S.H.I.E.L.D., the Triskelion, Sub-Level Lab 13.
The room was quiet enough to hear the faint hum from the core of the particle collider. The air hung heavy with the sterile scent of antiseptic and cooled metal—a cold, pure aroma.
Paul was completely immersed, mind and body, in the torrent of data scrolling across the holographic screen before him.
It was the "gift" Nick Fury had granted him: fragmented data on the Super Soldier Serum and part of the theoretical framework for Pym Particles.
Every character, every formula, was a gateway to a new world, and he was mesmerized.
How long had he been here? Three days? Five? Paul couldn't remember.
For him, time had lost its meaning. The noise of the outside world, the market frenzy—all were sealed away from this sanctuary of science. He was a solitary treasure hunter plumbing the depths of an ocean of knowledge, chasing the brightest light.
"Baymax, simulate the data model of Dr. Erskine's seventeenth failed experiment. Set the variable to a thirty percent gain in gamma radiation intensity."
Paul didn't lift his head, his voice hoarse from long hours of concentration.
[Instruction received. Simulation commencing. Estimated time: seventy-two minutes and thirty seconds.]
Baymax's gentle voice sounded in the vast laboratory, but it did nothing to break Paul's concentration. His brow furrowed, Paul's fingers danced in the empty air, tracing complex molecular structures in mid-air.
He was completely unaware that while he had been keeping company with code and formulas, the outside world had gone absolutely wild over him.
…
Stark Tower, penthouse.
The afternoon sun streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the entire living room in a warm, golden hue.
Tony Stark, a glass of whiskey in hand, his feet casually propped up on the coffee table, was watching the news with an air of boredom.
On the screen, a financial analyst was passionately dissecting how a product called the "Personal Health Companion" was upending the entire medical technology market.
"Tch. It's just an inflatable robot. What's the big…"
Tony curled his lip in disdain. Just as he reached for the remote, Pepper Potts strode in, her heels clicking against the floor.
Her face wore a complex expression, a mixture of excitement, shock, and a hint of absurdity.
"Tony!"
"What is it, Pepper? Is the sky falling?" Tony asked lazily, taking a sip of his drink.
Pepper ignored his quip and slapped a tablet down on the coffee table in front of him.
"See for yourself."
Tony picked up the tablet, confused.
On the screen was a real-time sales data page. At the top was the logo for Paul's Research Center, and below it, an absurdly large number.
$627,451,980.
And the number was still jumping frantically, by tens of thousands of dollars every second.
The lazy look on Tony's face froze instantly. He blinked, thinking he'd had too much to drink.
"What is this? Monopoly money?"
"That's the single-day revenue for Paul's Research Center from yesterday." Pepper's voice trembled slightly. "To be precise, it's from the last twenty-four hours. And that's just the online data, not including the major corporate and medical institution procurement contracts we just signed."
A dead silence fell over the living room, broken only by the soft clinking of melting ice in the whiskey glass.
Tony stared at the number, his mouth slightly agape, forgetting to put down the glass in his hand.
Six hundred million dollars? In one day?
He remembered how he had struggled tooth and nail with the Jericho missile just to push Stark Industries' stock price to a new high.
But his fourteen-year-old son, with a… a marshmallow robot that says, "Hello, I am Baymax," had earned in one day what took him a month to make back then?
Is that even fucking possible?
"J.A.R.V.I.S.," Tony's voice was a bit dry, "verify the authenticity of this data."
[Sir, the data is correct. Based on current sales trends and global order volumes, it is projected that the market capitalization of Paul's Research Center will officially surpass that of Stark Industries within seventy-two hours.]
J.A.R.V.I.S.'s calm, objective tone was the final straw, crushing Tony's lingering disbelief.
*Pfft—*
Tony spat out a mouthful of whiskey.
He shot up from the sofa and began to pace back and forth in the living room, muttering to himself.
"No… this isn't scientific… That little brat… Did he rob the Fed?"
His heart was a whirlwind of emotions. There was pride, so much fatherly pride it threatened to burst from his chest. But even stronger was the jarring sensation of being left behind by the tides of a new era, and… a definite hint of annoyance at being upstaged by the new generation.
He, Tony Stark, the planet's top genius, its richest playboy, was he about to be kicked off the throne of the world's richest man by his own son?
Pepper watched his frantic yet helpless state, wanting to laugh but not daring to. She could only clear her throat and drop another bombshell.
"There's one more thing, Tony."
"Spit it out." Tony stopped pacing and glared at her, as if she were the messenger he was about to shoot.
"Based on the authorization agreement you previously signed, and… a series of market operations I conducted on Paul's behalf," Pepper's tone became cautious, "Mr. Paul Stark's current holdings in Stark Industries have reached eight percent."
Tony's pupils contracted sharply.
Eight percent!
He knew better than anyone what that number meant. It meant Paul was no longer just his son, a burgeoning genius. He had just become the largest individual shareholder in Stark Industries, aside from Tony himself.
"So…" Tony's voice grew low.
"So, according to the company's bylaws, he automatically gets a seat on the board of directors," Pepper delivered the final conclusion.
The world seemed to stand still.
Tony slowly sank back onto the sofa and drained the rest of his whiskey in one gulp.
He felt as if the world had become a foreign place.
Everything had happened too fast. From his return from the cave in Afghanistan, to acknowledging his son, to today… it had only been a few short months.
His son had grown from a boy who needed his protection into a business titan he couldn't ignore, a power player with a voice in his own empire.
He once thought he was Paul's entire world. Now he realized the kid had built his own, and… it was about to eclipse his.
Wealth, fame, power... things he had once played with in the palm of his hand were now rushing toward his fourteen-year-old son with unstoppable force.
Tony leaned back on the sofa, his gaze on the glittering New York City skyline, his expression more complex than ever before.
He suddenly realized a terrifying truth. When wealth becomes so immense that it can shift the global balance, it ceases to be just wealth.
It becomes a vortex.
A bloody vortex that draws in countless sharks and vultures.
He himself was trapped in its depths, which was why he had built the Iron Man suit.
But Paul? What did he have? A brain buried in a lab and an inflatable robot that gave out hugs?
An icy chill crept silently up Tony's spine.
It wasn't jealousy, nor was it resentment. It was a primal fear, one that stemmed from the depths of his bloodline—the fear of a father for his son.
"Pepper."
"I'm here, Tony."
"Upgrade the security protocols on the Mark suits. Maximum level." Tony's voice was frighteningly calm. "Also, I need you to find out which of our 'old friends' have been paying attention to Paul's Research Center recently."
He stood up and walked to the massive window, looking down on the concrete jungle.
The sun was bright, the world bustling and prosperous.
But behind that bright, glamorous facade, Tony could almost see them—countless pairs of greedy eyes, staring out from the dark corners, fixed upon the oblivious boy.
A storm was coming.
And this time, he didn't know if he would be able to protect him.