Multiverse One Shot Collection - Reader Insert

Marvel - Gun for Hire

The rain streaks down the grime-coated window like lazy tears, blurring the neon-lit skyline of New York City. The night feels like a heavy shroud—cold, damp, and unyielding.

You shift your weight on the creaking wooden chair, the faint odor of mildew from the abandoned apartment mingling with the sharp tang of gun oil. The rifle in your hands is a comforting weight, its matte-black barrel braced against a precariously stacked pile of books and rubble that passes for a sniper's nest.

Through the scope, the world sharpens into vivid clarity. Your crosshairs trace over the opulent spire of Avengers Tower, its sleek surface gleaming even in the downpour. High above, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a scene that feels light-years away from the filth and chill that wraps around you.

Inside, a party rages—a kaleidoscope of laughter, champagne flutes, and the kind of ease that only comes with invincibility. You catch sight of a flash of red, a curtain of impossibly perfect hair—Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, her sharp gaze sweeping the room even in leisure.

You sigh quietly. Of course, she'd be watching. It's what she does best.

The cold seeps through your gloves, gnawing at your fingers, but you don't move. Movement creates noise, and noise is the difference between life and death. Besides, the discomfort is familiar, almost a friend by now.

The steady hum of the crappy $20 electric heater fills your ears, drowning out the distant roar of the city below. Somewhere out there, you know the streets are alive with their usual chaos—sirens, car horns, a cacophony of lives too busy to notice the sniper perched in the forgotten skeleton of a tenement building.

You know exactly who the target is. You've read the file, studied their habits, memorized their face. You don't care who they are. You're not a hero. You're not one of them. You're the one that gets paid. The thing that lurks in the shadows, watching, waiting, and taking the shot.

Shifting slightly, you adjust your scope and pull the stock closer to your shoulder, scanning the scene again. Tony Stark is holding court, drink in hand, gesturing wildly with the kind of bravado only billionaires and playboys can muster. Thor is laughing, his booming voice obvious, and Steve Rogers looks like he's trying not to roll his eyes.

They don't even know you're out here.

But they will.

Then the phone dings.

Your jaw tightens. The sound drags your attention away from the scope, the crosshairs drifting lazily off the target. You ease your finger off the trigger and sit back, letting the rifle rest on its makeshift nest of rubble and ruined books.

For a moment, you stare at the glowing spire of Avengers Tower in the distance, the party carrying on without a clue. Then the phone dings again, pulling you fully from the moment.

The sound came from across the room, where the phone sits next to the empty rifle case. With a low sigh, you stand, the chair creaking under the shift of your weight.

The armor groans softly with your movements, plates sliding against one another with mechanical precision. The floorboards creak under your boots as you cross the room, the air thick with mildew and the faint rusted tang of something long forgotten.

Halfway across the room, a cracked mirror catches your eye. It leans against the far wall, forgotten and coated in grime, but there's enough of a reflection to stop you mid-stride.

For a moment, you stare at yourself. A shadow in the gloom.

The suit looks like something ripped straight from a nightmare—a machine sculpted to mimic a man. Matte gray plating hugs your frame, the armor molded perfectly to your form.