I died on a Tuesday.
Which, honestly, tracks. Mondays get all the hate, but Tuesdays? Tuesdays are the day that pretends to be normal right before it stabs you in the kidney.
Or in my case, pancakes me with a shipping container.
One second I was walking through Queens—not the cool part where Spider-Man supposedly swings around, just regular Queens where the bodega guy judges your midnight snack choices—and the next second I heard this screaming metal sound, looked up, and saw three tons of cargo container falling off a construction crane.
My last thought was: Are you fucking kidding me?
Then everything went red, then black, then—
I gasped awake on cold concrete.
"What the—"
I was in a dark room. Storage closet? Abandoned office? My brain was too busy screaming to process details.
My whole body felt wrong. Like I'd been turned inside out and then right-side in again but someone forgot to smooth out the wrinkles.
I patted myself down frantically. Chest? Intact. Arms? Present. Legs? Also there. Face? Unfortunately still my face.
No blood. No crushed bones. No cargo-container-shaped indent in my torso.
Just me, sitting on a dirty floor in a room I'd never seen before, having what was either the world's most vivid panic attack or the world's worst case of "I just got isekai'd."
I pulled out my phone with shaking hands.
2:47 PM.
The exact time I'd been walking past that construction site.
"Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is—" I looked around the dark room. "Where the fuck am I?"
I found a door. Tried the handle. Unlocked, thank god.
The hallway outside was exactly the kind of liminal space that shows up in nightmares—flickering fluorescent lights, peeling paint, the vague sense that this building had given up on life sometime in the 90s.
I stumbled down three flights of stairs and pushed through an exit door into bright afternoon sunlight.
Queens. Still Queens. I recognized the street.
I was four blocks from the construction site where I'd just been crushed to death.
"I'm having a stroke," I said out loud to no one. "This is a stroke. I'm actually in a hospital right now having a stroke and this is all a weird brain hallucination."
My phone buzzed.
Text from my manager: "Hey Carson, you still coming back to the office? Client wants to discuss the migration timeline."
I stared at the message.
My manager was asking about server migrations.
While I was having an existential crisis four blocks from where I'd been crushed by industrial equipment.
Priorities.
I texted back: "Got caught up in that construction accident. Need to head home."
His response: "Jesus, are you okay? I heard someone got killed."
I looked at my phone.
Someone got killed.
Someone.
"Oh," I said to the empty street. "Oh, that's not good."
I don't remember getting home.
One second I was standing on a street corner having a crisis, the next I was in my apartment, staring at my coffee mug in the sink like it held the secrets of the universe.
Okay. Okay. Let's think about this logically.
Option A: I hallucinated getting crushed and am having a psychotic break.
Option B: I got hit by the container but survived somehow and walked four blocks in shock.
Option C: I got isekai'd into an alternate universe and now have video game respawn powers.
"It's definitely Option A," I said to my apartment. "Option C is insane. That's anime logic. That's not how reality works."
But just to be absolutely sure I wasn't crazy, I pulled out my laptop and googled "construction accident Queens today."
And there it was.
"Fatal Accident at Queens Construction Site - One Dead, Investigation Ongoing"
"OSHA Reviewing Safety Protocols After Deadly Container Incident"
"Witness Reports 'Horrific Scene' as Bystander Crushed by Falling Cargo"
Fatal.
They were calling it fatal.
I clicked through to one of the articles.
"Emergency services arrived on scene at approximately 2:50 PM, but the victim was deceased on impact. The body has not yet been identified. Witnesses report the victim, described as a male in his twenties, had no time to react..."
The body has not been identified.
Because there was no body.
Because I woke up in a creepy abandoned building four blocks away with all my organs in the correct locations.
"I'm in a video game," I said to my laptop screen. "I'm in a fucking video game. I have a respawn point. This is my checkpoint."
I started laughing.
Then I couldn't stop laughing.
Then I was crying while laughing, which is a really weird experience and I don't recommend it.
After I pulled myself together (and by "pulled myself together" I mean "sat on my couch staring at the wall for two hours"), I did what any rational person would do when faced with the impossible.
I googled "isekai respawn ability."
Hundreds of results. Light novels about people getting hit by trucks and waking up with video game powers. Manga about dying and coming back stronger. Anime about grinding levels through death.
All fiction.
Except apparently not anymore.
"Okay," I said, opening a new search. "If I got isekai'd, what universe am I in?"
I typed: "Spider-Man real"
And holy shit.
Actual news articles. Photos. Videos.
"Spider-Man Stops Bank Robbery in Queens"
"Web-Slinger Saves School Bus from Collision"
"Who is Spider-Man? Experts Weigh In"
I clicked through, hands shaking.
Real photos. Real footage. A guy in a red and blue suit swinging between buildings.
"No no no, that's—" I kept searching.
"Avengers Prevent Alien Invasion in Manhattan"
Photos of people in costumes fighting giant metal creatures.
"Tony Stark Announces Stark Industries Clean Energy Initiative"
Video of a press conference. Actual Tony Stark. Robert Downey Jr. looking guy. But this wasn't a movie.
"Fantastic Four Celebrate Fifth Anniversary as Public Heroes"
"Mutant Rights Debate Continues in Washington"
"Doctor Strange Speaks at Columbia University on Metaphysics"
I closed my laptop.
Opened it again.
Closed it.
"I'm in the Marvel Universe," I said to my apartment. "I got isekai'd into the fucking Marvel Universe. Where aliens invade every Tuesday and a guy named DOCTOR DOOM is somehow not in prison despite his name having Doom in it."
I started laughing again.
This time I didn't stop for ten minutes.
I called in sick to work Wednesday.
My manager was understanding, which made me feel guilty because "I'm having an existential crisis about being isekai'd into a universe where people regularly shoot lasers out of their eyes" wasn't a reason I could actually give him.
I spent the day researching.
The Avengers were real. The X-Men were real. SHIELD was an actual government agency and not just something from the movies.
And most importantly—people with powers died all the time.
I found statistics. Civilian casualty rates during "enhanced individual incidents." Insurance companies with specific "superhero damage" clauses. Support groups for people who'd lost family members to collateral damage.
"I'm going to die a lot in this universe," I muttered, scrolling through a list of recent "incidents" in New York alone. "Like, a LOT a lot."
But apparently I could come back.
Which raised the question: Was that a one-time thing? Or could I actually respawn multiple times?
There was only one way to find out.
And it was the stupidest idea I'd ever had.
Thursday morning, 4:30 AM, I stood on my apartment balcony looking down at the alley below.
Fourth floor. Definitely fatal.
"This is insane," I said to the pre-dawn air. "If I'm wrong, I'm just committing suicide. If I'm right, I'm about to deliberately experience dying, which is objectively a terrible idea."
But I had to know.
Because if this was real—if I really could respawn—then I needed to understand the rules before the universe killed me again by accident.
And based on those casualty statistics, "again by accident" was more a matter of "when" than "if."
I climbed up onto the railing.
"Okay. Okay. For science. For understanding. This is rational—"
I couldn't even finish the sentence because my brain was screaming WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING.
But I jumped anyway.
The fall lasted about two seconds.
My brain, being a dick, processed every millisecond in perfect detail. The wind. The ground approaching way too fast. The certainty that this was going to hurt.
A lot.
CRACK
I woke up screaming in a janitor's closet.
"FUCK FUCK FUCK THAT HURT—"
Mops. Buckets. Industrial cleaner smell. The romantic ambiance of a respawn point.
I checked my phone through tears of phantom pain.
4:30 AM.
Exact moment of death.
I was in the building next to mine. Maybe two blocks from where I'd jumped.
"Okay," I gasped, curled in a ball between cleaning supplies. "Okay. So. Respawn is real. Death is real. Pain is VERY real. Note to self: don't do that again unless absolutely necessary."
The phantom pain lasted about an hour. I could feel exactly where my legs had shattered, where my spine had snapped, where my skull had—
"Nope. Not thinking about that. Think about literally anything else."
I pulled out my phone and opened my notes app.
RESPAWN MECHANICS (DISCOVERED THE HARD WAY):
Death = instant respawn
Location = random nearby spot (1-2km radius?)
Time = exact moment of death (no time travel, sadly)
Body = fully healed (thank god)
Memories = intact (unfortunately)
Pain = phantom pain for ~1 hour (VERY unfortunately)
Old body = vanishes (witnesses will be confused)
PAIN LEVEL = 11/10 DO NOT RECOMMEND
I stared at that last point.
"I deliberately jumped off a building to test video game mechanics," I said to the mops. "I have made questionable life choices."
I managed to sneak out of the building and back to my apartment without anyone seeing me.
Took a shower hot enough to boil lobsters. Made coffee. Sat on my couch and stared at my notebook.
Deaths: 2Universe: Marvel (why god why)Ability: Respawn (cool in theory, terrible in practice)Mental State: QuestionableLife Expectancy: Technically infinite, practically concerning
I should have been happy. I had a superpower. I couldn't die permanently.
But all I could think about was how much dying hurt.
And how many ways there were to die in a universe where people regularly threw cars at each other.
"I'm so fucked," I whispered to my coffee.
My phone buzzed.
News alert: "Enhanced Individual Incident Causes Traffic Delays in Manhattan - Three Injured"
I clicked through. Some villain with a bad costume and worse aim had tried to rob a bank. Spider-Man stopped him. Collateral damage included a destroyed storefront, two smashed cars, and three civilians injured by debris.
Just another Wednesday in the Marvel Universe.
"Yeah," I said, closing the article. "I'm definitely going to die a lot."
Friday I tried to go back to work.
This lasted approximately three hours before I died again.
I was walking to the deli for lunch—the same deli I always went to, the one with the good pastrami—when two guys in ski masks burst through the door with a gun and what looked like a homemade energy weapon.
My first thought: Not again.
My second thought: I should run.
My third thought was interrupted by the energy weapon accidentally discharging and hitting me in the chest.
Death #3: Stray energy blast during robbery
I woke up in a dumpster.
"A DUMPSTER?" I yelled at the universe. "DEATH NUMBER THREE AND YOU RESPAWN ME IN GARBAGE?"
At least the maintenance closet had been clean.
I climbed out of the dumpster, smelling like old Chinese food and regret, and checked my phone.
12:43 PM. Three blocks from the deli.
Sirens in the distance. Police responding to the robbery.
I walked home, threw my clothes directly into the washing machine, and took another scalding shower.
Then I sat down and updated my notebook.
Death #3: Energy weapon (accidental discharge)
Respawn Location Quality Ranking: Maintenance closet > Creepy building > DUMPSTER
Universe Hatred Level: Maximum
"I need a new job," I muttered. "One where I don't have to commute through a warzone."
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I stared at it suspiciously, then answered.
"Hello?"
"Carson Lynn?" A woman's voice. Professional. Slightly intimidating.
"...Who's asking?"
"Commander Maria Hill, SHIELD. We need to talk about your recent... incidents."
My blood went cold.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mr. Lynn, you've died three times in two weeks. We have footage. We'd like to understand what's happening. Can you come in voluntarily, or do we need to make this official?"
I looked at my phone.
Then at my notebook.
Then at my phone again.
"Fuck," I said eloquently.
"I'll take that as a yes. Tomorrow, 9 AM. I'll send you the address."
She hung up.
I sat there on my couch, dripping wet in a towel, smelling faintly of dumpster, having just been summoned by the actual SHIELD.
"Well," I said to my empty apartment. "At least things can't get worse."
Somewhere in the universe, a cosmic entity laughed at my hubris.