Chapter — First Target (Marvel)
The sky above Malibu stretched in perfect, arrogant blue — sunshine, ocean breeze, luxury mansions perched on cliffs like gods looking down on peasants.
I leaned against my black Bugatti La Voiture Noire, freshly summoned with a thought, its plate reading loud and proud: DEATH 2.0. Sunglasses reflecting the Pacific, I flipped through the Manual of Death, cosmic letters dancing in the air.
Suddenly, the page flickered.
First Target Identified: Marvel Universe — Anthony Edward Stark
Status: Pre-Iron Man. Civilian. Party-boy Mode: Active.
Execution Deadline: 27 Hours
I raised my brows, amused, annoyed, both. "God… we need to talk."
No sooner had I spoken than reality shimmered, and He appeared beside me — casual as ever, wearing beach shorts, a floral shirt, flip-flops, sunglasses way too expensive for a 'casual' look.
"What's the problem now, Death 2.0?" God asked, sipping a coconut drink with a silly straw.
I held up the manual. "Tony Stark? Really? He's not even Iron Man yet. This isn't cosmic justice — this is HR making mistakes again."
God chuckled, pulling out a clipboard from thin air. "Paperwork says it's his time."
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "You do realize if Stark dies now, we don't get Avengers, no Endgame, no billionaire in a metal suit throwing quips while saving reality…"
"Multiverse cleans up the mess," God replied, swirling his drink. "Besides, your job isn't to question the flow, it's to deliver."
I glanced at Stark's mansion — music thumping, laughter spilling out, the man himself oblivious, probably charming supermodels with his ego dialed to max.
"I refuse," I declared, crossing my arms.
God arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
I pointed toward the house. "You sent me to deliver death to a guy who's literally mid-bachelor party. And pre-Iron Man? That's just bad PR for me."
God sighed, as if I were the rebellious teenager of the divine family. "You know I picked you for your… efficiency."
"And my standards," I added. "We negotiate. I'm not reaping Stark until post-arc reactor. Deal?"
Before He could answer, the front door swung open.
Tony Stark himself stumbled out onto the driveway — shirt half-buttoned, sunglasses askew, drink in hand, oozing charisma and poor life choices.
His eyes landed on me and God — two cosmic entities standing next to a Bugatti that practically screamed, 'Death's in town.'
"Whoa…" Stark paused, pointing. "Did I order you two? Because I don't remember booking angelic hitmen for this party."
God sipped his coconut, unfazed. I grinned.
"You could say your time's… under review," I quipped.
Tony squinted, stepping closer, curiosity overpowering common sense. "Nice car, cool aesthetic… Is this some weird government thing? Secret Service? FBI? Mafia cosplay?"
I held out the manual — pages flickering with divine energy. "More like universal HR. You're technically scheduled for termination."
His jaw dropped. "Termination? Look, I make enemies, sure, but that's harsh even for my standards."
God chuckled, nudging me. "Your window's closing, Death 2.0."
I ignored Him, focusing on Stark. "Relax. Negotiations are in play. You get to live — for now."
Tony's smirk returned. "Is this some next-level prank? Did Rhodes set this up? Pepper? Tell me this is a viral stunt."
I leaned in, voice low, cosmic energy humming behind every word. "You'll understand soon enough. Fate's got plans for you, Stark. Big ones."
His expression faltered — for a split second, the party-boy façade cracked, replaced by the genius calculating probabilities.
Before he could press further, I stepped back, addressing God.
"Final offer: I reap him after he builds the suit, saves New York, and gets that arc reactor glow-up. You want legends? Let him become one."
God considered, twirling the little umbrella in His drink. "Fine. But mess this up, and we're back to paperwork."
I smirked. "I never mess up. Mostly."
The manual updated mid-air.
Target Rescheduled: Anthony Stark — Post-Iron Man Protocol Activated
Satisfied, I turned to Tony, who was now fully intrigued.
"Guess what, Stark? You've got time. Don't waste it."
Before he could respond, I snapped my fingers — the Bugatti humming to life, doors opening like wings.
As I slid into the driver's seat, God's voice echoed one last time.
"Next target in thirty days. Enjoy the calm, Death 2.0."
Tony watched me peel away, mind racing, unaware his future was dancing on a cosmic thread.
And me? Time to enjoy life — luxury hotels, black cards, and the occasional divine loophole.
The game just started.