On the brightly lit streets of downtown New York, a metallic roar sliced through the night air, as if the city itself had found its anthem.
A black Mustang Boss 429, polished to the point of reflecting neon signs like a mirror, sped through the avenues with predatory elegance. The growl of its engine reverberated off the glass towers, drawing the eyes of pedestrians, fellow drivers, and even a few police officers—torn between writing a ticket or simply admiring the beast devouring the asphalt.
From the outside, the traffic seemed like little more than background noise. Ordinary cars were left behind one after another, as if frozen in time. The Mustang responded to his slightest touch with the raw snarl of a caged predator—tamed but never fully broken. That sound alone was enough to ignite adrenaline in any lover of speed.
And yet, Arthur's demeanor betrayed none of that rush. His calm, almost bored gaze suggested this was nothing more than a quiet drive down an empty country road—rather than a reckless sprint through Manhattan's chaotic traffic.
He was impeccably dressed in a black tailored suit that highlighted every line of his physique. Ever since receiving the mysterious "character card," his body had undergone a transformation. Muscles sculpted in perfect proportion, broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and a posture that radiated both discipline and power. The suit didn't restrain him; it amplified him, lending him an air of aristocratic authority.
Arthur eased the car to a stop in front of the most luxurious hotel in the district. No horn, no hesitation—two valets rushed forward, their eyes widening at the sight of the car and its driver. Without sparing them a glance, he handed over the keys, checked the watch on his wrist, and murmured to himself:
"Exactly seven o'clock. British punctuality."
He stepped through the revolving doors with steady, unhurried strides. The marble floor gleamed beneath the crystal chandeliers, reflecting his silhouette like that of a modern prince. In the elevator, he pressed the button for the top floor. Moments later, the doors opened onto the heart of the party.
It was the kind of reception only Tony Stark could host: extravagant, overflowing with sophistication, attended by the highest echelons of American society. Senators, generals, CEOs, Hollywood stars, and models mingled beneath chandeliers worth more than most houses. For the women, Tony had set two simple rules: young and beautiful. And tonight, the rulebook had clearly been followed.
Arthur handed his invitation to the security guard, who gave a respectful nod and stepped aside. Without hesitation, Arthur picked up a glass of wine from a passing tray and moved toward the window overlooking the glowing city skyline. Even the simple act of raising the glass under the shimmer of the city lights was enough to draw attention.
And where there is attention, footsteps soon follow. Perfumed women in glittering gowns, with smiles as polished as their jewelry, began drifting toward him. They weren't drawn only by his sharp, symmetrical features, but by the aura he exuded—the quiet magnetism of mystery. Within minutes, Arthur had become the unchallenged center of gravity.
He entertained them politely but never too deeply, his deep, steady voice flowing seamlessly with the refined atmosphere. Soon, seven or eight women formed a circle around him, each vying for just a fraction more of his focus.
From across the room, Tony Stark observed the scene with a smirk. Leaning against the bar where Happy had been, he muttered:
"That guy's got the exact same vibe I had a few years back. Wanna bet who he takes home tonight? The C-plus on his right or the long legs on his left?"
Tony narrowed his eyes, vaguely recognizing both women.
"To be honest, I think I've seen those two before. Happy, you—"
But when he turned, Happy was gone. In his place stood Pepper Potts, radiant in a midnight-blue gown that accentuated her natural elegance.
Tony lowered his sunglasses, feigning disbelief.
"Wow. That's… perfect. That dress looks incredible on you, Pepper. You look absolutely stunning tonight."
She arched an eyebrow, her smile touched with irony.
"Really? Because I don't seem to measure up to the women gathered around Mr. Morgan."
Tony blinked, realizing too late that she'd overheard his earlier remarks.
"No, no, no! You've got it all wrong. They're not even close to you. I mean it, Pepper."
"Of course. After all, most of them have only been with you once."
"Hey! That's slander. I mean… possibly true, but irrelevant." He quickly shifted the topic. "You called him Mr. Morgan, didn't you? Who is he, anyway? The guy looks even more popular than I ever was."
"Arthur Morgan," Pepper replied evenly. "One of the most famous writers alive. He wrote Terminator—you know, the book you're obsessed with."
Tony's brows shot up. "No way…"
"He's also a major shareholder in Stark Industries. With the recent surge in our stock, he could soon become one of the richest men in the country."
"And who's number one?"
Pepper smiled knowingly. "You, of course."
"As expected." Tony tilted his chin proudly, but his eyes lingered on Arthur. He vividly remembered reading The Terminator before his accident—the grim world of machines and AI had, in truth, been part of the inspiration behind the very first Iron Man suit, the Mark I.
But Arthur looked… different. Completely different from what Tony recalled. His once-blonde hair now carried a silvery sheen. His eyes seemed sharper, constantly scanning the room with predatory focus.
'Perhaps', Tony thought, 'it was time to meet the man behind it all.'
"Let's go. I want to talk to him."
Pepper blinked, astonished. Tony Stark initiating a conversation with another man—without direct business attached? Unheard of.
Meanwhile, Happy had already reached Arthur. The circle of women didn't deter him. Clutching a book to his chest, his eyes sparkled with the eagerness of a child meeting his hero.
"Hello, Mr. Morgan! My name is Harold, but everyone calls me Happy. I'm a huge fan of your work."
Arthur recognized him instantly—the loyal driver and bodyguard of Tony Stark. With a faint smile, he gestured to the women around him.
"These ladies are fans too."
The group giggled in agreement. One of them—the very same Tony had dubbed "C-plus"—leaned closer, slipping her arm around Arthur's.
Happy flushed but soldiered on. He pulled out a pristine copy of The Lord of the Rings and held it out with trembling hands.
"Mr. Morgan, would you… sign this for me?"
Arthur accepted the book, drew a pen from his inner pocket, and wrote in steady strokes:
"To my greatest fan… Happy. —Arthur Morgan."
He handed it back with a discreet smile and lifted his glass in a subtle toast. Happy nearly burst with joy.
At that moment, Tony's voice cut through the chatter:
"Sorry, ladies, but I'm a fan of this writer too."
The message was clear. Competing with Tony Stark was pointless, and one by one the women drifted away.
Arthur shot Tony a blank look. This guy really just scared off my fans…
Pepper stepped forward smoothly.
"Mr. Morgan, a pleasure to finally meet you in person. I'm Virginia Potts—the one who reached out earlier. This is Anthony Stark, and I assume Happy has already introduced himself."
Happy scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Hehe…"
Arthur raised his glass, his smile faint but loaded with meaning.
"Hello, Iron Man."
---
(End of chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."
[Total edition so far - 09/04]