The air in Malibu was salt-heavy and cool, but inside the Stark residence, the atmosphere was suffocating. Pepper Potts had always told herself she wasn't reckless. Efficient, yes. Persistent, definitely. But reckless? No.
Yet, as she slipped Obadiah Stane's keycard back into its slot and quietly closed the office door behind her, her heart was hammering so loudly she was certain the entire building could hear it.
She moved through the hallways of Stark Industries with rehearsed steps. Ten seconds between the rotation of the security cameras. She slipped into the data room. The terminal was still unlocked—a rare slip for a man like Obadiah, or perhaps, just the arrogance of a predator who thought his prey was already in the trap.
Pepper plugged in the drive. The progress bar crawled.
Eighty-seven percent.
Footsteps echoed. Obadiah's voice, thick with artificial warmth, drifted from the hall. "Just a minute, I forgot something."
Ninety-two percent.
The doorknob turned just as Pepper yanked the drive free and ducked behind a server rack. Obadiah stepped inside, his eyes scanning the dim room. "Strange," he muttered. "I thought I left this running."
He shrugged, oblivious, and left. Pepper didn't move for a full minute, her legs nearly giving out as she exhaled. She clutched the drive like a lifeline. Tony, she thought. Please let this be enough.
Tony Stark was pacing when Pepper arrived. He didn't wait for a greeting; he took the drive, his usual grin replaced by a grim, tight line.
"Jarvis," Tony said quietly, "run a full analysis."
The holographic displays bloomed into life. Shipment records scrolled past: weapons diverted, quantities inflated, unmarked transactions to offshore accounts. But it was the file labeled AFGHANISTAN — FINAL ROUTE that stopped the air in Tony's lungs.
Coordinates. Timelines. And then, a mission profile:
Anthony Edward Stark — Target Probability: 94%.
"…What?" Pepper whispered, her face draining of color.
Tony's voice was hoarse. "That wasn't a business trip. He wasn't sending me there to negotiate, Pepper. He was leading me to an execution."
He sank into his chair, his hands trembling as they ran through his hair. "I trusted him. I treated him like family."
"You're not going," Pepper said firmly, reaching for his shoulder.
Tony looked up, and for the first time, the billionaire playboy was gone. In his eyes was a cold, hard fire. "Oh, I'm going. But not the way he planned. And not unprepared."
He straightened slowly, a newfound resolve settling into his bones. "Jarvis, begin contingency protocols. We're going to need something... more than a suit of clothes."
————
Across the ocean, in the hidden heart of Wakanda, T'Challa stood on a balcony overlooking the Golden City. Since his experience in the Sefirah Castle, he could no longer see the world as a simple map of nations and borders.
The Castle had given him a new kind of sight. He now understood that reality was layered, and that beneath the surface of science, ancient and terrible forces were waking up.
He ordered the Hatut Zeraze to shift their focus. No longer were they just looking for vibranium smugglers; they were looking for the Extraordinary.
The reports that surfaced were chilling:
The Green Anomaly: A man named Bruce Banner. Satellites tracked the flattening of military bases and radiation signatures that vanished as quickly as they appeared. T'Challa marked him as a World-Level Anomaly. This wasn't evolution; it was something impossible.
The Contract: Reports from rural America of a "Ghost Rider"—criminals found with their souls seemingly extracted, victims of a fire that left no ash. Wakandan mystics recognized the signs. This was a cosmic contract being enforced.
The Ten Rings: An organization that refused to die, surviving centuries without change. T'Challa knew now that anything that stayed the same for that long was not human—it was anchored to something else.
T'Challa reached a conclusion he shared with no one. The world was entering a convergence. Science, mysticism, and ancient judgment were no longer separate.
————
The afternoon sun in the Umbrella executive suite was warm, but the atmosphere inside was a delicate balance of three very different energies.
I sat at my desk, the rhythmic clicking of keys the only sound in the room until the door opened. Sharon walked in, her heels echoing with professional precision. She was followed by Wanda, who was carrying a stack of revised logistics reports.
"The quarterly projections for the tech acquisition are ready," Sharon said, placing a tablet on my desk. She glanced at Wanda. "And the internal coordination feedback is... surprisingly detailed."
Wanda offered a modest smile. "The staff in the logistics department are very helpful once you explain that a 'delay' is just another word for 'failure.'"
I looked up, catching the look Sharon gave Wanda. It wasn't hostile anymore—it was more like two chess players acknowledging they were playing on the same board.
"Good," I said. "Wanda, how are you finding the pace?"
"It is faster than Sokovia," Wanda replied, "But it is honest. People here work because they want to build something. It is different from what I expected."
"And Pietro?" I asked, looking toward the door where the "Head of Security" was likely lurking in a hallway.
"He's currently trying to convince the IT department that their server room needs a reinforced steel door," Sharon said, "He's driving them crazy, but I have to admit, our response times for internal alerts have dropped by forty percent."
———-
Sharon reached for the coffee pot on the side table, but Wanda was already there. She poured a cup—black, no sugar—and set it in front of me with a quiet grace.
"I remembered," Wanda said softly.
Sharon's hand hovered in the air for a second before she pivoted to grab her own tablet. "Right. The black coffee. The fuel of the obsessed." She looked at me, her gaze sharpening. "You look tired, Aryan. Even with the twins helping, you're still carrying the weight of the whole company."
"There is much to do, Sharon," I replied, taking a sip.
"There's always much to do," she countered, "But even empires have weekends. You should take one. Show the Maximoffs around the city. Be a person, not a CEO."
Wanda looked between us, her expression curious. "A weekend? Is that when everything stops?"
"In theory," Sharon laughed. "In practice, this one usually just finds new ways to work in the dark."
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