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Author's Note:
After careful consideration, I've decided to fully rewrite Chapter 1 . Thank you for reading—and enjoy the updated Chapter 1!
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In a cramped apartment dimly lit by the bluish glow of a monitor, a young man sat hunched over his desk, eyes locked onto the screen in front of him. Empty ramen cups were stacked like fallen towers around him, half-finished energy drinks scattered like debris from a caffeine-fueled war. The air was thick with the scent of instant noodles, electronics, and exhaustion.
"That was close!" the young man shouted, pumping a fist in triumph as the game flashed Victory. He leaned forward, reaching for another energy drink—his third one that night.
But his fingers slipped.
The can tumbled from his grasp, smacking the edge of his keyboard before toppling onto the desk. Neon-orange liquid slowly oozed from the can, creeping toward a cluster of tangled power cables like it had a mission.
John's heart skipped a beat.
"Oh, sh—"
Before he could finish, his body swayed. His vision blurred.
He sat up too fast—and the world spun violently.
His balance gave out.
His knees buckled, and he fell backward, smacking the floor with a dull thud. The room around him tilted, and his limbs felt like rubber.
He could barely make out the faint theme music of the Naruto Storm game still playing from his headset, warped and distant like it was underwater.
Then—nothing.
Just blackness.
---
John didn't know how long he was unconscious, but when he came to, he was floating in a void. A pitch-black place with no sense of time or space. No light. No sound.
Until…
CLANG.
Metal striking metal.
Then again.
CLANG.
Rhythmic. Real.
With a sudden gasp, John opened his eyes.
No white ceiling. No sterile hospital lights. No scent of disinfectant.
Instead—rock. Dust. Cold.
The air was thick with the ancient stench of wet stone and iron, like a cave buried under centuries of war and decay.
He was lying on a rough, worn cot that scratched against his skin. The air was dry, metallic, and reeking of oil and sweat. He could barely breathe through the heavy musk of scorched metal. His head pounded as he slowly pushed himself up.
A dim bulb dangled from above, casting faint shadows across the uneven stone walls. The chamber looked like it had once been a storage room, now repurposed into a makeshift workshop.
CLANG.
The sharp echo rang out again. John flinched.
He turned—and froze.
In the far corner, a man hunched over an anvil, hammering away at a thick slab of metal. Sparks flared with each strike, briefly revealing the man's dirt-streaked face, bruised arms, and dark, sweat-matted hair.
As the man straightened and turned, wiping his forehead, John caught sight of something in his chest.
A glowing circle of light.
His breath hitched.
"Tony Stark?" John whispered, barely believing it.
The man turned, lowering the hammer in his hand with a lopsided grin.
"Ooh, look. Sleeping princess finally wakes up," Tony said, voice raspy but dry with sarcasm.
John blinked. That voice. That face. That glow.
It was him.
Tony Stark. In the flesh.
Before John could respond, another voice echoed across the chamber.
"Stark! We need to move faster. We only have two weeks left!"
A man approached from the shadows—bald, bespectacled, calm but serious.
John's throat tightened. "Dr. Yinsen…"
Yinsen looked at John with a slight nod, then at Tony.
"They said they caught him passed out on the sand."
Tony raised a brow. "Of course they did."
He gestured vaguely with the hammer. "Another mystery guest."
Then, stepping back to the table, Tony resumed work on a half-built device. Sparks lit the chamber once again as he welded something into place.
John sat in stunned silence.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't VR.
It was real.
He was inside the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
In the middle of Iron Man's origin story.
And if memory served him right…
They didn't have much time.