Marvelous Rebirth:Wish of A Hero

Marshall Phillips leaned back in his creaky cashier chair, staring at the clock mounted on the wall of Wilson's Grocers. It was a relic from another era, its beige frame cracked and weathered. The second hand crawled at a pace that made him wonder if it had an existential crisis of its own.

10:57 PM.

Three minutes until closing. Three minutes until freedom—or what passed for it. Freedom meant trudging home to his one-bedroom apartment, cracking open a soda, and falling into bed to binge the Marvel shows he'd already rewatched more times than he cared to admit.

"Phillips!" barked his manager, a grumpy fifty-something man named Hank who looked like he hadn't smiled since the Reagan administration. "Stop zoning out and wipe the counter. It's filthy."

Marshall arched a brow. "Sure thing, boss. Wouldn't want the asparagus water display to lose its sparkle."

"Less talking, more working," Hank snapped, already stomping off to harass another employee.

Marshall grabbed the nearest rag and halfheartedly wiped the counter, muttering under his breath. "Less talking, more working. Yeah, yeah. Got it, Hank. Live to micromanage another day."

The truth was, Marshall wasn't angry—he didn't have the energy for anger anymore. Sarcasm, though? That was free, and it made the monotony of his life just a little more bearable.

Wilson's Grocers wasn't exactly the career he'd dreamed of as a kid, but then again, what had he dreamed of as a kid? Being a superhero? Traveling the world? Whatever those dreams were, they'd been crushed under the weight of bills, bad luck, and the slow realization that life didn't care about your plans.

He'd started working here five years ago—temporarily, of course. Just until he figured things out. But "temporary" turned into routine, and routine turned into a dull grind he couldn't escape. He told himself it wasn't so bad. The pay was awful, but it was a paycheck. His coworkers were fine, though most of them were high schoolers who made him feel ancient at 25.

Still, the job didn't kill his sense of humor, and that was something. He'd learned to find comedy in the absurdity of it all. Like the guy last week who tried to use Monopoly money to pay for milk. Or the woman today who loudly proclaimed that gluten was a government conspiracy.

You have to laugh at life, he thought. Otherwise, you'd drown in it.

By the time the final customer of the night shuffled up to the register—a frail old woman with a cart full of canned soup and cat food—Marshall was counting the seconds. He gave her his best customer service smile, which barely concealed his exhaustion. "Evening, ma'am. Find everything you need?"

She nodded with a small smile. "Oh, yes. Thank you, dear."

After ringing her up, Marshall helped her bag the groceries. It wasn't in the job description, but the old lady reminded him of his grandmother, and he wasn't heartless.

By the time he finished, it was past 11. The store was closed, the lights dimmed, and the parking lot was eerily quiet. Marshall slung his backpack over one shoulder and stepped outside, the cool night air hitting his face. The asphalt gleamed under the faint glow of a flickering streetlight. His car—an ancient sedan with a cracked windshield—waited for him at the far end of the lot.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted. Maybe tomorrow he'd update his résumé. Maybe he'd finally take that online coding course. Maybe he'd—

A scream shattered his thoughts.

Marshall froze. Across the lot, a couple was being cornered by a hooded figure. The man clutched the woman protectively, his voice shaking as he begged, "Please, just take the money. Don't hurt us.

The mugger brandished a knife, his voice cold and menacing. "Hurry up."

Marshall's heart pounded. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a fighter. But he couldn't just stand there and do nothing. The couple's terrified faces burned into his mind. His hands clenched into fists.

"Hey!" he shouted, stepping forward. His voice was steady, but his legs trembled. "Why don't you pick on someone who doesn't need a date night to feel alive?"

The mugger turned, narrowing his eyes. "Mind your business."

Marshall raised his hands, palms out. "Oh, absolutely. Just as soon as you stop waving a knife around like a discount Darth Maul."

The mugger lunged. Marshall dodged on instinct, swinging his backpack at the man's arm. The knife clattered to the ground, and for one glorious moment, Marshall thought he'd actually won.

Then he saw the second knife.

Pain exploded in his stomach as the blade sank in. He staggered, his knees buckling as he hit the asphalt. The mugger fled, and the couple rushed to his side, their voices panicked and distant.

Marshall coughed, blood staining his Marvel T-shirt—a faded design that read: "If Lost, Please Return to Tony Stark." The irony wasn't lost on him.

"Well," he rasped, a weak smile tugging at his lips. "Guess I'm not making it to Avengers 7…"

The world went dark.