The city buzzed beneath me — neon lights glowing, luxury cars slicing through the streets, skyscrapers stretching toward the heavens like the ambitions of mortals desperate to touch the divine.
But none of them came close to what I was now.
Death 2.0.
Cosmic concept wrapped in a tailored black suit, shoes polished to a mirror shine, eyes glowing faintly with the blue swirls of distant galaxies. Taller, stronger, infinitely more dangerous — and yet, all anyone saw was a devastatingly handsome man living life better than any billionaire fantasy.
Tonight? Five-star hotels, Michelin-starred restaurants, exclusive bars, and nightclubs so high-end they made Olympus look like a dive bar.
The Black American Express Centurion Card — the stuff of legend among mortals — gleamed between my fingers as I checked into The Grand Zenith, the most extravagant hotel on this side of the universe. Gold-trimmed architecture, diamond chandeliers, staff trained to cater to literal royalty — and now, to me.
The receptionist barely blinked as I handed over the card, though her eyes widened slightly when my name flashed on the screen: Daniel — Death 2.0.
"Uh… welcome, sir," she managed, handing me the room key — a sleek, obsidian-black access card with shimmering cosmic runes etched across the surface. Mortals probably saw it as a normal keycard. I saw the divine craftsmanship embedded in its atoms.
My suite? The Penthouse of Eternity — floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the glittering cityscape, private rooftop infinity pool, marble floors so polished I could admire my reflection as I walked.
I dropped onto the king-sized bed, plush enough to make angels weep, and pulled out the Manual of Death, scrolling lazily through cosmic data while sipping a glass of aged whiskey older than most civilizations.
Pending Deaths: Marvel Universe
First Priority: 27 days remaining
Current Objective: Enjoy yourself
"Best job in existence," I muttered, grinning.
The next few days? Absolute bliss.
Luxury Bar — Night One
The bouncer at Club Nebula looked me up and down, his expression unreadable behind aviator sunglasses.
"Invitation only," he grunted.
I didn't bother producing an invite. Instead, I casually flashed my Centurion Card — cosmic authorization embedded — and let my eyes shimmer with faint starlight.
The bouncer's pupils dilated. His mortal brain registered something beyond comprehension. His tough-guy demeanor melted instantly.
"Right this way, sir," he stammered, stepping aside.
Inside? Music pulsed through the walls like a living heartbeat. Celebrities mingled with billionaires, models with politicians, mortals with hidden superhumans — all unaware that Death himself was nursing a glass of premium sake at the VIP lounge.
I chatted, laughed, even danced — because why not? Otaku fantasy mixed with divine status — I was living the dream. No one questioned the sudden arrival of this impossibly attractive, ridiculously rich mystery man.
Occasionally, I'd get approached by government agents, curious about my credentials. The moment they asked for ID? A flick of the wrist produced my FBI badge, glowing faintly with cosmic authority.
"Special Agent Daniel," I'd say, grinning, eyes sparkling with mischief.
They backed off every time.
Restaurant — Night Three
Dinner at Aurum, a restaurant so exclusive it was said only deities and dictators dined there. Reservation? Done. Table? Prime window seat overlooking the city skyline.
As I savored every bite — lobster so fresh it practically whispered from the ocean, steak seared to cosmic perfection — my manual pinged softly, a translucent notification hovering in my vision.
Traffic Violation Detected. Police Approaching.
I chuckled, sipping my wine, already hearing the footsteps outside.
Moments later, a knock at the window. A traffic cop, uniform crisp, gaze suspicious.
I stepped outside, the night air cool against my tailored suit.
"Sir," the officer began, glancing between me, my Bugatti, and the obvious violation — parking where literal mortals dared not.
"Let me save us both time," I interrupted, eyes glowing faintly. "Your name is Officer Richards. You were born on October 12th, 1985. You've got three parking tickets hidden under your bed, and if you don't ease off on the caffeine, your heart's scheduled to give out in roughly…" I checked an invisible clock. "Seven years, two months, fourteen days."
The color drained from his face.
I handed over my FBI badge, cosmic shimmer faint beneath the hologram.
"No worries, though. You'll live — if you forget seeing me."
He nodded, stumbling backward, muttering apologies as I returned to my meal.
Nightclubs, Beaches, Five-Star Spas
The following week blurred into luxury and excess.
Five-star spas with massages that bent space-time to relax every atom of my being.
Private beaches with crystalline waters untouched by pollution, where I lounged, sunglasses reflecting distant galaxies.
Nightclubs where I danced under strobing lights, mortals oblivious to the fact that Death 2.0 was grinding to the beat right beside them.
I bought a yacht — naturally black, naturally named Oblivion — and hosted parties where guests never questioned the swirling blue glow of my eyes or the faint aura of power humming in the air.
Cosmic Realizations — Manual Revisited
But even amid the indulgence, duty loomed. The manual updated daily — Marvel, DC, supernatural entities, galactic powers.
I scrolled through the data:
First Marvel Event: 24 Days Remaining
Next Universal Fluctuation: Pending
I tapped my chin, pondering timelines, alternate realities, and the fragile threads holding existence together.
"Guess I better keep the chaos to manageable levels… for now," I mused, smirking.
Day 15 — High-Speed Chase
I couldn't resist pushing boundaries.
Cruising down the freeway, Bugatti humming, I edged past 250 km/h — subtle but satisfying.
Flashing lights behind me. Sirens wailing.
I pulled over, rolling down the window as the patrol officer approached, clipboard in hand.
"Sir, do you know how fast you were—"
"Let's skip the formality," I interrupted, handing over the FBI badge with one hand, cosmic energy humming faintly beneath the surface. "Official business. National security."
The officer blinked, processing… then nodded stiffly, retreating to his cruiser without a word.
I laughed, revving the engine, disappearing down the highway.
Otaku Dreams, Divine Reality
Laying in my penthouse later that night, surrounded by luxury, indulgence, and limitless potential, I couldn't help but marvel at how absurdly perfect life had become.
A reality where anime tropes fused with divine authority. Where I could summon a Bugatti, flash an FBI badge, bend fate with a thought — and no one batted an eye.
Death 2.0 wasn't just a title. It was freedom.
And the universe? My playground.
But beneath the indulgence, I knew — the clock ticked. Marvel's first death approached. The timeline loomed fragile as glass.
For now? I'd enjoy the perks. The fame. The thrill.
But soon… it was time to remind the cosmos why they whispered my name with fear and awe.
Death never looked so damn good.