Monte Carlo, Monaco.
Mediterranean sunlight spilled across the deep-blue sea. This was a playground for the rich, a cathedral of speed and excess.
A ridiculously flashy red-and-silver Bugatti Veyron slid sideways in a perfect drift, stopping dead in front of one of Monte Carlo's most exclusive casinos.
The door swung open.
Tony Stark stepped out first—sunglasses on, relaxed suit, radiating the same effortless center-of-the-world presence as always.
From the passenger side came Pietro Maximoff.
Same sunglasses. Loud floral shirt. Even the arrogant, wind-in-your-wake swagger had been copied almost perfectly.
"How does it feel?" Tony tossed the keys to the valet and slipped a few hundred-dollar bills into his hand. "Living fast without moving your legs, Mr. Speedster?"
"Meh." Pietro shrugged, whistling. "Slower than me—but I'll admit, it saves the calves."
Tony laughed and slung an arm around his shoulder. "That attitude? I like it. Come on. I'll show you what adult happiness looks like."
They walked into the casino like twin supernovas, instantly drawing the attention of every stunning woman in the room.
A veteran Avenger.
A newly crowned global superstar.
Together, they were basically a walking hormone bomb.
After a blur of champagne, laughter, and obscene amounts of money not being gambled, the two ended up in a private VIP suite.
No cards.
No dice.
Just two men and a table full of world-class liquor.
Tony poured two glasses of whiskey and handed one over.
"To…" Tony raised his glass, searching for the word.
"…each other."
Pietro clinked glasses with him.
"To… still being alive."
He drained the glass in one go, exhaled sharply, and collapsed into the leather sofa, staring up at the crystal chandelier.
"You know, Tony," Pietro said suddenly, voice low, "when Wanda and I were ten, back in Sokovia… we were already on the streets."
"Our biggest dream?" He laughed bitterly. "Bread that wasn't moldy."
Tony's hand froze mid-swirling.
"Our apartment got bombed." Pietro turned his head slightly, looking at Tony through the lenses.
"One missile. Right into our living room."
"And on it…"
"…was written Stark Industries."
The air in the room crystallized.
Tony didn't dodge it.
He took off his sunglasses. For once, there was no smirk—only raw guilt.
"I know."
He set the glass down, voice hoarse.
"I traced that shipment. Obadiah—my former partner—sold it to a local warlord behind my back."
"But I don't get to say 'it wasn't me.'"
Tony looked Pietro straight in the eyes.
"It had my name on it. My company. And the money…"
"…ended up in my pocket."
"That sin is mine, Pietro."
"Two days." Pietro raised two fingers.
"Wanda and I sat next to that unexploded shell for two days. Afraid to move. Afraid to breathe."
"Back then," Pietro said quietly, "I swore—if I survived, I'd kill the bastard named Stark."
Tony stood up and spread his arms, exposing his chest.
"Then now you have the chance."
"No armor. No arc reactor."
"If you want to do it, you're fast enough."
"You wouldn't even get blood on your hands."
Pietro stared at him.
In Tony's eyes, there was no fear.
Only acceptance.
Like a man waiting for judgment.
A long silence.
Then—
"Hahahahaha—!"
Pietro burst out laughing, nearly falling off the couch.
"You should see your face right now, Tony!" he wheezed.
"Like a kid waiting for the teacher to smack his hand!"
He grabbed the bottle and took a savage pull.
"…Forget it."
The laughter faded. Pietro sighed.
"Homelander once told me something."
"'People who live in the past can't run fast.'"
"Killing you won't bring my parents back."
"And besides…"
He lifted his glass, staring into the amber liquid.
"You saved New York. Saved a lot of people."
"…And you nearly died saving me."
"I grew up a punk," Pietro said. "But even I know—debts don't cancel each other out."
He clinked his glass against Tony's.
"And honestly?"
"You're not that bad—mouth aside."
Tony finally relaxed, the familiar, infuriating confidence returning.
"Well, of course. I am Iron Man."
"Still," Tony added seriously, "that apology stands. From now on, Stark Industries' resources? Yours."
"As long as you don't use them to blow me up."
"…Though if you really want to, we can talk."
"Deal." Pietro grinned.
"First thing I want—one of those flying cars."
"Anti-grav roadster? Not in mass production yet…" Tony smirked.
"But I can spare a prototype."
"That's a promise."
"Cheers!"
"Cheers."
…
Tuscany.
Night.
Skye slipped past the patrolling guards, melting into the shadows as she slid through a side entrance of a secluded estate.
She found it quickly.
A room disguised as a wine cellar—actually a high-tech laboratory.
At the center stood a massive hyperbaric chamber.
Beside it sat a metal crate marked with the Cybertek logo.
Found it.
She stepped forward—
—and froze.
Inside the chamber lay a man, half his face horribly burned.
"Mike…" Skye clamped a hand over her mouth.
She'd thought Cybertek was smuggling illegal weapons.
She hadn't expected a manufactured monster.
"I knew you'd come."
An arrogant voice echoed behind her.
Skye spun around.
Ian Quinn stood there, smiling like a hunter watching prey walk into a trap.
Quinn clapped slowly.
"Mike. Wake up."
"Say hello to our guest."
The chamber hissed open.
Mike sat up as Quinn attached a mechanical leg to him.
Then, casually:
"Kill her."
Mike looked at Skye. Conflict flashed through his eyes.
He turned stiffly toward Quinn.
"…That's not my order. She's not my target."
Without another word, he turned and limped out, mechanical leg heavy against the floor.
Skye tried to follow—
BANG!
No warning.
A thunderous gunshot.
Pain exploded in her abdomen, knocking the breath from her lungs.
She staggered back, staring blankly as blood soaked her dress.
"What… did you—"
BANG!
The second shot hit lower in her chest.
Skye collapsed onto the marble floor, choking on blood.
Life drained fast.
Sounds blurred. Vision faded.
"Sorry," Quinn said coldly as he turned away.
"I have my own mission."
Skye lay there, trembling.
With her last strength, she reached for her left wrist.
A simple mechanical watch.
A gift from Antony.
"Wherever you are—press it… and I'll come get you home."
With everything she had left, she twisted the crown.
Click.
The signal went out—silent.
Her hand fell limp.
The world went dark.
--------------
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