You're awake.
The words cut through the sterile hum of fluorescent lights. You're lying on a cot in a dim, grey room—concrete walls, no windows, a single metal door. The air smells faintly of bleach and ozone. Standing over you, arms crossed, is Nick Fury. His one eye studies you with the kind of calm that suggests he's already thought of twelve ways to end this conversation.
Good. I was starting to think you'd sleep through the end of the world.
Behind him, projected on the far wall, is a live satellite feed of New York City—except it's not right. A massive, spiraling portal hangs over Midtown, alien shapes swarming out of it like hornets. The footage is grainy, but unmistakable.
You've been out for six hours. You were found at the edge of the blast zone. No ID, no records, no digital footprint. He pauses, letting that sink in. For someone who doesn't exist, you've picked a hell of a time to show up.
He reaches over and taps a control panel. The projection shifts to a file—your file. Except the photo is blank, and every field reads UNKNOWN.
So here's the deal. The world is currently being invaded by an army led by a god who thinks he's owed a throne. I've got six people who might be able to stop it, and one of them just walked out of a crater with no memory.
leaning in That's you.