I will admit, I don't often dream as much lately. When I was a kid, I would dream often in these bombastic, cinematic level events. I never got to see them through my own eyes. It always felt like I was watching myself through a camera lens. Looking back on it, I can't help but think of one where it was this weird mash-up of Tobey Maguire's Spider-Man and the Tom Cruise version of War of the Worlds.
Weird, I know. But I was like seven when I had the dream. Uh, where was I going with this?
Oh… right.
I never felt like I was genuinely experiencing the dream. Only in a nightmare did I ever feel like I was right there.
Well, after getting off the phone with Harry, that's exactly what I had…
A nightmare.
I was back in Norman's office. He'd called me and asked me to come see him. It was important, and it couldn't wait. The computer had images of me on there. Not just from the field trip, but like at home. Recent ones too. Even had an image of me standing with MJ on her porch, holding her as she was crying.
My stomach twisted, realizing he was watching me. There's a click of a door, and when I look up, there he is. He's standing there with a volatile smile, one that makes my heart drop at the sight of it.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just walks across the office, slow, unhurried. Each step echoes too loud—like we're not in a building anymore, but a hollow stage built to look like one.
"You've changed," he says, stopping just short of the desk. "There's a new spark behind your eyes, Peter."
The way he says my name makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. There's this drag on it—like he's savoring it. Like the name itself is a joke he's about to explain.
"I don't know what you mean," I say, except my voice doesn't sound right. Too small. Too young.
He doesn't answer.
Instead, he tilts his head, and I notice the first spider. It drops from the ceiling, a single thread of webbing lowering it down until it lands silently on his shoulder. Then another. And another.
Within seconds, they're crawling all over him—up his chest, across his face, into his hair—but he doesn't blink or swat at them. He just keeps looking at me like I'm the freak here.
"Funny," Norman murmurs. "You think you're hiding. But I see it. The way you move. The way you hesitate before speaking. You're not the same boy I knew."
I want to step back, but I can't move. My feet are locked in place.
The spiders keep coming—some of them skittering across the floor, others dropping from the rafters. They crawl across the desk, past the photos, into the shadows. One of them scales the computer monitor and stops right in the center of the screen—where an image of MJ and I is frozen, paused like we're a file being reviewed.
Norman finally moves.
He leans forward slowly, spiders squirming under the collar of his shirt as his skin starts to… shift. Not fast. Just enough that it's wrong. His neck tightens, veins rising. A sickly green tint seeps through his cheeks.
"I could tear you open," he whispers, "and see what's really inside."
That's when I scream—except nothing comes out.
I can feel it clawing at my throat, but all I manage is a rasp. My vision shakes, the room starts to melt like wax, and Norman's smile splits wider than it should be humanly possible.
And then—
I wake up.
Not slowly. Not peacefully. I'm yanked out of sleep like someone cracked open my chest and pulled me upright by the ribs.
My body's already reacting before my brain can catch up. I'm sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat like I ran a marathon in my sleep. The sheets are tangled around my legs, damp and clinging, and my skin feels like it's humming—every nerve twitching with leftover static from the nightmare.
I want to say it was just a dream. Just some leftover stress cooked up by my overactive brain. Worst-case-scenario garbage. But that doesn't explain the way my hands are shaking. Or the way my throat's tight like I did scream and it just got lost in the pillow.
And it definitely doesn't explain why my heart won't slow the hell down.
The room's quiet—too quiet. It's that kind of early morning stillness where everything feels like it's holding its breath. The faint glow from the window tells me it's not even sunrise yet. Somewhere between night and day, where nothing feels quite real. Shadows stretch longer. Corners look unfamiliar.
My breathing's ragged. Shallow. I try to pull in air, but it doesn't feel like enough. It's like trying to drink through a pinhole straw. My chest keeps tightening, and I can hear my pulse in my ears—fast, frantic, like I'm still trapped back there, in that office, with him staring at me.
Norman.
God.
Even now, I can still see the look in his eyes. The spiders crawling over him. The green bleeding into his skin. The way he said my name like it wasn't really mine.
Peter.
That part won't leave me alone. The way he looked at me like he already knew. Not just who I was—but what I was.
I run a hand through my hair and realize it's soaked too. My fingers feel cold against my scalp. I glance down and notice I'm gripping the edge of my mattress like it's the only thing keeping me tethered. Nails digging into the fabric. I don't even remember grabbing it.
I try to talk myself down. It's fine. It was a nightmare. It's not real.
But then I remember what Harry said on the phone. That Norman hasn't been the same since my visit. That he's been distant. Erratic.
And yeah—rationally, I know it's probably that guy I saw in the lobby that night. But there's still this other part of me. The part that remembers everything Norman becomes in the stories I grew up with.
That part's screaming.
And I'm trying not to listen to it.
But it's hard when your skin still feels like it's crawling… and you don't know if you brought the nightmare back with you.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, hands still unsteady, and see a missed call from Harry. A text follows a minute later:
Tried calling you. He just got back.
Only a few hours ago.
I just stare at the message for a second, letting it sit there on the screen like it might tell me more if I keep looking at it. It doesn't. Of course it doesn't. My thumb hovers, but I don't type anything back. Not yet.
I try to stretch like usual, but my arms feel like they're still stuck in that bed. Like I never really left it.
The bathroom mirror is waiting for me, whether I like it or not.
The water's cold when I splash it on my face, and I welcome the shock. It breaks through the leftover fog and jolts something sharp back into focus. I grip the edges of the sink and lean forward, letting the drops fall, watching them streak down the porcelain like sweat.
Once I'm done, I check the time. Only about an hour until my alarm goes off. No point in trying to fall back asleep now. Not with my brain still running on fumes and dread.
So I change, lace up my shoes, and head out for the run.
The air outside's got that damp, early-morning chill to it—just cold enough to sting a little when I breathe in too deep. The kind of air that makes the city feel slower. Quieter.
I'm locking the door when I hear footsteps on the porch across the way. MJ's coming down the steps, earbuds in, hoodie zipped halfway. Her eyes catch mine for a second, and we give each other a nod. Nothing more.
It's weird seeing her this soon after last night. After she fell apart in my arms, even though we barely know each other.
There's a part of me that's glad she felt safe enough to let it out. That she trusted me, even just for a moment.
But there's another part—a deeper, uncomfortable one—that keeps whispering: That shouldn't have been you.
That wasn't supposed to be your job.
Either way, we still end up next to each other. I don't know if she slowed down to match me or if I sped up to match her, but it doesn't matter. We just fall into step like we've been doing this for years instead of… what, three days?
The street lamps are still on. Queens is quiet—just the occasional car, a few dog walkers, and the distant hum of a bus starting its route.
We don't really talk.
But I don't think we need to.
At one point, she glances over like she's about to say something… but doesn't.
It's only when we're back at our houses when MJ says something to me for the first time that morning.
"See you at school," she says, tugging one earbud out and giving me the smallest half-smile.
"See ya," I say, quieter than I meant to.
"Peter!"
I glance back.
She's at the top of her steps, one hand on the railing. There's a pause—like she's not sure if she actually wants to go through with whatever she's about to say.
"Yeah?" I ask.
"Do you… want to walk to school together?"
It catches me off guard for a second. I don't know what I thought she was going to say, but it wasn't that.
Still, it's... nice.
"Yeah," I tell her. "I'd like that."
With that, I walk inside and head upstairs to get cleaned up.
By the time I've showered, thrown on something clean, and made it through a quick breakfast, the sun is properly up. Ben and May don't even look surprised I'm already moving. It hasn't even been a full week and they're acting like my morning runs have always been a thing. I suppose that's a good thing.
I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab an apple for the road, and call out a quick, "See you later!" before stepping outside.
MJ's already back on her porch. She's leaning against the railing with her arms crossed, hoodie half-zipped like it hasn't quite hit her that the day's started yet. Her hair's still damp at the ends, like she had rushed a shower and didn't care to dry it all the way. She sees me and straightens up a little.
There's a moment where we just look at each other. It doesn't feel awkward, exactly, but I can't help but wonder if she's thinking about last night too.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey," she replies, then adjusts the strap of her bag and starts walking. I fall into step beside her, and just like earlier, there's not much talking.
It's weird. Just a few days ago, I was freaking out about not wanting to meet her—but now, here I am walking to school with her. It's funny, because now that I genuinely think about it, most of my interactions with her have been around physical activities.
Last night was the only exception.
We pass a few kids heading the same direction, some adults pulling out of driveways, someone's sprinklers still running on a timer. The sidewalk smells faintly of wet leaves and leftover pavement heat from the day before.
About halfway there, MJ finally speaks.
"Hey—" she says, breaking the silence, "here."
I glance over, confused for a second to see her pulling her phone out. She holds it out to me, and I take it gingerly. The contact screen is open. I try to hide the smile creeping its way onto my face.
"I, uh—what do you want me to put it under?" I ask.
She raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.
"Just put Peter. What else would you put?"
"I don't know. McLovin?"
MJ doesn't laugh, but I can tell she wants to. There's a pause, just long enough for her lips to twitch like she's fighting it. I grin anyway, type it in, and hand her the phone. She gives a tiny nod when she sees it.
A moment later, I hear the softest giggle escape her.
"What?" I glance over, raising an eyebrow.
"You're a dork."
"Even amnesia isn't taking that away from me," I say, chuckling.
In my old life, I got called that all the time. Dork. Nerd. Whatever version people felt like that day. One of the ways I dealt with it—besides just trying to disappear into my hoodie—was making jokes before other people could. Self-deprecating humor was my shield. If I said it first, it didn't sting as bad when they did.
Even though my self-esteem has gotten better, the jokes have been a relentless habit that I doubt will ever go away— that's one reason I should consider myself lucky that I woke up as Peter Parker.
I mean… The guy practically has a copyright on sarcasm.
MJ glances over at me, a small smile playing at her lips.
"Well," she says, brushing her hair back behind her ear, "guess you're in luck."
I blink.
"How's that?"
She shrugs.
"I like dorks."
My brain skips like a scratched CD. I nearly trip over a crack in the sidewalk, and it takes every ounce of dignity I have not to make it worse. I recover fast—hopefully fast enough—and manage:
"G-good to know."
She doesn't say anything else. Just keeps walking, earbuds back in—but there's a definite smirk on her face now. And I'm pretty sure she knows exactly what she just did to me.
Suddenly, I'm back to internally screaming about the age difference.
By the time we reach the school, MJ still has that same smile on her face. Not a full grin—just that small, knowing curve that makes it obvious she's enjoying how off-balance she's left me.
She pulls one earbud out as we reach the steps.
"Catch you later, Peter."
I nod, but it's not even a cool nod. It's one of those automatic, slightly delayed ones where my brain's still buffering.
"Yeah. Later."
She turns and heads inside, ponytail swaying behind her, and I just… stand there. Like an idiot.
Not because I don't want to follow her in, but because I have no idea what to do with myself. My brain's still short-circuiting from I like dorks, and if I try to say literally anything else right now, I'll probably embarrass myself on a molecular level.
Fuckin teenage hormones… right?
So I hang back near the entrance.
Waiting for Harry.
Because I really, really need to focus on something other than, well… her.
But of course, the universe doesn't even give me that.
"You two walked to school together?!" Harry's voice hits me before I even see him—he's already standing there, arms crossed, wearing the most smug, shit-eating grin I've ever seen on a human face. "My, my… what a big step for you, Mr. Parker."
"Oh my God, shut up," I groan, dragging my hands down my face. "It's not like that."
"Uh-huh. Then why are you blushing like you just got caught holding hands at a middle school dance?"
"I hate you."
"You love me," Harry grins. "Say it back."
I flip him off instead.
He gasps, clutching his chest like I just stabbed him with a rusty butter knife.
"Oh, you wound me, Pete. I'll never recover from this. My heart—shattered. My spirit—crushed. This is how villains are made, you know."
I shoot him a look. I know how villains are made, and I cannot say I've ever seen someone become a villain over getting flipped off. Murdered? Sure. Happens every time I play GTA, but then again I'm the one going on a rampage. But that's a video game…
"Yeah, well, I'll be sure to cry at your tragic origin story."
"You better," he sniffs dramatically. "With tears. Real ones. I want mascara running."
"I don't wear mascara." I tilt my head.
"Well, you better start now, because I want an award-winning performance from you."
I shake my head, finally cracking a grin despite myself. God help me, but he's good at making me forget my brain's on fire. Even if he does it by setting more fires.
"C'mon, drama queen," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. "Let's get to class."
"You're just upset that I caught you lovebirds," he says, bolting ahead before I can smack him.
The fuck he just call us?
"WE'RE NOT—SHUT UP!"
AS
AS
AS
There was a particular kind of silence that only the rich ever heard. The kind that came with altitude—glass walls, private elevators, the hush of a city held at arm's length. It was the quiet of being untouchable.
Tony Stark woke to that silence wrapped in a tangle of limbs and Egyptian cotton. The women next to him were still asleep, breath slow and even. One had an arm thrown lazily over his chest, the other curled in close like they were orbiting the same gravitational pull. Neither stirred when he groaned and pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his face like it had personally offended him.
Sunlight poured in through twenty-foot windows, bathing the penthouse in a golden wash that made everything look expensive—because it was. From the floating glass staircase to the climate-controlled wine vault, every inch had been handpicked, designed, and customized for its owner.
Tony swung his legs out of bed, stretching once before standing. He padded across the room barefoot, scooping his robe off the back of a leather chair. Burgundy velvet with gold trim, ridiculous and regal. Exactly the kind of thing you wore when you were trying to convince the world you didn't have a single problem.
It'd been about a year since his father, Howard, had passed away in that tragic accident en route to Latveria.
The world had called it a malfunction. A faulty guidance chip in the jet's autopilot system. Weather complications. Unfortunate circumstances. The kind of language that softened the violence of loss until it sounded palatable—digestible. But Tony knew better. Or at least, he suspected.
He didn't talk about it. Not even to himself. But some mornings—mornings like this one, where the sun hit the old Stark Industries crest just right on the wall across the room—he felt it again. The emptiness. The lingering shape of a father's absence.
They hadn't always gotten along. Howard could be cold, exacting, impossible to please. But there were moments that stuck with him anyway. Late nights in the workshop. Blueprints scattered across the dining room table. Howard handing him a soldering iron when he was ten and saying, "Don't burn the carpet this time."
Tony hadn't. Well—not that time.
He stood for a moment in the quiet, just letting memory breathe. Then he turned away and headed into the bathroom.
"JARVIS?" he said, voice hoarse with sleep.
A moment later, the familiar reply came from the hidden ceiling speakers—calm, posh, and unbothered.
"Good morning, sir. It is 10:47 A.M."
Tony squinted at his reflection. The mirror lit automatically, illuminating the fine architecture of his face—chiseled, half-awake, annoyingly symmetrical. He looked tired, but good. He always looked good. It was a curse.
"Tell time to take a number," he muttered, reaching for his razor.
As the blades hummed to life, JARVIS continued, "Mr. Stane has requested a meeting at your earliest convenience."
"Oh, come on, Jarv. I just woke up, buddy. Give me some good news."
"Ms. Virginia Potts has accepted the position. Effective immediately."
Tony paused mid-shave, one brow lifting.
"Now that's what I'm talking about."
Pepper had been a late-stage interview, technically a formality. She'd walked into the room with no patience for showmanship and even less for his ego. She didn't blink when he offered her three times what she was asking. That had impressed him.
He finished shaving, splashed water on his face, and toweled off. By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the penthouse was awake with quiet automation. Lights adjusted. Coffee brewed. The fridge displayed a biometric greeting. He ignored it and pulled out the cold brew, drinking straight from the bottle.
The table near the balcony was cluttered with blueprints and prototype schematics—military-grade designs layered with cutting-edge elegance. Drones. Energy rifles. Armor components.
An open laptop screen flickered quietly with classified readouts. One window was labeled:
PROJECT LUX – TARGET ACQUISITION SYSTEM (FIELD READY)
Another showed a folder flagged for deletion:
CROSS SPECIES GENETICS – INACTIVE
Tony swiped it closed without opening it. That project was destined for the scrap heap at this point. Messing with DNA could only go wrong. Connors and Michaels had tried their damnedest to keep it alive, but they failed nevertheless. Machinery was the future.
The TV was still on in the background. Morning news.
"—and in Lower Manhattan, police have confirmed yet another death in the string of so-called Vampire Killings. The victim was discovered with no blood, no visible trauma, and no signs of forced entry. Authorities are urging citizens to avoid traveling alone after dark—"
A cut to Mayor Fisk at a podium. He looked too large for the frame, jaw set, voice calm.
"Let me assure the public that this city will not be terrorized. I have personally authorized the expansion of our tactical response teams. We will find the one responsible, and we will bring them to justice."
Tony muted the broadcast with a quick flick.
He wasn't worried about Fisk. The man might've worn a suit like a statesman, but Tony had seen the contracts. The private investments. The armored task force. It wasn't protection—it was leverage. Stark tech flowed into the mayor's hands like water through a carved channel. And as long as the checks cleared, Tony didn't ask questions.
He wandered into his personal office. One wall lit up automatically as he entered—an interactive display of Stark history.
The centerpiece was a photograph of Howard, flanked by two engineers, all of them standing beside a hulking steel prototype. The plaque beneath read:
PROJECT I.M.
Tony stared at it longer than he meant to.
Howard looked proud. Exhausted, but proud.
"I know, Dad," Tony said quietly. "You wanted better."
He opened a hidden drawer in the desk. Inside sat a sleek gauntlet—gunmetal gray with a soft blue core at its center. No wires, no mess. Pure tech. He slid it on, flexed his fingers, and felt the energy hum back at him like it knew him.
He turned his palm outward. Let the repulsor flicker to life with a high-pitched whine.
Beautiful. Precise. Absolute.
Then he powered it down and removed it.
"Better every day," he muttered. "Too bad Obie doesn't get it."
He almost believed that. But lately, Tony was starting to wonder if Obie did get it—just not in the way he wanted.
A soft ping from the elevator.
Obadiah had arrived.
Tony didn't move. He stood by the window, looking out over the skyline that had never looked more fragile.
He was lucky, he thought. Very lucky.
If it hadn't been for the Rasputin siblings intercepting that convoy in Afghanistan last spring, he might've ended up in a ditch halfway across the desert. Bag over his head. Fingers broken. Blood on the sand.
But fate had intervened.
And in return, he was going to build something the world wouldn't forget.
Something that could never be taken away.
Not again.
Tony wandered back toward the living room, cold brew still in hand. The morning sun had shifted across the skyline, casting long shadows through the penthouse's glass walls. A folded copy of The Daily Bugle lay abandoned on the arm of the couch, the paper crisp and untouched except for a faint coffee ring near the masthead.
He picked it up absently, eyes scanning the front page.
TRAGEDY IN WAKANDA — KING T'CHAKA KILLED IN TERROR ATTACK.
The subheadline went into more detail—something about a rebel splinter cell breaching the borders. It was a daring assault, bold and surgical, carried out with tech that shouldn't have existed in that part of the world. Not without outside help.
Tony's jaw tightened slightly as he read.
He'd met T'Chaka once. Geneva, five years ago. Sharp guy. Dignified. The kind of man who said more with a look than most politicians did with a filibuster. Tony had just turned fifteen. Howard was ecstatic to be able to speak with T'Chaka. They spoke like old friends.
And now he was gone. Just like Howard.
The elevator chimed behind him.
Obadiah Stane stepped into the room, his presence heavy even before he spoke. His tie was askew, his coat slung over one shoulder. He looked older than he had yesterday—like the hours had pressed in on him without mercy.
"You know, Tony," he said, forcing a dry, weary grin, "you are a hard man to contact."
Tony looked up from the newspaper, eyebrows raised.
"Whoa, Obie… you alright?"
Stane waved him off, though his movements were stiff.
"Didn't sleep last night. I'm fine." He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. "You have any of that sludge you call coffee left?"
Tony set the paper down on the glass table and gestured toward the fridge with his thumb.
"Help yourself. I was just catching up on the news."
Stane opened the fridge, pulled out the cold brew, and poured himself a tall glass without bothering to ask. He took a long drink, winced slightly, then turned back toward Tony.
"Did you bother to read the text messages I sent you?"
Tony glanced over his shoulder toward the bedroom. One of the women was starting to stir, hair a mess of copper curls against a sea of sheets.
"I was a bit preoccupied," he said, deadpan.
Stane didn't even bother responding to that one. Just sighed and set the glass down a little too hard.
"So, mind giving me the summed-up version?" Tony asked, dropping back onto the edge of the couch like this was all one long, mildly irritating brunch.
Stane groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair opposite.
"Fine. You know… we agreed that Stark/Stane Industries is supposed to be a partnership. Correct?"
Tony raised his eyebrows, gesturing lazily toward the ceiling.
"I mean, the name would point to that."
"Then why wasn't I told," Stane snapped, "that Mayor Fisk wanted us to spend millions on improving his Task Force's gear?"
Tony didn't answer right away. He leaned back, one arm stretched across the top of the couch, the other draped over the back of his neck like he was trying to stay relaxed—but a tension had crept in beneath the surface. Subtle. Cold. Like static waiting to crackle.
"I didn't think it was worth waking you up over," Tony said finally. "Come on, what's the problem? You and I both want to keep New York safe, right?"
"Safe?" Stane scoffed. "What Fisk wants is nothing short of an army, Tony."
"We have people who can control the weather running around, Obie. Regular weapons wouldn't protect them for shit."
Stane stared at him, incredulous.
"You think throwing more guns at the problem's going to fix it?"
Tony stood, not abruptly, but with purpose. He walked toward the bar cart, fingers skimming the edge before pouring himself two fingers of whiskey—no ice. Morning or not, this conversation had earned it.
"What I think," he said as he turned, "is that waiting for the next 'freak' to tear through Brooklyn without prepping for it is suicide."
Obadiah didn't move.
"You sound just like Fisk."
Tony raised his glass in mock toast.
"And yet I have better taste in ties."
Stane wasn't amused.
"You know what his endgame is. He's not looking to protect the city—he's looking to own it. And we're just handing him the keys."
"No," Tony said, taking a sip. "We're selling him the keys. At markup."
"That's not funny."
"I wasn't trying to be." He gestured around the room—at the schematics, the half-finished tech, the skyline just beyond the glass. "Obie, you think this place runs on good intentions? Stark Industries only survived my father's death because we kept the gears turning. Fisk is just another gear. Ugly, loud, but useful."
Obadiah stepped forward now, his voice lower, harder.
"And if he turns that gear against people like us? Against the wrong people?"
Tony's reply came without hesitation. Calm. Cold.
"Then we build something better."
There was a long beat of silence. Obadiah stared at him like he was seeing a blueprint he didn't recognize anymore.
"You really believe that, don't you?"
Tony set the glass down.
"I believe in control, Obie. If we don't make the future—we get buried by it."
"Control?" Obadiah repeated, incredulous. "What are you talking about? We're not gods, Tony."
He stepped closer, voice sharp with something more than just frustration—concern, maybe. Fear.
"Your father wouldn't approve of this. Hell, I don't approve of this."
Tony flinched—not visibly, not quite. But there was a flash behind his eyes, a tightening of the jaw that cut through the performance. He turned fast.
"Dad's not here now, is he?" he snapped.
The words hit the air like a slap, sharper than he meant, but not enough to take back.
His face flushed red for a split second—rage, or maybe regret. It didn't matter.
"You are family, Obie," Tony said, quieter now, but no less charged. "But do not try guilt-tripping me over what my father would have wanted."
Obadiah didn't back down. He stared at Tony, hard.
"I was there when he built the first prototype, remember? Project I.M. was about protection. Not escalation. Not domination."
Tony walked past him, pacing now, hands raking through his hair like he was trying to push the heat out of his skull.
"Things change," he said. "The world changed."
"And what—you're the one who gets to decide how it responds?"
Tony stopped, looking back at him.
"No. But I can decide who gets the tools."
Obadiah's voice dropped.
"And what if you're wrong, Tony?"
Tony stared at him for a long second.
"Then I'll be the one holding the detonator."
The silence that followed was heavy. Muted. Two men standing on either side of something broken, pretending it hadn't already split.
Obadiah exhaled through his nose, slow and tired. The weariness was back, stronger than before.
"We need to talk to the board."
Tony didn't blink.
"Then talk to them."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
Obadiah shook his head.
"This isn't what Howard wanted."
Tony looked away, jaw tight again.
"Yeah," he muttered. "You've mentioned that."
Obadiah began pacing—slow, tight steps that carved a controlled circle around the room. His hands were restless. One tugged at the loosened knot of his tie, the other smoothing down the front of his wrinkled shirt like he could iron out his frustration with sheer force. He exhaled sharply, then dragged a hand over his face, fingers pressing into his eyes like he could press the headache out.
"Kid, don't be like this."
Tony didn't move. Just watched him from the other side of the room, arms draped open like a man inviting judgment.
"Be like what?" he asked, voice edged but casual. "Go ahead. Finish the thought."
Obadiah stopped mid-step, turned toward him, mouth parted like he had a dozen answers but none he wanted to say out loud. He looked at Tony not as a partner, not even as Howard's son—but as the boy he used to find asleep in the R lab, curled up next to half-finished inventions and tools too heavy for his hands.
Tony still had that look now. But it was buried under armor that hadn't been built yet. All sharp angles and hard truths.
"Like someone who's forgetting where he came from," Obadiah said finally.
Tony's smile came slow. Bitter.
"Where I came from burned up with my father's jet."
"That's not fair."
"No, it's accurate."
Obadiah pointed toward the wall display, where Howard Stark still stood frozen in sepia—a photograph surrounded by the legacy he left behind.
"You came from him. From that. You don't get to rewrite what this company is supposed to be just because you're scared."
Tony's jaw tensed.
"I'm not scared."
"You're always scared," Obadiah said quietly. "You're just better at hiding it now."
That landed.
Tony stepped forward, arms lowering, face hardening as the distance between them vanished.
"I'm building something that can protect people from the things we can't control," he said. "If I have to burn money to do so, then why not?"
Obadiah held his ground.
"And who protects them from you?"
Tony didn't answer.
Obadiah's eyes widened. It wasn't theatrical—it was instinctive, like something just clicked in his head and there wasn't enough room to pretend otherwise.
"Oh my God…" he breathed, voice low. "You've been working on the project in secret, haven't you?"
Tony didn't flinch. Didn't smirk. He just shrugged—cool and detached, like the truth was already a foregone conclusion.
"I might have been," he said. "What difference does it make?"
He turned back toward the window, hands in the pockets of his robe, silhouette framed by the morning sun and the jagged skyline beyond.
"It's my legacy, Obie. I just want to see it through."
Obadiah didn't respond at first. He stood frozen, still trying to wrap his head around it. His shoulders rose as he took a breath, like he was trying to calm a storm that had just pulled up an anchor inside his chest.
"No…" he said finally. "That's not it."
Tony glanced over his shoulder.
Obadiah shook his head, stepping forward again—his voice tightening, like the pieces were still falling into place faster than he wanted them to.
"I can see it in your eyes."
Tony turned fully now, eyes narrowing just slightly.
"What exactly do you think you're seeing, Obie?"
"A man who's not building something to protect the world…" Obadiah's voice dropped, the words hanging heavy between them, "but to control it."
He took another step closer.
"This isn't about carrying on Howard's legacy. It's about rewriting it. You want to prove that you're smarter. Stronger. More capable than he ever was."
Tony's expression didn't change. But his silence was louder than any denial.
"And you think if you build something big enough—loud enough—powerful enough, the world'll finally look at you and see more than his shadow."
Obadiah's tone wasn't cruel. It was tired. Disappointed in a way only family could be.
"You're not doing this for the world, Tony. You're doing it for yourself."
Tony stood there for a moment. Still. Measured.
Then he gave a half-smile—crooked, bitter.
"Maybe I am."
The silence between them stretched like wire—pulled taut, ready to snap.
Behind them, movement.
The two women from Tony's bed drifted silently into the living room, now fully dressed, their smiles gone and replaced by something more subdued. They didn't speak. Didn't ask questions. They just exchanged a glance, grabbed their shoes, and left the penthouse with the quiet understanding of people who'd seen this kind of tension before.
Tony didn't stop them. He didn't even look at them for long. Just watched the door shut behind them… then turned away.
His jaw was tight now. A muscle feathered in his cheek as he walked across the room, bare feet padding softly against the polished floor. He stopped in front of the wall display—the one lit with the history that never quite stopped following him.
There, behind the glass, sat the original plaque and photo from Project I.M.—a grainy black-and-white snapshot of Howard Stark, arms crossed, standing proudly beside the hulking first-gen armor. The prototype that had never made it past the concept phase. All steel and blunt force, designed for durability, not grace.
Tony stared at it like he was staring at a memory too vivid to blink through.
"Dad stopped because he felt it was too dangerous," he said quietly. "But he told me something before he left for Latveria."
Obadiah stood there, silent.
"He said I'd be the one to finish what he couldn't."
Tony reached out and rested his fingers lightly against the edge of the glass. It was warm from the sunlight, but he looked like he didn't feel it.
"He didn't see it as a weapon," Obadiah said.
Tony didn't turn around.
"Neither do I," he said. "I see it as a tool. For a better future."
There was no smugness in his tone. No performative edge. Just conviction. Bone-deep, unshakable.
Obadiah exhaled slowly. He didn't try to hide the look on his face—part disbelief, part fear.
"You really believe that, don't you?"
Tony finally turned to look at him.
"Every day."
Obadiah shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
"Tony… what are you expecting to come from this?"
Tony didn't answer immediately. He just looked out over the city again. His reflection hovered in the glass—tall, alone, backlit by the morning sun that made everything look golden, even the mistakes.
"Do you want to see?" he asked softly.
Obadiah hesitated.
"Tony—"
But Tony was already moving.
He crossed the room to his desk, fingers moving with practiced ease across the biometric locks. A soft click—and then the drawer opened, revealing a matte-black case with reinforced edges and no labels. He flipped it open.
Inside sat the repulsor prototype.
Sleeker than the last one Obadiah had seen—refined. The wiring had been tucked away. The casing was contoured, clean, the pulse core glowing with a faint, steady blue-white hum. Tony lifted it carefully, like it meant something more than just metal.
"I've managed to get some of the original kinks out of the tech," Tony said as he slid it onto his arm. "No more feedback loops. Improved heat dissipation. Battery life's still trash, but that's part of the fun."
Obadiah just stared.
"I think it's ready for trials," Tony added. Then he turned, already walking toward the private elevator. "Come on."
"Tony…" Obadiah started.
But the look in his eyes stopped him. It was drive.
Obadiah didn't want to follow. He knew that feeling in his gut. But he stepped forward anyway.
The elevator dropped them twenty floors in silence.
The doors opened to a lab that could've doubled as a miniature city. A cathedral of circuitry and glass and hydraulic scaffolding. Massive screens blinked to life as they entered. A bank of robotic arms clicked into standby. The air smelled faintly of ozone and metal shavings.
Tony walked straight to the center of the space, where the framework of an exo-suit hung from a reinforced rig—suspended like some mechanical ribcage waiting for flesh. It wasn't armor in the traditional sense. Not yet. Just a skeletal frame of reinforced alloy, grafted with muscle-threaded wiring and pressure sensors. But in the center of the chest plate, embedded with deliberate reverence, was the arc reactor.
Tony stepped into it without hesitation. The frame adjusted, arms whirring to life as they clicked into place around his limbs. The repulsor linked to the system with a satisfying chirp, syncing instantly. The light in the arc reactor pulsed brighter in response.
He exhaled slowly.
"JARVIS," Tony said. "Begin stabilization protocols."
"Affirmative, sir. Initiating phase one."
The suit shifted, responding to his posture, syncing with each breath.
Obadiah took a step forward, voice low.
"You put the arc reactor in your chest rig?"
Tony nodded.
"It's the cleanest power solution I've found. Self-sustaining. Scalable. Portable."
"And dangerous."
Tony didn't flinch.
"It's the future."
He raised his hand. The repulsor flared like a sun caged in his palm.
Obadiah wasn't looking at the light. He was looking at the man behind it. And for the first time, he couldn't tell which was wearing the other.
Tony stepped forward, the exo-suit adjusting fluidly with each movement. The servo motors responded like extensions of his own muscles, legs moving without resistance, weight distributing naturally across the reinforced floor plates.
Ahead of him stood a cluster of mannequin targets—lined up in staggered formation, each one human-sized, armored with various types of ballistic plating. They'd clearly been set up for this moment. Some were spray-painted with crudely drawn frowny faces. One wore a Mets cap.
Obadiah didn't move as Tony raised his arm.
"You sure this is safe?" he muttered.
"Define safe," Tony muttered.
And then, with a small grin…
FWHRRMMM.
The repulsor ignited with a piercing blast of blue energy, punching clean through the first mannequin's chest. It dropped instantly, plastic torso sizzling with a charred black ring dead-center. Another shot followed—then another. One by one, the mannequins fell, scorched at the point of impact, smoking slightly as they hit the floor in a heap of melted plastic and slumped limbs.
Tony whooped.
"Yes!" he shouted, nearly stumbling from excitement as the rig compensated. He turned toward Obadiah, grinning wide. "Did you see that? Dead center! All of them! I knew it was ready!"
Tony was still grinning as the last target crumpled with a satisfying thunk. The smell of scorched plastic hung in the air, sweet and acrid, like the ghost of victory on the tongue.
He flexed his fingers again, watching the repulsor fade from blinding to dim, still humming with restrained energy. His heart was racing. His mind buzzing. He turned on his heel, practically electric.
"Did you see that? Obie, come on—tell me that wasn't incredible."
Obadiah… wasn't smiling.
He stood stiff at the lab's edge, arms crossed, jaw tight.
Tony's smile faltered, his eyes scanning Obadiah's face like he'd missed something.
"What?" he said, brow furrowing. "I thought you'd be happy about this."
The echo of his own voice hung in the lab, bouncing back empty.
"I am happy, Tony…" Obadiah's voice was careful. He ran a hand down his face, then let it rest against the back of his neck. His fingers lingered there, like the weight of the moment had settled right between his shoulders. "But I need to know… does Fisk know about this?"
Tony blinked.
"What?"
"This." Obadiah motioned to the exo-suit. "The gear Fisk wants—is it involving this? This level of firepower?"
"No," Tony said immediately. "Different scope. Different budget. This is for us."
Obadiah's frown deepened, but before he could push, Tony stepped forward, voice gaining momentum like a train cresting a hill.
"But we could end up showing this off," he added, excitement bleeding back in. "At the expo in a few months. Just imagine it, Obie—'Stark/Stane Industries Presents: The Future of Integrated Defense.' You and me standing on that stage, suit fully functional, running a live demo. Press losing their minds."
His voice lifted with that same spark.
"A legitimate prototype. We'd dominate the headlines. We'd bury every competitor."
But Obadiah still wasn't smiling.
He was watching the suit—and the man in it—like he'd just seen a fault line form beneath their feet.
"Why would you want to market this as a weapon?" Obadiah asked, his voice low and tight.
Tony scoffed.
"Obie, did you not just hear me? It's for defense. Not a weapon."
Obadiah shook his head.
"You and I both know that's a marketing line. The greatest defense is a good offense, and this? This would be a hell of an offense in the wrong hands."
Tony stepped forward, face tightening.
"This can help people." He gestured to the gauntlet. Then to the arc reactor. "The arc reactor could power exo-limbs. Give mobility back. Dignity. No more hauling tanks and dragging wires through disaster zones. This isn't about combat. This is about giving people a future."
His voice caught—not yelling, but urgent.
"This is a second chance."
Obadiah looked at the suit, then the charred mannequins—one of which still twitched faintly, like it had died reaching.
"You say that now," he said softly. "But upstairs, you made it sound like you were doing this for yourself."
Tony turned, a flicker of defiance already rising behind his eyes.
"I'm doing this to make my mark on the world, Obie. That's what everyone wants. To matter. To be remembered."
Obadiah took a step closer, his expression folding in on itself, halfway between concern and disbelief.
"Is that really the way you see this?"
"How else am I supposed to see it?" Tony asked. "Look at what we're building—"
Obadiah looked at the mannequins again, at the smoke still trailing up the lab walls. "You're creating a mobile weapon of mass destruction. That's what I'm seeing."
Tony's eyes widened, face flushing with disbelief.
"Excuse me?" he said, voice cracking slightly. "I would never—"
"Bullshit!" Obadiah roared, his temper boiling over. "We sell weapons. That's what Stark Industries was before I stepped in to help carry your father's work forward. We were the world's largest arms dealer! You want to talk legacy? This is our legacy!"
He stormed forward, grabbing Tony's wrist and yanking it up between them, forcing the repulsor into view.
"This isn't hope. It's a palm-mounted energy cannon."
Tony jerked his arm back.
"You don't get it, Obie. You never did. My father wanted to protect the world. I'm just the one willing to make sure it actually happens."
They stood in silence for a moment, only the arc reactor pulsing between them.
"I want you to look me in the eye," he said, voice steady but low, like someone bracing for a truth he already knew. "And tell me you don't see this for what it really is."
Tony stood still, jaw tight, teeth grinding behind a closed mouth. His eyes were glassy with heat—somewhere between fury and shame.
Obadiah softened—just a little.
"Tony…" he said, quieter now. "If you meant a single word about this being used to help people… you'd know that this isn't the way."
Tony's eyes finally flicked up, staring hard. But there was something tired in them now. Like a storm pulling back out to sea.
"Then what is?" he said, and it wasn't defiant this time. It was honest and bitter. "Tell me, Obie. What is the way? Because all I ever hear is what I shouldn't do. What I can't build. What line I'm crossing. But no one ever tells me where the line is."
Tony walked slowly back to his workstation, boots echoing dully across the lab floor. The hum of the arc reactor was louder now, more noticeable in the quiet—like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
He reached the console and pressed both hands flat against the edge, head bowed slightly. For a moment, he didn't say anything.
Then, quietly—almost to himself:
"I just want to help."
His fingers curled against the metal, his voice tightening with it.
"War is how we advance our technology… always has been. We innovate when we're scared. When we're forced to. The breakthroughs we've made in war—they help people back home."
He looked up at the monitors.
"Why should this be any different? The end justifies the means, right?"
His voice was empty now—hollow.
"It's not that I disagree with you," Obadiah sighed, fatigue in every word. "We're partners, Tony. If you'd told me all of this… if you hadn't left me in the dark, working backroom deals with Fisk, building this behind my back… we wouldn't be standing here like this."
Tony turned slowly.
"I didn't agree to anything with him," he said flatly. "I told him I would discuss it with you."
Obadiah blinked.
"You did?"
"Of course I did. What do you take me for?"
Obadiah's mouth opened, but he didn't have an answer. Not one that didn't sound worse out loud.
"Why didn't you just say that?" he asked instead.
Tony shrugged, the movement stiff with restrained annoyance.
"Well, I can't say that you gave me the chance. You walked in here already sure I'd betrayed you."
He looked up, voice steady but quiet. "Like I said… everything I do is because I want a better future. Fisk might not be the best man around. But he's a lot better than the alternatives right now. If someone's going to shape the tech we've built… better it be us than someone who doesn't care where it lands."
He paused. Then added, with a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes:
"But I would never—ever—go behind your back."
Obadiah studied him. Long enough that it almost felt like silence had won. But Tony shifted again, gesturing toward the exo-suit.
"As for keeping you in the dark about this?" he said, voice lighter now, almost hopeful. "I was… trying to surprise you."
Obadiah blinked.
"Surprise me?"
"You were there from the beginning," Tony continued, stepping closer. "I figured if I could get a stable prototype mocked up… something real… you'd be excited. But now you're looking at me like I'm some kind of madman waiting to snap."
Obadiah's mouth pressed into a thin line. He didn't speak for a second. Just exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw like he could smooth the worry out of his face by force.
"I'm looking at you like someone I care about," he said finally, "-who's walking too close to a cliff."
He glanced toward the suit again, then back to Tony.
"You're brilliant, kid. You always have been. But brilliance without brakes?" He tapped a finger against his temple. "That's how we lose control."
Tony didn't flinch, but the lines around his eyes tightened.
"I don't think you're a madman, Tony. I think you're trying to outrun a ghost. Maybe more than one."
"I told you already—" Tony began, his voice rising.
"I know, I know…" Obadiah cut in, holding up a hand. "You just want to help. But kid, you're not helping your case. You've been different since that attack in Afghanistan."
Tony went still.
The breath left him sharp, like he hadn't realized he'd been holding it.
"Obie," he said after a moment, his voice lower now. "The people that tried to take me… I was powerless to stop them."
He paused, swallowing.
"I'd never felt that kind of helplessness before."
"So that's why you want to finish the project? Because you felt hopeless?" Obadiah asked. It came out with more bite than he meant. A snap of disbelief dressed up as concern.
Tony's head turned, slowly.
"Careful," he said, too calm. "That sounded a little like mockery."
"I didn't mean it like that," Obadiah said quickly. "I just—God, Tony, you're building a damn war machine because you had a panic attack in a desert—"
Tony stepped forward, suddenly.
"No," he snapped. "I'm building a solution. Because the people who tried to take me—they're still out there. And you know what scares me more than being captured again? Letting them do it to someone else. Letting them win."
"Tony," Obadiah said, his voice low now. "You're not thinking straight."
"I'm thinking clearly for the first time in my life!"
Tony slammed his hand against the table.
"You don't get it," he said, turning back. "I've seen what they're capable of. I've seen what happens when we wait."
Obadiah stepped forward, calmer than he felt.
"You're making yourself a weapon."
Tony's mouth twisted.
"I'm making myself a shield."
"For who?" Obadiah shot back. "The city? The company? Or is it just so you can look in the mirror and not feel like a failure?"
That hit harder than either of them expected.
Tony didn't answer.
"You can't carry the weight of the world just to erase your guilt, Tony."
Tony stepped up to him, chest nearly touching—the hum of the arc reactor loud now in the silence between them.
"You think this is about guilt?"
"I think you're scared. And you don't know what to do with it."
Tony's fist twitched.
"You know what I see?" he said, voice cold now. "I see someone who stopped believing. You and Dad. When it got hard, you walked away."
"Because we knew how dangerous it could be," Obadiah snapped. "Damn it, Tony—this isn't what he wanted."
Tony's voice was low, bitter.
"Dad's not here to say otherwise."
"He trusted me to keep you from doing something reckless."
"Then maybe you should've done a better job."
The heat from the repulsor surged. A flicker of unstable energy hissed in the air.
The slightest twitch of his hand and—
FWHRRMMM.
The blast hit Obadiah square in the chest. He was sent flying backward, his body crashing through the high-rise window with a spray of safety glass and sunlit dust. For a fraction of a second, Tony saw the look on his face. It wasn't shock, anger, or anything that Tony could have handled in the moment. All he saw was betrayal.
And then he was gone.
Tony couldn't move. The sound of the repulsor faded in his ears, replaced only by the rush of blood and disbelief. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, the arc reactor's hum now sickeningly loud in the hollow room.
"No," he whispered.
He stumbled forward. Shards of glass crunched beneath his bare feet. Wind tore through the breach in the building.
"Obie—" His voice cracked.
Far, far below, sirens were already starting to stir.
He looked out through the shattered window, and for the first time since Afghanistan, he didn't feel powerful. He felt empty.
Shaking, he stripped off the exo-suit and let it fall to the floor.
Standing at the edge, alone, he whispered:
"I-I…"
The city breathed beneath him. Wind rushed through the broken window. Sirens wailed somewhere far away, still blind to what had happened here. The hum of the arc reactor was the only thing steady.
Behind him, the lab lights dimmed slightly, sensors falling into passive standby.
Then:
"Sir?" JARVIS's voice was soft.
But Tony didn't answer.
He didn't even hear him.