𝙏𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙚 | 𝐌𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐘𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐚

𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚎

The pen scratched across the paper in slow, tired arcs. In the dim light of the caravan, Y/N was sketching away on a cheap notepad. Sketching seemed to be the only thing Y/N was particularly good at these days, it provided with a slight escape in the shit world that Y/N was in.

With a sigh, Y/N dropped the pen and stood, bones creaking in protest. He crossed the narrow space and opened the fridge, a rusted hunk of buzzing metal with barely enough strength to keep cold, especially since the only power Y/N got was from cheap generators from abandoned job-sites that he 'takes'. 

Inside sat a single can of beer. He cracked it open and took a long sip.

It was the kind of silence he hated most. The kind where thoughts slithered out from the corners of his mind. Memories he didn't invite. But they came anyway.

His father was once a proud man. Serving the USA government, promising a better future for the next generation, including his son. That was back before the crash. Before his mother's car folded like paper beneath the weight of a drunk driver's truck. Before grief turned his father into something twisted and mean.

What came after wasn't mourning. It was rage. Pills. Booze. Slurred threats followed by bruises that never healed right. And when Y/N was old enough to hit back, his father just started using harder drugs. Then the beatdowns were harder. The words harsher. His dad told him that pain was good, it reminds them that they're still alive. 

Then one day, he wasn't.

No ceremony. No hospital bed. Just Y/N finding the man face-down on the linoleum floor, veins blown out, a syringe still dangling from cold fingers. A Post-it note on the table, as if that would fix it.

"Sorry, kid."

Sorry didn't pay the bills. Sorry didn't stop the repo men or feed a sixteen-year-old left behind in a rotting caravan at the edge of a no-name park.

So Y/N did what he had to. Petty theft. Tech scrapping. Selling.... contraband. He got good at moving through shadows. Got even better at keeping people out.

Then the world ended.

The Blip—that's what they called it. When Thanos snapped his fingers and erased half of everything. Y/N remembered the light first. Like burning air. Then nothing.

Gone. Just like that.

Five years later, he came back. 

Same rusted caravan. Same peeling wallpaper. Same empty fridge. Like nothing had changed—except everything had. He stepped into a world that moved on without him. No welcome party. No Avengers care package. Just confusion, grief, and the bitter realisation that even the universe didn't notice he was gone.

People thought coming back from the dead would feel like hope.