If you want to study human behavior, don't bother with psychology textbooks. Just put "TONY STARK — LIVE" on a billboard and watch what happens to the collective brain of New York City.
The Stark Industry Expo wasn't just a tech showcase anymore. It was a pilgrimage site. Ever since Tony had announced he was Iron Man—like it was a casual fun fact and not the biggest geopolitical disruption since someone invented nuclear weapons—half the city treated him the way medieval peasants treated miracles. People didn't just want to see the Expo; they wanted to be near it, breathe the same air, take a blurry photo, and tell their grandchildren, "I was there the day Tony Stark winked at the camera and made the stock market cry."
Regular admission tickets were basically an urban legend. Like Bigfoot, or affordable rent. The place was packed so tight you could've done crowd-surfing without any effort and ended up in a different borough. But the VIP section—where politicians, defense contractors, CEOs, and various species of professional liar gathered—still required an actual ticket.
Tony had sent me one.
Which meant I was walking into the Expo with a golden pass while wearing a baseball cap and a sweater like I was trying to avoid being recognized by paparazzi I didn't even have. I wasn't dressed like a wizard, or a Kamar-Taj trainee, or a "mysterious magical ally of Iron Man." I was dressed like a kid whose biggest problem should've been homework and summer plans.
That was the goal.
Blend in. Observe. Talk to Tony. Don't create a spectacle.
And, if possible, don't get dragged into a federal conspiracy or a superhero incident before dinner.
At the VIP entrance, security was intense in that glossy, high-budget way. Metal detectors, scanners, personnel with earpieces, and the kind of polite smiles that meant, We will tackle you with extreme professionalism if you twitch wrong. I handed over my pass, got waved through without a second glance, and walked into the upper level seating like I belonged there.
The second floor was perfect viewing—prime real estate, as Tony would say. Rich people sat with their drinks and their practiced expressions. Government types looked like they'd swallowed a policy memo and were waiting to regurgitate it at someone important. Business folks smiled too much, laughed too quickly, and checked their phones like the screen might reveal a shortcut to immortality.
I found my seat, sat back, and immediately caught snippets of conversation behind me.
"Who's that kid?"
"Stark's illegitimate kid?"
"No, too old to be is kid, too young to be an intern…"
"Maybe a Make-A-Wish thing?"
I kept my face neutral and my thoughts sarcastic.
Sure. Illegitimate kid. Because that makes more sense than "teenage wizard invited by a billionaire who is slowly dying from heavy metal poisoning."
People will always choose the explanation that fits inside their worldview, even if it's ridiculous.
Then the lights went out.
Not a gentle dimming. Full blackout. The kind that makes thousands of people inhale at the same time because humans are still animals underneath the nice clothes.
A heartbeat of darkness.
Then the venue exploded with light.
Spotlights cut through the air in hard white beams. Fireworks erupted in glittering arcs. Screens ignited with Stark Industries branding like the building itself had become a living advertisement. Music thundered from hidden speakers—something triumphant and ridiculous, like the soundtrack of a superhero movie that was desperately trying to convince you it was real life.
And then he came screaming out of the sky.
Gold-and-red armor, falling like a meteor, engines roaring. Iron Man hit the stage in a one-knee landing with his fist down, a shockwave of pure theater. The arc reactor in his chest glowed bright, pulsing like a second heart, and for a second the entire crowd froze—caught between awe and the primal part of their brains that recognized predator.
Then they lost it.
Not "clapped." Not "cheered."
They screamed.
The sound hit like physical force, a wall of noise so thick it felt like the air had turned solid. People stood up, flailing, shouting his name like it was a prayer. Cameras flashed in frantic storms. I watched the VIP section pretend they weren't just as impressed, because nothing says "I'm important" like acting unimpressed by a man in flying armor.
Tony, of course, soaked it in like sunlight.
He did the little gestures—the wave, the casual stance, the body language that said yes, I know, I'm amazing, thank you for noticing. Then the armor peeled back, elegant mechanical petals folding away, and Tony Stark stepped out in a suit and leather shoes like he hadn't just dropped out of the sky in a weapons-grade exoskeleton.
The noise somehow got louder.
He moved across the stage like he was born for it. Every pause was timed. Every smile landed. Every word made the crowd lean forward. He wasn't just presenting technology—he was conducting the audience like an orchestra, pushing them to the exact emotional pitch he wanted.
If Tony had Veela blood, I wouldn't have been surprised. The guy was naturally magnetic in a way that made normal charisma look like a cheap imitation.
His opening act wrapped quickly, because the Expo wasn't only Tony's show—even if it felt like it. The event would keep going with demonstrations, booths, speeches, and corporate pageantry, but Tony's "I am Iron Man and also the future" moment was done.
He headed offstage.
And that's when a large man with the posture of an angry fridge approached me.
Happy Hogan.
He stopped at my row, looked down at me, and said in a voice that suggested he'd rather be doing literally anything else, "Mr. Stark would like to see you. Come with me."
"Lead the way," I said, and stood up.
As I followed him out of VIP seating, I could practically feel the gossip gears turning behind me. The "illegitimate son" theory was definitely taking root.
Great. Another rumor I didn't ask for.
We moved through back passages and staff corridors, away from the crowd's roar. The air back here smelled like cables, sweat, and expensive cologne. Guards nodded at Happy. Doors opened. People stepped aside. Everything in Tony Stark's orbit worked like an ecosystem: smooth, practiced, built to keep the machine moving.
We met Tony outside near the car, and he looked… energized. Not healthy, exactly, but high on performance adrenaline. His hair was perfect. His smile was perfect. His eyes were bright in that way that said he'd just fed the part of himself that needed applause.
He was still riding the high.
We were literally taking a few steps toward the car when a woman in a police uniform intercepted us.
She was gorgeous in the way that made you immediately suspicious, because real life doesn't usually hand out that level of symmetry without charging a price. She moved with crisp confidence and handed Tony an official-looking document like she'd done it a hundred times.
A subpoena.
Senate Armed Services Committee.
Nine o'clock tomorrow morning.
Tony's attendance required.
Tony glanced at it, expression flickering for half a second—annoyance, not surprise—then he took it and nodded like he'd just been handed a restaurant menu he didn't like.
We got into the car. Happy took the wheel. The doors shut with that heavy, secure thump of expensive vehicles. We rolled out into traffic, the Expo's lights receding behind us like a glittering fever dream.
Tony flipped the summons over in his hands like it was something sticky. "They really don't know how to be subtle," he muttered.
"The military's nervous about the armor," I said. It wasn't really a question. This was the obvious next step in the timeline.
Tony glanced at me, and I caught a little smile. "You know, Abel, you really don't come across like a normal teenager. If I wasn't certain about your background, I'd think you were thirty or forty hiding in a teenager's body."
"Inner maturity has nothing to do with how old you look," I said.
"Fair point," he shrugged. Then, quieter: "And yeah. They want the suit. Big surprise. But I'm not giving it to them and they know I'm not giving it to them, so…" He tossed the subpoena onto the seat like it offended him. "Honestly, I'd rather skip the hearing, but apparently the government doesn't accept 'I'm busy being a genius' as an excuse."
He started to say something else, but I reached down and pulled at the collar of my shirt.
Tony's reflexes were fast. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist like he thought I was about to do something catastrophic. "Okay, Abel," he said rapidly, "I appreciate the gesture, but I'm really more of a women guy, you are also too young, so—"
"Tony," I cut him off, deadpan. "Stop."
He blinked. "I'm just saying—"
"Let me see," I said, keeping my voice calm.
His gaze flicked to the front. Happy was driving, eyes forward, professional. Tony's jaw tightened like he'd just remembered he was not alone.
Ah.
He didn't want his bodyguard to know how bad it was.
I understood. Not because I agreed with it, but because I'd lived long enough to recognize the kind of fear that makes smart people hide their weakness. Tony's entire identity was control—control over tech, over narratives, over rooms full of people. Admitting he was dying meant admitting there was something he couldn't solve instantly.
I drew my wand fast, flicked it once, and a thin barrier of white light shimmered between the back seat and the front like mist on glass. It wasn't a dramatic shield. More like a distortion—sound muffled, sight blurred. In the mirror, Happy would see us as vague shapes in fog, and anything we said would be swallowed before it reached him.
"Okay," I said. "Now no one can hear us or see us clearly. Show me."
Tony hesitated, then unbuttoned his shirt.
The arc reactor glowed in the center of his chest, that familiar blue-white circle like a captive star. But around it—
That was bad.
Palladium poisoning wasn't visible to normal eyes like this, but magic sees patterns the way technology sees data. I could feel it in his blood like a wrong rhythm. And I could see the spread: delicate poisonous lines branching outward from the reactor site, threading through vessels like metallic ivy.
It had crept high.
Almost at his neck.
"If it reaches your brain…" I said quietly.
Tony's voice went flat. Not emotionless—controlled. "Yeah. I know."
He leaned back against the seat, eyes unfocused for a second as if he was looking inward at a problem he'd been trying to outthink for months. "I've been trying everything. Finding a new element to replace palladium—that's the ideal solution. I went through the periodic table. Nothing works. So now I'm looking at anything that slows it down or treats it." His eyes shifted to me, sharp again. "Your potion is the most promising thing I've found."
I nodded slowly, and the timeline in my head tightened like a noose. This wasn't "sometime soon." This was now. This was the part where Tony was running out of runway.
"It's complicated," I said. "The potion isn't finished yet. And I don't have magic that directly cancels palladium poisoning. But I can do something else. I can slow the spread, reduce the pain and discomfort, give you a little breathing room."
Tony's face lit up, hope flashing so fast it almost looked like anger. He tried to sit forward, but I pressed two fingers down in the air and used a gentle push of magic to settle him back.
"Don't move," I said. "Don't talk. Just look at me."
Tony stared at me like I'd just told him to hold still for surgery. Then, because he couldn't help himself, he smirked. "Abel, come on. This is my first time. Can't you be a little gentler?"
I ignored him.
I raised my wand, pulled the spell into place in my mind, and let the magic flow.
White light bloomed from the tip, soft at first, then stronger, spreading across Tony's body like ripples on water. It sank into him, not as force but as structure—seeking the palladium signature, wrapping around it, slowing the chemical damage the way a net slows a falling stone. I wasn't removing it. I wasn't purifying it. I wasn't strong enough for that, and doing it wrong would be worse than doing nothing.
This was a stopgap.
A bandage on a bullet wound.
But it was something.
The light faded. Tony exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping as if he'd been holding tension for weeks and only now realized he could loosen it.
"How do you feel?" I asked.
He blinked, then gave me a look that was half gratitude, half disbelief. "This is the most comfortable spa treatment I've ever experienced," he said. "Can I book another session?"
"This isn't a massage," I replied flatly. "And the magic I just used is basically a one-time trick. Using it repeatedly won't help much. At best, you'll feel marginally better for a short time. Nothing more."
Tony buttoned his shirt, still moving carefully, like he didn't want to jostle whatever relief I'd given him. "Doesn't matter," he said. "It bought me time. Time to wait for your potion." His eyes sharpened. "And of course, I'll cover costs. Whatever you need."
"I haven't thought about costs," I said. "We can discuss later."
Then I took a breath, because this was the real pivot point. "I do have something else I want to ask you."
Tony's expression shifted to business mode instantly, like he'd slid on a second suit. "Hit me."
"If I provide detailed data about potion composition and synthesis," I said, "could you use your AI to replace manual trial-and-error? Could JARVIS calculate formulas faster and identify the best substitute materials more accurately?"
Tony went still, and I could almost hear the machinery in his brain spool up. This wasn't a joke to him. This was a problem with variables, and Tony Stark loved variables because variables could be dominated.
"It's feasible," he said slowly. "But you'd need to give me extremely detailed data. Also, I'd need to confirm your potion research behaves like chemistry. If the underlying rules are conceptual rather than physical… we might hit a wall JARVIS can't compute."
"Understood," I said. "Once I have complete lab data, I'll bring it to you. With luck, we can cut the timeline down."
Tony nodded once, and the nod carried more weight than his earlier gratitude. It was agreement between two people who understood the same language: results.
"As long as it's reasonable," he said, "I'll help."
"Good," I replied. "Enough talking. Before you go—Senate hearing tomorrow and all that—I need a blood sample."
Tony blinked. "Blood? Why do you—"
I'd already pulled out a syringe. He started to protest, but I was faster. One clean draw. A vial filled dark red. I sealed it and pocketed it like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Tony stared at me. "You carry a syringe around?"
"I do now," I said.
He opened his mouth, then closed it like he'd decided whatever commentary he had would be a waste of time. "Fair."
I flicked my wand again and released the privacy barrier. The fog between us and Happy vanished. Happy's reflection in the mirror sharpened. For a second he looked confused—like he'd lost a moment and couldn't explain it—then his face returned to professional blankness.
"We done here?" Happy asked.
"We're done," Tony confirmed.
The car slowed near the curb. I stepped out into the night air, the city loud and alive around me. The car pulled away, sliding back into traffic like nothing had happened.
I stood there for a second and watched it go, feeling the vial of Tony's blood warm against my side through my pocket.
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Hey guys, I'm Aurelius D. Black, your author, and welcome to Path of Arcane (or How to Survive and Maybe Craft Hogwarts in Another World).
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