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The noise was deafening—a chorus of jeers, catcalls, and wordless howls that blurred into one unbroken roar. Somewhere in that chaos, glass shattered. Somewhere else, metal clanged against metal in a rhythm that might have been applause.
This was a prison. Rows of cells lined a long concrete corridor, and the inmates inside them had pressed themselves against the bars like spectators at a bloodsport arena, hands outstretched, voices raw with excitement. Something interesting had just happened. Something worth screaming about.
Not everyone joined in. The cell at the far end of the corridor remained quiet.
It was a solitary cell—small, bare, and until thirty minutes ago, empty.
"You know," Jack Kadere muttered to the ceiling, "people say the first time is always awkward. Quick. Over before you know what's happening." He shifted on the thin mattress, arms folded behind his head. "But twice in a row? Without even a chance to catch my breath? That's just cruel."
He wasn't talking about sex.
He was talking about transmigration.
Transmigration was the bread and butter of web novels—some unlucky bastard dies, wakes up in a new world, and proceeds to either save it or conquer it depending on his moral compass. The odds of it happening in reality were astronomical. Winning the lottery while being struck by lightning while a meteor landed on your head—that kind of astronomical.
Jack Kadere had beaten those odds.
Three days ago, he'd woken up in the Marvel Universe. Not as some background extra, either. He'd arrived with the cheat ability—the power of the Protégé.
The Protégé. A cosmic-level entity from Marvel's deeper lore. Feminine face, androgynous body, and an ability set so broken that fans jokingly called him "the cute little BUG." His powers were simple to explain and impossible to counter:
Infinite Copy. Any attack directed at the Protégé—physical, magical, conceptual, abstract—could be instantly replicated. Not just the attack itself, but the underlying ability, complete with the instinctive knowledge of how to use it.
Infinite Superposition. Copied abilities didn't replace each other. They stacked. Layered. Multiplied. A copied power could be amplified ten times, a hundred times, infinitely—limited only by the user's will.
The result was an entity that had defeated the Living Tribunal, copied the powers of cosmic abstracts, and allegedly claimed equivalence with the One Above All itself.
The result was also an entity that got plot-killed because no writer knew how to handle him.
Jack had inherited that power. He'd felt it settle into his soul like a second heartbeat, vast and patient and hungry.
And then, less than three minutes later, the universe exploded.
Not metaphorically. The entire reality he'd been standing in had simply... ended. One moment he was trying to figure out where he'd landed; the next, existence itself came apart at the seams.
He'd assumed that was death.
Instead, he'd woken up here. In a prison cell. In a body that felt like his own but somehow wasn't quite. Physical transmigration—twice in a row, with no gap in between.
"First time's a fluke," Jack murmured. "Second time's a pattern. Third time's a fetish." He stared at the cracked ceiling. "Universe, if you're listening, I'd appreciate some warning before the next one."
The ceiling offered no response.
For the past half hour, he'd done nothing but wait. If another cosmic reset was coming, he wanted to at least see it this time. But the minutes ticked by, the noise outside rose and fell, and reality remained stubbornly intact.
Good enough.
Jack sat up, rolling his shoulders. The Protégé's power was still there—he could feel it coiled inside him, ready and waiting. Whatever world this was, whatever rules it operated by, that hadn't changed. He just needed to figure out where he'd landed and start collecting.
"Sounds like the crowd's calming down," he noted. The roar from the corridor had faded to scattered conversations and the occasional bark of a guard's voice. Whatever spectacle had riled everyone up, it seemed to be over.
He was about to stand and check the bars when footsteps echoed down the corridor—heavy boots, two sets, plus something lighter between them. A moment later, two guards appeared outside his cell, escorting a woman in a prison jumpsuit.
The guards were large, white, and clearly uninterested in their jobs. One of them squinted through the bars.
"The hell? Wasn't this cell empty?"
"Asian guy," the other observed. "No uniform. Must've pissed someone off to get thrown in without processing." He shrugged. "Not our problem."
"You sure? I mean, considering what she just—"
"You saw what she just did." The first guard's voice dropped. "You really want to get involved?"
A pause. Then: "Fair point."
They unlocked the cell, shoved the woman inside, and slammed the door shut without a backward glance. Their footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Jack watched them go, then turned his attention to his new cellmate.
Long brown hair spilled over her shoulders, tangled but not unkempt. The prison jumpsuit was standard issue—shapeless, unflattering, designed to erase any hint of individuality. It failed completely. The woman wearing it moved like a dancer, all controlled grace and coiled tension, and the loose fabric couldn't hide the lean, athletic figure beneath. Her face was striking rather than soft: sharp cheekbones, full lips, eyes that assessed him with the cold precision of a predator evaluating potential prey.
She didn't speak. Didn't react to his presence at all, really—just leaned against the far wall and watched him with an expression that suggested she'd already decided he wasn't worth her time.
Jack recognized her instantly.
Not from this world. From his world. From movies and comics and a thousand different adaptations across every medium imaginable.
Holy shit.
"Well," he said aloud, letting a grin spread across his face. "This is new. Most isekai protagonists start with a loyal dog. Maybe a slime, if they're lucky." He tilted his head, studying her. "I get a cat. A wild cat, no less."
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