"Ah, my dear Uncle Obadiah, we simply couldn't exclude a major shareholder over something as trivial as timing. Besides," Tony Stark interjected smoothly, leaning back in his chair with a dramatic flourish, "it would be highly hypocritical for Stark Industries to enforce a rule on punctuality when its very existence is dependent on the innovative and creative genius of men who frequently suffer from scheduling flexibility."
Tony's defense of Zhou Yi was perfectly timed and utterly self-serving. He wasn't about to let the crucial 6.7% swing vote he had just secured be summarily dismissed before the battle was even fought.
A faint, knowing chuckle circulated among the assembled shareholders. Everyone in that room knew that the person most likely to be late—often by hours, or days—to a Stark Industries board meeting was Tony Stark himself.
The US Military representative, a stern, silver-haired colonel in civilian attire, nodded curtly. "I agree with Mr. Stark. Mr. Zhou Yi is a substantial shareholder, and his interests are now critical to our deliberations. His opinions are, regrettably, indispensable to any comprehensive business plan."
Obadiah Stane's face, already dark, took on a mottled, volcanic hue. The US military's immediate, formal backing of Zhou Yi confirmed his worst fears: the opposition was organized and fully prepared to play by the rules. Obadiah slammed his massive palm flat against the polished mahogany table, the sound echoing sharply.
"Very well," he ground out, his voice thick with suppressed rage. "Let the record show that Mr. Zhou Yi, despite his clear disregard for the procedural rules of this corporation, is seated. We shall proceed."
He didn't bother offering Zhou Yi a summary, plunging straight into the pitch with the intensity of a zealot.
Stark Enterprises was less a company and more a global economic titan, founded during the Second World War. Through the unparalleled inventive genius of Howard Stark and later his son, Tony, it had evolved from a mere defense contractor into a multinational giant whose technological and financial power rivaled smaller nation-states.
Only niche giants like Oscorp (in genetics and specialized tech), Hammer Industries (in bulk, lower-cost weaponry), and Japan's Yashida Industries (in advanced materials and robotics) could claim to compete on certain fronts. Stark Industries was, definitively, the industry leader.
The sheer size of the company necessitated an incredibly complex, yet stable, ownership architecture:
Tony Stark: ~23% (Largest Shareholder, controls the intellectual property/patents—the ultimate fail-safe).
Obadiah Stane: ~11% (Second Largest, co-founder, controls much of the operational logistics).
Zhou Yi:6.7% (Third Largest, accumulated through shrewd IT stock-to-defense conversions).
US Military/Defense Contracts Bloc: ~10% (Crucial for political security and government contracts).
Wall Street Financial Giants: ~7% (Mercenary, driven purely by short-term profit).
Osborn and Yashida Industries: 4% and 5% respectively (Competitor cross-holdings, always looking for leverage).
Individual & Family Investment Funds: ~28% (Highly fragmented, but generally sway toward the most promising profit margin).
Because only those holding over 1% could attend, the room contained only six key voting entities beyond the two majors and Zhou Yi. Obadiah knew that most of the small funds would follow his advice—but the combined opposition of Tony, Zhou Yi, and the major external blocs was a mountain.
Obadiah straightened, his chest swelling with manufactured gravity. "Gentlemen, let us be utterly clear. This is about growth, global influence, and the protection of the American economy. Our company has prepared a plan to establish official operational supply chains across sixteen active conflict regions in the Middle East and Africa."
He clicked a remote, and a massive projection sprang to life on the wall, showing green, upward-pointing arrows dwarfing a single bar labeled 'Current Revenue.'
"Our financial analysts, conservatively speaking, project an official annual profit increase of approximately $20 billion from the sale of our Jericho Missiles and our proprietary tactical ordnance. This is a sound business principle: the more they fight, the more we win."
His voice deepened into a conspiratorial rumble. "Furthermore, this strategic supply helps stabilize, or rather, control the regional conflicts in a manner favorable to the United States' long-term interests."
Obadiah paused, letting the sheer magnitude of the number—$20,000,000,000—sink into the room. He was trying to bypass their ethics and engage their greed. Several of the individual investors visibly shifted, their discomfort with the ethics instantly outweighed by the dazzling promise of dividends.
Everyone knew the official figure was a tax dodge. Stark Industries was infamous for its tax avoidance strategies—a common practice among major corporations was cycling vast sums into heavily publicized philanthropic endeavors (like the Fire Relief Fund, the Military Families Fund, or the African Children's Initiative).
Tony's public image as a philanthropist was largely an extension of Stark Industries' legal tax evasion apparatus. The real, untaxed profit generated by a $20 billion revenue spike would easily double, meaning a shareholder like Zhou Yi might see an additional billion dollars in his pocket. This was the inequality, the sheer, intoxicating benefit that could drive men to sell any weapon to any buyer.
"And with that profit, your dividends, gentlemen," Obadiah stated, his lips curling into a triumphant smile, "will be substantial. We are talking about unprecedented returns."
Zhou Yi finished taking a sip of the champagne that had inexplicably appeared at his side, setting the crystal flute down with an almost deliberate clink. He glanced down at the documents Obadiah had distributed. The list of regional armed groups was heavily redacted, but enough was visible to confirm they were not NATO-aligned allies.
"That's an impressive figure, Uncle Obadiah. Truly monumental," Zhou Yi began, his tone surprisingly soft, yet instantly commanding the room's attention. Tony watched him, suddenly realizing this wasn't just about a vote; it was a performance.
"We all grasp the financial implications. No one here is eager to offend Mr. Franklin or the other shareholders," Zhou Yi continued, looking directly at the anxious faces of the smaller investors. "But I do have one small, almost pedantic question."
He picked up a pen and pointed to the redacted list.
"The roster of regional armed forces we are selling these Jericho missiles to does not seem to include a comprehensive verification protocol for our own military's friendly targets. I see no oversight mechanism. What happens if, purely hypothetically, a Jericho missile with a Stark Industries serial number ends up hitting a US forward operating base? What happens if it hits our own people?"
Obadiah scoffed, his eleven percent feeling momentarily threatened. "We don't have 'our own people' in this context, Mr. Zhou! We are businessmen! Our contract is with the buyer, not the target!"
"Of course, you're entirely correct," Zhou Yi conceded with a charming, easy smile. He performed a subtle shift in the air pressure, a nearly unnoticeable flicker of his gravimetric field control, causing the sheaf of papers on Obadiah's desk to ruffle slightly and his tie to momentarily pull taut.
"We are businessmen. But the public, the angry, pitchfork-wielding American populace, sees us as Americans who sell weapons. If my 'bad idea'—our ordnance hitting a US Navy SEAL team—comes true, who, precisely, do you suggest should take the responsibility? Who faces the resulting congressional inquiry, the multi-billion dollar lawsuits, and the inevitable public relations disaster that would send our stock into the abyss?"
Zhou Yi placed his hand flat on the table, his eyes holding Obadiah's with absolute certainty.
"Let me be perfectly clear: I refuse to carry that liability. I will not risk my portfolio or my reputation for a short-term profit surge that ignores the catastrophic long-term risks. I am vetoing this proposal."
The sound of his words seemed to solidify in the air. The colonel representing the US Military Bloc immediately pushed his chair back slightly, a clear sign of assent. The Wall Street representative—a thin man in expensive glasses—grimaced and then spoke, his voice clipped and transactional.
"My firm, and I believe the rest of the financial bloc, share Mr. Zhou's assessment of the unacceptable reputational risk. We will not support this motion." His decision was less about morality and more about avoiding any geopolitical crisis that could summon the wrath of the IRS or the SEC—the only agencies in America capable of dissolving a major financial entity.
The two competitor representatives from Osborn and Yashida simply exchanged smug, satisfied glances. Why would they vote in favor of a competitor's massive profit?
With the 10% Military Bloc, the 7% Wall Street Bloc, the 9% Competitor Bloc, and now the combined 30% of Tony and Zhou Yi, the motion was dead. The 6.7% held by Zhou Yi was the decisive gravitational center that had pulled the entire ethical and political opposition into alignment.
Obadiah Stane, sensing the utter collapse of his carefully orchestrated power play, leaned back slowly in his chair. He didn't speak. He simply stared, a cold, predatory silence filling the room. He had been defeated, not by moral outrage, but by a superior calculation of risk versus reward.
The meeting concluded with a tense, hushed formality. Obadiah Stane, his massive frame radiating an almost palpable heat of fury, walked out of Stark Tower, his entourage trailing behind him. He didn't look back, disappearing into his private car, the silent volcano refusing to erupt in front of his employees.
Tony Stark watched the black car disappear down the street from the panoramic window of the boardroom. He adjusted his sunglasses—which he had been wearing indoors—and let out a long, theatrical sigh.
"That was truly frustrating, Yi. Wasn't that a bit… heavy-handed?" Tony asked, already pulling out a fresh bottle of vintage champagne from the refrigerated bar built into the wall. He popped the cork with a cheerful thwack.
"Heavy-handed? Tony, I was subtle. I didn't even mention the thermonuclear capabilities of the Jericho. Besides, this is your fight. Obadiah is your uncle, not mine," Zhou Yi countered, accepting a glass of the bubbling wine.
"Hey, man! Can't you appreciate the depth of my internal conflict? He watched me grow up, for Pete's sake!" Tony exclaimed, yet his malicious grin suggested he was already over the betrayal and simply enjoying the drama. Zhou Yi simply chuckled, raising his glass.
"What does 'hehe' mean, Yi? You think this is all some kind of game?" Tony wasn't one to let a playful barb pass unchallenged. He immediately drew his metaphorical sword against his ally.
Since Zhou Yi was never one to back down, he countered: "Ah, you can bring Happy Hogan in, too. I'm honestly not opposed to a two-on-one skirmish with the champagne still flowing. Bring on your bodyguard."
Tony quickly considered Zhou Yi's known (and unknown) abilities, contrasting them with his own limited hand-to-hand skill and Hogan's merely professional strength. He wisely decided to retreat.
"Okay, you've made your point, Martial Master. By the way, buddy, we haven't properly celebrated your return and my massive ethical victory. Party tonight? I'm sure the usual suspects are already missing our magnetic presence. Of course, as always, I get first pick, and this time I'm leaving Hogan at home, so you'll have a genuine challenge if you want to compete."
"Let's table the party for a few days, buddy," Zhou Yi said, putting his glass down and standing up. "Unlike you, I'm not entirely free. I have a rather serious parent-teacher conference and an angry little sister to deal with."
Tony raised his glass again, his face morphing into a malicious, yet genuine, grin. "Oh, you're making me green with envy. Family duty. I always wanted a cute little sister or something to lecture."
"Go to hell, Tony." Zhou Yi couldn't help but curse, flipping his friend a casual finger gesture as he headed for the private elevator.
Mr. Stark returned the exact same gesture and reminded him, "Kids, don't forget the party! I'll have JARVIS coordinate the date."
"Don't worry, I would never forget something like that. But are you going to invite Pepper? I'm genuinely curious about that little detail." Zhou Yi stepped into the elevator, his eyes sparkling with amusement at the thought of Tony and his capable assistant.
"Wow, you truly enjoy watching me squirm, don't you?" Tony smiled, but his gaze drifted toward the three-dimensional, glowing image of the efficient and beautiful Miss Potts that had appeared near the champagne bottle. "But why wouldn't I invite her? She's the heart of the operation."
As the elevator doors closed, Zhou Yi was already focused on his next task: navigating the complex, highly sensitive emotional landscape of his super-powered little sister, Sharice, and the daunting strategic presence of the Xavier Institute. He had stopped a war today, but facing an angry ten-year-old with developing biotic fields felt infinitely more dangerous.