Rain had stopped hours ago, but the streets still stank of wet concrete, rotting paper, and the city's constant disappointment
New York
They said that like it was a good thing
But here in Hell's Kitchen, it just meant more sirens and fewer apologies
A boy was crawling back to his home
He didn't scream. No one would've heard anyway
Gunfire had caught him while he was walking home from yet another rejection,
Crossfire, the cops would call it later,
Another name on a long list of people who were just in the way.
He'd stumbled back to his apartment, one hand pressed tight against his gut, blood soaking through his second-hand jacket
Not much furniture waited for him
A chipped table
A mattress on the floor
A lamp that flickered like it hated itself
He collapsed
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Some time later...
"...You've got to be kidding me."
That was the first thing the new tenant of the body said
His voice echoed in the silence of the empty room, sardonic, confused, but somehow familiar
He sat up slowly, glancing down at his hands
Then around the room
Then back to the body
The pain was gone
The wound was closed.
The blood was… still very much on the floor
"…Okay. New world. Again."
He stood, walked to the mirror, and frowned
White hair, Sharp jaw, Blue eyes that didn't look like they belonged in a place like this
"Different face. Almost. Same attitude."
He looked like Gojo Satoru.
But this wasn't Jujutsu society. No curses here—yet.
No clans, no exorcists. Just gangs, superhumans, aliens, and billionaires who punched problems with metal suits.
The system chimed in like an overly punctual assistant.
[SYSTEM ONLINE: DAILY INCREMENTAL ENHANCEMENT PROTOCOL ACTIVE]
[DAY 1 REWARD: BASIC REINFORCED PHYSIOLOGY + VISUAL UPGRADE INITIATED]
He rubbed his eyes. "Great. Now I get stronger for doing absolutely nothing. Lazy training arc. I'll take it."
Wu Zhaoran, that's what this body had been called, it would do
Zhaoran kept the name
It felt… respectful, but the man inside now wasn't the same
And this time? He wasn't some child prodigy. He wasn't the strongest sorcerer in a land of curses.
He was a dead-end orphan living in a shoebox apartment in Hell's Kitchen. Rent overdue. No contacts. Nothing but a strong jawline and a system that acted like a calorie counter on steroids.
Perfect.
The story didn't need to start with explosions.
No grand entrances. No cosmic awareness. No SHIELD breathing down his neck.
Just Zhaoran, sitting in his room the next morning, staring at an empty fridge.
"…So, ramen again."
He slurped noodles with an elegance that bordered on tragic, eyes watching the flickering TV broadcast that talked about another mutant sighting across the river.
He burped. "Not my problem."
A few hours later, he actually tried to look for a job. Any job.
Fast food? Rejected
Construction? Laughed out of the office
Dog walking? The dog bit him
But he didn't bleed
That was… something
Later that night, as he lay on the mattress, watching a single mosquito threaten to ruin his sleep, he muttered:
"I should've just stayed dead. At least then I wouldn't owe rent."
But he didn't mean it.
He had questions. Curiosity. The world was loud, strange, bursting with energy.
And slowly, he'd make it his own.
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[DAY 2: MINOR SPATIAL PERCEPTION BOOST GRANTED]
He stared at the system message.
Then at the wall.
Then at the mosquito.
He clapped. Missed.
"...Still not fast enough. Noted."