10 p.m. in New York City. The skyline shimmered with a kaleidoscope of neon lights, each casting a vibrant glow across the streets below. The city was a living, bustling wtih activity, earning it nickname the city that never sleep.
High above the bustling streets, a man sliced through the night air. Cloaked in black and flying low, he moved with a speed that blurred his outline against the inky sky. If you weren’t looking closely—and let’s face it, who does in this city?—you’d never know he was there.
His gaze locked onto a familiar landmark: a gleaming skyscraper with the Stark Industries logo lighting up the night like a beacon of wealth and ego. Every time he saw it, one thought came to mind: Tony Stark.
This wasn’t just any world. No, this was that world—the Marvel universe. A place where chaos wasn’t a possibility; it was practically a scheduled event. Alien invasions? Weekly. Random supervillain attacks? Biweekly. Life here wasn’t for the faint of heart—or for people without good insurance.
But Orion Voss wasn’t your average New Yorker. If he were, he’d have packed up and fled to a nice, quiet Midwest town ages ago. Two years ago, he’d stumbled into something extraordinary: a System that granted him powers straight out of a comic book. And in a world brimming with gods, monsters, and billionaire playboys in metal suits, those powers had been his ticket to survival—and a hell of a lot more.
He touched down in front of a luxurious Brooklyn manor, its grandeur practically screaming, ‘I made it.’ Pulling out a sleek key, he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the subtle scent of leather and aged wood greeting him like an old friend. As he kicked the door shut behind him, his phone buzzed.
“About time,” he muttered, fishing it out of his pocket. Two new messages awaited him.
The first read: “Orion, after deducting my 5% fee, the remaining funds have been transferred. Looking forward to our next collaboration.”
The second was a bit more satisfying: “Dear Mr. Orion Voss, Zero Technology has deposited $14.25 million to your account. Current balance: $163.24 million.”
Orion’s lips curled into a grin. There were few things in life as satisfying as watching a bank balance climb into the stratosphere. Sure, being a mercenary wasn’t glamorous, but it paid—and paid well.
Orion Voss wasn’t born with a silver spoon. Or any spoon, really. Growing up in an orphanage taught him two things: the world doesn’t owe you anything, and survival is an art. But when the System awakened, gifting him the powers of the Void, everything changed.
Void powers weren’t just flashy tricks. They were pure, unfiltered nightmare fuel—blending into shadows, slicing through steel, moving faster than the eye could track. He’d gone from being a street rat to a one-man wrecking crew. And with his newfound strength came an unshakable resolve: he wasn’t going to be a victim of this world. He’d carve out his place, even if it meant doing the kind of jobs that society pretended didn’t exist.
Orion wandered into the living room, flipping on the lights. The space was a showcase of understated opulence, every detail meticulously chosen. He grabbed a bottle of wine from the cabinet and poured himself a glass, sinking into the plush sofa. A tablet sat on the coffee table, displaying a black-market site teeming with mercenary gigs.
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Scrolling through, he skimmed the listings with the practiced ease of someone picking a movie for the night. Assassinations, espionage, bodyguard work—each more morally ambiguous than the last. One job caught his eye: a high-profile target in Afghanistan. The reward? A jaw-dropping $10 million, with the potential to hit $50 million.
Orion leaned forward, intrigued. It didn’t take a genius to realize this was tied to something big. And given the year—2008—it didn’t take him long to connect the dots. This was ground zero for Tony Stark’s transformation into Iron Man.
“Hmm,” Orion mused aloud, swirling his wine. “Do I want to rewrite cinematic history for a payday?” He grinned. ‘Tempting.’
Still, there were other things on his mind. He closed the job listing and leaned back, tapping his glass thoughtfully. Ever since he’d realized he was in the Marvel universe, he’d played the long game. Investments in Stark Industries? Check. Real estate grabs? Double check. Contingency plans for when New York inevitably turned into a warzone? You better believe it.
For Orion, it wasn’t just about surviving; it was about thriving. He wasn’t some hero with a moral compass or a villain twirling a metaphorical mustache. He was a businessman—one who happened to move through shadows and cut steel like butter.
His phone buzzed again, pulling him from his thoughts. This time, it wasn’t another transaction or job listing. The message was personal, a rare occurrence in his line of work. Orion’s brow arched as he opened it, the contents sparking a flicker of amusement and curiosity.
“Well, well,” he said with a smirk. “Looks like tonight just got interesting.”
"Mr. Death, we’ve got a mission with your name on it."
Orion raised an eyebrow, letting the faintest smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. A personal request? That didn’t happen every day. In the cutthroat world of mercenaries, clients rarely picked favorites unless they were absolutely sure their pick could deliver. And when they did, the payout was usually jaw-dropping enough to make a guy reconsider retirement plans.
He read the message again, weighing his options. Sure, he’d stashed away enough cash to live like a king—or at least a very comfortable hermit—for the rest of his life. But a high-stakes mission was always tempting. Not just for the money, though that helped, but for the thrill of it. Orion wasn’t one to turn down a challenge, especially when it came wrapped in dollar signs.
With practiced precision, he typed a response. No frills, no fluff. Just business. "Since you’ve found me, you know what it costs to keep me interested, right?"
Miles away, Nick Fury read the message with a slight grin that barely moved his ever-serious face. The bald, eyepatch-wearing enigma had heard all about the man known only as "Mr. Death." Legends in the mercenary world spoke of him in hushed, reverent tones. Two years on the scene and already a myth. They called him the God of Death for a reason. If he took a job, it was as good as done. Impossible odds? Laughable. The man had a perfect record.
Fury knew the drill. Death didn’t work for chump change. The baseline? Ten million bucks, no questions asked. The high end? Sky’s the limit, as long as the money came upfront. Fury had spent months just trying to make contact, burning through resources and greasing all the right palms. Now he had his shot—and he wasn’t going to let it slip.
He typed his reply carefully, knowing exactly how delicate this negotiation was. "Of course I know who you are. Let’s cut the preamble—I’d like to set up a meeting before we get into the details. You in?"
A moment of silence. Fury tapped his fingers against his desk, wondering how the infamous assassin would react. Then, the reply came in: "As long as the money’s there, you name the time and place."
Straight to the point. Fury liked that. He fired back with the details: a secluded spot in Washington, three o’clock, two days from now. No unnecessary theatrics. When the confirmation came—just a single "Ok"—Fury allowed himself a rare moment of satisfaction. This was the kind of man he could work with. Someone straight without any bullshit.