Joren turned and walked toward the elevator.
"The people at S.H.I.E.L.D.," Tony's voice called from behind, smooth as polished steel, "are very professional. And very patient."
"They'll follow you like a shadow—when you go to school, when you eat, even when you try to sleep."
"They'll analyze every scrap of trash you toss, log every phone call you make, and probably file incident reports on every stray cat that wanders past your door."
"They've got time. They've got budget. And you?" He paused, letting the words hang. "You're just a high school student who wants a quiet life."
Tony's eyes locked onto the figure standing before the elevator doors. A slow, knowing smile tugged at his lips.
Is this the "peaceful life" you were hoping for?
Joren paused, mulling over Tony's words.
Yare yare...
Being watched.
Being monitored.
It was more of a headache than he'd imagined.
He turned around.
Tony Stark wore that infuriating, self-assured grin—the kind that said he'd already won.
Because he had. The fish had taken the bait.
"I can make them disappear."
With a casual flick of his wrist, the holographic screen hovering in the air dissolved into pixels and vanished.
"One phone call. That's all it takes." Tony stepped closer, his tone shifting from theatrical to earnest. "I can give you a safe zone—no S.H.I.E.L.D., no government flies buzzing in your ear. Just you, your textbooks, and some actual peace to finish your calculus homework."
He stopped just an arm's length away.
"But in exchange…"
Tony tapped his chest, right above the faint blue glow pulsing beneath his black T-shirt.
"I need you to know. Not for them. For me."
His voice dropped, sharpened—now unmistakably the voice of a man who couldn't sleep until every mystery was solved.
"This world's getting stranger by the day. And I'm putting together a… response team. Someone with your capabilities? You can't stay an unknown variable."
A response team?
For a split second, Joren pictured a ridiculous scene: a motley crew of flamboyantly dressed weirdos gathered around a round table, passionately debating "love," "destiny," and whether their spandex matched.
Trouble.
"I have no interest in your club."
Tony didn't miss a beat. "I haven't even sent you the newsletter yet."
His reply came so fast it nearly qualified as rapping.
"Don't get me wrong—I'm not hiring you. This isn't an interview. It's not even on the books."
He spread his hands, offering what looked—on the surface—like a fair deal.
"Think of it as… a consultation. An assessment. You come to my lab, we run a few harmless tests. I get my data. You get your privacy back."
He paused, then added with a smirk, "Oh, and your T-shirt? The left seam's off by about 0.2 millimeters. I can have you something actually handmade. Custom-fit. My treat."
Silence settled over the apartment.
Joren weighed his options.
Being watched twenty-four seven—eyes he couldn't see, ears he couldn't shut out—was enough to make him want to flip all of New York upside down just to prove a point.
But Tony Stark? His brand of trouble was loud, flashy… and negotiable.
When stuck between two evils, you pick the one you can punch in the face if things go sideways.
"Fine," Joren said at last. "But just an evaluation. No strings. No next time."
"Marvelous!" Tony's face lit up like the Arc Reactor itself. He snapped his fingers with theatrical flair.
"I knew we could be friends!"
He turned and strode toward the bar, gesturing with theatrical flair.
"Jarvis, cancel all my meetings this afternoon. We've got a new project—it's called… Project Stardust!"
Joren's eyebrow twitched.
"Change the name."
"Too late, kid. Branding is everything."
Tony winked, that familiar playboy smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
"Happy'll take you back. Don't worry—we'll schedule our little 'date' to perfectly avoid your classes and your precious documentary reruns."
Joren didn't respond. He simply turned and walked into the elevator.
The metal doors slid shut, sealing away Tony's triumphant grin—the kind that usually meant victory.
The elevator descended in smooth silence.
Joren leaned against the cold wall, eyes closed.
Things are spiraling… in the exact direction I hoped they wouldn't.
—
Top floor, Stark Tower.
Tony watched the floor indicator tick downward. The smirk faded.
"Jarvis… what are the odds he actually shows?"
"Based on his psychological profile—specifically, his tendency to resolve conflicts via the path of least resistance—the probability he honors the appointment is 78.4%, sir."
"Good enough."
Tony lifted the half-finished glass of whiskey and moved to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the glittering city below.
The conversation replayed in his head. Something itched at him.
The kid had been too calm. Not wary. Not amused. Not even annoyed—just… still. Like a deep, ancient well. Every taunt, every jab, every calculated provocation—swallowed without a ripple.
He'd won the deal… but it didn't feel like a win. It felt like he'd been the one under examination.
"That's… illogical."
"Sir?"
"Re-analyze the conversation recording. Focus on micro-expressions and gaze patterns."
"Processing… Analysis complete."
"During the exchange, Mr. Joestar's heart rate remained steady at 62 BPM. Micro-expression breakdown: 83% impatience, 15% indifference. All other emotional indicators negligible."
"Gaze tracking: Holographic file—0.8 seconds. Your face—3.2 seconds, cumulative. Whiskey bottle on the bar—4.5 seconds. Solar system hologram in the east corner—7.1 seconds."
Whiskey? The solar system model?
Tony's brow furrowed.
I'm standing right here—with a classified file no less—and he's more interested in celestial mechanics and scotch?
"Did you verify that Mars orbital model he mentioned?"
"Affirmative, sir. Per Mr. Joestar's suggestion, we incorporated gravitational perturbations from Ceres and Juno into the fifty-year simulation. Result: Mars' actual orbital deviation accumulates to 112,400 kilometers. Your original model contains a significant error."
Tony stared into his glass.
"That kid…"
He slammed it down.
"Jarvis—pull everything on the Joestar family. Everything. I want to know what brand of milk they bought fifty years ago, what schools their ancestors flunked out of, and whether their dog had a trust fund."
He downed the rest of the whiskey in one burning gulp.
Then he turned back to the window, eyes alight—not with alcohol, but with something
sharper.
"A sun inside a high schooler's ribs…"
A slow, thrilled smile spread across his face.
"This is way more interesting than building robots."
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