The banquet's atmosphere reached a fever pitch.
A massive crowd surrounded Howard and the Thomas couple, shifting between blatant social climbing and aggressive networking over potential lithium battery partnerships.
The technology had only just been revealed.
Wayne Enterprises had taken the lead, but the specific commercial strategies were still being finalized.
Tonight was only a debut.
A way to seed the idea in the public eye and stir early hype.
On top of that, the "battlefield advertising" of the AK-47 in Europe had proven shockingly effective.
Stark Industries was working around the clock to process an overwhelming surge of global munitions orders.
Under normal circumstances, the United States government would never allow such powerful and durable weapons to be exported.
But faced with collective pressure-and not-so-subtle intimidation-from four major powers, Germany, Great Britain, France, and the Soviet Union, the young American state had no choice.
They swallowed their pride.
Sales were approved.
Tariffs were raised instead, turning the situation into a quick profit.
Since Stark Industries was a domestic giant, Congress and the Senate had no interest in suppressing their own.
You don't move against your own capitalists.
That kind of precedent had a way of coming back to bite.
More importantly, Stark Industries' expansion had absorbed massive unemployment.
Attacking them would be political suicide at the polls.
Naturally, the sudden appearance of a design genius like Ryden drew attention.
Soviet agents.
Foreign operatives.
Eyes everywhere.
Normally, inventing a single firearm wouldn't be enough to paint a target on someone's back.
The problem was Ryden himself.
Fast money.
Fame.
Social standing.
He wanted prestige-enough to enter elite universities, and eventually the Strategic Scientific Reserve.
The gateway to the Super Soldier Serum.
Every coin had two sides.
Ryden's clever "battlefield marketing" didn't just attract investors.
It caught the eye of Red Skull himself.
Schmidt.
Captain America's greatest enemy.
Ophelia scanned the room, noting several pairs of flickering, malicious eyes.
She knew she wasn't the only one watching him.
Leaning close, she rested a hand against Ryden and whispered softly, red lips barely moving.
"Cut off one head..."
She waited.
Her breath slowed.
According to her intelligence, Ryden's ties to the underworld were impossible to conceal from a trained agent.
During the annihilation of the Dasco gang, every participant had worn a mask.
Every one bore an octopus insignia.
The conclusion was obvious.
Hydra.
Ryden blinked.
He almost missed the beat.
He hadn't expected this little fox to test him with a slogan.
"Two more shall take its place."
Ophelia exhaled gently against his ear, her voice playful, intimate.
"Heh. Little handsome. You really are one of us."
Ryden frowned.
Using Hydra as a shield was acceptable.
Being dragged into the deep end was not.
As a top-tier scientist, even if he were captured, execution was unlikely.
Dr. Zola was a perfect example-captured at the end of the war and immediately reassigned to American secret departments.
As long as he didn't die of natural causes, he was safe.
And as long as one was alive, there was always a chance to escape.
Ryden breathed in her perfume and spoke calmly.
"I'm not a Hydra man. I just cooperate with them. Plenty of people do. Who are you, and what do you want?"
Ophelia didn't believe him for a second.
Only a true insider responded to the slogan that smoothly.
"I belong to the Eastern European faction," she said. "This isn't the place to talk. Let's go outside."
She leaned into him.
They looked exactly like a couple searching for privacy.
Ryden wrapped an arm around her slim, toned waist.
"Fine," he said. "Lead the way."
The moment his hand touched her, Ophelia's hair nearly stood on end.
Like a startled cat.
She forcefully suppressed her killing intent, leaning into him with a stiff, controlled posture.
Leaving a banquet early was normal.
Bathrooms.
Business.
Mutual attraction.
No one questioned it.
She led Ryden out of the Wayne Building and into his private car.
Under her guidance, they left Manhattan, weaving through the gritty, mixed streets of Queens.
They stopped in front of a respectable apartment building.
Inside, the room was clean.
Well-kept.
Orderly.
Ophelia finally relaxed and let out a quiet breath.
After confirming they weren't followed, she poured him a cup of tea with professional courtesy.
"Hydra has countless branches," she said evenly. "But the largest are divided into three factions. Schmidt's. Baron Strucker's. And mine-led by Eckert. The rest are small fries or opportunists."
She spoke calmly, hands resting flat on her thighs.
Anyone trained in combat would recognize the posture.
A ready stance.
Ryden, meanwhile, had sunk deep into the sofa.
Comfortable.
Relaxed.
Also the easiest position to die in if an ambush came.
"I don't care who you are," Ophelia said. "But you're in danger. Everyone is watching you. At any moment, someone could abduct you. Or kill you."
She met his eyes.
"Your inventions proved you're a genius. They also invited disaster to your doorstep."
Ryden leaned back further, sipping his tea like a feudal lord.
Real black tea.
Not bad.
"I know," he said. "I expected it. I'm like a firefly in the dark. No matter how I hide, I'm still too dazzling."
He stared off into the distance.
Completely serious.
The tense atmosphere collapsed instantly, drowned in the overpowering stench of pure narcissism.
Ophelia nearly choked.
Is this man an idiot?
Or just hopelessly self-absorbed?
What a waste of a handsome face.
Every 100 Power Stones gets 1 bonus chapters!