CHAPTER 1 (Rewritten)

CHAPTER 1

NOVEMBER 11, 1998

POV BRENDAN

Confusion clawed at me, sharp and unrelenting. Moments ago, I was lying on an operating table, the sterile scent of disinfectant filling my nose as a doctor leaned over me. The pinch of the anesthesia needle was still fresh in my mind—my last conscious thought being the looming uncertainty of my lung cancer surgery. Success or failure, I knew that whatever awaited me on the other side would be life-altering. But now? Now, I was somewhere else entirely, choking on pain and the acrid stench of rot.

A dull, throbbing ache coursed through my skull as I blinked against the dim light of a filthy alleyway. The world tilted unnervingly, and I realized I was slumped against a dumpster, its rusted metal biting into my back. My ribs screamed in protest as I shifted, the pain sharp enough to draw a hiss from my lips. Instinctively, my hand moved to the back of my head, and my fingers came away slick with something warm and viscous. Blood. A steady trickle slid down my neck, sticky and unsettling.

"fuck!" I muttered, the sound barely audible over the distant hum of the city. My voice felt foreign—raw, strained.

I glanced down at myself, trying to make sense of the situation. Bare feet, dirt-streaked and vulnerable, rested against the cold, damp concrete. My clothes were unfamiliar—a battered coat hanging loosely over my frame, paired with scuffed, ill-fitting pants. Neither looked remotely like the hospital gown I should have been wearing. A chill crawled up my spine, though I wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the growing realization that I had no idea how I'd gotten here. Or why I was hurt.

Frantic, I patted my coat pockets, searching for some semblance of familiarity. My phone? Gone. My wallet? Missing. My breath quickened as the alien nature of my surroundings pressed down on me. This wasn't right. None of this was right. I closed my eyes, trying to piece together a timeline, but my thoughts were fractured, splintering like glass under pressure.

The pain forced me to focus. One thing at a time. First, I needed to move. With a groan, I gripped the edge of the dumpster, its surface slick with grime, and forced myself upright. My ribs protested, sending jagged bolts of pain with every movement. I doubled over, clutching my side as the world spun again. A few deep breaths steadied me enough to take a step forward, then another.

The end of the alley loomed ahead, the faint glow of streetlights spilling in from beyond. I shuffled toward it, each step feeling like an eternity. The noise of the city grew louder as I emerged from the shadows—a faint hum of cars, muffled conversations, and distant laughter. Relief washed over me briefly, a flicker of hope that someone might help.

That hope was short-lived. The first passerby—a middle-aged man—caught sight of me and quickened his pace, his eyes darting away as though my mere presence was something to avoid. The second—a woman clutching a grocery bag—crossed to the other side of the street without hesitation. My throat burned as I tried to call out, but the words lodged in my chest, strangled by pain and exhaustion.

I staggered forward, my vision beginning to blur. Lights swam in and out of focus, and the ground beneath me felt like it might give way at any moment. Then, just as the darkness threatened to overtake me, something caught my attention—a neon sign flashing in my peripheral vision.

"New Gotham jewelers," it read in bold, lurid letters. The name hit me like a sucker punch, dragging a new wave of confusion into my already disoriented mind.

Gotham? That couldn't be right. Gotham doesn't exist in the real world!

The thought lingered for a moment before my legs finally gave out. The cold, unyielding pavement met me with a jarring thud, and the world went black.

IN ANOTHER WORLD

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK

Herman Schultz, better known as the Shocker, had plenty of bad days in his career. But today? Today was shaping up to be the worst of them all.

It all started with a simple job—just another payday. Herman, alongside his usual crew, Hydroman, and Boomerang, had teamed up with the Sinister Syndicate to hit an auction house. Easy money, or so it seemed. But as usual, the goddamned Spider and his armored tag-alongs, Iron Man and War Machine, showed up to ruin everything. Herman wasn't in it to kill Spider-Man—he'd long abandoned that kind of ambition. He was just there for the cash, but things spiraled out of control. They always did.

Still, it wasn't the botched heist that earned this day the title of "worst." That came later.

After licking their wounds, Herman and the guys headed to a dingy villain bar—an unspoken haven for criminals nursing their failures. The drinks were cheap, and the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke and regret. He was mid-sip, muttering about their rotten luck when it happened.

A sudden, choking cough escaped his throat. His drink tasted off, metallic as if someone had laced it with poison. Around him, others clutched their necks, sputtering and collapsing onto tables.

The door exploded inward with a deafening crash.

And there he was. The Punisher.

Frank Castle stormed in, dual-wielding automatic rifles like the goddamn angel of death. Gunfire erupted in a blinding cacophony, drowning out the groans of poisoned villains as bodies dropped like flies.

Boomerang was the first to go—a clean headshot that left his body crumpled against a jukebox still playing a jazzy tune. Hydroman tried to run, his body shifting into liquid form to escape, but Castle was ready. A firebomb ignited in the air, engulfing him in an explosion of flames and smoke. The acrid smell of burning flesh filled the room.

The bar descended into chaos. Villains scrambled, poisoned, and dazed, only to be cut down by Castle's relentless hail of bullets. Blood pooled on the floor, mixing with spilled liquor and broken glass.

Herman crawled across the floor, desperate for cover. Bullets ricocheted off his reinforced armor, the impact rattling his bones but failing to pierce. His vibro-shock gauntlets hummed as he charged them, his hands trembling with adrenaline. He ducked behind the bar and unleashed a blast in Castle's direction.

The Punisher barely flinched. He rolled to the side, his movements precise, calculated, and terrifyingly efficient. The fucker just kept coming! His expression was cold and unyielding as he picked off anyone still standing.

Herman's heart pounded in his chest as he pressed his back against the bar. The heat of the fire growing from Hydroman's demise licked at his skin, smoke curling through the air and stinging his eyes. The sound of gunfire and screams began to fade, replaced by an eerie silence.

Then came the crunch of boots on broken glass.

Herman turned, every instinct screaming at him to run, but it was too late. A cold, unyielding piece of metal pressed against his temple.

"Your pals didn't get a chance," Frank Castle said, his voice low and guttural, "but any last words?"

Herman's lips curled into a smirk, though his heart hammered in his chest. If he was going out, he'd make it memorable. "Nah," he said, his voice raspy. "But since I'm headed to hell anyway, got any message for your wife and kids?"

Castle's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening.

Click. Bang.

The sound echoed through the burning wreckage of the bar. The Shocker—Herman Schultz—slumped to the floor, his story ending in blood and fire. Villain. Criminal. Engineer. He was no more.

But as one story ends, another begins.

Unseen to anyone, a fragment of Herman Schultz's soul shimmered, caught in the unseen current of fate. It lingered for a moment, then was torn from its resting place, plucked by forces beyond comprehension. The piece of his soul twisted and turned, merging with another body—a body that already housed a soul from another world.

A subtle yet undeniable ripple of change surged across the universe. The threads of fate twisted and knotted, reshaping destinies.

A new story was beginning. And the waves it would create would reach far and wide.

NOVEMBER 12, 1998

POV BRENDAN

I opened my eyes to the dim glow of fluorescent lights above me. The room looked like it belonged in a hospital—or at least, I hoped it was one. For a brief, blissful moment, I felt relief wash over me. Maybe the events in that filthy alley were nothing more than a fever dream. Maybe I was back in the real world.

But that hope died quickly as I took in my surroundings. The room was old—far too old. Paint peeled off the walls, and the windows were partially boarded up, letting in only faint slivers of moonlight. The few rusted beds in the room looked like they'd seen better days... decades ago. This wasn't a hospital. It was some rundown clinic, barely holding itself together.

I glanced down at my body. My head was wrapped in thick bandages, and my ribs were tightly bound beneath a loose hospital gown. There was a dull, throbbing ache in my side, and my head felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. Something felt... off.

My body felt bigger than it should have been. I ran my hands over my frame, noticing the slight stretch of muscle and bone beneath the thin gown. At 5'6", I'd never been the tallest or most imposing guy. But now, lying in this bed, I couldn't shake the sensation that I was taller.

Suddenly, a sharp pain stabbed through my skull, and my vision blurred.

Images—fragments of lives that weren't mine—flashed through my mind like a chaotic film reel.

An orphan struggling to survive in a city I recognized from comics and movies.

A criminal, battling a web-slinging superhero, losing every time.

And then, the life I'd just left behind—a life filled with illness, books, and the quiet isolation of a hospital room.

The memories hit like a tidal wave, crashing into each other, each more vivid than the last. My breathing grew erratic as I clutched my head, beads of sweat rolling down my face. The pain was unbearable, but slowly, agonizingly, it began to subside.

When the flashes finally stopped, I collapsed back onto the bed, gasping for air. The room spun around me, and I couldn't hold back the creeping realization that made my stomach drop.

I wasn't home.

I was in Gotham.

The Gotham.

The city I'd only ever seen in comics and movies. The skyline of towering spires, crime-filled streets, and a rogues' gallery of psychotic villains. The city where life expectancy was a luxury.

But that wasn't the worst of it.

I wasn't just some random guy in Gotham. The body I was now inhabiting wasn't entirely mine. Memories of another life told me I was an 18-year-old orphan, fresh out of juvie and barely scraping by, drowning in debt my dead parents had left behind. Worse still, flashes of another identity swirled in my head—memories of him.

Herman Schultz.

The Shocker.

A D-list supervillain who spent his days being smacked around by Spider-Man for fun. A guy with decent engineering skills but a long list of failures. A man whose luck was as bad as his aim.

It was too much. The overwhelming weight of everything—being ripped from my world, thrown into this chaotic city, and trapped in the body of someone else—crushed me like a ton of bricks. My throat tightened, and a hollow ache settled in my chest.

I curled up on the bed, pulling the thin blanket over myself. Quiet tears streamed down my face as I thought about everything I'd left behind—my family, my friends, my dog, my home, and even the simplicity of college life. All of it was gone.

For fifteen agonizing minutes, I let myself break.

Eventually, though, the tears stopped, and a strange, hollow calm replaced the storm of emotions. The reality of my situation hadn't changed, but I realized that crying wouldn't fix anything. I was here now, in Gotham, and the only way out was to figure out a plan.

In a world as insane as this, maybe—just maybe—there was a chance I could find my way back home or maybe I was stuck here in this godforsaken world as punishment for pissing off someone is heaven or hell but one thing was sure I wasn't letting myself be left helpless either by a disease or by my circumstances.

I clenched my fists, the spark of determination breaking through the despair. I wasn't going to give up.

The sound of the door creaking open pulled me from my thoughts.

"Looks like you're finally awake, Snow White," a voice called out, tinged with sarcasm.

I looked up to see a woman in her mid-40s or 50s, her snow-white hair tied back in a loose bun. She wore a rumpled doctor's coat over a sweater and slacks, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Her sharp eyes scanned me with clinical precision, but there was a hint of warmth in her smirk.

"You're lucky, kid," she said, stepping closer. "My nurse, Amina, found you bleeding out near the square and dragged you here. Another hour, and you'd have been a goner."

She pointed at my head with her pen. "How's the noggin feeling?"

I reached up, fingers brushing the bandages. A sharp wince escaped me. "Better, I guess," I said hoarsely. "Still hurts, but not as bad as before. Thanks, Doc. I don't know what I would've done without you."

"You're welcome, Mr...?" she prompted, tilting her head.

"Brendan," I replied quickly. "Brendan Myers."

She raised a brow but nodded. "Well, Brendan, I don't usually find teenagers with busted heads and cracked ribs in my clinic. Care to explain what kind of trouble you got yourself into?"

I hesitated, her gaze boring into me. Finally, I sighed. "Let's just say being an orphan in Gotham doesn't come with a lot of perks. Ran with the wrong crowd and paid the price."

She let out a deep sigh of her own, shaking her head. "Typical Gotham," she muttered. "This city chews people up and spits out whatever's left. You're lucky this time, but next time, you might not be so fortunate."

She rattled off instructions. "The wound on your head will take a couple of weeks to heal, and your ribs? At least a month. No heavy lifting, no fighting, and definitely no running around with your so-called 'friends.' You can walk around a bit, but nothing more. Honestly, I'd keep you for a couple of days more but there's been a shooting between gangs nearby and the beds will be filling up soon,"

She handed me a note and said "You can leave tomorrow morning. Here's your prescription—Mike at the counter will sort out your meds."

I blinked. "Uh, Doc, about the payment—"

She cut me off with a wave of her hand and a knowing smile. "This is a free clinic, kid. We don't charge. And by the way, the name's Dr. Leslie Thompkins. Now, enough talking—you need rest."

With that, she turned and walked out, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Dr. Leslie Thompkins. A name I'd only read about before. And now, in this strange, terrifying new reality, she might just be my first lifeline