The roar of the crowd was a physical force, a wave of pure adoration that crashed against Tony and Paul as they were herded offstage by a frantic Happy Hogan. Flashes from a thousand cameras turned the backstage corridor into a strobing, disorienting tunnel. Hands reached out from the throng, waving phones, posters, even napkins for an autograph.
"Mr. Stark! Over here!"
"Paul! The bike was incredible!"
"Iron Man! We love you!"
"Alright, alright, give the man some air!" Happy grunted, using his considerable bulk as a human shield. He was sweating, but his face was split by a grin wider than the Lincoln Tunnel. "Move it, people, show's over!"
Tony was in his element. He thrived on this chaos, feeding off the energy like his arc reactor fed on power. He signed a young woman's t-shirt with a flourish, winked at a flustered reporter, and basked in the glow of his own triumph. For a moment, the gnawing anxiety about the palladium in his blood and the weight of his father's legacy seemed to melt away under the heat of the spotlight.
Paul trailed a step behind, a small, wry smile playing on his lips. He found the spectacle amusing, a chaotic symphony conducted by his ridiculously flamboyant father. He caught a glimpse of himself on a nearby monitor, standing beside the folded-up "Wind Rider," looking impossibly cool and detached. He had to admit, it was a good look.
They finally broke through the last line of fans and into the relative sanctuary of the VIP parking garage. The sudden quiet was almost deafening, broken only by the distant echo of the crowd and Happy's heavy breathing.
"Jesus, Tony," Happy gasped, leaning against a concrete pillar and wiping his brow. "That was insane. But kid," he turned to Paul, his eyes shining with genuine awe, "that bike… that magnetic levitation thing… holy crap. It was like watching something out of a sci-fi movie! You gotta let me try it sometime! Just a little hover around the mansion?"
Paul's smile widened into a proud grin. "Maybe, if you promise not to scratch the paint. It's a prototype." He looked around the garage, his eyes scanning the rows of luxury vehicles. "Speaking of new paint, Happy, did my delivery arrive?"
"Oh, did it ever," Happy said, his grin returning. He pulled a key fob from his pocket and clicked a button.
From the darkest corner of the garage, two headlights flared to life, cutting through the gloom like a predator's eyes. A low, throaty rumble echoed through the concrete space as a car rolled forward, emerging into the light.
It was a Lamborghini, but unlike any Lamborghini they had ever seen. It was painted a searing, almost radioactive shade of yellow, with sharp, aggressive lines that seemed to defy aerodynamics. Sleek black racing stripes ran down its hood and roof, and the paneling had subtle seams and joints that hinted at something far more complex than a simple chassis. It looked less like a car and more like a folded-up shard of the sun.
Tony's jaw went slack. He circled the vehicle, his expert eyes drinking in every detail. The custom alloy wheels, the impossibly low profile, the faint blue glow emanating from the vents near the rear engine. He ran a hand over the hood, feeling the cool, smooth metal.
"Sunstreaker," Paul said quietly, standing beside him. "Our joint project. You handled the micro-hydraulics and the power plant, I designed the transformation cog and the AI core."
"It's…" Tony was momentarily speechless. He felt a surge of pure, unadulterated excitement, the kind a boy feels on Christmas morning when he gets the one toy he wanted more than anything in the world. This wasn't just a car. This was a statement. A testament to their combined genius. It was *theirs*. "It's beautiful," he finally managed to say, his voice thick with emotion.
He was about to reach for the driver's side door, already imagining the feel of the engine roaring to life under his control, when a calm, female voice cut through the air.
"Mr. Stark?"
Tony froze. The voice was professional, detached, and utterly out of place in their moment of triumph. He turned.
A woman stood there, just at the edge of the light cast by the garage lamps. She was dressed in a sharp, practical dark suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a severe bun. Her face was impassive, her blue eyes holding a cool authority that instantly sucked the warmth out of the room. She wasn't press. She wasn't a fan. She was something else entirely.
"Can I help you?" Tony's own voice shifted, the easygoing billionaire persona replaced by a guarded, cautious tone.
The woman took a step forward, her polished shoes clicking softly on the concrete. She held a crisp manila envelope in her hand. "Anthony Edward Stark?" she asked, the question a mere formality.
"That's me," Tony said, his eyes narrowing. Happy instinctively moved to stand between Tony and the woman, but Tony subtly waved him back.
"My name is Marshal Evans," the woman stated, her voice flat. "On behalf of the United States Senate Armed Services Committee, I am here to serve you with this subpoena."
She extended the envelope.
Subpoena. The word hung in the air, cold and heavy as lead.
The distant roar of the crowd, the hum of the Lamborghini's standby systems, the very air in the garage seemed to go silent. Paul's smile vanished, replaced by a sharp, analytical focus. He watched his father's face, saw the flicker in his eyes before the mask of nonchalance snapped back into place.
Tony took the envelope. His movements were smooth, unhurried. He didn't open it. He simply held it, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. "A subpoena? For what? Did I forget to pay a parking ticket?"
"You are compelled to appear before the committee to discuss the weapon known as the 'Iron Man' suit," Marshal Evans said, ignoring his flippancy. "The hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Failure to appear will result in a warrant for your arrest."
She gave a curt nod, her duty done. "Have a good evening, Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark Jr." She glanced briefly at Paul before turning on her heel and walking away, her footsteps echoing in the sudden, profound silence. She disappeared back into the shadows as quickly as she had appeared.
For a long moment, no one moved.
"Well," Tony finally said, breaking the tension. He tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat of the Sunstreaker. "That's one way to kill a party." He slid into the driver's seat, the custom leather sighing under his weight. "Get in, kid. Let's see what this baby can do."
Paul got into the passenger side without a word. Happy, looking worried, closed the scissor door for him.
The engine didn't roar to life; it awoke with a deep, resonant hum that vibrated through their bones. Tony gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He glanced at Paul, then back at the open road ahead. With a screech of tires that was entirely for show, he peeled out of the garage, leaving the echoes of their perfect night behind.
They sped through the glittering canyons of New York City, the yellow blur of the Sunstreaker a comet against the dark asphalt. The city lights streaked past the windows, a river of gold and neon. Inside the car, the silence was a living thing. Tony's public smile was gone, his face set in a hard mask of concentration. The joy of the evening had evaporated, leaving a bitter, metallic taste in his mouth.
*Buzz. Buzz.*
His phone vibrated in the center console.
He glanced down at the screen. It was a message from an unknown, encrypted number. No name, no caller ID. Just a single line of text.
He opened it.
"Be careful. They're already watching you."
Tony's grip on the steering wheel tightened. He stared at the message, the glowing words seeming to burn into his retinas. Who were "they"? The government? Or someone else? Someone hiding in the shadows, watching his every move?
The road ahead stretched into the darkness, a ribbon of uncertainty. The city's brilliant lights suddenly seemed less like a celebration and more like the unblinking eyes of a thousand hidden observers. The game had just changed. And he was no longer sure of the rules.