The voice on the other end of the phone carried a hint of schadenfreude.
"Fury's people are like a swarm of annoying flies—they'll keep watching you unless you take down the hive."
"And I just happen to have the largest can of insecticide on the market."
Joren said nothing.
He understood what Tony meant.
This wasn't just a call—it was an invitation. And a transaction.
Use a bigger problem to eliminate the smaller one.
"Good."
"My men will be downstairs at your place in ten minutes."
Joren hung up.
He hated being told what to do.
But he hated even more the swarm of flies squatting on his doorstep.
When faced with two evils, choose the lesser one.
Stark was right on time.
Ten minutes later, a black Audi A8L pulled up in front of Joren's house—an absurdly arrogant entrance for a vehicle marketed as the epitome of understated luxury.
The driver's door opened.
Out stepped a man in a well-tailored suit, trying (and failing) to mask his nerves: Happy Hogan—Tony Stark's driver, bodyguard, and reluctant diplomat.
"Mr. Joestar?" Happy asked, forcing his voice into something resembling professionalism.
But the oppressive weight rolling off the young man in the doorway made Happy feel like he was standing in Tony's own shadow.
Joren gave a single, silent nod and opened the back door of the car.
Happy hesitated for half a breath—then scurried back behind the wheel.
Inside a nondescript Dodge parked down the street, two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents exchanged grim glances.
"The target's boarding Stark Industries' train."
"…Copy that. Maintain surveillance. Do not engage."
Inside the Audi, the silence was thick enough to choke on.
Happy could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears. He considered making small talk—asking about school, the weather, anything to cut the tension—but one glance in the rearview mirror killed the urge.
In the back seat, the boy sat motionless, eyes fixed on the blur of Manhattan streaking past the window. The brim of his hat cast deep shadows across his face, hiding every flicker of expression.
There was no curiosity. No teenage impatience. Not even the faintest trace of fear.
He didn't look like a high school student.
He looked like someone who'd already seen too much.
Happy swallowed hard and pressed the accelerator just a little harder.
Best not to say a word until they reached Stark Tower.
Outside, the setting sun bathed Manhattan's steel jungle in molten gold.
Skyscrapers loomed like silent sentinels over the city that never slept.
And among them, one giant stood tallest—unapologetic, gleaming, and crowned with a name that burned brighter than any star:
Stark Tower.
The huge "STARK" logo on the rooftop radiated a confident, captivating blue glow in the twilight.
What an extravagant man.
Joren silently complained to himself.
The Audi rolled smoothly into Stark Tower's underground private parking garage. A private elevator stood waiting, its doors already open.
"The boss is waiting for you on the 80th floor," Happy said, pressing the button for Joren but not stepping inside. "My work ends here."
The doors slid shut—smooth, fast, and silent. Only the floor numbers ticked upward with quiet urgency.
80.
A soft ding.
The doors parted, revealing a world unlike anything on the streets below.
The entire floor was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling glass, offering a 360-degree panorama of Manhattan's glittering night skyline. At its heart sat a sunken lounge furnished with minimalist, expensive Italian leather sofas. In one corner, a holographic projector spun a miniature solar system: eight planets trailing luminous arcs as they orbited a tiny, radiant star.
Behind the bar, Tony Stark stood in a black T-shirt and jeans, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid with practiced ease.
"Welcome to my humble abode," he said, raising his glass in mock salute. His signature smirk played at the corner of his mouth—arrogant, unruffled, and utterly in control. "Want one? Apple juice, maybe? Someone your age probably prefers something without a 50-proof kick."
Joren didn't answer. His eyes swept the room—futuristic, opulent, laced with hidden tech—before locking onto Tony's face.
"You didn't call me here to offer me juice," he said flatly. "So get to the point."
"I like that. Direct." Tony downed his whiskey in one smooth motion, then tapped the bar's touchscreen. "Jarvis, pull up the guest file."
"Yes, sir."
A massive blue holographic screen materialized before Joren, blooming with data—birth records, school transcripts, disciplinary notes, even a grainy photo of him shoving his history teacher into a locker. Every detail, meticulously cataloged.
"Joren Joestar. Seventeen. Midtown High." Tony circled the bar, stepping closer. "Parents: historians. Wealthy background. Straight-A student… with a habit of solving disagreements with fists. No friends. No social footprint worth mentioning."
He tapped the screen. The display shifted to grainy overhead footage—the Grandview Theatre, last night. At its center, a writhing mass of darkness being scoured away by golden light.
"Now this," Tony said, voice low, "is where your file stops making sense. Because no high schooler blows up a car with his bare hands. And that—" he gestured at the golden radiance on-screen, then fixed Joren with a piercing stare—"that sun-like power? My sensors can't even classify it."
He stopped less than a meter away, eyes sharp with calculated pressure—the kind of stare that had unraveled spies, CEOs, and gods.
Most seventeen-year-olds would've cracked.
This one didn't even blink.
Instead, Joren glanced past him—at the half-empty bottle on the bar.
"Islay single malts are too peaty to drink neat," he said.
Tony blinked. "...What?"
"Your file's the same," Joren continued, turning back. "Too rough."
He raised a finger, pointing to a line on the hologram—his mother's profile. "You've got her afternoon tea wrong. She drinks Dimbula from Sri Lanka. Not Darjeeling. She hates Darjeeling."
Tony froze.
That Darjeeling purchase? Logged on Mrs. Joestar's credit card at a Parisian Michelin-starred café three months ago. Public record. Verified.
But Dimbula? That was… private. Something only family would know.
"Sir," Jarvis interjected quietly, "a three-year-old social post from Mrs. Joestar does mention Dimbula tea. My correlation algorithm missed it due to low engagement metrics."
Tony opened his mouth—then closed it. That wasn't the point. The point was that this kid, facing exposure, threat, and Stark-level scrutiny, chose to correct tea preferences?
"That's not important," he tried.
"It is," Joren cut in. "Wrong details lead to wrong conclusions."
He turned and walked toward the solar system projection, stopping before the blue dot labeled Earth. He reached out—then halted just shy of touching it.
"Like this," he said softly. "Your gravitational model for Mars ignores perturbations from Ceres and Juno. Short-term? Fine. But run this simulation past fifty years, and Mars drift
s over a hundred thousand kilometers off-course."
Tony stared.
Not at the hologram.
At the boy who noticed what even he had overlooked.
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