When the door creaked open, I froze like a deer in headlights, my hands trembling. My heart pounded like a drum in my chest. Whoever was coming could be the real owner of this apartment—or worse, someone from the MCU's crazy world hunting me down. But no one stepped inside. It was just the May breeze from Queens, slipping through an open window and nudging the door shut with a soft thud. "What the hell was that?" I whispered, still on edge. I scanned the room quickly—no one. My nerves had gotten the better of me for nothing. "Alright, Ali, chill," I told myself, taking a deep breath. "This might be the MCU, but not every second's gonna have a supervillain kicking down the door. Let's figure this out first."
I sank onto the couch, trying to get my head straight. The TV was still on; Tony Stark's press conference had ended, and now a news channel was dissecting it. The anchors were going at it: "Stark Industries' decision to halt weapons production—how will it shake up the global defense industry? Is Tony Stark's sudden pivot tied to what he went through during his three months in that Afghan cave?" A clip of Tony flashed in the corner of the screen—goatee, charismatic smirk, speaking at the Malibu headquarters. Happy Hogan's stern face stood beside him, while Obadiah Stane's shadow loomed faintly in the background. I was smack in the middle of Iron Man's iconic scene: May 2008, the moment Tony flipped his life upside down. "Welcome to the MCU, Ali," I said with a sarcastic chuckle. "What's your next move, genius?"
As I glanced around, something on the table caught my eye: a worn-out notebook, edges frayed. Scrawled on the cover, in my own handwriting, was "Ali Bozkurt's Diary." "Holy crap, that's my writing," I said, stunned. I grabbed it and flipped through the pages. The first entries told a story that felt familiar but slightly off. In this universe, this version of me had lived here with my family. Mom, Dad, and I had spent a few years in this Queens apartment, from 2004 to 2007. One entry read: "Mom made mantı today, and Dad was griping, 'It's hard to find Turkish food in Queens.'" But then came the same old tragedy: in 2007, I'd lost them in a car accident. After that, it was almost a carbon copy of my Istanbul life—dropped out of school, waited tables, washed dishes. "Damn," I muttered. "Even in the MCU, my fate's the same. Only difference is I had my family here for a bit." The later pages were more recent: "Dishes piled up at the diner yesterday, boss yelled again," or "Queens is so gray today—May, but still cold." So this was my place, the MCU Ali's home.
My head was spinning, but I also felt a weird sense of relief. At least there was a "me" in this world—I wasn't a total stranger. I set the diary down and checked the kitchen. The fridge was practically a ghost town: a couple of eggs, a chunk of cheese starting to mold, and half a bottle of water. "I'm gonna starve at this rate," I said. My stomach growled in agreement. "Alright, I gotta do something. But what?" I'd spent years in that Istanbul diner; I knew how to slice döner, knead köfte, the works. "When you say 'Turkish,' people think döner and kebab," I said with a grin. "Why not? What've I got to lose?"
I'd noticed while wandering earlier that Turkish food wasn't a thing in Queens. May 2008, early MCU days—New York's streets were packed with hot dog carts and pretzel guys, but döner or köfte? Nada. "Ali Usta, the Mobile Döner King," I said to myself, a spark of hope in my voice. "I'll start from scratch, set up a cart, sell near Central Park. Turkish food's missing here—maybe it'll catch on." New York in this era was pre-Spider-Man Peter Parker—he was still a high school kid somewhere in Queens, not swinging around yet. Tony Stark, meanwhile, was in Malibu tinkering with his suit. "Let them save the world," I said. "I'll just feed myself."
I was starting to make a plan when I heard a sound: Ding! I jerked my head up, looking around. "What was that?" I said, confused. Then, right in front of my eyes, words appeared in the air—like a glowing blue hologram:
"Super Mobile Vendor Profession System Activated!"
My jaw dropped. "Mobile vendor system?" I said out loud. "What kind of ridiculous name is that? Holy crap, is this floating in the air?" I swiped at it, but my hand passed through nothing. The text vanished, replaced by new words:
"Starting Bonus: $250."
"Well," I said, "better than nothing." I checked my pocket, and sure enough, there was a crisp stack of $250—brand-new bills, 2008 print. "How's this happening?" I muttered, but before I could process it, more text appeared:
"Skill: Knife Mastery (Rare) acquired." and "Profession: Butchery (Master) acquired."
"Are you screwing with me?" I yelled at the air, but no answer came. The text blinked out, and the room went quiet again. I buried my face in my hands, trying to think. "Okay, Ali, stay calm," I said. "Is this some kind of system? Like a game?" Knife Mastery being "Rare" stood out—ranks went from Basic to Legendary, so this was mid-to-high tier. There was no explanation, but I figured it meant speed, precision, and finesse with a blade when cutting meat. Butchery, at "Master" level—ranks were Apprentice, Journeyman, Master, Expert, Genius—meant I had skills equivalent to years of experience processing meat. "Well, damn," I said. "Guess those years in the diner weren't for nothing."
I decided to roll with it. "Fine, if I've got a system, I'll use it," I said. "But I'm not telling anyone. This is the MCU—greedy types are everywhere. Stark's enemies, Hydra, maybe even S.H.I.E.L.D. later… this system's mine." My plan was taking shape: I'd build a mobile cart from scratch. $250 wasn't much, but it was a start. I'd sell near Central Park—MCU's 2008 version was bustling, with people picnicking and strolling. "Turkish döner and köfte," I said, chuckling. "I'll start a revolution in Queens."
The next day, I got to work. With my cash, I found a beat-up old cart at a second-hand shop in Queens—rusty, but it'd do. I scored some cheap beef from a butcher—thanks to the system, I haggled with confidence. Spices came from a grocery store: cumin, red pepper flakes, a bit of thyme—Turkish style. I hauled the cart home and started prepping in the kitchen. When I began slicing the meat, the system's power kicked in. My hand moved like it was dancing with the knife. I'd always been decent, but this was next-level. The blade felt like an extension of me—every slice was razor-precise, every cut flawless. "Holy crap, this system's legit," I said, amazed. I kneaded köfte, stacked döner on a skewer, and set up the cart near Central Park's entrance. The May air was cool, but the sun was out; the park was alive with people walking, kids running.
My first customer was a kid with his mom. "What's that?" he asked, pointing at the döner. "Turkish döner," I said with a smile. "Wanna try it?" The mom hesitated, but the kid piped up, "Yeah!" So I whipped up a portion—meat on flatbread, some onions, tomatoes, and a sauce I improvised, the system guiding my instincts for flavor. The kid took a bite, and his eyes lit up. "Mom, this is awesome!" he said. She tried it, nodded. "Really different. We're sick of hot dogs," she said. They handed me $5, and I tucked it into the cart. A spark of hope flickered inside me. "Maybe this'll work," I said.
As the day went on, a few more people stopped by—some drawn by the smell, others curious. One guy asked, "They eat this in Turkiye?" I grinned and said, "Yeah, but mine's special." Each sale boosted my confidence. The system stayed quiet—no new sounds or text—but my knife skills and butchery mastery made everything smoother. By evening, I had an extra $45 in my pocket. "Not bad for day one," I said. As I packed up the cart, my mind was racing with plans: a better setup, more ingredients, maybe a sign. "Ali Usta's Mobile Döner," I chuckled. "I'll be a Turkish legend in the MCU."
But a question nagged at me: what was this system, and why did I have it? And more importantly, could I really live this simple life in the MCU? Tony Stark was in Malibu building his Mark I, Pepper Potts was backing him up, and Obadiah Stane was scheming in the shadows. Me? I was slicing döner in Queens. "We'll see," I muttered to myself. "What else does this universe have in store for me?" As I dragged the cart home, the sun set over Queens' gray streets, its last rays hitting my back. My life had changed, but this was just the beginning.