Chapter Two: A Rob’s Entertainment

The ground was cold and wet beneath Marshall's cheek. The asphalt seemed to pull him down, as if it was trying to swallow him whole. Blood seeped from the knife wound in his stomach, sticky and warm against his trembling hands. The couple he had tried to save hovered nearby, their voices frantic and distorted, like they were shouting through a wall of water.

His fingers twitched against the pavement, instinctively clutching at the wound, though he knew it was useless. Each shallow breath felt like dragging air through a clogged filter, the pain sharp and all-consuming. But even as his body screamed in agony, his mind drifted elsewhere.

So, this is it?

Marshall couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all—well, internally laugh. His mouth refused to cooperate. This wasn't how he pictured dying. He'd always imagined something a little more heroic, maybe even dramatic. Instead, he was sprawled out in a grocery store parking lot, bleeding out over a bad decision.

His thoughts wandered to his mom, to Marceline, to the life he'd wanted but never managed to grasp. He thought about the pancakes his mom used to make on Sundays, her voice filling their tiny kitchen as she sang along to Marvin Gaye or Otis Redding. She always sang when she cooked, and Marshall had loved every second of it. Even when he got older and pretended to be embarrassed, he'd hum along under his breath.

He thought about the first time he tried cooking himself. Marceline, barely six at the time, had insisted on helping. She sat on the counter with her legs swinging, munching on chocolate chips she was supposed to be adding to the cookie dough.

"Remember, Marsh," she had said, grinning with her gap-toothed smile, "when you're a big-shot chef on TV, I want free meals for life."

"Yeah, sure," Marshall had replied with a smirk as he stirred the batter. "As long as you don't bankrupt me with your snack addiction."

Cooking had been his dream, back before life got in the way. He'd loved how it brought people together, how it could make a bad day a little better. He used to imagine opening his own restaurant, maybe even starring in one of those cheesy cooking competition shows.

But then Marceline got sick.

He still remembered the day they got the diagnosis. His mom sat at the kitchen table, her hands gripping the edge so hard her knuckles turned white. Marceline stood quietly in the corner, trying to be brave even though she was barely a teenager.

Cancer. Stage two.

From that moment on, everything changed. The hospital visits, the medications, the endless parade of specialists—it all cost money. More money than they had. His mom picked up extra shifts, but it wasn't enough. So Marshall put his dreams on hold, trading culinary school for the cash register at Wilson's Grocers. The pay was garbage, but it was something. And every paycheck went toward keeping Marceline alive.

He never resented her for it. How could he? Marceline was his little sister, his partner in crime, the only person who could match his sarcasm beat for beat. She always joked that she'd pay him back someday, once she became a famous artist or writer or whatever she felt like that week.

But the dreams he shelved never left him. They sat in the back of his mind, gathering dust, a quiet reminder of the life he could've had.

The pain in his stomach dulled, replaced by a creeping numbness that spread through his limbs. His vision blurred, the edges of the world folding in on themselves. For a brief moment, he thought he saw Marceline's face, but it was just a trick of the light. The parking lot melted away, the flickering streetlights and frantic voices fading into a heavy, suffocating darkness.

At least the couple's okay, he thought. His lips twitched into a faint smile before everything went black.

When Marshall opened his eyes, he wasn't on the ground anymore. The cold asphalt, the blood, the pain—it was all gone. Instead, he was lying on something soft, almost cloud-like, though it didn't shift beneath him. The air around him was bright but not blinding, the kind of light that made everything feel clean and serene.

"What the…" he muttered, sitting up slowly. His stomach was fine. His shirt, once soaked in blood, was spotless, as if nothing had happened.

He rubbed his eyes, half expecting this to be some kind of fever dream, when a voice broke the silence.

"Ah, you're awake."

Marshall turned sharply, his breath catching. Standing a few feet away was a man—or at least, something that looked like a man. He was tall, dressed in flowing purple robes, with a long silver beard and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He leaned casually on a gnarled wooden staff, the picture-perfect image of a wizard from a fantasy novel.

Marshall blinked. "Okay, so I'm either dead, or I'm in some weird D&D campaign."

The man chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that echoed in the endless space around them. "Neither. Well, mostly neither. You're in the In-Between."

"The In-Between," Marshall repeated flatly. "Great. Sounds cozy."

The man stepped closer, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "I imagine this must be a bit disorienting. Allow me to introduce myself. In your world, you would call me a Rob—a Random Omnipotent Being."

Marshall blinked again, his brain scrambling to catch up. "A… Rob?"

"Yes," the man said with a slight bow. "Though I suppose that term lacks gravitas, doesn't it? No matter. You may call me Rob."

Marshall squinted at him. "Okay, Rob, why do you look like Dumbledore?"

Rob smiled, adjusting his glasses. "I took this form to make you more comfortable. I find that familiar imagery helps ease the shock of meeting someone like me."

Marshall crossed his arms. "Yeah, well, it's not working. You look like a cosplayer who got lost on his way to a convention."

Rob laughed again, clearly unbothered. "Ah, yes. I see you haven't lost your sharp tongue. Good. That will serve you well where you're going."

"And where exactly is that?" Marshall asked, his tone skeptical.

Rob leaned on his staff, his expression turning thoughtful. "The Marvel Cinematic Universe."

Marshall froze. "The MCU? Like, Iron Man, Thor, Avengers-level MCU?"

"The very same," Rob replied, a hint of mischief in his tone. "I've been watching your world for some time now, and I admit, I've developed an interest in the stories you call isekai and transmigration. They're quite popular among beings like myself."

Marshall raised an eyebrow. "You're telling me gods binge-watch anime?

Rob ignored the comment. "I've always wondered what makes these stories so entertaining for others. So I decided to try it myself. Out of my generosity—and my curiosity—I chose you as my entertainment."

Marshall frowned. "So, what, I'm just a pawn in your little experiment?"

"Entertainment," Rob corrected. "But don't think of it as one-sided. I'm giving you a chance to do something extraordinary. A second chance to live, not as the man you were, but as the man you could become."

"And the catch is…?"

"No catch," Rob said smoothly. "But the Marvel Universe is not a playground. Even with my assistance, you will face challenges that would break most mortals."

Marshall tilted his head. "Assistance?"

Rob smiled. "Three wishes. I will grant you three requests to help you on your journey. Choose wisely—they will shape the life you'll lead in this new world."

Marshall stared at him, his mind racing. The Marvel Universe. Three wishes. This wasn't just a second chance—it was a golden ticket to something bigger. Something meaningful.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Alright, Rob. Let's do this. But don't blame me if my wish list blows your omnipotent mind."

Rob's laugh echoed warmly through the room. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

To Be Continued…