Tony sat in his chair for a while, glass in hand, letting the silence wrap around him. Outside the window, the city pulsed and shimmered, but inside, everything was still. No suits flying. No explosions. Just space to think.
His gaze shifted to the workbench in the corner—the Mark II armor, half-assembled, chrome plating gleaming under soft lights.
He stood up, walked over, and ran a hand along the chestplate.
"Still got a lot to fix," he muttered.
A soft beep from his tablet snapped his attention. He picked it up—it was a message from Alex.
[Alex]: "Appreciate everything today. I'll follow up with the architects tomorrow. Let me know when the arc core arrives."
Tony tapped out a quick reply.
[Tony]: "No problem. Should be there in two days. If you need help before then, Pepper or Happy can back you up. I'll be tied up for a bit."
He hit send, set the tablet down, and exhaled.
The next few days were already stacked—meetings with the board, pressure from the Department of Defense, media follow-ups.
But he cleared it all fro this Mark-II.
***
Meanwhile – Alex's Apartment, Lower Manhattan
Alex set his phone aside after reading Tony's message and stood by the window, looking out at the distant skyline. In the distance, faint red lights blinked where drones patrolled construction zones. Somewhere out there was the empty lot that would soon become something much more.
He made a note on his tablet, then looked at the clock. Midnight.
Maria had gone home hours ago. The clinic was closed. His desk was stacked with paperwork from the city planning office, hospital legal forms, medical supply lists, and floor plans still needing review.
He didn't mind.
This was the work he had always wanted—not patching people up after they were broken, but building a place that might prevent them from breaking in the first place.
He walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, and sipped it quietly.
Tomorrow, he'd check in with the city inspectors. Meet the lead architect. Approve the initial medical equipment order. And somewhere in between, maybe, he'd take a short nap.
Alex turned out the lights, walked back to his room, and finally let himself rest.
***
Afghanistan – Distant Mountains, Ten Rings Territory
A dry, blistering wind swept over the jagged rocks and burned-out remnants of what was once a thriving Ten Rings encampment. The soot-stained ruins, charred tents, and twisted wreckage still bore the violent scars of Tony Stark's escape just weeks ago. Most of the mercenaries who had survived that day had vanished into the wind.
But not all of them.
Nestled in the shadow of the canyon, the low hum of approaching rotors echoed through the ravine. A sleek black transport helicopter descended with precision, its rotors kicking up clouds of sand and grit. Emblazoned subtly on the fuselage: Stark Industries.
As the aircraft touched down, the side door slid open with a hydraulic hiss.
Out stepped Obadiah Stane.
Bald. Imposing. Calm despite the scorching heat. He wore a dark tailored suit that contrasted harshly with the desert around him. Flanked by a small squad of tactical security agents clad in matte-black gear, Obadiah walked forward slowly, his gaze scanning the surroundings like a man walking through an unpleasant memory.
Waiting for him near the center of the ruined camp stood Raza, the surviving leader of the Ten Rings cell responsible for Tony Stark's capture. His clothing was ceremonial, though sun-bleached and battle-worn. His features were hardened—one side of his face marked by a jagged scar—but his posture was tense, wary.
"You brought armed men," Raza said, eyeing the guards with measured suspicion. "I didn't call you here for a war. I expected a conversation."
Obadiah gave him a cold, courteous smile. "Then stop wasting my time and get to the point. Why am I here?"
Without another word, Raza motioned to one of his men, who opened a reinforced crate resting nearby. Inside, resting atop padded compartments, were the scorched and bent remains of Tony Stark's Mark I armor—twisted metal plates, blackened joints, and fragmented wiring, but unmistakably the prototype of something revolutionary.
Raza gestured toward the contents with a sharp nod. "This... this is what he built. A crude exoskeleton, yes, but powerful enough to cut through my men and break out of our strongest hold. We had him. And then... he turned your weapons against us."
Obadiah stepped closer to the crate and studied the wreckage. His eyes narrowed, intrigued. He reached in, lifting a charred gauntlet piece with his gloved hand, observing its makeshift craftsmanship.
"Fascinating…" he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "He built all this... in a cave."
There was a moment of silence. A flicker of something unreadable passed through Obadiah's expression.
Then, his voice turned ice-cold.
"Kill them all."
Raza blinked. "What?"
But the command had already been given.
Before anyone could react, the air erupted with the quiet pops of suppressed gunfire. Obadiah's guards moved with surgical precision, taking out the surrounding Ten Rings mercenaries one by one. Bodies dropped to the sand with soft thuds, their weapons never drawn.
Raza reached for his sidearm, a surge of panic rising—but Obadiah was already prepared. He lifted a small, silver device and activated it. A piercing, high-frequency pulse burst from the emitter, targeting Raza alone.
The sound slammed into him like a hammer to the skull. Raza screamed, clutching his head as blood began to trickle from his nose and ears. He fell to his knees, trembling.
Obadiah stepped closer, crouching beside him with a steady, cold presence.
"You had one job," Obadiah said quietly, his voice stripped of emotion. "You were supposed to kill Tony Stark."
Raza gasped, still choking from the aftershock of the sonic device, blood leaking from his nose, pain etched into every line of his face.
"Yet you captured him," Obadiah continued coldly, leveling a pistol at Raza's head, "and forced him to build more weapons."
He thumbed the hammer back slowly.
"But I suppose I should thank you," he added with a cruel smile. "You gave me something far more valuable."
He pulled the trigger.
The shot rang out, sharp and final.
Raza's body collapsed to the sand, unmoving—his ambitions and betrayal ending in silence.
Obadiah lowered the weapon without a flicker of remorse.
*******
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