I was sitting across from Wanda Maximoff.

  The candle between us flickered, casting dancing shadows against the exposed brick of the bistro walls. Outside, the cobblestone streets of Novi Grad were slick with a fresh evening downpour, reflecting the amber glow of streetlamps, but inside, it was warm.

  Wanda was wearing that vintage olive green coat she’d thrifted, the one she claimed made her look sophisticated but really just made her look adorable because the sleeves were slightly too long. Her hair was loose, framing a face that hadn't yet learned the permanent etching of sorrow.

  "You’re staring," she said, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. Her accent rolled the ‘r’s in that way that always made my chest tighten.

  "I’m admiring," I corrected, my voice steady, though my palms were sweating against the tablecloth. "There’s a difference."

  "Is there? Because from here, it looks like you are trying to count my eyelashes."

  "Maybe I am. I’m at forty two. Don't blink, I’ll lose count."

  She laughed. It was a sound like wind chimes in a quiet room… startlingly pure. I reached under the table, my hand finding a bouquet I’d hidden on the chair beside me. It wasn’t roses. Roses were cliché and Wanda Maximoff was anything but cliché.

  They were deep blue Cornflowers. The color of the Sokovian sky on the rare days the smoke cleared.

  I brought them up and her eyes widened, the green in them catching the candlelight. "Aryan..." she breathed, the teasing vanishing instantly, replaced by a softness that made me feel ten feet tall. "You remembered."

  "You told me once, that these grew behind your grandmother's house," I said, my heart hammering a rhythm against my ribs that felt louder than the ambient jazz playing in the background. "I remember everything, Wanda."

  She stood up, ignoring the other patrons across the small table. I stood to meet her and she crashed into me. Her arms wrapped around my neck, pulling me down, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder. I could smell her shampoo and it was the most intoxicating scent in existence.

  "Thank you," she whispered against my skin.

  Then she pulled back, just an inch. Her eyes searched mine, looking for something… doubt or hesitation. But she only found deep love for her, and she closed the distance.

  Her lips were soft, tasting of the spiced wine we’d been drinking. It was a deep kiss, the kind that blurs the edges of the world until the only thing that exists is the pressure of her hand on my nape and the beat of her heart against my chest. It was the moment my life truly began.

  I closed my eyes, sinking into the kiss, wanting to stay in this moment for eternity.

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  CRACK.

  It was the sound of reality snapping like a dry twig.

  The smell of paprika turned into the acrid stench of ozone and ash. The pressure of her lips dissolved into nothingness. I opened my eyes and Wanda was gone.

  The darkness was a living void. And it was swallowing everything.

  I woke up gasping, my lungs dragging in air as if I’d been drowning.

  My body jerked upright, the movement violent enough to rattle the headboard against the wall. I sat there for a moment, chest heaving, staring into the semi darkness of a room that was far too quiet.

  I ran a hand over my face, wiping away the cold sweat and let out a shaky breath that sounded too loud in the silence.

  "You know, this doesn't make sense," I muttered, my voice raspy. I turned my head slightly to the left, staring at the empty corner of the bedroom. There was nobody there, of course. Just a generic IKEA dresser and a lamp that looked like it belonged in a catalogue for 'Unremarkable Living.'

  "I’m a Class VI Reality Bender," I told the empty corner. "I have absolute control over the fundamental constants of the universe. I can rewrite the laws of physics by blinking. I can turn gravity into a suggestion. And yet, I still wake up sweating from a nightmare like a terrified toddler? That’s just lazy writing. Or maybe it’s poetic justice. Reality always differs from what you know, doesn't it?"

  I swung my legs out of bed. My feet hit the hardwood floor.

  "In my previous life… I was a General Physician," I continued, standing up and stretching. My back popped, a satisfying sound. "I had a good life. Or a normal one, at least. I was twenty six. My mother was constantly on my back about getting married. 'Aryan, look at Mrs. Patel’s son, he has two kids already!' she’d say."

  I walked to the window, peering out through the blinds. The streetlamps of Westview were humming with that distinctly American electric buzz. It was 4:45 a.m. and the world was still asleep.

  "I was too lazy for relationships," I confessed to the windowpane. "The drama and the expectations... who has the energy? I used to joke that if I ever got married, it would have to be to someone like Wanda Maximoff from the movies. Someone who is fiercely loyal and understands pain. Be careful what you wish for, right?"

  I turned away from the window and headed toward the bedroom door.

  "I died in a car accident. T-boned at an intersection by a guy who thought a red light was a suggestion. I died in the ICU of the very hospital where I worked. I remember looking up at the ceiling tiles… one of them had a water stain I’d been meaning to report to maintenance for weeks… and thinking, 'Well, this is ironic.' Then, lights out."

  I navigated the hallway with the ease of someone who had memorized the layout, even though I hadn't lived here long. The house was a suburban two story. Perfectly average and designed to blend in.

  "Now, you might be wondering," I said, descending the stairs, trailing my hand along the banister. "Why am I in the Marvel Universe? Why am I talking to thin air? Am I crazy? Maybe. Grief does funny things to the brain. But I like to think I’m talking to you. Yeah, you. The one watching. Or reading. Whatever medium this is."

  I reached the kitchen. It was too clean. It looked like a showroom and considering where we were, was another layer of irony I didn't have the energy to unpack yet.

  "Let’s get some breakfast. I’m starving and if I don't eat, I get cranky. And a cranky reality bender is bad for property values."

  I opened the fridge. The light illuminated rows of perfectly organized groceries.

  "Westview, New Jersey." I said, grabbing the eggs. "The timeline is... well, it’s 2023. About a month before Wanda has her breakdown and turns this quiet town into a sitcom hellscape."

  I set a pan on the stove and twisted the knob. The flame sparked to life.

  "In my past life, I always thought American breakfast was the most overrated concept in culinary history. Pancakes? Just sugary bread. Cereal? Kibble for humans." I cracked an egg into the pan with one hand, listening to the sizzle. "But here I am, cooking it. Because when in Rome... you do as the Romans do"

  Genre: Action / Fantasy / Romance / Transmigration

  Lead Characters: Aryan Spencer (Hume Class 6) & Wanda Maximoff (Earth-616)

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