The immediate priority was not the stunned genius, but the dying physician. Alex, still wearing the Golden Aegis, carried Dr. Yinsen with impossible speed to a private, undisclosed OmniCorp advanced medical unit nestled inside a secure vault in Dubai.
The Vibra-Mica suit provided a full life support system for the quick journey, but Yinsen's wounds were severe. It took twelve hours, two OmniCorp surgeons—who believed they were operating on an anonymous diplomatic casualty—and a suite of proprietary, hyper-advanced bio-regenerative nanites to stabilize him.
Alex stood guard the entire time, feeling the slow, powerful pulse of the Prime energy circulating through his veins.
When Yinsen finally opened his eyes, he was not in a dusty cave. He was in a futuristic recovery suite.
"The suit… it was not Iron Man," Yinsen whispered, his voice raspy. "You are the angel of the canyon."
Alex removed his cowl, revealing his handsome, 18-year-old face. "I'm Alexander Thorne, Doctor. And I'm no angel. Just a guy who believes your work isn't finished yet."
Over the next few days, Alex was remarkably honest. He explained the rough geopolitical timeline and the vital role Yinsen would play in helping Tony Stark maintain his humanity and moral compass. He offered Yinsen a new life, a new identity, and unlimited resources to pursue humanitarian goals globally, all under the discreet funding and protection of OmniCorp.
Yinsen, realizing the magnitude of the young man's plan and the incredible power he commanded, agreed. His family was discreetly relocated, and the world—including Tony Stark and the U.S. government—received confirmation that Dr. Yinsen had succumbed to his injuries in the desert. The timeline had been smoothed over, but the moral core of Tony's arc was preserved.
The Man in the Shadows
Back in New York, the news cycle was pure gold. Tony Stark had returned, shut down Stark Industries' weapons division, and was building something secretive in his garage. The world was changing, and Alex needed a new cover story.
He enrolled publicly at Empire State University (ESU) in Manhattan, citing a desire to pursue "liberal arts and philosophy" to balance his intense technical background. It was the perfect disguise: a ridiculously wealthy genius pretending to coast through college.
It was during a mandatory, and mind-numbingly dull, Introductory Logic lecture that he first saw her.
Gwen Stacy.
She was seated three rows down, intensely focused, her bright blonde hair pulled back in a neat high ponytail. She wore glasses pushed up on her nose, a yellow blazer, and possessed an aura of sharp, focused intelligence that made the air around her feel electric. She was arguing with the professor about Kantian ethics with a ruthless, surgical precision that made Alex genuinely smile.
Ah, the brilliant, sharp-witted scientist and future Spider-Gwen. The first piece of the 'Harem' puzzle arrives naturally, Alex thought, leaning back.
He caught her attention when he casually corrected the professor's misquotation of Nietzsche. Gwen's head snapped up. She didn't look impressed by his wealth or appearance; she looked intrigued by his mind.
Later that day, in the quad, she approached him.
"You're Alex Thorne, right? The OmniCorp heir?" she asked, her voice carrying a delightful mix of skepticism and curiosity.
"The very one," Alex replied, giving her a charming, easy smile. "And you're the one who just publicly dismantled Professor Alistair's career in front of thirty bewildered freshmen. Gwen Stacy, right? You're a science major, why are you suffering through logic?"
"I'm broadening my mind," she deadpanned, folding her arms. "And I needed to check the sanity levels of the liberal arts department. So far, it's just rich kids and one guy who can quote obscure German philosophers."
They spent the next hour trading intellectual jabs. Alex found her sharp, uncompromising spirit intoxicating. He wasn't just attracted to her; he genuinely enjoyed the mental sparring—something he hadn't experienced since Kevin's life.
As they parted ways, Alex watched her walk off, a light, almost invisible hum of energy following her. He could tell, even without his advanced senses, that this one was going to be trouble. The fun kind.
The SHIELD Probe
The same week, Alex's OmniCorp security AI—an artificially intelligent mainframe named Eos—flagged a persistent, highly sophisticated attempt to access his recent travel logs and bank transfers. The source was a secure, encrypted network that only a few global organizations possessed.
SHIELD.
Here we go, Alex thought, sitting in his Manhattan penthouse gym, casually lifting weights that would crush a normal human.
The surveillance was subtle, but unmistakable. Eos intercepted a brief, encrypted communication: "The Afghanistan subject—Designation: Gold. Profile is too clean. No social footprint outside of high-end schooling. Find the source of the technology and his motive. Fury wants to know if he's a potential threat or an asset."
Alex grinned, dropping the thousand-pound bar with a cushioned thump. Threat or asset? He liked the sound of that.
He knew what was coming. A polite, but probing, visit from a certain two-meter-tall, one-eyed director or his favorite agents. He needed to be ready for the inevitable, and he needed a secure base of operations.
"Eos, activate Project Sun-Eater," Alex commanded, strapping a weighted vest to his chest. "Time to build the official lair. And I need a status report on all available properties in Hell's Kitchen. Preferably one with deep basement access and a very, very old owner."
He needed a safe place to absorb the sun, practice his powers, and perhaps, keep an eye on a certain apartment building where a blonde genius was currently studying organic chemistry.