After wrapping up the not-so-small Obadiah problem,
Henry felt as if he'd just finished a grueling final exam. The process was exhausting, but the relief afterward made his whole body relax.
He was in no rush to go home.
Why hurry back to the cold bits and gadgets of the laboratory, just to listen to Tony brag about some new scheme for changing the world?
No, that could wait.
For now, he had just one desire—to revel in his newfound freedom.
So, for several hours, a fearless black phantom swept over the California night sky.
He was like a teenager with the keys to a Ferrari, treating the whole state as his personal racetrack.
From Los Angeles to San Francisco, Henry raced the clouds above the Golden Gate Bridge.
He swooped down Hollywood Hill, passing so close to the big white letters that startled tourists thought they'd filmed a UFO.
He even flew east to Las Vegas, looping above its glittering casinos, playfully listening in for jackpot bells on the slots.
"Honestly, Jarvis, this is incredible!" Henry spun a wild arc above the desert.
"I used to think flying private was luxurious, but compared to this, it's just a tractor on potholes. Only thing missing is a stewardess and a bottle of champagne."
"Sir, I must remind you, you've flown low over a restricted military zone four times," came Jarvis's gentle reminder.
"NORAD's radars have registered your flight. F-22 Raptors have been scrambled—estimated time to intercept: two minutes, fifteen seconds."
"F22s? Now that's fun." Henry was more excited, not nervous.
"Let's see who's faster—their Raptors, or me: California's Superman. Cue 'Highway to Hell,' Jarvis."
As the music blasted, Henry accelerated with a wave of sonic booms, leaving fighter jets far behind—a trail of fading signals on radar.
He tore through the sky like a mischief-filled kid, pouring out his energy under the stars.
The fun lasted until Tony called.
"Sir, Mr. Tony is calling," Jarvis announced.
"Patch him in," Henry replied, pausing for a spinning roll as he hovered in the clouds.
"Let me guess, brother—you want to brag about your retirement party, or complain I stole the spotlight again?"
Tony's voice broke through, with thumping music and laughter echoing in the background.
"Hey, little lunatic, had enough flying? Jarvis sent me every minute of your illegal air show. Good work—at least you didn't crash. And I saved the F-22 eyebrow video—about to upload it as 'My Brother Is a Psychopath.'"
Henry smirked.
"What's up, Tony? If you're calling for me to pick up beer and chips, forget it—my hourly rate's higher than any of your Hollywood pals."
"Of course not." Tony laughed.
"I'm calling because the party's already started: Sunset Boulevard, big villa, infinity pool, two helipads. Best DJ, gorgeous girls, endless champagne.
And—Jarvis cracked the serum recipe. My own super-soldier batch is almost ready. You're the test subject we need—come quick, or there'll be nothing but empty bottles left."
Henry raised an eyebrow.
"Party? Now? Shouldn't we do a press conference or parade first, get showered in hero worship?"
"Oh, let Pepper handle that," Tony said, dismissing it.
"We're Starks. We celebrate now—victory is ours to enjoy. Get moving, the Victoria's Secret Angels are dying to meet their Black Knight!"
"Alright—you win," Henry sighed.
"Tell them to look sharp. I'm coming."
The line disconnected.
"Take me home, Jarvis."
This time, Henry skipped the fancy tricks; he aimed straight for the villa, pushing speed to the max.
He became a streak of black lightning slicing through the night, headed for Stark's kingdom.
Los Angeles, Sunset Boulevard—perched on the mountain, Stark's modern villa burned bright.
The estate was transformed into pure party: deafening electronic beats, the mountain shaking, pool crammed with bikini-clad beauties, neon flashing on water and skin.
A paradise—money, wine, women, and tech everywhere.
Suddenly, a thunderous sonic boom overrode the music.
The entire crowd stopped, gazing upward in awe.
Music faded.
Under the moon, a black figure slower than a meteor, yet more intense, descended toward the center of the party.
Pure black armor gleamed, cloak fluttering—moonlight traced a silver outline, giving the figure an air both mysterious and overwhelmingly powerful.
For a moment, every guest held their breath, the scene like something out of a sci-fi dream.
"Wow."
Tony, arms crossed poolside, couldn't help grinning and showing off to two blondes beside him.
"Ladies—look who showed. My flying, fashionably late brother, Henry Stark. And that, uh, surprisingly cool black armor."
He added in a stage whisper, "Not a fan of this gentle landing next time—should drop from orbit for maximum effect."
The blondes burst out laughing, shattering the stunned silence.
Henry stepped onto the center platform above the pool, feeling the heat of a hundred gazes.
He grinned.
This was his element—the heart of the world.
"Jarvis, strip down," he whispered.
"Yes, sir."
With precise clicks, the armor segmented, folded, shrank—arms, chest, legs detaching, reuniting into a compact black suitcase at his feet.
Henry stepped out in a sleek black suit tailored to perfection, his athletic build obvious, center stage in every sense