I'm apparently in Marvel... Great

I step off the dusty road and into the chaos of the city - New York City, by the looks of it. The metamorphosis from the silent forest to the relentless urban pulse hits me hard.

Here, the streets are a blender of honking taxis, chattering crowds, and glaring neon signs.

I keep my head down, trying to blend in while every nerve in my body still remembers the wild power surging through me from last night.

As I navigate past a cluster of storefronts on a busy intersection, I catch sight of a massive public TV set up on the side of a building. Flickering in the morning light, it's broadcasting a press conference.

My heart skips a beat as I see none other than Tony Stark himself, standing in a sleek, glass-paneled room.

He's grinning in that unmistakable way and declaring, with all the swagger in the world, "I am Iron Man."

The impact of that moment is explosive. I pause for a split second, my stomach twisting into knots. Tony Stark - an actual, real-life superhero? This is beyond anything I could have imagined.

The realization crashes over me: I'm not in my familiar world anymore. I'm smack dab in the Marvel Universe, where the fantastical is part of the everyday, and where legends are living, breathing acts of defiance.

I swallow hard and force myself to stay calm. No scene, no drawing unwanted attention. I back away slowly from the screen, blending into the flow of pedestrians.

My mind buzzes - questions pile up about what it all means, about governments and secret agencies, and about my own place in this crazy, interdimensional mess.

I keep moving, trying to lose myself in the crowd. But fate has other plans.

As I pass a busy sidewalk café, a woman's voice calls out, loud enough for me to hear over the urban din: "Hey, are those hair and red eyes natural, or are you trying to pull off some sort of movie cosplay?"

I freeze for a split second. My heart slams in my chest, and I swallow hard, forcing a calm reply. "Yeah, uh... they're natural," I say, hoping the abrupt answer will suffice. I offer a tight-lipped smile and quicken my pace - not wanting to linger.

Later, as I navigate down an alleyway lined with mirrored glass windows of a closed storefront, I catch a glimpse of myself. I stop abruptly, drawn to the reflective surface. In the darkened glass, I see a stranger staring back.

The hair isn't the familiar dark shade I used to have - it's unnaturally white, almost luminous under the city's neon glow.

And those eyes... they burn a fierce red. The face is unmistakable: the angular features, the sharp gaze... I'm looking like Albedo.

A swirl of disbelief and a bitter sense of irony wash over me. I - Samael - am wearing the body of an inverted persona, a caricature of a villain from another universe.

The absurdity of it all hits me hard. I run a hand through my hair, half expecting it to change back, to betray this alien transformation, but it remains defiantly white, a stark, unexpected mirror of the persona I was forced into.

I take a deep, steadying breath, regaining my composure. There's no time for self-pity now. I must keep moving, keep blending in, even as I carry with me the uncanny weight of this new, surreal identity.

The Marvel Universe is unforgiving, and now every reflective surface might remind me of just how far from home I really am.

I step away from the glass, my eyes still lingering on that shocking image. 

I need to calm down.

I lean against a graffiti-splattered wall, coffee long since gone cold as I mull over my next move.

Okay, first things first. Let's plan.

I doubt I have an identity in this world, so I need to fix myself, such a thing, but how?

A new identity isn't something you just stumble upon - it's crafted like a finely tuned piece of art by the right connections. I need a cover that explains the white hair, the red eyes, the whole thing. 

Since, it goes way beyond simply being Albino, because this white hair, looks like its freaking glowing.

I pause to think, piecing together what little I know about the shady underside of this universe.

All my knowledge of identity fixers comes from late-night shows and the scraps of underground lore I picked up in comic-con panels, nothing concrete.

I barely know what "underground network" even means in a city like this.

But if there's one thing I've learned from comics, it's that when you're in over your head, you find someone who deals in new beginnings - someone willing to rewrite your story, even if that person is as elusive as a shadow in Hell's Kitchen.

I crack open my little notebook - what, doesn't everyone carry one with them? - and scribble down a rough plan.

I need someone who can forge new credentials and a backstory that makes sense. A cover that says, "Yeah, I was born with these features - a rare genetic condition, maybe a side-effect of some kind of experimental treatment."

That might pass for plausible enough here. There are stories about mysterious genetic anomalies in the Marvel world, after all, even if all I know are the colorful versions played out in comics.

Soon enough, night has fallen over New York's back alleys, and as I keep moving, I catch a sneering group of thugs gathered under a flickering streetlight.

One of them bellows to his mates, "-She just won't stop yapping about some no good goddamn purse, the bitch just wouldn't shut up!

So, I did what any guy would do and slapped the shit out of her!" The crude sound of his boast fills the air, and I can tell he's nothing but trouble.

"Nice one Dash! The bitch deserved it! She been trying to turn my Janice against me as well, had to take her drugs away for a week, till the bitch listened to me once more. I fucked her good then! Drug addict bitches really are the simplest lays!"

The three of them all then burst into laughter, proud of themselves.

Yeah, I won't feel bad what I'm about to do, to you guys.

In a blur, I catch them off guard. One by one, they hit the pavement - no messy, drawn-out fight, just swift, decisive blows that leave them disoriented and unable to react.

Before they can even register what's happening, I've collected the cash from their pockets and snagged a black hoodie, perfect for hiding my abnormal features.

I make sure not to let anyone get a good look at me, disappearing back into the night as quickly as I appeared.

I stick to the shadows as I move deeper into the maze of back alleys, listening for any scrap of whispered conversation.

Near a dim corner by a rundown fire escape, I catch - with my peak hearing - a muffled exchange between a tight-knit group of thugs.

Their voices are low and cautious, laced with suspicion. One of them mutters, "Silva can hook you up - if you know where to look - but don't go asking questions around here, or you'll end up on the wrong side of trouble."

Another adds, "He runs the old seed but it's no easy road getting there." Their words are hesitant, as if Silva's name carries danger as much as promise.

I decide I've taken my share of risks already, so I step out from the darkness with measured resolve and say, "I'm looking for Silva. Can one of you point me in his direction?"

Immediately, tension spikes - their eyes narrow, and the one who spoke first snaps back, "Mind your own business, pal. This ain't for you." 

Before they can tighten their circle, I crush the silence with a swift, hard punch. They stumble back, shouts of anger echoing in the narrow space.

I push forward with deliberate force - a calculated series of blows that leave them reeling, but not unconscious.

They kick and curse, their fear mixing with defiance, fighting to preserve a scrap of pride. One of them manages to spit, "Silva? You don't know what you're asking for, man! Get lost!"

I lean in close and, with a firm glare that brooks no nonsense, I growl as I punch the ground near his head, cracking the concrete, "I don't need your blessing, just the location."

After another burst of feeble resistance, one thug, shaking and clearly rattled, mutters, "Alright! He hangs around the old seed warehouse on 12th.

But I swear, you don't know who you're messing with." His words are hurried, and it's clear he's desperate to end this encounter.

I pull back, breathing steadily as my stolen hoodie conceals any trace of my real self. The information is far from a clear map - it's messy, vague, and filled with warnings.

Yet it's enough to fuel a spark of hope. With more obstacles than I had hoped for.

"Give me a map." I order.

"What?" One of the thugs questions incredulously.

"I don't know the way." I tell simply.

"You don't got no phone, dawg?" Another asks

"No, speaking of that. Give it to me."

"We ain't got no map, man."

"Your phone." I continue as I extend my hand, palm up.

They fall silent for a heartbeat. One thug glances at his nervous companions before reluctantly handing over his phone. I snatch it, my eyes quickly scanning the blank-but-still-crucial map app.

It's rough - a crude outline marked with arrowed routes and scrawled notes. I can make out the indication: an old warehouse on 12th.

"Looks like this is it," I murmur, my voice low and steady. I tip a couple of bucks toward the shaking thug - a small bonus to sweeten his surrender - and tuck the phone away.

His friends exchange wary looks as I turn and begin to walk away.

Though before I completely disappear once more, I stop, "If you think about calling people to go after me for revenge. Don't," I kick the graffiti laced wall hard enough that it literally shatters, causing them to yell out in fear and shock.

"Yo?!" the bald one yells

"The Fuck?!" the one I took the phone from continues.

Not saying anything else, without turning around, I slip away into the darkness.

I got a broker to find.

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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all enjoyed the chapter!

Do please comment and review if you haven't.

I hope to see you all later,

Bye!)