The cold was the first thing that greeted her. Not the chill of a boarding house AC that often broke, but a cold that was bone-chilling, wet, and foreign.
The woman jerked awake, gasping for air as if she had just drowned. Water rippled violently around her, splashing onto the glistening black marble floor. She coughed, wiping her wet face with trembling hands.
Wait.
She froze. Her eyes were fixed on her own hands.
Those were not her hands.
The hands were slender, with elegant, long fingers. The nails were manicured to perfection, polished with a glossy nude shade, a stark contrast to her last memory of her own fingers: short, clutching cheap pens, and stained with ink spots from revising her thesis all night. She turned her palms over. The skin was smooth, white as alabaster, without a single callus or paper cut.
'What the hell is this?' her mind screamed. 'Where am I? Didn't I just fall asleep in front of my laptop after my thesis defense?'
She lifted her gaze. This was not a cramped 3x3 meter boarding room filled with piles of books and instant noodle wrappers. This was a spacious room that looked more like a five-star hotel spa than a bathroom. The walls were lined with black marble with gold veins, a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and she was sitting inside a bathtub large enough to fit three adults.
The scent of expensive roses and sandalwood filled the air, replacing the typical smell of medicated oil and dust that usually accompanied her.
She tried to stand, but her legs felt shaky. As she rose, she realized something even more terrifying. The weight on her chest felt foreign. Very heavy. She looked down and nearly screamed at the sight of her own body. She was wearing (or rather, this body possessed) impossible proportions. Skin that was too smooth, curves that were mature, and... oh god, she felt like she was looking at someone else's body.
"This must be a dream," she muttered. Her voice sounded husky, low, and commanding. That was not her high-pitched voice. "Wake up. Come on, wake up. You must have fallen asleep while watching a Korean drama."
However, the coldness of the receding water was too real. The marble floor beneath her feet was too hard.
That was when a cheerful chiming sound (like the notification sound of a cheap mobile game) rang out in the empty air.
Ding!
Suddenly, amidst the gothic luxury of the bathroom, a neon pink holographic screen appeared floating right in front of her face. The light was blinding, surrounded by animations of falling cherry blossom petals and twinkling little stars.
[Welcome, Host!]
[Magical Girl System: World Saving Protocol has been activated!]
Her jaw dropped. Her mouth opened slightly, ruining her beautifully confused face. She blinked multiple times, hoping this tacky hallucination would disappear.
"System... what?" she whispered.
The writing on the screen changed with a spinning heart transition effect.
[Host Identity Confirmed: Eleanor Stane.]
[Current Location: Long Island, New York. Marvel Cinematic Universe.]
[Mission Status: Awaiting Initiation.]
The world seemed to spin. The information hit her brain like a freight train. Eleanor Stane. New York. Marvel.
Instantly, a sharp pain pierced her head. Not a normal headache, but like a library of data being forced into a flash drive that was already full. Memories that were not hers flooded her consciousness.
A lavish wedding reception. The flashing lights of reporter cameras. The stiffly smiling face of Howard Stark. A young Tony Stark drunk at a birthday party. And that face... the face of a bald man with a gray beard staring at her with a cold and calculative smile.
Obadiah Stane.
Her husband.
The woman (the soul of a 22-year-old girl who had just graduated college) stumbled back, her hands gripping the edge of the marble sink to keep from falling. She stared at her reflection in the large gold-framed mirror.
The figure staring back was not her. It was a beautiful woman in her mid-forties, with long chestnut brown hair that was soaking wet, high cheekbones, and a small beauty mark under the corner of her left lip. There were thin-rimmed glasses lying on the vanity, as if waiting for her.
'I... I entered a movie?' she thought, panic starting to creep up her throat. 'And of all people, I became Obadiah Stane's wife? The evil bald guy from Iron Man 1?'
The pink hologram screen blinked again, as if mocking her suffering.
[Congratulations! You have been chosen to bring Love and Justice to this violent world! Prepare for your first transformation, Magical Girl!]
"Magical Girl my foot?!" she hissed at the empty air, her voice trembling between anger and fear. "I entered the body of a middle-aged woman! Look at these fine lines around my eyes! I'm the wife of a corporate criminal! You've got the wrong server, you stupid System!"
[Age is just a number! The spirit of youth is the key! ☆(>ω<)☆]
'That emoticon... this System really needs a beating,' she thought miserably. She massaged her temples. This situation was too absurd. She had just died (maybe?), reincarnated into a wealthy grand dame, but her husband was a psychopath who would try to kill Iron Man in a few months. And now, there was a pink screen telling her to become Sailor Moon.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A soft knock on the bathroom door broke her internal panic.
"Mrs. Stane?" A woman's voice was heard from behind the door, polite but firm. "Mr. Stane has arrived home. He is waiting for you for dinner in the main dining room. He requested that you not be late."
Eleanor's heart (or whoever she was now) pounded. Obadiah is here. That monster is in this house. Downstairs.
She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. The original Eleanor's body memories told her one thing: Obadiah hated waiting. And Obadiah hated imperfection. If she wanted to survive tonight, she had to act.
"Yes," she replied. She was surprised at how stable her voice sounded, an automatic reflex from a body accustomed to putting on an act for decades. "Tell him I'll be down in ten minutes."
"Very well, Madam." The maid's footsteps were heard walking away.
Ten minutes. She only had ten minutes to reassemble her shattered sanity, put on her armor in the form of an expensive gown, and face one of the most manipulative villains in MCU history.
'Okay. Calm down. Breathe,' she commanded herself. 'You survived your thesis defense with a killer professor. You can face that old bald guy. You just need to... become Eleanor.'
She grabbed a thick, warm towel from the heated rack. As she dried her body, she tried to ignore the system screen still floating in the corner of her eye, offering a tutorial on "How to Perform a Cute Victory Pose."
'Ignore it,' she thought firmly. 'Focus on survival. Don't let anyone find out your contents have been swapped.'
Eleanor Stane's walk-in closet was bigger than a studio apartment. Rows of glass cabinets displayed designer dresses (Chanel, Dior, Versace) arranged by color. There was a special section just for bags, and another for shoes.
She stood in the middle of that luxury feeling like a lost thief. Her hand touched the smooth silk fabric of a black jumpsuit. Eleanor's memories told her that this was one of her favorite outfits for dinner at home: comfortable, elegant, yet covered enough to hide discomfort.
She put it on quickly. The silk fabric fell perfectly around her body, accentuating her slender waist but remaining modest. She sat in front of the vanity mirror, putting on her gold-rimmed glasses. Instantly, her slightly blurry vision became sharp.
The face in the mirror stared back. Cold. Elegant. A sharp black gaze. She tried to smile, but what appeared was a thin smirk that looked arrogant.
'This face... is truly a Resting Bitch Face,' she thought with a mix of awe and horror. 'Good. At least I don't have to bother pretending to be friendly.'
The next problem was shoes.
She stared at the rows of stilettos with 12 cm heels lined up like torture soldiers. The original Eleanor loved these shoes. They gave her height and an intimidating posture. But for her soul, accustomed to wearing sneakers or flip-flops to campus, these things were medieval torture instruments.
"Have to wear them," she mumbled resignedly. "For the character."
She slipped her feet into a pair of black Christian Louboutins. The pain was instant. Her toes were crushed, her heels screamed. She winced, then remembered something. She opened the vanity drawer, rummaging through its contents until she found a small first-aid kit hidden behind a jewelry box. She took a few band-aids and stuck them on her heels and pinky toes.
'A little better,' she thought, even though she knew her feet would be blistered later tonight.
She stood up, took a deep breath, and looked at herself once more. Her long hair, still slightly damp, was left loose with natural waves at the ends. She looked like a successful career woman, a perfect trophy wife, and someone who could buy a building with just a snap of her fingers.
No one knew that inside her head, she was screaming: 'Help! I want to go home! I want to eat instant noodles!'
She stepped out of the room, heading towards the grand spiral staircase. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The walls were adorned with abstract paintings whose prices could probably fund her life for ten years in her previous life.
Every step of her stilettos echoed on the marble floor, clack, clack, clack, like the ticking of a clock counting down the rest of her life.
She descended the stairs carefully, her hand gripping the railing a little too tightly. Down there, in the dimly lit dining room, a man was sitting at the end of a long table.
Obadiah Stane.
The man was reading a file on his tablet, a glass of amber liquid, most likely expensive whiskey near his hand. He wore a gray suit without a tie, his shirt slightly open at the top, revealing his thick neck. His bald head reflected the light of the chandelier.
He looked exactly like in the movie, only his aura was much heavier. More real. There was a deadly calm around him, like an old lion that was sated but ready to pounce if disturbed.
As Elly reached the last step, Obadiah looked up.
The man's pale blue eyes stared at her, scanning from toe to head. That gaze made her feel naked, assessed like a racehorse having its health checked.
"Elly," Obadiah greeted. His voice was heavy, a baritone that vibrated in the chest. There was a friendly smile on his face, the kind of smile politicians use when lying in front of a camera. "You took a long time. Was the water too comfortable?"
Elly forced her legs to move closer. Her knees were trembling, but the long gown hid that.
"Just needed time to... reflect," Elly replied. She was grateful her voice didn't crack. She walked to her chair on Obadiah's right side.
Before she could sit, Obadiah stood up. The man was much larger in person than on screen. He approached, the smell of expensive cigars and stinging aftershave piercing Elly's nose.
Obadiah's large hand touched her shoulder, warm and heavy. Elly held her breath. Every cell in her body screamed to run, to slap that hand away.
Obadiah leaned in and kissed her cheek, right near her ear.
"You smell of roses," whispered Obadiah.
Goosebumps rose on Elly's skin. It felt like being touched by something slimy, even though Obadiah's lips were dry. Inside her head, she screamed hysterically.
'Wet wipes! Where are the wet wipes?! Oh God, I need disinfectant! I need a spiritual flower bath!'
Externally, Elly only gave a thin, stiff smile. "Thank you, Obie." The pet name felt like poison on her tongue.
Obadiah pulled out the chair for her, a gentlemanly gesture that felt more like a prison. Elly sat, and Obadiah returned to his own seat.
Servants began serving the food. Steak. Of course, steak. Thick meat cooked rare, with red liquid pooling on the white porcelain plate. For Elly, who was used to eating spicy chicken, the sight of half-raw meat made her stomach churn.
"Eat," Obadiah said, starting to cut his own meat with surgical precision. "You look thin lately. Is the foundation stressing you out?"
Elly picked up her fork and knife, her hands moving stiffly. "Just... a little busy. Preparing for the charity gala next month," she replied, improvising based on fragments of Eleanor's memories.
"Hmm," Obadiah mumbled. He put a piece of meat into his mouth, chewing slowly. "Speaking of events, Tony won't be coming to the board meeting tomorrow. Again."
That name made Elly's ears ring. Tony Stark.
"Oh?" Elly tried to sound indifferent, cutting a tiny tip of the meat just to keep her hands busy. "Where is the boy wonder now? Vegas? Monaco?"
"Who knows. Probably in bed with a model from this month's Maxim issue," Obadiah snorted, his tone a mix of a father's annoyance and hidden satisfaction. "He handed the weapon presentation matters entirely to me. That kid... he's brilliant, Elly, but he has no discipline. He thinks Stark Industries can run on just sweet smiles."
Elly looked down, staring at her reflection in the silver knife. She knew what was going to happen. In a few months, Tony would go to Afghanistan to demonstrate the Jericho missile. And Obadiah would hire the Ten Rings to kill him.
She was having dinner with a man plotting the murder of his own best friend's son.
"Tony is indeed... a free spirit," Elly said carefully. She remembered a quote she often saw in memes. "But you know, Obie. You are the pillar of the company. Without you, Tony would just be a playboy with expensive toys."
Obadiah stopped chewing. He looked at Elly, his eyebrows raised slightly. A satisfied smile slowly dawned on his face. That compliment, even though spoken by Elly with hidden sarcasm clearly stroked his ego.
"You always know the right way to speak, darling," Obadiah said, raising his whiskey glass towards Elly. "That's why I married you. You understand how the world works."
'No, I don't understand!' Elly screamed internally. 'I don't even understand how income tax works! I'm just a student who happens to memorize movie plots!'
She raised her own wine glass. The contents were deep red. She took a small sip, hoping it was grape juice. It turned out to be real wine. It tasted astringent and bitter on her spoiled Gen Z tongue, but she swallowed it without blinking.
"To the future of Stark Industries," Elly said flatly.
"To our future," Obadiah corrected with a sharp gaze.
The dinner lasted for an hour that felt like a century. Elly only ate a quarter of her meat, stirring the rest around to make it look eaten. Obadiah dominated the conversation, talking about stocks, arms deals with the military, and his complaints about government bureaucracy.
Elly only nodded at the right times, murmuring "Of course" or "That makes no sense" randomly. Luckily, Obadiah was the type who liked to hear his own voice, so he didn't pay much attention to Elly's minimal responses.
When Obadiah finally wiped his mouth with a napkin, Elly felt her shoulders slump in relief.
"I still have work in the study," Obadiah said as he stood up. "Don't wait for me. Go to sleep first."
That sentence was the most beautiful music Elly had ever heard. It meant she was safe tonight. No need to share a bed with this monster.
"Don't work too hard, Obie," she said, standing gracefully even though her feet throbbed with pain. "Wrinkles on your face could make the stock value drop."
Obadiah gave a short laugh, a dry and humorless sound. "Goodnight, Elly."
He kissed Elly's forehead once more before turning and walking towards the west wing of the house, where he was probably planning his next war crime.
Elly waited until her husband's footsteps disappeared completely. Only then did she let out a long, trembling breath. She gripped the back of the chair, her legs weak.
"Damn it," she whispered, a curse word that felt so good to say. "This is crazy. This is absolutely crazy."
She turned and walked as fast as possible (which wasn't very fast in 12 cm heels) back towards the stairs. She needed to get back to her room. She needed to take off these cursed shoes. She needed to make sure her bedroom door was locked tight.
When she reached the upper floor and entered her luxurious master bedroom, she immediately kicked off her expensive shoes in random directions. One of them hit an antique flower vase, but she didn't care.
She threw herself onto the outrageously soft king-size bed. She stared at the ceiling painted in Renaissance style.
Silence enveloped her again. But this time, the silence was broken by the familiar sound of Ding!
The pink screen appeared again above her face.
[Tutorial Mission Complete: Survive the First Dinner!]
[Reward: 50 Affection Points & One Set of Anti-Nightmare Pajamas.]
Elly groaned long and hard, covering her face with a silk pillow.
"I want to go home," she whimpered, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Mom... my thesis hasn't been bound yet..."
Outside the large window, the night sky of New York in late 2007 stretched wide. No Stark Tower adorned the horizon. The world was still "normal," at least for a few more months.
But inside that luxurious room, a woman with the wrong soul was curling up, preparing herself for the toughest role of her life: Saving the world while wearing a pink mini skirt, and trying not to be killed by her own husband.
And that night, for the first time since she woke up, Elly Stane cried. Not the graceful cry of a grand dame, but the frustrated cry of a frightened young girl, alone in a world that was too big and dangerous for her.