Marvel's New Magneto

When he opened his eyes, the first ray of light in this new world stabbed into his retinas with ruthless intensity.

He blinked to clear the dampness from his eyes. In front of him, a burly, wild-looking man was shouting something, his voice barely audible over the deafening music blasting through the cramped room. The chaotic mix of pounding drums and screeching electric guitar made it difficult to make out what was being said.

"You naked pig! How the hell did you sneak in here? Damn it, this is my turf! Get lost, or I'll show you how hard my fists are!"

The man was built like a tank, his massive arms bulging under a tight tank top. His face twisted in rage, spit flying as he bellowed. His breath was so foul that it could probably knock someone unconscious.

"Well, that's a deep question. I'd love to know who I am, why I'm here, and most importantly, why I'm stuck in a room with a sweaty, stinking fat guy. This is absolutely terrible."

As he spoke, he leaned back slightly, dodging the toxic breath coming from the man's mouth.

Sweaty and stinking? Fat guy? Even the dumbest person could tell those weren't compliments. The burly man's face turned red with anger. He spat on the floor and lunged forward, fists swinging.

With a slight turn of his body, he easily dodged the punch. The ease with which he moved surprised even himself. It felt instinctual, as if his body had gone through this motion countless times before.

Step. Sidestep.

The man's eyes widened. If that punch had landed on an ordinary person, they'd be coughing up blood and nursing broken ribs. But not only did it miss, it left him off balance.

And then… it was over.

A hand clamped around his thick neck. His eyes rolled back, and the massive man collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

"Will! Get out here, you're up next!" Someone banged on the door from the outside, their impatient voice cutting through the noise.

He glanced down at the unconscious man and shrugged. "Sorry, but Will won't be making it. Poor guy."

The man twitched on the floor, barely conscious.

Not his problem. His top priority was finding something to wear. He had no idea why he was stark naked in another man's room, but if word got out, it would be beyond embarrassing. He was a—

His thoughts hit a wall. A blank space.

A… what?

The answer felt just within reach, yet a vast chasm separated him from it. Some unseen force had cut off his memories, leaving him with nothing.

"Yeah, this is definitely bad," he muttered. He stopped thinking about it and stepped over the unconscious man. In the corner of the room, he spotted a cabinet. Maybe there was something useful inside.

Who am I? Where did I come from? Where am I going?

Those were problems for Aristotle. Right now, finding clothes was the priority.

But he was disappointed again.

The cabinet was a mess—used condoms, fat cigars, sleazy magazines, and all kinds of junk. A few pieces of questionable lingerie, possibly stolen from women, were scattered inside.

But no clean clothes.

Not even a newspaper.

"Do I have to cover myself with a bag of chips? Or maybe break this cabinet and wear it like armor?"

Creative ideas. But he wasn't that desperate.

The door shook under heavy pounding. Actually, "knocking" wasn't the right word. "Kicking" was more like it.

"Will! What the hell are you doing? The bets are in! If you don't come out now, we're gonna lose a fortune!" someone shouted from outside, frustration dripping from their voice.

Money?

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

Now that was something useful. If he had cash, getting clothes wouldn't be a problem.

Turning back, he saw the fat man on the floor stirring. His eyes flickered open, and a curse escaped his lips as he tried to get up.

Then darkness swallowed him again.

"I'm too kindhearted. Someone messes with me, and I still help them get some rest," he muttered to himself, stepping over the man and heading toward the door.

He pulled it open and walked out.

A blast of hot air hit his face, along with noise louder than the music inside. The room opened up into a bar, packed with people.

A skinny white man standing nearby froze when he saw him. "Who the hell are you? Where's Will?"

The man quickly pushed past him, heading into the room. "Will, what the hell are you—Oh my God, Will!"

"Will's sleeping, sweetheart. For now, I'm Will." He chuckled.

The bar was crowded, and judging by the metal cage at the center, it also doubled as an underground fight club. Business seemed to be booming. People were cheering and shouting, drinks in hand, lost in the excitement.

Because everyone's attention was on the fights, no one seemed to notice a naked man casually walking among them.

A bell rang, and two burly men dragged a bloodied fighter out of the cage.

Another loser.

Those who bet on him groaned and tossed their tickets away.

Inside the cage, a middle-aged, overweight announcer grabbed a microphone and called out, "Ladies and gentlemen, I've never seen anything like this in all my years! Are you really going to let this man walk away with your money?"

He gestured dramatically, and the crowd erupted into boos.

"No!"

Tension spread through the audience. Some hot-headed fools even started taking off their shirts, ready to jump in and challenge the champion themselves.

The winner of the last match, a scruffy-looking man in a corner of the cage, took a sip of beer and exhaled lazily, completely ignoring the crowd's rage.

Sensing the time was right, the announcer shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome our hero! From the great state of Texas—The Killer Madman—Will!"

The crowd exploded in cheers.

"Will! Will!" They chanted the fat man's name like he was a god.

He knew it was time to act.

Jogging forward, he raised his hands and ran through the crowd toward the cage.

Then the cheering turned to silence.

"This is Will?" someone muttered in confusion.

"Nice costume, man," someone else chuckled.

A woman nearby whistled. "My room's upstairs, B11. I'll leave the door open for you—if you survive."

He even nodded at her.

Then—smack!

Someone slapped his butt. He turned to see an old lady grinning at him.

Okay. He'd let that one slide.

"Not my fault I'm this charming. Guess I have no choice but to steal the spotlight."

With exaggerated confidence, he stepped into the cage.

"Where's Will?!" someone in the crowd shouted.

"I'm Will," he replied casually.

No one believed him.

Not surprising. A name like "Killer Madman" didn't exactly fit someone with his build. He looked more like a male model than a cage fighter.

But they had no choice. The bookies quickly adjusted the bets, and the match was set.

The announcer leaned in and whispered, "Kid, the real Will was six feet tall and weighed 200 pounds. You sure you want to fight that guy?"

"Appreciate the warning, but today, it's me."

The announcer sighed but still gave some advice. "Just don't hit his weak spot. You don't wanna make him mad."

"Name?" the bookie asked.

"Good question."

He had no answer.

Rubbing his chin, he glanced at his forearm and noticed a faded tattoo. Some kind of code. The sight of it stirred something deep inside him.

"Erik," he blurted out. "My name is Erik."

"Alright then, ladies and gentlemen! Tonight's fight: Erik the Naked Man from Hell—versus the undefeated champion—Wolverine!"

The bell rang.

The fight had begun.