets.
The entrance was guarded with more security than an airport. A full-body scanner emitted blue flashes while magnetic detectors swept with pinpoint precision. Guards with earpieces and cold stares inspected each guest. Any suspicion… and they were escorted out.
A black car stopped at the front of the entrance path. From it stepped Owen and Natasha. He wore an elegant yet modest suit; she, a dark red dress with discreet yet deadly slits. They carried themselves like an arrogant rich couple… though inside, they were preparing for something else.
Owen was the first to spot the scanner.
"Shit," he muttered.
Without wasting time, he turned to the back seat, opened the door, and tossed inside a pistol and a military knife, previously hidden beneath his jacket.
Natasha followed suit, though her arsenal was far more… creative.
She removed a small blade hidden in her bracelet.
She discreetly opened the heel of her left shoe and pulled out a curved, razor-sharp blade.
Beneath her belt, another pair of small concealed weapons.
And finally, with a soft sigh, she reached into her cleavage and pulled out one last slender dagger.
Like a gentleman, Owen looked up at the sky, pretending to admire the stars.
"Elegant, deadly, and full of surprises," he whispered with a smile as she straightened up.
"You know I'm only armed to the teeth because this party already bores me," she replied.
With rehearsed confidence, they held hands and walked toward the entrance, acting like the typical powerful, entitled couple.
A pair of guests ahead of them were arguing heatedly when one of them turned sharply and bumped into Owen.
"Sorry," Owen said with a polite smile.
The man barely raised a hand in apology and continued on, muttering something about a forgotten briefcase.
At the scanner, a tall and burly guard stopped them with a stern look.
"Invitations?"
"Right here," Owen replied, handing over two black cards with a golden seal in the center.
The guard examined them with suspicion.
"Never seen you two before."
Owen narrowed his eyes with disdain and turned slowly, as if ready to leave.
"Of course you haven't. You think we frequent second-rate parties like this? We only came because your boss insists on it every damn time. But if you want, go ahead"tell him we showed up… and left. I'm sure he'll love to hear you kicked us out."
The guard swallowed hard. He had heard of this couple. His boss mentioned them often as important contacts who never agreed to come.
"W-Wait, sir! My apologies. That was my mistake. Please, go right in. My boss would kill me if I let you leave."
"Tsk… Only because we already wasted time coming," Owen replied arrogantly, taking Natasha's arm again. "Right, darling?"
Natasha gave him a sideways glance, feigning annoyance… though amusement sparkled in her eyes.
"Of course, love."
Once inside, they walked through the crowd with composed steps. Owen scanned every corner with calculating eyes. He approached a table decorated with exotic fruits, cheeses, and silver skewers. Without hesitation, he grabbed a few metal knives and hid them between his belt and sleeves.
Natasha raised an eyebrow at him.
"Improvising gourmet murder tools?"
"Better than nothing," he said, handing her one with the handle wrapped in a napkin.
They pretended to be interested in the decor and the music, strolling through the side halls until they reached a less crowded area. There, Owen raised a hand to signal a stop. Two guards were approaching down the hallway.
Without hesitation, Natasha pulled him toward her and kissed him intensely, pressing her back against the wall. Her lips brushed Owen's with the perfect mix of fake passion and pure strategy.
The guards turned the corner and found the scene. One of them raised an eyebrow.
"Get a room, will you?"
"Of course. We will," Natasha said with a charming smile, taking Owen's hand and walking off in the opposite direction.
The guards chuckled among themselves and continued their route.
As soon as they were out of sight, Owen muttered:
"Wow… didn't know you wanted to use me like that. I should charge more for this job."
"Next time I'll buy you a coffee," Natasha said, unable to hide a smile as she turned toward a door.
She was about to move when she suddenly froze.
"Camera," she murmured.
Owen already had a metal skewer in hand. He threw it with surgical precision straight at the camera's rotating axis. It jammed instantly, now pointing at an empty wall.
"Done. Nothing suspicious… just a technical glitch," he said, quickly retrieving the skewer.
They dashed into the blind spot and disappeared into the mansion's shadows.
Every step brought them closer to their objective.