The lab was quiet, except for the soft hum of machinery and the faint, steady thrum of the arc reactor in my chest.
Yesterday, I'd have described this place as a billionaire's toy shop. Today… it felt more like a war room.
I sat at the workbench, staring at blueprints that weren't on paper but in my head. The knowledge the system had dumped into me hadn't faded overnight — it was there, clear, perfect, ready to use.
I raised a pen, sketching without thinking. The lines flowed into repulsor diagrams, miniature arc reactor designs, stabilizer calculations. My hand moved like it belonged to someone else.
For a moment, I was lost in it.
This wasn't a game.
This wasn't pretend.
If Obadiah Stane was still alive… then the Iron Monger was inevitable. If Stane got his hands on Stark tech, people would die.
And if I wasn't ready… I'd be one of them.
The thought chilled me more than I wanted to admit.
---
I forced myself up, walking across the lab. The Mark I loomed like a monument — crude, ugly, but alive with meaning. It wasn't just a suit. It was a coffin Stark had crawled out of, a symbol of his rebirth.
I reached out, my fingers brushing against its metal surface.
Cold. Heavy. Real.
"Not a movie," I whispered. "Not anymore."
---
Later, I stood at the massive window overlooking the Pacific. Waves rolled endlessly against the shore, indifferent to my crisis. Somewhere out there, my friends — Sam, Eddie, Priya — didn't exist. Not here. Maybe not anywhere.
All I had was Tony Stark's life.
And Tony Stark's death sentence.
Because I knew what was coming.
The suits. The Avengers. The Snap.
I shut my eyes, the memories of Endgame flashing like a slideshow I couldn't stop. Tony raising his hand. The snap. The look on his face.
And then silence.
I gripped the railing until my knuckles went white.
The system chimed softly.
[REMINDER: YOU ARE IRON MAN.]
I swallowed hard. "Yeah… I know."
The sketches were done before I realized I'd even started. Equations bled into schematics, schematics into miniature reactor layouts, every piece clicking into place with terrifying clarity.
This was Tony Stark's brain at work — in my skull.
I set the pen down, flexing my hand. "This isn't me," I muttered. "I barely passed college algebra. And now I'm… what, inventing clean energy on the back of a napkin?"
"Not a napkin," Pepper's voice said gently.
I looked up. She stood in the doorway, clipboard hugged to her chest, her expression caught between patience and exhaustion.
"You've been in here all morning," she said. "I thought you might need water. Or food. Or… someone to remind you to eat food that isn't whiskey."
She set a tray down on the bench — water, sandwich, an apple.
"Thanks," I said, my throat dry.
Her eyes flicked to the sketches. "What's that?"
I hesitated. "Just… something I'm working on."
She walked closer, heels clicking against the lab floor. Her gaze lingered on the reactor sketches, the repulsor diagrams. "Tony… I don't understand half of this, but I can tell it's important."
The weight of her trust landed like a stone in my chest.
Pepper didn't know. Couldn't know. She just believed.
"I'll need help," I said quietly. "Cutting parts, sourcing materials. Can you—"
"You don't even have to ask," she said, without hesitation. "That's what I'm here for."
For a moment, her sincerity threatened to undo me. I wanted to tell her everything — that I wasn't Tony, that I didn't deserve her loyalty, that I was fumbling my way through borrowed genius.
But her ears wouldn't hear it.
So I just nodded.
---
Hours passed in the lab. The clatter of tools, the whir of machinery, Pepper's steady presence as she handed me parts or double-checked measurements. It wasn't glamorous — just long, meticulous work.
But something inside me… settled.
It was strange. Terrifying. Comforting.
As though the act of building wasn't just for survival — but for sanity.
Piece by piece, the skeleton of the Mark II began to take shape on the table.
Not a weapon.
Not a toy.
A promise.
---
Two days later, I was in a suit — not armor, but an actual suit — standing outside Stark Industries headquarters. Cameras flashed like lightning. Microphones shoved toward me like spears.
Questions flew.
"Mr. Stark, why shut down the weapons division?"
"Is this a response to your kidnapping?"
"What's next for Stark Industries?"
Their voices blended into static. I smiled faintly — the Stark smile, practiced and perfect — but inside, my stomach was lead.
This was the life Becker would have once mocked online. Lavish, untouchable, drowning in attention.
And it would've gotten to my head.
If I didn't already know how short-lived it all was.
I glanced at Pepper standing off to the side, calm under the chaos, and forced myself to answer questions, shaking hands, making empty promises.
But the entire time, one thought burned through me:
They're all looking at me like I'm invincible.
But I know I'm not.
I know what's coming.
And I can't run anymore.
---
That night, I lay in Stark's bed staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The sarcasm, the panic, the jokes… they all felt small now. Like armor I'd been hiding behind.
But armor only works if you wear it.
And sooner or later… I was going to have to put it on.
---
To be continued...