The city didn't notice him.
It never did.
New York moved the way it always had—cars blaring, people rushing, lights bleeding into the night sky. To them, this was just another evening. Another forgettable moment in a world that refused to slow down.
To him, it was proof.
This world was real.
He stood on the edge of a rooftop, hands in his pockets, coat fluttering lightly in the wind. Below him, a massive screen replayed the same headline again and again.
TONY STARK CONFIRMS: "I AM IRON MAN."
He let out a slow breath.
"So it really is 2008," he muttered.
Marvel.
A fictional universe from his old life.
Except it wasn't fiction anymore. Not when the cold wind touched his skin. Not when the weight of the city pressed down on him. Not when he could feel the shadows around him—alive, obedient, waiting.
He hadn't chosen this power.
It had simply come with him.
Not magic in the flashy sense. No glowing auras. No dramatic energy surges. Just shadows—deep, silent, absolute. They bent without resistance, moved without sound, and erased his presence as if the world itself agreed he didn't need to be seen.
Which suited him just fine.
He wasn't here to be a hero.
He wasn't here to chase fame.
At least, not yet.
Several blocks away, Natasha Romanoff adjusted her pace without breaking stride.
Her instincts had learned to whisper before they screamed. Something was wrong. Not danger—she knew what danger felt like—but awareness. The uncomfortable sense that a room had changed without her permission.
She passed a glass storefront and caught her reflection.
Red hair tied back. Jacket loose. Expression calm.
Nothing behind her.
Still, the feeling stayed.
I'm being watched, she thought.
Or someone wants me to think I am.
She turned down a side street, fingers brushing the concealed weapon at her waist. Her route wasn't random. Three turns. Two dead angles. One opportunity.
If someone followed, they'd reveal themselves.
No footsteps came.
Instead, the street lights flickered—just once.
Natasha stopped.
"Whoever you are," she said calmly, voice carrying into the empty street, "you're not as invisible as you think."
Silence.
Then, from the far end of the alley, a voice answered—unhurried, almost casual.
"I wasn't trying to be."
She turned slowly.
He stood where the shadows were thickest, face half-hidden by darkness, posture relaxed in a way that annoyed her immediately. Not sloppy. Not arrogant.
Controlled.
That made him dangerous.
"You're SHIELD," he continued, as if stating a fact. "Or something close enough that the difference doesn't matter."
Natasha didn't raise her weapon. Not yet.
"And you're confident," she replied. "Which usually means stupid—or very capable."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Guess you'll have to decide."
Their eyes met. For a brief moment, neither moved.
This wasn't attraction.
Not trust.
Not even curiosity.
Just two people who recognized that the other didn't belong in the background.
Somewhere above them, unseen, the shadows shifted—quietly returning to stillness.
The city kept moving.
Unaware that something had just changed.