Inside the Stark Industries Tower's rooftop reception room, the New York skyline gleamed in the sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows—but the atmosphere inside was so somber it was almost frozen.
General Slocomb stood with his arms crossed, his uniform crisp and immaculate, the stars on his epaulets gleaming with a cold, hard light.
His fingers tapped impatiently on the table, each tap like the tick of a countdown clock.
He finally snapped when the waiter brought him coffee for the third time.
"Enough!"
General Slocomb waved his hand, and the coffee cup shattered on the marble floor with a crash, splashing brown liquid onto his gleaming military boots.
He stood up, his facial muscles taut with anger, his eyes sharp as knives as he glared at the person before him. "Where is Tony Stark? Why hasn't he come out to see us yet?!"
The young woman in a business suit bowed slightly, her expression unchanged, and offered a polite smile. "I'm very sorry, General. As I mentioned before, Mr. Stark has been unwell recently and is temporarily unable to receive guests. Please rest assured—once he recovers, he will personally visit you to express his sincere apologies."
"Unwell?" General Slocomb sneered. "To hell with his health problems! He was spending money like water at the casino in Monaco yesterday! Where is he now?! Make him come out and see me!"
The staff member maintained a professional smile. "I'm very sorry, General. Mr. Stark's schedule is a private matter, and we cannot disclose it."
General Slocomb's knuckles turned white as he swept his gaze around the reception room, scanning the faces of the Defense Acquisition Committee officials present—as if searching for support.
Finally, he took a deep breath and fixed his eyes on the calmly smiling assistant before him. In a low, dangerous voice, he said, "Listen to me carefully. I've had enough of Stark Industries' arrogance. If Stark doesn't show up, I, on behalf of the Department of Defense, hereby formally announce the termination of all cooperation with Stark Industries!"
"Furthermore," he added, voice rising, "as long as I remain Deputy Secretary of Defense, Stark Industries will not receive a single military contract!"
The reception room fell utterly silent.
At that moment, the Air Force acquisition officer beside General Slocomb—gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose—leaned in and whispered, "General… since Stark Industries shut down its military and weapons R&D divisions last year, our cooperation with them has been limited to energy supply and some technical support. Strictly speaking, we no longer have any active weapons contracts with them."
General Slocomb's expression faltered. A flicker of embarrassment crossed his eyes—but he quickly recovered. "So what?" he snapped. "The military's budget isn't the issue! If Stark refuses to cooperate, then Osborn Industries, Hammer Industries, and Lockheed Martin will be more than happy to step in. Competition benefits us all."
The staff member, still smiling, replied with neither servility nor defiance: "General, we understand your dissatisfaction, but Mr. Stark is indeed unable to receive guests. If you have other needs, we can arrange for our technical department to collaborate with you."
At that, General Slocomb's face darkened completely.
He stared at the receptionist as if trying to bore holes through her with his gaze—but her smile remained unmoved, betraying neither fear nor concession.
Finally, he let out a cold snort, spun on his heel, and barked, "Hmph! Let's go."
The Department of Defense officials immediately rose and followed him out. The heavy glass doors hissed shut behind them, their footsteps fading into the distance.
The staff member stood perfectly still and gently pressed the button on her headset.
"Ms. Pepper, they're gone."
Pepper Potts' calm voice came through the earpiece:
"Good. Is Tony still in the lab?"
......
The bulletproof limousine purred as General Slocomb sank into the leather seat, closing his eyes.
Outside, the New York streets blurred past. Sunlight filtered through the tinted windows, casting dappled shadows across his grim face.
"General…" The acquisition executive's assistant, seated to his side, cautiously broke the silence. "Are we really abandoning the Iron Man suit project? Are we going to pivot to Osborn Industries' enhanced soldier program… or Hammer's Iron Legion?"
Slocomb's eyelids twitched, revealing a cold glint. "Who said we're giving up on the Iron Man suit?"
The assistant swallowed hard. "But… you were just at Stark Industries…"
"Performance, Lieutenant Colonel Walker," the general said evenly. He pulled a cigar from his inner pocket, clipped the cap with deliberate slowness, and continued, "Powerful weapons like the Iron Man suit belong in the hands of the U.S. military—not in the private toy box of some playboy."
The car's cigarette lighter glowed a dull red. The rich aroma of tobacco filled the cabin.
The assistant hesitated, then pulled up a file on his tablet. "But General… we've already invested $1.78 billion in the Bio-Enhanced Serum project. If we pull funding now, not only will our initial investment be lost—Osborn Industries could collapse."
Slocomb exhaled a perfect smoke ring. The gray haze softened his sharp features. "That plan was approved by my predecessor. It has nothing to do with me. I have zero interest in that so-called 'bio-enhanced serum.' And as for whether Osborn goes bankrupt…" He smirked. "That's Norman's problem."
The assistant nodded, but swiped to another document. "But General… Tony Stark made it clear he won't sell the suit technology. He even said so publicly at last year's Senate Armed Services Committee hearing—"
"He said a lot," Slocomb interrupted with a sneer. "He claimed Stark Industries would stop making weapons altogether! And what happened? Within six months, he invented the Iron Man suit—that terrifying weapon—and paraded it through the Middle East like some one-man army!"
The assistant wiped his brow. "So… what's your plan?"
"Wait," Slocomb said simply. He stubbed out the cigar in the crystal ashtray. "As long as Tony Stark wants to operate in the U.S., he'll sell. It's only a matter of time."
"I don't understand…"
"You don't need to understand," the general snapped, turning his hawk-like gaze on the assistant. The man flinched. "Because I'm the general—not you. Remember your place."
The car fell into a deathly hush. Only the whisper of the air vents remained.
The assistant stiffly nodded, locked his tablet screen, and said nothing more.
In the rearview mirror, the Stark Tower rece
ded into the distance—its glass façade glinting in the sun like a cold, mocking laugh.
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