Pepper Potts had always told herself she wasn't reckless. Efficient, yes. Persistent, definitely. But reckless? No. That was Tony's department.
Yet, as she slipped Obadiah Stane's keycard back into its slot on his desk and quietly clicked the office door shut behind her, her heart was hammering against her ribs so loudly she was certain the entire building could hear it. A cold sweat traced a path down her spine.
She moved through the hushed, after-hours hallways of Stark Industries with measured steps, her heels making no sound on the plush carpeting. Ten seconds between the rotation of the security cameras in this corridor. She slipped into the data room, a dark space that smelled of ozone and chilled air. The terminal was still unlocked, a rare slip for a man as meticulous as Obadiah.
Pepper plugged in the drive Tony had given her. The progress bar crawled across the screen with agonizing slowness.
Eighty-seven percent.
Footsteps echoed from the hall. Obadiah's voice drifted through the door. "Just a minute, Bill, I think I forgot something here."
Ninety-two percent.
The doorknob began to turn just as Pepper yanked the drive free, the USB port making a metallic sound. She ducked behind a towering server rack, pressing herself into the shadows, her breath held tight in her chest. Obadiah stepped inside, his large frame silhouetted against the hallway light, his eyes scanning the dim room.
"Strange," he muttered, looking at the glowing terminal. "I thought I left this running."
He shrugged, a gesture of casual dismissal, oblivious to the fact that his world had just been stolen from under his nose. He turned and left.
Pepper didn't move for a full minute, her legs trembling so badly she nearly gave out as she finally exhaled. She clutched the drive in her hand like a holy relic. Tony, she thought, please let this be enough.
Tony Stark was pacing like a caged panther when Pepper arrived back at the mansion. He took the drive from her outstretched hand, his usual cocky grin replaced by a tight line.
"Jarvis," Tony said quietly, his voice dangerously low. "Run a full analysis. Decrypt everything."
The holographic displays in the workshop bloomed into life, casting a blue light on their pale faces. Shipment records scrolled past at blurring speed. Weapons diverted to unauthorized buyers, official quantities inflated, a spiderweb of unmarked transactions flowing to offshore accounts under shell corporations. But it was the file labeled AFGHANISTAN, FINAL ROUTE that stopped the air in Tony's lungs.
TARGET: ANTHONY EDWARD STARK, PROBABILITY OF NEUTRALIZATION: 94%.
"...What?" Pepper whispered, her face draining of all color as she read the words.
Tony's voice was hoarse. "That wasn't a business trip, Pepper. He was leading me to an execution."
He sank into his chair, the strength leaving his legs, his hands trembling as they ran through his hair. "I trusted him. I treated him like family. He was... he was my father's best friend."
"You're not going," Pepper said firmly, her hand landing on his shoulder, a solid point of contact in a world that had just shattered.
Tony looked up, and for the first time. In his eyes was a cold fire, a piece of forged steel where there had once been a spark of careless genius. "Oh, I'm going. But not the way he planned. And not unprepared."
He straightened slowly, a newfound resolve settling into his bones, reforging him from the inside out. "Jarvis, begin contingency protocols. All of them."
———-
Across the ocean, in the technologically advanced heart of Wakanda, T'Challa stood on a balcony overlooking the shimmering Golden City. Since his paradigm shattering experience in the Sefirah Castle, he could no longer see the world as a simple map of nations and borders.
The Castle had given him a new kind of sight. He now understood that reality was layered, a tapestry woven from threads of science, faith, and ancient forces that were beginning to wake up from a long slumber.
He ordered the Hatut Zeraze to shift their focus. They were looking for the Extraordinary, for the seams of reality that were beginning to fray.
The reports that surfaced were chilling:
THE GREEN ANOMALY: A man named Bruce Banner who had become a monster. Satellite heat signatures and seismic data tracked the intermittent flattening of entire military bases, followed by radiation signatures that vanished as quickly as they appeared. T'Challa marked him as a World-Level Anomaly.
THE CONTRACT: Whispers and fragmented reports from the rural backwaters of America of a "Ghost Rider," criminals and sinners found dead, their bodies untouched but their souls seemingly extracted, victims of a fire that left no ash.
THE TEN RINGS: An ancient organization that refused to die, surviving centuries without any discernible change in leadership or methodology. T'Challa knew now that anything that stayed the same for that long was not truly human.
Standing under the African stars, T'Challa reached a conclusion he shared with no one. The world was entering a convergence. Science, mysticism, and ancient judgment were no longer separate streams. They were flowing together into a single river, and Wakanda was standing on the riverbank.
The afternoon sun in the Umbrella executive suite was warm, but the atmosphere inside was a delicate balance of three very different energies.
Aryan sat at his desk, the rhythmic clicking of keys on a holographic interface the only sound in the room until the door slid open. Sharon walked in, her heels echoing with confident precision. She was followed by Wanda, who was carrying a stack of revised logistics reports, moving with a newfound assurance.
"The quarterly projections for the tech acquisition are ready for your review," Sharon said, placing a data tablet on his desk. She glanced at Wanda, her expression unreadable. "And the internal coordination feedback from the department heads is... surprisingly detailed."
Wanda offered a modest shy smile. "The staff in the logistics department are very helpful once you explain that a 'delay' is just another word for 'failure.'"
Aryan looked up, catching the look Sharon gave Wanda. It was more like two master chess players acknowledging they were playing on the same board.
"Good," he said. "Wanda, how are you finding the pace?"
"It is honest. People here work because they want to build something. It is different from what I expected." Wanda replied, her voice steady.
"And Pietro?" Aryan asked, looking toward the door where the "Head of Security" was likely lurking in a nearby hallway, pretending not to listen.
"He's currently trying to convince the IT department that their server room needs a reinforced steel door with a titanium deadbolt," Sharon said, a hint of dry amusement in her voice. "He's driving them crazy, but I have to admit, our internal network alert response times have dropped by forty percent."
Sharon reached for the coffee pot on the side table, a habitual gesture, but Wanda was already there. She poured a cup and set it in front of Aryan with a quiet grace.
"I remembered," Wanda said softly.
Sharon's hand hovered in the air for a second before she smoothly pivoted to grab her own tablet. "Right. The black coffee. The official fuel of the obsessed." She looked at Aryan, her gaze sharpening, all business again. "You look tired, Aryan. Even with the twins helping, you're still carrying the weight of the whole company on your shoulders."
"There is much to do, Sharon," he replied, taking a slow sip of the coffee.
"There's always much to do," she countered, sounding almost like a friend. "But even empires have weekends. You should take one. Show the Maximoffs around the city. Be a person for a day."