Jimmy Tim—everyone just called him Tim—trudged down the cracked sidewalk of New York. It was late January the kind of cold that bit through his thin hoodie and made his sneakers squeak on leftover slush. Streetlights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows. He had just finished a graveyard shift stocking shelves at the 24-hour Walmart and all he wanted was to collapse into bed and scroll TikTok until his eyes hurt.
He didn't hear the truck at first. The driver—later reports would say fatigue, black ice—was hauling frozen goods Tim stepped off the curb at the crosswalk Street, phone in hand, half-watching a reel about cursed techniques from Jujutsu Kaisen. He looked up just in time to see headlights flare bright.
Impact.
Everything snapped white, then black.
When awareness returned, there was nothing. No pain, no cold, no sound of sirens. Just an endless black void stretching in every direction. Tim floated—or stood?—in the middle of it. His body felt light, untethered. He patted himself down instinctively: hoodie still there, jeans, sneakers. No blood. No broken bones.
"Hello?" His voice echoed strangely, like it was coming from everywhere at once.
A soft clucking answered him.
From the darkness stepped... a figure. Tall, humanoid, dressed in a simple white robe that glowed faintly at the edges. But the head—oh god, the head—was that of a chicken. Pure white feathers, bright red comb flopping to one side, beady black eyes blinking at him. A golden halo hovered above the comb like someone had Photoshopped it in poorly.
Tim stared. "Uh... what the hell?"
The chicken-headed man raised a feathered hand in greeting. "Greetings, Jimmy Timothy. Or Tim, as you prefer. I am God."
Tim blinked. "You're... kidding."
"I do not kid about these matters," the entity said calmly. Its voice was deep, resonant, with just the faintest barnyard undertone—like someone gargling gravel while clucking. "You have died. Truck-kun, as your internet culture so fondly calls it. A classic."
Tim's mouth opened, closed. "So... this is the isekai setup? Really?"
"Precisely." God adjusted his robe. "You have been chosen—not randomly, mind you. Your soul carries a certain resonance. Boredom. A quiet hunger for something more. And a frankly unhealthy obsession with anime power systems."
Tim rubbed the back of his neck. "Guilty."
God gestured, and three massive, glowing wheels materialized in the void. Each was easily ten feet tall, segmented like roulette wheels They spun slowly .
"Three choices," God explained. "The first determines your destination. The second, your new vessel. The third, an additional gift to ease your journey."
The first wheel spun faster. Symbols flashed: re:zero, cyberpunk edgerunner, highschool of the dead, My hero academia. Tim watched, heart pounding. It slowed... slowed... landed with a resonant *thunk* on an image of a chainsaw bursting from a boy's head, blood everywhere.
**Chainsaw Man.**
Tim swallowed. "Oh shit. That's... rough."
"Indeed," God said. "A world of devils born from human fears. hybrids, endless violence. But also opportunity of Power.
The second wheel spun. Faces, bodies, outfits blurred past: generic protagonists, muscular heroes, cat-eared girls, eldritch horrors. It decelerated, ticking past options until it locked on a sharp-featured man with dyed blonde hair (dark green roots showing at the scalp), brown eyes narrowed in perpetual disdain, wearing a teal kimono over a white button-up, light hakama, and waraji sandals.
**Naoya Zenin.**
Tim felt a strange pull in his chest. "Wait, that's—"
"Your new body," God confirmed. "Naoya Zenin's physique, face, voice, mannerisms. His innate talents will come naturally to you. Projection Sorcery included."
Tim flexed his hands experimentally. Already he could sense it—a faint hum of cursed energy, the instinct to divide time into frames. "Holy crap. That should be busted in the world of chainsaw man"
"Quite." God inclined his chicken head. "And the third."
The final wheel spun. Symbols: regeneration, infinite ammo, time stop, fire manipulation. It whirred, slowed, clicked into place on a simple icon: a hand conjuring a blade from thin air.
**Construction Sorcery.**
God nodded approvingly. "The ability to create objects from nothing. Simpler creations cost little stamina; complex or durable ones drain you heavily. Combined with Projection Sorcery, you will be formidable. Use it wisely."
Tim stared at the locked wheels. His old life— new York, dead-end jobs, loneliness—felt like a distant dream already. This was insane. Terrifying. *Exciting.*
"So... I just... go?"
God raised a feathered hand. A soft white light bloomed around Tim. "Indeed. One last thing: your memories remain intact. You will know this world's rules, its dangers. Makima. The other horseman All of it. Survive. Thrive. Or don't. The choice is yours."
The light intensified. Tim felt himself dissolving, pulled forward.
"Wait—thanks? I guess?"
The chicken-headed God gave a small bow. "Farewell, Tim. May your frames be swift and your constructions unbreakable."
Everything went white again.
Then—
Concrete under waraji sandals. Cold air smelling of exhaust, cigarette smoke, Tim staggered, catching himself against a graffiti-covered wall. Tokyo. Definitely Tokyo. Narrow alley behind a convenience store, neon signs flickering in Japanese above him. Distant train rumble. Sirens far off.
He looked down at himself.
Tall—easier six-foot range. Slim but toned. Teal kimono fluttering slightly in the breeze, white shirt crisp underneath. Blonde hair with dark green roots fell into his eyes. He brushed it back and caught his reflection in a nearby puddle: sharp cheekbones, aristocratic sneer already defaulting to his face, brown eyes glinting with something arrogant and new.
Naoya Zenin's face stared back.
Tim—*Naoya* now, maybe—flexed his fingers. Cursed energy flowed easily, like second nature. He focused, visualizing the technique.
**Projection Sorcery.**
His vision sharpened unnaturally. The world seemed to stutter into discrete moments. One second stretched into twenty-four frames. He could *see* the possible paths: step forward three paces, pivot left, raise hand. He traced the motion in his mind, locking it in.
He moved.
To anyone watching—if there had been anyone—he would have blurred. One instant standing still, the next already five feet away, posture perfect, hand extended as if to slap an invisible enemy. The motion felt effortless, like his body had always known how to do it.
He laughed—short, sharp, Naoya's laugh. "Okay. That's fucking cool"
Next: **Construction.**
He held out his palm, focusing on something simple. A kunai—basic steel, nothing fancy. Cursed energy pooled, warm in his veins. A faint glow, then weight appeared in his hand. A perfectly balanced throwing knife, matte black handle, sharp edge.
He twirled it experimentally. Solid. Real. He felt a tiny tug of fatigue—barely noticeable.
Encouraged, he tried something slightly more complex: a pistol. Beretta M9, standard. More energy drained this time, a noticeable pull in his core, like after a hard sprint. The gun materialized, cool metal against his skin. He checked the magazine—full. No serial number. Just... created.
He dissolved it with a thought. Too risky to carry openly yet. Stamina mattered.
He walked to the alley's mouth, peering out. Evening in Tokyo—people hurried past on the main street, salarymen loosening ties, schoolgirls in uniforms giggling. No devils in sight. No Chainsaw Man roaring down the block. Just normal life... with the undercurrent of *wrongness* this world carried. Like the air itself was waiting to birth something horrible.
Tim exhaled slowly. He had no money, no ID, nowhere to go. But he had speed no one could match and the power to make anything he needed—given time and energy.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, blending into the crowd as best a guy in traditional hakama could. People glanced, whispered—probably mistaking him for a cosplayer or some eccentric rich kid. Fine. Let them.
First things first: find shelter. Food. Information. Figure out where in the timeline he was. Pre-Denji? Didn't matter yet.
He activated Projection Sorcery lightly, just enough to move with uncanny smoothness through the throng. People unconsciously parted for him, like his presence carried weight.
A small smile tugged at his lips—Naoya's smirk.
Jimmy Tim was gone.
This world was going to be *fun*.
"Best course of affection is to probably join public safety".
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Just a simple prologue hope it's to y'all's liking I'll try to post at least twice a week