---
Marcus woke up in an unknown room.
The first sensation was the abnormally soft sheets against his skin, a high-thread-count fabric that bore no resemblance to the worn cotton of his own bed. The second was the light, too golden, too perfect, filtering through a large window he did not recognize.
He sat up abruptly, his heart hammering against his ribs. The walls were an off-white, minimalist, adorned with a single abstract painting. The furniture was modern, sleek, and visibly exorbitantly priced. None of this belonged to him. The last coherent memory he could grasp was a stormy night, a flash of green lightning tearing across the sky in a way that defied physics, and then… nothing.
Getting up, he walked to the window and pulled the heavy velvet curtain aside.
His breath caught.
Instead of the familiar view of Parisian rooftops and Haussmannian buildings, a titanic metropolis sprawled at his feet. Futuristic buildings of audacious shapes stood like cathedrals of steel and glass. And, dominating the skyline, an immense tower, topped with a gigantic stylized "S" on a shield, pierced the clouds.
"This isn't possible," he whispered.
It was then that his reflection in the glass stopped him cold. It wasn't his face. Well, it was the same features—the strong jawline, the clear blue eyes, the well-defined mouth—but they were somehow recomposed, idealized. He looked the spitting image of Chris Evans, a version almost too perfect, sculpted to embody patriotism. A broader frame, shoulders that seemed capable of carrying the weight of the world. He touched his cheek, incredulous. The skin was smooth, firm, almost unreal.
A strange buzzing tickled his eardrums. He concentrated, and suddenly, the world exploded around him.
He could hear the conversations of thousands of people on the streets below, the hum of neon signs, the sizzle of a traffic light ten blocks away. He could perceive every crack in the concrete of the buildings, every feather on a bird flying at an impossible altitude. His gaze pierced through the walls of the apartment, distinguishing the building's metal structure, the water pipes, the electrical cables. Panicked, he raised his hand to shield himself from this sensory avalanche and, without effort, his fingers gouged a groove in the stone wall as if it were butter.
He stumbled back, horrified and fascinated. The power coursing through his veins was tangible, an ocean of raw energy ready to be unleashed. It was the strength of Homelander. The strength of the greatest supervillain from his world of comics. A force of absolute terror.
But his mind, however, was not following the same path. As fear threatened to consume him, an oddly calm and clear thought emerged from the chaos: "Protect. Help. Do what's right."
It was a visceral certainty, an unshakable moral code that had anchored itself within him, as solid as the new muscles flexing across his back. He had the face of a hero, the powers of a monster, and the upright, almost dated personality of Captain America.
A booming voice suddenly echoed in the sky, followed by a supersonic bang. Marcus looked up and saw a blue and red figure tracing a scarlet streak across the city.
Superman.
He was in the DC universe.
Marcus clenched his fists. He possessed power that could rival the Kryptonian's, a power designed for terror and domination. But as he looked at his heroic reflection, a cold determination replaced the panic.
He would not use this force like Homelander. He would not become a capricious and cruel god.
He would use this absolute weapon to do good. No matter the cost.
The world of DC was a dangerous place, filled with gods and demons. He would bring his own brand of justice to it.
And perhaps, who knows, find a place among the heroes.
Even with the shadow of a monster for a power.