"So… how are you planning to deal with Tony Stark?"
Ivan brought it up casually from the side, his tone almost indifferent, but the meaning behind it was anything but. Given his history, the question carried weight. Everyone present knew exactly what kind of relationship existed between him and Tony—it wasn't rivalry, it wasn't competition. It was hatred, the kind that didn't fade with time.
So this wasn't just small talk.
It was a test.
Justin Hammer narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly understanding what was being asked. He didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch for a moment as he pieced together his response.
"I'll reach out to my contacts in the military," he said slowly, his voice steady but filled with calculation. "We'll organize a live combat demonstration. A full-scale armament exercise."
He paused, a faint smile forming as his plan took shape.
"And I'll make sure Colonel Rhodes is invited to watch. He's one of Iron Man's closest friends. Trust me—he won't be able to ignore something like this."
Ivan's lips curled faintly, catching on instantly.
"And once he sees it, you're expecting him to step in personally?" he asked.
"Exactly," Hammer replied, his confidence growing. "He won't stand by and watch something like this threaten Tony's reputation. He'll take the field himself, probably wearing one of those war machines."
"And then?" Ivan pressed.
Hammer's smile sharpened.
"Then he gets crushed."
There was no hesitation in his voice, no doubt in his mind. The scenario played out clearly in his head, each step leading naturally to the next.
"And once that happens," Hammer continued, his tone turning almost gleeful, "Tony Stark won't be able to sit still. He'll have no choice but to respond. He'll come to challenge me himself."
Ivan let out a low chuckle, clearly pleased with where this was going.
"And when he does," he said, his eyes glinting, "our Iron Monarch will put him down."
Beside him, Donatello—calm, analytical as ever—nodded in agreement.
"Even though this is just a prototype," he said thoughtfully, "there's no reason to think it's inferior to any of Iron Man's current suits."
That wasn't empty bragging.
The Iron Monger standing before them wasn't some half-finished experiment. It was fully armed, built with overwhelming firepower in mind. A heavy-caliber machine gun capable of rivaling tank artillery was mounted directly into its frame. A sharp, high-energy blade rested along its back, designed for close combat. Boosters were installed to enhance mobility, and an energy storage system powered a devastating ray cannon.
Just imagining it in motion was enough to make anyone uneasy.
And then there was the power source.
Three miniature nuclear reactors were embedded into its structure—one in the chest and one in each leg. This wasn't a simple increase in output. It was an exponential leap, pushing the machine into a completely different class of weapon.
The energy it could unleash wasn't just destructive.
It was overwhelming.
Over the next few days, under the careful coordination of Hammer Advanced Industries, preparations for testing the Iron Monger prototype moved forward at full speed. The chosen test zones were set up around the outskirts of New York, and once the news broke, the media exploded with excitement.
Reporters rushed to publish every detail they could get their hands on, each outlet trying to outdo the others.
Under normal circumstances, Tony Stark was untouchable—a billionaire genius with the power to back up his arrogance. No one could really challenge him, and more importantly, no one could make him pay for anything.
But now?
Hammer Industries was claiming to have built a brand-new combat armor.
That alone was enough to shake things up.
After all, Tony had once declared that no one else would be able to replicate his technology for at least twenty years. That statement had been repeated countless times, becoming almost a part of his legend.
And now, it looked like someone had proven him wrong.
The truth didn't even matter that much.
Whether the Iron Monger was truly superior or not wasn't the point. As long as it could fight, as long as it could stand toe-to-toe with Iron Man for even a short time, the media would do the rest. They would exaggerate, speculate, and hype it up until it seemed like an equal—or even a threat.
And if Tony got angry?
That would only make things better.
Because in that narrative, he would be the one on the back foot.
Inside a large military base, the reaction was far less enthusiastic.
Colonel James Rhodes stood in front of a screen displaying the latest reports, his expression darkening with every second. Without warning, he slammed the steel cup in his hand against a nearby surface, the sharp clang echoing through the room.
He wasn't just angry.
He was furious.
To him, this wasn't just about competition or technological advancement. It was about reputation—about the way Tony Stark was being dragged through the mud by reporters who didn't understand what they were talking about.
He knew Tony better than anyone.
Flawed, arrogant, reckless—but not the villain they were making him out to be.
And if people started tearing down heroes like this, what kind of message would that send?
What kind of world would that create?
Rhodes stared at the screen for a long moment before his gaze dropped slightly. On the table below it sat a framed photograph, showing him and Tony standing side by side, arms slung around each other's shoulders, both grinning like idiots.
It was a simple picture.
But it carried weight.
Their friendship wasn't built on headlines or public opinion. It was built on years of trust, of standing together through things no one else could understand.
And that wasn't something Rhodes was willing to let anyone tarnish.
"I'll make sure Tony gets his reputation back," he said quietly, his voice firm.
The decision had already been made.
During the upcoming demonstration, he would wear the armor Tony had given him. He would step onto that battlefield himself and face whatever Hammer Industries had created.
And when he did, he would make those reporters regret every word they had written.
At the same time, while the situation surrounding the mech armor continued to escalate across New York, something far quieter was unfolding elsewhere.
At the base of Oscorp, a thin, nervous-looking man approached the glass entrance. His movements were hesitant, almost shrinking in on himself as he swiped his employee card and stepped inside.
His name was Max Dillon.
A PhD in electrical engineering, he had designed the building's entire power grid himself. His work was precise, efficient, and innovative—arguably one of the key reasons the facility functioned as smoothly as it did.
And yet, none of that earned him respect.
To the people around him, he wasn't a genius.
He was just… weird.
He didn't socialize. He kept to himself. He avoided eye contact. To them, that was enough to label him as an outsider. A nobody.
Even the receptionist barely spared him a glance as he passed.
Compared to the polished employees working in offices above, Max looked out of place. It didn't matter how skilled he was. In their eyes, he was just another technician—someone who belonged in the background.
Someone unimportant.
The heavy sliding door shut behind him with a dull clang as he made his way down to the third basement level. The environment changed immediately, replaced by the hum of machinery and the faint glow of contained energy.
This was his domain.
The power supply room was filled with massive tanks of water, each one housing bio-engineered electric eels. It was his creation—a system that generated electricity through living organisms, far more efficient and environmentally friendly than traditional methods.
It was brilliant.
But to Norman Osborn, it was nothing more than a minor improvement. A footnote. Something that fell under the vague category of "energy-saving initiatives."
Max didn't argue.
He never did.
Recognition wasn't something he expected anymore.
All he wanted was this—his space, his work, his quiet corner of the world where things made sense.
As he climbed the stairs, his attention was fixed on the screen of his phone. News articles, videos, commentary—everything related to the ongoing chaos in the city.
His eyes lit up slightly as he scrolled.
"Superheroes are amazing…" he muttered under his breath, a small smile forming.
But then his expression shifted, twisting with something more conflicted.
"I didn't think Iron Man and Captain America would turn out like this," he continued, his voice lower now. "If you ask me… the Butcher is the real hero."
He wasn't speaking loudly.
No one was listening.
It was just a quiet thought, spoken into the empty air.
But as he stepped deeper into the facility, something unseen was already beginning to change.
And then, without warning—
The mutation began.
.....
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