Chapter 9: Thief in the Night
The mansion's marble floor was cold beneath Adam's bare feet. He paced restlessly, the low drone of the Pacific a monotonous, endless sound that did little to calm his nerves. His Stamina was at 50%, but his internal Guilt—45%—was the real weight, an anchor dragging him down into the depths of self-loathing.
He stopped in the kitchen, its vast, stainless steel surfaces gleaming under the pre-set night lighting. The television, tuned low to a financial news channel, droned on. Obadiah Stane's smooth, patronizing voice—a velvet blade—cut through the ambient quiet. His face, large and confident on the screen, spoke of "restructuring" Stark Industries, selling off legacy weapon lines, and "unburdening" Tony Stark.
Why him? I know the script, every line of it. Stane is selling Tony out to the Ten Rings, and he's setting the stage to steal the heart right out of his chest. I'm stuck watching the villain deliver his monologue.
Adam's fingers found and twitched at the hem of his already-ruined sleeve. His hazel eyes were glued to the screen, heart pounding with a frantic, cold unease. The system's internal hum was a faint, sharp sound, a warning that tasted like ozone.
Why am I so powerless? I have this force, this untouchable wall, but no lever to stop a simple corporate betrayal. I can push a person twenty feet, but I can't force an honest accounting.
At precisely 1:15 AM, the silence shattered. A sharp, brittle shing of glass tearing, followed by the muffled, frantic treads of soft shoes on the hard floor. It wasn't the slow, professional approach of an assassin, but something panicked, desperate, and clumsy.
Why now? I finally get five minutes of quiet, and trouble follows me like a bad, chaotic sequel. It's too sloppy for Stane. It must be something minor.
Adrenaline surged, instantly flooding the fatigue from his limbs. Adam moved silently, his boots soundless on the cold marble floor, rounding the corner into the main living room. He found a man—a common burglar—fumbling clumsily with a gaudy, diamond-encrusted sculpture. The man reeked of cheap, stale sweat and the damp, cold night air.
The thief spun instantly, his eyes wide and wild, recognizing the presence of a witness. His intent shifted from simple theft to immediate aggression: subdue the witness, grab the haul, escape. His hand, dirty and trembling, lunged directly for Adam's sleeve—a panicked, instinctive move to grab and restrain.
Why him? Petty thief, biggest mistake of his life. Control, Adam. Don't kill. Intent Sensor, do your damn job.
The system flared violently, sensing the hostile, physical intent of touch. Adam focused with everything he had, visualizing a precise, non-annihilating push, his will a scalpel targeting the man's center of mass, aiming to stun, not shatter.
[UNTOUCHABLE LAW ACTIVATED. INTENT DETECTED: HOSTILE AND IMMEDIATE.]
[PUSH CONTROLLED. FATAL PUSH EVENTS: 3.]
[SKILL UNLOCKED: INTENT SENSOR LV. 1.]
[GUILT: +10%.]
[GUILT: 55% (TEMPORARY SPIKE). INTENT SENSOR CALIBRATION INITIATED.]
The thief froze, his eyes saucering in the half-light. The invisible force repelled him, sending him hurtling back into the reinforced stucco wall with a brutal, hollow thud. He screamed—a short, sharp sound of agony—as his cheap knife clattered uselessly onto the stone floor. He crumpled, stunned, but alive. Adam's focused control had spared him the fatal, sickening crunch of broken ribs and tissue.
Why the scream? Because non-lethal still hurts like hell. But he's breathing. Thank you, system, for giving me a filter. I didn't have to kill him. I held the line.
The HUD flashed, runes dancing a furious blue, static prickling his skin with painful intensity. The system's voice sliced through his consciousness with cutting, familiar sarcasm.
[HERO OR KILLER? YOU PICKED A SIDE, PUSHER. INTENT SENSOR'S LIVE—DON'T SCREW IT UP. CALIBRATION COMPLETE.]
[GUILT: 50%.]
Adam sagged against the cool doorframe, heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Relief at avoiding a kill was instantly drowned by the spiking, gut-deep guilt—now confirmed at a crippling 50%. His breath was ragged, the scent of ozone and adrenaline stinging his nostrils.
Why the cost? Even saving hurts. Even controlled violence adds to the chain. Untouchable's not a shield; it's a prison I built with my own power.
[POV: Tony Stark]
Tony walked in on the scene: the kid standing over a whimpering, zip-tied petty thief, one hand on the wall for support. Adam was a ghost, stopping a threat without ever touching it. Guilt was raw in his exhausted eyes, his whole posture a tight coil of self-loathing.
Why's he breaking? That power isn't a Stark invention. It's a burden. He looks like he just fought the guy for an hour, but he barely moved. He's fighting himself.
The workshop's low hum grounded Tony. He was in a grease-stained tank top, goggles dangling from his neck. He eyed the zip-tied thief, then the spot where the wall was marginally dented.
He used restraint. He chose not to kill. That's character. That's worth more than any statue.
"Nice work, Unintentional Security Guard," Tony said, his voice warm, a smile easing the tension around his mouth. "Non-lethal's a good look on you. You saved my tacky Renoir—another zero on the hero tax, I guess."
Happy Hogan—Tony's actual head of security—mutated nearby, securing the thief with professional disdain. "He flew into the wall like a cartoon, Boss. Surprised as hell he's breathing. Kid's got a right hook the invisible man could envy."
Why their praise? Because I'm useful. I'm a glitch, but they're betting on me, on the power I can barely control. I'm their gear, and I have to be reliable.
Adam forced a quip, his legs still shaky from the Stamina drain.
"Just practicing anti-social skills, Stark. Zero-tolerance for perimeter breaches. Also, I think he needs a doctor. Ribs, maybe."
Tony tossed a clean towel toward Adam. The kid flinched violently, an instinctive, full-body spasm that made Tony pause. Tony's eyes narrowed slightly, then softened with understanding.
"You're racking up debt, kid. Go crash—you look like you need a full system reboot. Happy can handle the paperwork."
Why his trust? Because he sees the hero underneath the twitch. He sees the restraint. He's accepting my weirdness, turning my anti-social power into a joke. I'm his gear now, and he's my human connection.
Alone in his room once more, the mansion's vast silence returned. The waves' low hum pressed in. Adam summoned the HUD. Its electric glow bathed him in arc-reactor blue, runes dancing frantically. His head throbbed with a residual migraine from the extreme power use.
[STAMINA: 30% (-5%). FATIGUE: +30%.]
[GUILT: 50%.]
[INTENT SENSOR LV. 1.]
Why the sensor? Because control is my only key to survival. But guilt is still my chain. I can read the intent of a hostile touch, but not the hearts of my allies. I'm alone, even in victory.
Why untouchable? The power saves me, but it isolates me. I saved a priceless statue, but I'm losing the priceless connections I desperately need. Stane's next.
JARVIS's voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the quiet.
"Mr. Reed, a high-level data breach is currently targeting the Mark I schematics. The breach point is traceable to a shell company owned by Stane's subsidiary, the one recently mentioned in the news. Sir has been notified, but he is currently… focused on optimizing the Mark II's coffee-repellent properties. Immediate action is strongly advised."
Why now? Stane is making his move. The plot is advancing. The man who just saved me is too distracted by his own genius to see the knife coming. I'm the only one who knows the script. I'm the only one who cares about the Mark I.
Adam straightened his back, the sudden resolve hardening his jaw. The workshop's distant hum was no longer a comfort, but a call to immediate battle. Stane's betrayal was no longer a plot point; it was a tangible, digital threat. The fate of the arc reactor—and Tony—was in his hands.
Why me? Because I'm the glitch. I'm the fanboy who saw the end of the movie. And I will guard Tony's spark—the true spark of Iron Man—or I will die trying. It's what Yinsen asked for.
It was a crucible, forged in isolation. Guilt's scars predicted a terrifying, desperate war with Obadiah Stane, the ocean's low hum a final, mournful promise of the battles to come.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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