An hour passed.
A full hour of pure, uninterrupted sulking.
Scott Spectre had rotated between lying face-down on his mattress, staring at the ceiling like it owed him something, and debating whether his life had become a joke or just an elaborate punishment from a bored god.
Eventually, he sat up with a long, exhausted sigh and muttered, "Alright, drama queen mode over."
Dragging himself out of his tiny bedroom, he shuffled into the cramped living room of his even more cramped apartment. The floor creaked with every step, the kind of sound that reminded you your landlord didn't believe in repairs. The place was dimly lit, barely furnished, and full of air that smelled vaguely like mildew and cheap takeout.
He wandered into the kitchenette with no motivation and even less food.
"Time to whip up something gourmet," he muttered sarcastically. He opened a cabinet with the enthusiasm of a man opening a coffin.
Inside?
Nothing but a few ramen packets and a jar of off-brand peanut butter that looked like it hadn't moved since the apartment was built.
Scott reached for the ramen. "Yeah. That tracks."
He started boiling water with a stovetop lighter because the ignition button didn't work, tossed the noodles in the pot, and leaned against the counter as the steam started to rise.
"So much for sandwiches," he mumbled. "I'm not sandwich poor—I'm cup noodles poor."
When the noodles were ready, he plopped them into a chipped bowl, grabbed a pair of mismatched chopsticks, and walked back to the living room.
His couch was basically a glorified beanbag with back support, and his TV?
A tragedy.
The screen was cracked on one side, color bled across it like bruises, and it emitted this constant buzzing hum like a dying insect. He didn't even try turning it on. One more minute of that thing in his life, and he'd lose what was left of his sanity.
Instead, he pulled out his phone—a scratched-up model with a cracked screen protector—and opened the news feed.
The headline screamed in bold:
"Massive Incident in Hell's Kitchen—Terror, Smoke, and a Fallen Devil"
Scott scrolled.
Photos, shaky phone videos, police statements. Civilians whispering about vigilantes and masked figures. Some called it a turf war. Others said it was supernatural. But one name kept coming up, again and again:
"Unconfirmed Reports: Daredevil Behind It All?"
Scott raised an eyebrow and let out a long breath. "Well… crap."
It wasn't exactly shocking, but it was still surreal. Daredevil, the protector of Hell's Kitchen, apparently went rogue? Prisoner camps, martial law, ninjas—Scott had just arrived, and already the superhero world was serving up insanity.
And the worst part?
He lived literally on the edge of Hell's Kitchen.
"If I walk out of this apartment and turn left…" He paused, glanced at the front door, then at the window. "…Boom. I'm officially in Gotham 2.0."
He continued scrolling through the news. The chaos outside was real, but the memory loss from the Risk Card made everything blurrier. He recognized names. He knew powers. But events? Specific arcs? Nope. Gone. It was like knowing how to drive a car but forgetting where the road went.
"God, I really shot myself in the foot," he groaned.
He dropped the phone face-down on the couch and stared at the ceiling again.
"My knowledge of this world… it could've helped me grow faster, survive longer. I could've planned ahead. Could've avoided danger zones. But nooo, I had to pull the Risk Card like I was auditioning for a dumb luck casino ad."
He slapped himself gently across the face. "Nice one, Scott. Real pro move."
His habit of taken action unconsciously when nervous just screwed him over
The silence lingered for a minute before he let out a weak laugh—half amusement, half breakdown.
"Well… nothing I can do about it now."
He looked around at the sorry state of his apartment. Cheap furniture, flickering lights, a front door that didn't lock properly.
"But I've got powers. I've got gear. And I'm not dead."
He leaned forward, staring into the distance like he was seeing something beyond the wall.
"I could become a hero. Street-level, sure, but still a hero."
It was the best option. Not because it was noble or heroic or destined. But because having allies would be the smartest survival strategy in a world where people could sneeze and collapse buildings.
And with things still messy in Hell's Kitchen… maybe this was the perfect time for a new name to rise.
A new mask.
A new Hero.
A smirk crept across his face.
"Well… maybe not Hell's Kitchen," he said, glancing at the window like it would bite him. "That place is a warzone right now. Maybe I start a few blocks over. Baby steps."
Just as Scott started settling into his thoughts—thinking about the world, his powers, and how not to get vaporized by the first cosmic-level threat he ran into—he glanced over at the cheap plastic table next to the couch.
And there they were.
Three items—resting like silent relics of his recent nightmare:
• His magic handgun, polished silver with a long barrel that stretched out like it meant business. Its white grip was sleek and fitted
• A pack of cigarettes, unopened.
• And a small silver chip, no bigger than a thumb drive, with the words "RECIPE: STREET LEVEL" laser-engraved across its face.
He reached for the chip and the cigarette pack.
The cigarettes caught his attention first.
At first glance, they looked normal—maybe a little sleek, the kind of packaging you'd expect from a futuristic dystopia brand—but nothing wild. But the moment he touched them, a line of glowing text appeared faintly on the edge of the box like a digital pop-up in thin air.
INFINITE CIGARETTES – NON-ADDICTIVE – NO HEALTH EFFECTS
FUNCTION: Produces as much smoke as user desires
Scott blinked. "Huh."
He pulled one out, rolled it between his fingers, and let out a half-chuckle. "Well… guess I'm chain-smoking my way to tactical cover from now on."
At first, when he drew this thing from the bonus deck, he'd thought it was a joke. A novelty. Some edgy accessory for an aesthetic anti-hero.
But after reincarnating—and more importantly, after regaining all his memories just earlier today—he realized this cigarette pack was exactly what he needed.
Because he wasn't just any reincarnated weirdo with Spider-Man stats and a magic gun.
He was a mutant.
His power? Smoke manipulation.
The problem? He couldn't create smoke—only control it. Which, let's be honest, was deeply unhelpful in most scenarios unless someone was lighting fires nearby.
This cigarette pack?
It fixed the limitation.
"Limitless smoke… with no cancer. Stylish and practical." He tucked it into his jacket pocket like a veteran detective preparing for a long shift. "Thanks, cosmic RNG."
He glanced at the gun next. Still deadly. Still disturbing. He left it alone for now.
Then, there was the chip.
He held it up to the light, reading the engraved name again: "Recipe: Street Level"
This is a good item and he knows what he wants to use it all, but the problem is how to fill the conditions.
"Whatever," he muttered, setting the chip aside. "I'll figure that out later."
He leaned back on the couch and took a deep breath.
His gaze drifted toward the ceiling again as his thoughts spiraled—not into panic this time, but into reflection.
"God, I'm a mutant," he said flatly. "How the hell did I not realize it until now?"
I'm sad to be screwed over from the beginning
Then again… he technically had lived this life for 18 years. He just hadn't remembered his past life until now. That was part of how this reincarnation worked—memories restored later.
In this world, Scott Spectre had grown up as a normal kid. Well… as normal as an orphan in a world of mutants, heroes, and alien invasions could be.
He'd lived in an orphanage for most of his childhood—quiet, forgettable, under the radar. If you were wondering how a mutant orphan survived in a world like this without getting picked off by a mob, government, or some underground experiment group, well… the answer was luck.
Or more specifically, protection.
The orphanage he'd lived in wasn't just some rundown hole in the wall. It was discreetly backed by the X-Men.
Apparently, one of the old teachers or donors had connections, and ever since then, any child who manifested strange abilities—or even seemed likely to—was watched from a distance. Quietly. Safely.
Scott had never seen the X-Men. Not once. They didn't make flashy visits or hover like bodyguards. They just made sure none of the kids vanished.
He remembered being normal—at least until a few months ago. That's when he turned eighteen, aged out of the system, and had to leave.
He'd kept his mother's last name—Spectre—because it was the only piece of her he had left.
It wasn't until his memories came back earlier that morning that he'd put it all together.
Marc Spector. Moon Knight.
He and Moon Knight were distantly related.
They'd never met. Marc didn't know he existed. And honestly, Scott didn't plan on doing anything with that information.
"Interesting trivia, nothing more," he muttered.
He shook his head and forced himself back into focus. "Alright. Enough navel-gazing. Time to survive."
He had a few goals now.
Get money.
Get gear.
Get a costume.
A superhero needed a look—and he wasn't going to run around in thrift store hoodies and torn jeans pretending that passed for mystery.
He needed something sleek. Something intimidating. Something comic-book worthy.
Luckily, he remembered a place.
He pulled out his phone and opened Google. His fingers danced across the screen.
"Come on, come on…" he whispered. "I know you're still around."
He hit search.
And smiled.