Chapter 1: The Last Binge (Refined)

PS: Before reading my work, please know — I focus on quantity over perfection.

While others spend hours writing a single chapter, I spend those same hours imagining and creating entire webnovels.

I'm more of an imagination-first kind of writer — every story I imagine, I create,I have a problem creating details or describing things and people.

I use AI tools to help speed up the process, so there may be typos or rough edges. If you're looking for flawless, highly polished writing, my stories might not be for you.

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Chapter 1: The Last Binge (Refined)

The stale air of Adam Stiels's apartment, in some forgettable corner of his decidedly un-superpowered world, smelled faintly of stale pizza, desperation, and the lingering scent of a thousand late-night binges. His eyes, bloodshot but alight with a familiar, nerdy zeal, were glued to the flickering screen of his ancient laptop. On it, The Flash Season 1, Episode 23: Fast Enough, played out for the umpteenth time. Barry Allen, in a blur of red, was about to make the most agonizing decision of his life.

"No, Barry, don't do it!" Adam muttered to the screen, even though he knew the outcome by heart. "Don't go back! Thawne wins! Iris dies! Flashpoint happens and screws up everything! Seriously, dude, have you learned nothing about time travel from literally every single sci-fi show ever made? It's like you're actively trying to break the timeline. And not in a fun, 'let's go mess with dinosaurs' kind of way."

Adam was, by all accounts, a connoisseur of the mundane. His life was a comfortable, if unexciting, loop of coding, gaming, ordering questionable takeout, and dissecting superhero lore with the meticulousness of a forensic pathologist. He was the guy who could quote obscure comic book panels, debate the physics of a Speed Force vibrating hand, and tell you exactly which episode a particular meta-human made their first appearance. His sarcasm was a finely honed weapon, his wit sharper than a freshly sharpened Batarang, and his love for elaborate, non-childish pranks was legendary among his small circle of online friends. He was, in essence, a Stiles Stilinski without the werewolf best friend or the supernatural drama. Just… the drama of a perpetually messy desk and an ever-growing backlog of TV shows.

He chuckled, a genuine, unburdened sound, as the scene shifted to Cisco's emotional farewell to his brother. Man, Cisco's the best. Total bro goals. If I ever got yanked into the Arrowverse, he'd be my first call. After Killer Frost, obviously. Priorities. His mind often drifted to the characters, the fictional people who felt more real than some of the actual humans he encountered. He admired Barry's unwavering hope, Caitlin's quiet strength, and the glorious, blunt, ice-cold perfection that was Killer Frost. He had a whole mental roadmap for how he'd navigate the Arrowverse, if, by some cosmic joke, he ever found himself there.

He reached for his half-empty mug of lukewarm, forgotten coffee, a staple of his late-night habits. The mug was perched precariously on a stack of graphic novels, a testament to his precarious organizational skills. His desk was a monument to procrastination: empty snack wrappers, tangled charging cables, a half-finished coding project, and a mountain of unread mail. He was living the dream, if the dream involved maximum comfort and minimal adulting.

You know, if I were in the Arrowverse, I'd totally mess with Thawne. Leave him cryptic notes, change his coffee to decaf, hide his secret future tech. Just for the sheer chaos of it. He'd probably try to kill me, but hey, if I had, like, a respawn button…

He paused, a thought flickering through his mind. A respawn button. That would be the ultimate prank, wouldn't it? Dying, then popping back up, just to watch the confusion on everyone's faces. He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye.

He took a sip of the cold coffee. It tasted like regret and old socks. "Ugh, this is vile," he muttered, making a face. He leaned back in his creaky desk chair, stretching, his gaze still fixed on the screen where Barry was making his fateful decision. "Seriously, I need to get better at adulting. Or at least, at making coffee."

Just as the words left his lips, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his chest. It wasn't the slow, creeping ache of indigestion from too much pizza. It was a sudden, violent, crushing pressure, like an invisible fist had slammed into his sternum. His breath hitched, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. His eyes widened in alarm.

What the hell? Heart attack? Seriously? After all those superhero shows, I'm going out like this? From a bad coffee and a sedentary lifestyle? That's… that's just insulting. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. I mean, where's the giant robot? The alien invasion? The rogue time traveler? This is just… sad.

The pain intensified, searing, blinding. His vision blurred, the vibrant colors of the TV screen swirling into a chaotic mess. He tried to grab his phone, to call for help, but his limbs felt heavy, unresponsive. His fingers twitched, brushing against the edge of his coffee mug. The mug, already precariously balanced, tipped.

He watched, in slow motion, as the lukewarm, vile coffee spilled across his keyboard, a dark, spreading stain. A faint sizzle. A puff of smoke. Then, a sharp, electrical crackle.

His laptop, already on its last legs, short-circuited. A sudden, violent jolt of electricity, amplified by the liquid, surged through the keyboard, through his fingertips, and directly into his already failing heart.

His body seized, convulsing uncontrollably. His muscles locked, his lungs burned. The pain was absolute, overwhelming, eclipsing everything else. He could feel his heart stuttering, then seizing, then… stopping.

Darkness.

Silence.

Well, that was… anticlimactic. No heroic sacrifice. No epic battle. Just… a bad coffee and a cheap laptop. The indignity. If there's an afterlife, I'm putting in a formal complaint. Preferably to the cosmic customer service department. I want to speak to a manager.

Then, a faint, ethereal Ting! echoed in the profound darkness. It wasn't a sound he heard with his ears, but something that resonated deep within his very being, a vibration in the void where his consciousness floated.

[SYSTEM INITIATED. HOST CONSCIOUSNESS DETECTED. TRANSMIGRATION PROTOCOL – ACTIVE. UNIQUE BIOMETRIC SIGNATURE – CONFIRMED. IMMORTAL SYSTEM – ONLINE.]

Adam's consciousness, a bewildered spark in the vast emptiness, felt a jolt. System? What system? Did I just… get hit by a truck full of sci-fi tropes on my way to the afterlife? Because this feels suspiciously like a bad fanfiction trope. Am I the protagonist? Please tell me I'm the protagonist. I can't be the comic relief sidekick who dies in episode two.

[SKILL ACQUISITION PROTOCOL – ACTIVE. NO KILLER DETECTED. RANDOM SKILL GENERATION – INITIATED. SKILL ACQUIRED: MINOR LUCK MANIPULATION. DEATH COUNT: 0/20 FOR UPGRADE 1.]

Wait, what? No killer? Random skill? Luck Manipulation? Did I just… die from a coffee spill and a short-circuited laptop? That's even more pathetic than I thought! And I didn't even get to pick my killer! This is rigged! This is like getting a participation trophy for dying! I demand a refund!

[HOST STATUS: TRANSMIGRATED. TARGET UNIVERSE: ARROWVERSE (EARTH-1). TEMPORAL PLACEMENT: PRE-PARTICLE ACCELERATOR EXPLOSION. PRIMARY MISSION: INTEGRATE INTO TARGET REALITY. SECONDARY MISSION: ENGAGE WITH DESIGNATED KILLER (CLYDE MARDON). OBJECTIVE: ACQUIRE ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE MANIPULATION (MINOR). WARNING: FAILURE TO ENGAGE DESIGNATED KILLER WILL RESULT IN SYSTEM PENALTIES. INITIATING PLACEMENT PROTOCOL.]

A sudden, dizzying lurch. The darkness swirled, coalescing into a kaleidoscope of colors and sensations. He felt a strange pulling, a sensation of being stretched across dimensions, then compressed, then… released.

His eyes snapped open. The world was bright, vibrant, and smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans. He was standing on a bustling street corner. A sign above him read: "CC Jitters."

Adam blinked, then blinked again. He looked down at his clothes – same worn hoodie, same faded jeans. He patted himself down. Still solid. Still breathing. No phantom pains from the heart attack.

Okay, so I died. From a coffee spill. Got a random skill. And then… I got dumped into the Arrowverse. Pre-Particle Accelerator. And the system wants me to die to Clyde Mardon. Who, by the way, I know for a fact is about to get his own powers from the very explosion I need to be near. This is like a very elaborate, very deadly scavenger hunt. And I'm the prize.

He looked up at the sky. It was a clear, sunny day. No storm clouds yet. He checked his phone. The date was correct. October 8, 2014. The day before the Particle Accelerator explosion.

Well, this is… unexpected. And slightly terrifying. And also, kind of awesome. I mean, I'm in the Arrowverse! But I have to die. Again. And then, I need to convince a skeptical genius, a grieving scientist, and a nerdy tech guy that I'm a low-level psychic who just happened to survive an explosion and know things. This is going to be the prank of a lifetime. Or, you know, a very short lifetime, if I mess up. No pressure. Just the fate of my future existence and the timeline on my shoulders. Totally chill.

He grinned, a mischievous glint in his eye. Alright, Immortal System. Let's do this. Time to die for a living. And maybe, just maybe, save a few lives along the way. But mostly, die. For skills. And Killer Frost. Priorities, people.

He took a deep breath, the scent of coffee filling his lungs. "Central City," he muttered, a sarcastic chuckle escaping his lips. "You have no idea what's coming. And neither do I, really. But hey, at least I've got a system. And a plan. Sort of."