Tony Stark as he staggered, gripping the edge of a mahogany workbench.
"JARVIS," he rasped, "How long was I... unresponsive?"
"Sir, you were in a catatonic state for approximately fifteen minutes," the AI replied, "I conducted a full medical scan. No abnormalities were detected."
Tony let out a jagged breath. "Fifteen minutes. It felt like an eternity."
Then, the transformation hit him.
Liquid fire surged through his veins, an agonizingly beautiful heat that rewrote the very fiber of his being. His muscles tightened, becoming dense as armor plating; his bones felt reinforced with a crystalline strength. Every movement was suddenly imbued with an effortless precision.
"Whoa..." Tony flexed his hand, watching the way the tendons moved with a new, lethal grace. "Okay. Either I'm dreaming, or the laws of biology have just retired."
"JARVIS, scan my body again. Everything."
"Scanning... Sir, this is statistically impossible. Your muscle fiber and bone density have increased by approximately six hundred percent. You are... enhanced."
Tony let out a laugh, testing his weight. He gave a slight, experimental hop, and the reinforced workshop floor groaned and buckled under the force of his landing, leaving a deep indentation in the steel.
"Remind me to reinforce the flooring," he muttered, "Check my accounts."
"A transaction of fifty-five million dollars has occurred, Sir. The recipient account is an untraceable void. I cannot identify the beneficiary."
Tony leaned against his desk, the cold reality of the "Stars and Cosmos" metaphor settling into his stomach. He looked at his hands—hands that were now weapons. Then, the memory of the girl in the fog, Wanda, surfaced like a ghost.
"JARVIS," he said, "Search Sokovia. Find a girl named Wanda."
"There are seven hundred sixteen individuals named Wanda in the region, Sir.
Narrowing by age... three hundred nine results.
Filtering for parents deceased in civil conflict... thirteen records remain."
The silence in the room became suffocating.
"Pull live imagery," Tony ordered.
The screens erupted with the devastation of the Eastern European state. Ruins. Hollow-eyed civilians. And there, amidst the rubble, were the shells of missiles bearing a logo he had designed with pride.
Stark Industries
Tony closed his eyes, the weight of fifty-five million dollars feeling like nothing compared to the weight of those shells. "I didn't know," he whispered to the empty room. "JARVIS—hack the military databases. Check weapon distribution. Cross-reference every shareholder."
"Sir... should I include Obadiah Stane?"
Tony froze. The name hit him harder than the physical transformation had. Obie. The man who had been a second father to him. The man who had held the company together when Tony was too drunk or too busy to care.
His jaw tightened. He wanted to say no. He wanted to laugh at the suggestion. But the ancient logic of Sefirah Castle was still whispering in the back of his mind: Break the loop.
"…Yes," Tony said, "Include him."
"Sir... are you certain?"
"Yes," Tony snapped, "Dig deep."
——-
T'Challa gasped awake in a Wakandan medical chamber, the air smelling of ozone and sterile herbs. Shuri stood over him, her brow furrowed in uncharacteristic worry.
"Brother," she said, "You've been unresponsive for nearly fifteen minutes. Are you well?"
T'Challa moved to sit up, and the world broke. The advanced alloy of the medical bed shattered under the simple pressure of his palm. He froze, feeling the terrifying efficiency of his new muscles.
"I am fine," he said, "Scan my body, Shuri."
The princess's fingers danced across holographic panels. Her eyes widened. "This is impossible. Your muscle and bone density have increased sixfold. This surpasses the effects of the Heart-Shaped Herb—yet your DNA remains untouched. What happened to you?"
"Check my accounts," T'Challa countered. "Fifty-five million dollars transferred to a hidden recipient," Shuri said, "Were we hacked?"
"No," T'Challa replied, his gaze "Do not investigate further."
———
In a crumbling apartment in Novi Grad, Wanda Maximoff gasped, her lungs burning as she returned to the cold. Pietro was there instantly, his hands gripping her shoulders.
"Wanda! You were unresponsive," he said, "What is happening?"
"I'm fine," she whispered, her hands still trembling from her talk with The World. She looked at her brother, seeing the hunger in the hollows of his cheeks. "There is someone... who offered us work. A place to rest. Away from here."
Pietro's expression hardened. "We don't trust strangers, Wanda."
"You can trust this one," she said, "And Pietro... we haven't eaten in two days."
The boy looked at the floor, the pride of a brother warring with the desperation of a survivor. He sighed. "Fine. But I'll keep you safe."
"Please," Wanda rolled her eyes weakly. "I'm older."
"By two minutes."
——-
The following morning, I exited my office at Umbrella, my mind already calculating the next move. Suddenly, a figure collided with me. Hot coffee bloomed across my shirt.
"Oh—!" Sharon Carter froze, her eyes wide with a practiced shock. "I am so sorry, Mr. Spencer!"
"It's fine," I said. I felt the heat of the liquid, but my new skin—reinforced by the Wolverine-type regeneration—didn't even redden. "I'll change."
"No—wait," she said quickly, reaching out to brush the fabric. "Let me wash it for you. It's my fault. I insist."
Her smile was warm, professional, and entirely too perfect.
"Alright," I replied.
"Would you allow me to buy you a coffee? As an apology," she added.
At the café, she tried to peel back the layers of my identity with the surgical precision of a SHIELD agent. "You don't talk much about yourself, Aryan. You're hard to read."
"I prefer listening," I replied.
"I hope we can be friends," she said casually.
"Perhaps," I answered.
I saw the flicker—the half-second where her smile faltered. She didn't notice that I noticed.
As I walked back to my office, the chill of the morning air felt different. SHIELD was no longer just a shadow; they were at my door.
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