The ceiling was white. Perfectly white. Too perfect.
Raj stared at it for several long seconds before it occurred to him that it wasn't peeling. There were no cracks. No water stains. No buzzing fan with dust hanging from the blades like jungle vines.
Just… stillness. And light.
He blinked slowly. Once. Twice. The air was cool. Clean. It smelled faintly like lemon and something clinical, like he'd wandered into a hospital where no one had ever gotten sick.
His breath hitched, and for a second, panic fluttered in his chest.
Then it faded.
Not gone. Not ignored. Just… filed away. He felt strange, yes—but not unsafe. His body didn't ache. There was no blood. No bruising. No IVs or bandages. Just the soft press of an expensive mattress beneath him and the golden warmth of sunlight stretching across his legs through a half-open curtain.
He sat up slowly, his muscles responding more smoothly than he expected. Everything felt… clear. Sharper. Like his skin had been scrubbed from the inside out, and the world had come into focus.
Then he saw the room.
It was sleek, minimalist, and entirely unfamiliar. The walls were smooth white and steel, the floor polished hardwood. A bookshelf lined one corner, filled with worn spines and a few photos he didn't recognize. A coat—black, wool, expensive-looking—hung on a stand near the door.
The curtain fluttered in the breeze from an open window. Beyond it, glass towers and morning haze shimmered.
Raj stood, slowly.
The moment his feet touched the floor, a jolt ran up his legs—not pain, not fear. Just a thrum of energy, like his muscles were learning something before he did.
He crossed the room cautiously, his hand brushing along the edge of the desk. It was solid. Real. Cold.
This wasn't a dream.
He pulled the curtain aside.
And there it was.
New York City.
Not a movie set. Not a wallpaper on his phone. The real thing—alive and breathing and ridiculous. Yellow taxis. Sirens in the distance. The Empire State Building stabbing the sky like it owned it. Somewhere to the east, the glimmer of water. Manhattan.
His breath left him in a soft rush.
"No. No way."
But his mind was already catching up.
The skyline. The apartment. The feeling in his bones. None of this matched Mumbai. None of this was his world.
He turned from the window, heart now beating faster, and stumbled toward the mirror in the bathroom.
The boy who looked back at him was… him.
But older.
Sixteen, maybe seventeen. His features were sharper, more defined. His hair was the same black mess, though slightly longer. His skin was still fair, still his—but there was something else now.
A faint gold shimmer beneath the surface, like sunlight trapped under skin.
He leaned in.
His eyes were glowing.
Just barely. Just enough that if he blinked, the glow vanished. But when he focused—there it was. Like two fragments of a dying star had settled behind his pupils.
His heart didn't race. His breath didn't catch.
He simply said, aloud and to no one, "What the hell is happening to me?"
He reached for the sink, turned on the water. It flowed cold and clear. He splashed his face, trying to ground himself.
It didn't work.
Because the moment he looked up again, another memory slid into place—not his own.
A school hallway.
An American flag by the entrance. Lockers. Voices calling a name—Raj Malhotra. His name. But not spoken in Hindi. In English. With a New York accent. A girl with red hair. A boy with glasses. A math teacher handing back a test with a B+ circled in red.
Then another image—flashes now.
The funeral. Cold wind. Lawyers. A signed will. His parents dead in a highway pile-up near Long Island.
And then silence. Months of it.
Raj staggered back from the sink, gripping the edge of the counter.
He wasn't just in a different world.
He was in a different version of himself.
He wandered the apartment for the next hour in a daze. Touching things. Letting the memories—his and not-his—settle. The fridge was mostly empty. The place was too neat, too quiet.
A file folder sat on the kitchen table. Inside: legal documents, banking information, a trust account.
Raj Malhotra. Age: 16. Guardian: none assigned. Status: emancipated minor. Assets: multiple. The trust would activate monthly allowances. He wouldn't have to worry about food. Or shelter. Or bills.
That wasn't reassuring.
That was terrifying.
Because everything was ready for him.
As if this life had been waiting.
Then came the phone.
It lay on the counter, charging. He picked it up. No password.
A few recent texts. One from someone labeled "P.P." A classmate.
Raj tapped the conversation.
P.P.: "You doing okay, man? Still skipping chem?"
Then a follow-up, a minute later.
P.P.: "MJ said you looked like death on Monday. You good?"
MJ?
Peter.
Raj's breath stilled.
Peter Parker.
He wasn't just in the Marvel Universe.
He was in his class.
He set the phone down gently, his hands suddenly feeling too large, too hot.
And yet, he didn't panic.
Not fully.
Because something else stirred inside him—beneath the confusion, beneath the fear.
A strange, steady calm.
As if his body, his mind, and something deeper already knew this world. Had always known it.
And for the first time since waking up, Raj whispered to the quiet room, "Okay."
Not because he understood it.
But because he was ready to start finding out.