Marvel Universe, Earth-99999.
Toby Parker—that's the name I was given in this life.
Yes, Toby was a transmigrator, reborn into this world from the very beginning. His reason for being here was the same "reincarnation by truck" trope everyone knows, but with a twist: in his previous life, he wasn't the victim on the asphalt. He was the one behind the wheel.
Back then, he was a heavy-duty trucker with a legendary fuse. An orphan with no family and even less patience, he was the kind of guy who, if insulted during a loading screen in a shooter game, would spend the entire match griefing his teammates just to prove a point. When an old man and his son tried to scam him with a "slip-and-fall" stunt, the son had the nerve to sneer, "If you didn't hit him, why are you helping him?"
That was it. Toby snapped.
You want a payout? he thought. Hold on, I'll get it for you.
He climbed back into his rig. Ignition, clutch, gear, throttle—one fluid motion. Without a second of hesitation, he sent that father and son straight to the afterlife. You want to touch my truck? Touch the bumper at sixty miles per hour first, you bastards.
As a driver sitting high in the cab, hitting two people shouldn't have killed him. At most, he'd be looking at a death sentence later. But as the dust settled, a spider—hued in a lethal pattern of red, blue, and black—skittered into the cockpit from nowhere.
By the time he saw it on the back of his hand, it was too late. Sensing his murderous intent, the arachnid sank its fangs into the webbing of his thumb before he could flick it away.
Within ten seconds, his body went numb. His heart seized, his vision blackened, and he lost consciousness. One fluid motion to his death. If this was karma, it arrived at record speed.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw a nurse in a blue mask. She handed him over to a woman with a kind, sweat-slicked face. Looking at his tiny, wrinkled hands, Toby realized he'd been reborn. And this woman was his new mother.
The nurse called her "Mrs. May Parker."
The name hit him instantly. He hadn't just been reborn into Marvel; he was the biological son of Ben and May Parker.
What the hell...
Twenty Years Later — 2008, New York City.
Hell's Kitchen. The Neon Gang.
In a place often called "Little Gotham," gang wars were daily bread. But one man taking on an entire syndicate? Even in the chaos of the Kitchen, that was unheard of. At least, until tonight.
Even the masked heroes who spent their nights fighting crime wouldn't dare storm a headquarters alone. It was a death wish—a neon sign pointing straight to the grave.
But someone was doing it. And he wasn't just doing it; he was slaughtering them.
Rumble—
Rat-tat-tat!
Boom!
Thunder and torrential rain drowned out the muzzle flashes and the screams. In the courtyard of the Neon Gang, a massive figure—nearly seven feet tall—wore a full-body suit of black and crimson. He gripped a gangster in each hand, using them as shields as he stepped over a carpet of brass and bodies toward the inner shrine.
Inside, Reiichi Okamoto, the leader, huddled with his remaining men. They held rifles and katanas, but they were shaking like they had Parkinson's.
In ten minutes, the "Reaper" outside had reduced a gang of two hundred to just twenty cowering survivors.
"Baka!" Okamoto roared, seeing his men retreating until they were practically climbing the ancestral tablets. "We are warriors! Stop cowering! Kill that bastard or I'll make you all commit seppuku!"
Spurred by the threat, the henchmen stumbled out into the rain. This was America; they didn't use swords. They used "American Style" Quick-draw.
The moment the doors swung open, they panicked. They held down their triggers, spraying the entrance in a blind, deafening storm of lead.
Toby didn't even dodge. He just held up his two meat shields, letting the bullets chew them into Swiss cheese. Even the rounds that punched through couldn't penetrate his custom-made, high-tensile spider suit.
The gangsters, blinded by fear, didn't understand suppressive fire. They emptied their magazines in seconds. Soon, the only sound was the hollow click-click-click of empty chambers.
Toby tossed the riddled corpses aside like trash and let out a dry, rasping laugh.
"Idiots. You think this is a game with infinite ammo? You're empty. Reload."
The reminder sent them into a fresh panic. They fumbled with their pouches, dropping magazines into the mud with slick, clumsy fingers.
"Oh? You're actually trying to?"
Toby dropped into a low, predatory crouch. Beneath the black hood, the narrow, blood-red lenses of his mask flickered like the eyes of a starving wolf.
"Save it for the next life."
He lunged.
His massive frame became a crimson blur, slamming into the crowd with the force of a runaway semi-truck. The first man he hit didn't just fall; he disintegrated. The impact launched him backward with such velocity that he didn't just hit the shrine wall—he became part of it, a smear of gore that wouldn't be easy to scrape off.
Toby was a wolf among sheep. With strength measured in tons, every punch was a death sentence. For the Neon Gang, the night was no longer a fight.
It was a massacre.