It began with hunger—raw, soul-crushing hunger that went far beyond a missed snack or a delayed lunch break. On that warm summer day, when Mom had once again sealed the kitchen and declared, "No snacks until dinner!" after my latest culinary venture went disastrously wrong, I felt the kind of emptiness that could only be filled by something remarkable. And in my twelve-year-old thinking, nothing was more remarkable than a burger.
Not just any burger—the fabled creation of Tony Stark. Though he wasn't Iron Man yet, Tony Stark was already renowned as a bright, egotistical billionaire with a penchant for the better things in life. I'd heard whispered whispers among my classmates about how his private chef prepared gourmet burgers with ingredients imported from far-off regions, served with the kind of flair that only a man of his stature could afford. I knew that if I could get my hands on one of those burgers, it would be a time to savor—a small revolt against a world that insisted I go without snacks.
I didn't plan on making headlines or becoming a famed criminal mastermind; I just wanted my burger. So, I did what I had learned to do in the quiet moments when I wanted to escape the limits of ordinary time— I stopped time.
When I ignited my power, everything around me stopped as if the planet itself had paused for a long breath. In that silent, immobile universe, I snuck out of my house, leaving behind a snapshot of our family's regular chaos: Mom mid-scold, Dad in the middle of a half-hearted joke, and Zoe laughing at something on TV. I wasn't about to let any of that distract me. I had a mission.
Using my power in small, controlled bursts, I made my way from our neighborhood all the way to Malibu. It wasn't a glamorous journey—more like a series of well planned sprints and pauses, interspersed by periods of rest when I unpaused to gulp down water or collect my breath. I encountered halted people, paused vehicles, and even a particularly scared squirrel that looked like it'd seen a ghost. But finally, I arrived at Tony Stark's Malibu estate.
Even in paused time, the estate exuded an air of unapproachable riches and arrogance. Its sleek glass walls and carefully kept grounds spoke of a lifestyle where even the tiniest detail was tailored to perfection. I snuck through an unlocked side door—a tiny lapse on their part—and wandered the silent passageways until I reached the kitchen.
There, on a clean counter that sparkled like a mirror, lay the object of my desire: a burger wrapped in gold-embossed foil, placed on a silver plate. A scribbled note in large, irregular script advised, "Do Not Touch. This means you, Happy." The burger appeared almost otherworldly, its bun toasted to a beautiful golden hue, its patties large and juicy, covered with a delicate drizzle of what I imagined was a secret sauce that distinguished it distinct from any average meal.
My heart hammered in my chest as I gingerly lifted it, ensuring not to break the exquisite balance of the presentation. I packed it into my thermal bag, taking great care to preserve every layer of its perfection, and retraced my steps back to my home, pausing time regularly to avoid detection. Once I was securely in my backyard behind the old oak tree, I resumed time and unwrapped the burger with a devotion normally reserved for relics of ancient gods.
The first bite was sublime. The flavors explode onto my mouth like a symphony—a perfect blend of smokey pork, acidic sauce, and the pleasant crunch of a well-toasted bread. For a minute, the world seemed to pause even deeper, as if understanding that something special was happening. I chewed gently, savoring the taste and the satisfaction of having achieved the impossible. I was merely a kid, yet for a few precious minutes, I was indestructible.
Then, reality began to stir.
A few days later, while watching a morning news show on a rented tablet, I heard a report on an interesting incident at a Malibu estate. Grainy surveillance footage showed a spotless kitchen and a perplexing break in the records—someone had removed a gourmet burger from the counter. The reporter's tone was dismissive, attributing the incident to "minor internal discrepancies," but the eyes of the man in the footage—Tony Stark—betrayed a hint of anger and uncertainty. He wasn't investigating something remarkable; he was simply an egotistical man furious that his beautifully arranged lunch had vanished.
I sat there, heart thumping in my back pocket, the thermal bag still chilly with the memory of that stolen burger. I wasn't sure if Tony had pieced together what had happened, but I knew one thing: he was aware something was amiss. And that meant the ripple had been felt.
Back in school, gossip spread like wildfire. Teachers joked about "phantom food bandits" and the strange disappearance of cafeteria delicacies, and I could see the amazement in my classmates' eyes. But I kept my secret close. I was careful, invisible—a mystery presence in the background. I maintained my regular routine with the same placid attitude, my inner world a flurry of cautious excitement and concern about what my power might bring.
There were a few "oops" moments, too—small slips that left an unexplained atmosphere in the air. One afternoon, while returning home, I accidently halted time for a split second when a paper airplane flew by. I soon blinked, and everything resumed as if nothing had happened. A student casually remarked on the unusual stillness of a falling leaf, and I forced a laugh, hoping my secret remained buried.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized how fragile this balance was. I was a ghost in the system—a kid with an astounding gift that could, if ever disclosed, tilt the scales of a cosmos teetering on the edge of disaster. The stolen burger was a symbol: a petty crime, a tiny disruption that somehow connected my private life to the wider, unpredictable tapestry of the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Tony Stark, for his part, began his days with a smug surety, occasionally stating in offhand interviews that his security systems had "glitched" and that he'd added "a few extra locks" on his kitchen. He remained blind to the idea that the abnormality wasn't a mistake in his systems, but a planned deed by a mystery boy whose name—Manjil—would one day be murmured in the same breath as legends, if only the universe dared to expose his secrets.
At night, laying awake in my room, I considered the ramifications of my conduct. The stolen burger had been an act of disobedience and hunger, but it was also a sign—a hint that I was no longer just a passive observer. The universe was moving, and while I remained hidden, every move I performed, no matter how minor, had the potential to set off a chain reaction.
I promised then to master my power, to keep my existence concealed until the time was right. I would continue to make modest interventions, minor tweaks that might save a life or, alternatively, move fate ever so slightly. I would be cautious, invisible, and yes, occasionally wicked.
The planet was on the edge of its own tremendous transformation, and the chronology was starting to ripple with secrets and shocks. But for now, I was satisfied to remain in the shadows, a silent guardian with a hidden ability—watching, learning, and waiting for the day when even the great Tony Stark would have to realize that something unusual was happening right beneath his nose.
And so, with the flavor of that magnificent burger still remaining on my mouth, I drifted off to sleep, wondering what the next day would hold. I was Manjil—a kid with a cosmic cheat code, a secret that might one day change the rules of reality—and I meant to keep it that way for as long as possible.