The scene shifted to the boardroom of Stark Industries.
A makeshift board, organized by Pepper, voted unanimously to permanently remove Obadiah Stane from all positions.
His former allies now scrambled to distance themselves, fearing implication.
The view changed again: shell companies under Obadiah's name were sealed, his secret Swiss bank accounts frozen, and his famous paintings, antiques, and luxury cars earmarked for auction by authorities.
"You have nothing now," Henry declared.
"No, that's not right. You still have debts you'll never repay, and the label 'traitor' you'll never shake. Congratulations: you've gone from life's big winner to a walking negative asset."
Obadiah was silent, collapsing to the floor with empty, lifeless eyes—like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Don't be impatient—one last scene remains." Henry stood and loomed over him.
"The finale. My favorite way to make headlines, though I rarely like the method."
Major news network specials began playing on the holographic walls:
"Once business titan, Howard Stark's intimate friend, and Tony Stark's godfather, Obadiah Stane was exposed today as a spy within Stark Industries for decades…"
"Not only did he mastermind the world-shocking Stark brothers' kidnapping, he long supplied weapons to the Ten Rings terrorist organization—causing thousands of civilian deaths."
"Historians now call Obadiah Stane's betrayal the most shameful treason in American history since Benedict Arnold. His name will forever remain nailed to the pillar of historical shame!"
His former charities scrubbed his name from donor lists.
His alma mater revoked his alumni honors and announced plans to demolish the campus building bearing his name.
A lifetime of achievements and glory were denied in an instant, his very name now a mark of scorn.
"How about it, Obie?" Henry's words landed like the last straw.
"Are you satisfied with your personalized retirement party? Is it grand enough for you?"
Obadiah stared at the screens in horror, watching all he'd built vanish—his name turned foul. At last, a small ripple flickered in his otherwise blank expression. It was hopeless resignation.
He was finished.
His life, family, career, reputation—completely gone.
"Good, it seems you've accepted reality." Henry nodded.
He moved behind Obadiah and encircled his massive neck with powerful hands.
"To be honest, I can't stand people like you," Henry said easily, summarizing the farce.
"Given the world, but never satisfied. Greed an endless pit—always devouring, never filled."
He leaned in close and delivered his last words:
"The party's over, Uncle Obie. Sweet dreams."
Crack!
The sharp snap of bone cut through the fading symphony.
Obadiah's body spasmed, then went limp, his head tilting at an unnatural angle. Life faded from him completely.
Henry released the corpse, regarding it coldly. The smile vanished from his face, replaced by a deep calm.
He flexed his hands—those that had just ended a life—a flash of complex emotion in his eyes.
He felt neither regret nor fear; just the strange gravity of so directly holding another's fate for the first time.
"Jarvis," he said softly.
"Yes, sir?"
"Erase every trace—entry, exit, surveillance. Then send the official report: Obadiah Stane died of a heart attack during interrogation, unable to face the enormity of his crimes."
"Yes, sir."
Henry cast one last look at the body, then strode from the room of sin and death.
Outside, it was deep night—the white moonlight shining down, yet leaving him untouched by its chill.
He drew a deep breath of cold, clean air in front of the police station, stretching as his joints cracked in satisfying chorus.
"Honestly, Jarvis. I'll admit—taking out the trash isn't technical work, but it's oddly satisfying. Do you think our servers run faster now?"
"Sir, there is no measurable change to server speed," Jarvis replied through Henry's helmet.
"However, based on my emotional analysis, your happiness index has reached 92.7%—the highest in two weeks."
"Oh, don't take it so literally." Henry grinned and rolled his wrists and ankles.
"It's a soul-speed. A feeling of lightness after a heavy burden. Never mind—talking to you about this is like talking to a rock."
He gazed up at the bright moon, its rays glinting off his black armor. Every cell in his body felt alive with new energy.
He'd grown used to flying, to the godlike freedom above the world's weight. But each takeoff still brought a joy from deep within.
"With the old bald guy gone, Tony's safe for now," Henry smiled.
"Time to get back to business."
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Simple: see what my 'trial Superman mode' can really do." Excitement grew in his voice.
"Come on, Jarvis—record everything. I want to know how fast I can go!"
"All preparations complete. GPS is locked, all sensors are active and tracking real-time data."
"Excellent!"
Henry took a deep breath, then unleashed all his power.
He slowly floated upward.
Bang!
The air beneath him compressed with a dull boom and exploded out into a ring of white sonic pressure, sweeping dust and debris aside.
In an instant, Henry shot straight up—a black meteor streaking into the night, vanishing toward the stars above.