Zhou Yi watched with detached amusement as Colonel James "Rhodey" Rhodes, clearly driven to the breaking point by Tony's psychological warfare, desperately tried to counter the homosexual rumor planted by his supposed best friend.
Rhodey was now performing a wildly animated, yet slightly uncoordinated, dance of masculinity, making exaggerated gestures toward the attractive, bikini-clad women while shouting increasingly loud declarations about his profound adoration for the female form.
Zhou Yi shook his head. From his experienced position as a wealthy man who had successfully navigated the shallow currents of high society and the entertainment industry, he knew Roddy was fighting a losing battle.
The women aboard the Dream were not susceptible to simple, muscular charm. They were, almost without exception, pragmatists hunting for a golden ticket into the dazzling, merciless world of Hollywood or the luxury fashion circuit.
To them, a career military officer—even an influential Colonel—simply did not possess the financial or cultural capital of a Stark or a Zhou Yi.
The true contest was never about superficial physical appeal, though that certainly mattered. All three men possessed distinct advantages:
Physique: Zhou Yi stood at an imposing 193 cm (6'4"), his body honed by rigorous kinetic training into a state of near-human perfection, naturally towering over Rhodey. Rhodey, the career U.S. soldier, was powerfully built, a testament to standard military fitness. Tony, by comparison, was the least imposing, relying on his bespoke tailoring and sporadic boxing with Hogan to maintain an acceptable level of definition.
Demeanor & Charm: Tony was the witty, quick-witted maestro of calculated arrogance, his inventor's depth giving his flippant comments a fascinating edge. Zhou Yi was the cheerful, effortlessly rebellious spirit, his charm rooted in his complete lack of filter and overwhelming confidence. Rhodey, the seasoned, authoritative Colonel, offered a dignified, serious demeanor—an attractiveness of order that often appealed to younger women seeking stability.
The Wallet: This was the only metric that mattered on the Dream. The towering, half-a-billion-dollar yacht itself was Tony's real appeal, completely dwarfing any individual masculine allure. Tony had not invited them for a friendly competition; he had invited them to be props—to establish a clear, resource-based hierarchy that guaranteed his victory. Rhodey was merely being used as a disposable rival, and the whole exercise confirmed Tony's status as a cunning, calculating man who never gambled on anything he couldn't win.
Deciding to let Rhodey exhaust himself attempting to dismantle a rumor that was now etched into the yacht's social contract, Zhou Yi settled into an adjacent deck chair.
"Speak, you silver-tongued rogue. What trinket have you brought to justify the theft of my sentimental military paperweight?"
Tony challenged, his sunglasses perched perfectly on his nose as he gestured toward the small, unassuming metallic disc Zhou Yi had tossed onto the table. "I assume this isn't a prototype for a new line of budget digital watches, is it?"
"You think too much of yourself, old man," Zhou Yi drawled, not rising to the bait. "Your research staff has been chasing this concept for years. Be quiet for a moment; I'm concerned this prolonged exposure to excessive feminine attention is triggering an early menopausal phase."
Tony's playful sneer vanished, replaced by an intense focus. He picked up the disc, examined its near-featureless surface under the sunlight, and then instinctively moved to fasten it to his wrist. His innate brilliance allowed him to immediately comprehend the theoretical architecture of the device. Without needing instruction, he activated the internal starter.
A sudden, thin layer of metallic sheen—so fluid it resembled spilled mercury—erupted from the watch. It spread with breathtaking speed, flowing up Tony's arm, across his torso, and wrapping his entire body in a skin-tight, hyper-thin membrane of metal.
Then, just as suddenly, the sheen vanished. The metal was still there, a thousandth of a millimeter thick, but its surface adopted a perfectly holographic biomimicry, becoming utterly invisible, blending flawlessly with Tony's skin, appearing as if nothing at all had happened.
Tony's breath hitched, the visible arrogance momentarily dissolving. "You've... you've achieved full Active Nanometal deployment? A complete dermal sheath?"
"More than a sheath," Zhou Yi stated, allowing a flicker of triumph in his voice. "That is Holographic Biomimetic Nanometal Armor. It is a fluid, adaptive layer capable of withstanding the direct impact of large-caliber sniper rounds—not deflection, but true kinetic absorption across a wide area."
He continued, listing the core features designed specifically for a man who often risked his life in a powered suit.
"Because it is thinner than a tenth of a micron, it does not impede normal thermoregulation or sweat expulsion; it is literally a second skin that controls your physiological state. It can monitor heart rate, blood pressure, and adrenaline surges. And, crucially for you, I've only installed the foundational key. You have the freedom to integrate your own Jarvis operating system and personalize its functionality. It's a clean slate for the future of your armor concept."
Tony slowly flexed his wrist, his face a complex mixture of professional awe and bitter resentment at having been technologically surpassed. The subtle, invisible power humming beneath his skin was undeniable.
"It's… adequate," Tony scoffed, unable to fully shed his ego, but his voice lacked conviction. "I could potentially boost my Mark-series defense index by perhaps forty percent with this integration, and it offers some useful auxiliary functions. Very well, consider it a bargaining chip worthy of a symbolic exchange."
Zhou Yi suppressed the urge to deliver the punch he had promised. He knew the truth that Tony couldn't admit: this nanometal was not just an upgrade; it was a fundamental lifesaver.
It was the single greatest insurance policy against the myriad of low-altitude failures and sudden, suit-breaching attacks that would plague Tony's future as Iron Man. Zhou Yi was trading his friend's potential life for a fragment of metal.
"Old man," Zhou Yi said, allowing a truly patient, exasperated sigh. "I'm giving you a personal force field that manages your cholesterol. Can you simply contact Hogan and authorize the transfer of the decorative knife? Or must I resort to physical violence just to get a thank you?"
Tony quickly pulled away, maintaining a playful distance. "Violence is Hogan's job. And since he's currently steering a small fleet of boats towards us with my payment, I suggest we adjourn the philosophical debate." Tony then contacted his head of security. The deal was done.
Relieved, the two billionaires settled into a companionable silence, enjoying the sight of the women enjoying the ocean view. Their peace, however, was shattered by a massive, violent splash that soaked Tony completely, plastering his expensive silk shirt to his chest.
"Hey, guys! We're not here for a board meeting! Get out of the damn chairs and join the party!" Rhodey yelled, having clearly lost his last shred of decorum. He had stripped down to his athletic swimsuit, his powerful, soldier's physique on full display, and dove headfirst into the colossal pool. He surfaced among a throng of beautiful women, shouting a challenge at his two friends.
Tony, dripping wet and looking momentarily furious, quickly leveraged his genius for competitive opportunism. He ripped off his drenched shirt and, pointing dramatically at the submerged Colonel, shouted to the surrounding women:
"Ladies! I will give a two-carat diamond necklace to the first person who can successfully hold that man completely underwater for sixty seconds! Everyone who participates gets a genuine ruby!"
The sound of valuable gems instantly erased any lingering inhibition among the pragmatic models.
Rhodey's attempt to prove his heterosexuality immediately turned into a brutal, aquatic ambush. A dozen athletic, desperate women descended upon the muscular Colonel, clinging to his limbs and shoulders in a voluptuous, bikini-clad frenzy, determined to drag him to the bottom and claim their prize.
Rhodey was instantly plunged into a suffocating, hysterical battle against a tide of determined beauty, his attempts at flirtation now a grim struggle for survival against wealth-driven avarice.
Zhou Yi, watching the horrifying, yet undeniably amusing, scene, decided he wanted absolutely no part of this escalating, expensive insanity. He quietly retreated into the yacht's vast interior, heading not for the bar, but for the seldom-used storage compartment. He grabbed a heavy-duty sea fishing rod and tackle box, a silent admission that his role as a friend only extended so far.
Finding a quiet, shaded corner on the main deck, he set up his chair, cast his line far into the undisturbed, deep blue water, and settled into a state of mindful, kinetic relaxation.
The day was long, the Adamantium was secured, and there was no need to waste his energy on pool-side antics. He entered a serene, half-awake, half-aware state, letting the gentle rocking of the Dream and the distant sounds of Rhodey's drowning struggle lull him into a powerful sensory rest.
As Zhou Yi rested in the lap of unparalleled luxury, a stark and horrific counterpoint was playing out miles away, deep beneath the glittering surface of the city that housed the Dream.
In the abandoned, decaying tunnels of the old New York City subway system—a forgotten, subterranean network that existed below the world of billionaires—groups of homeless individuals moved with the aimless resignation of those with nothing left to lose.
New York's exterior glamour was built upon a foundation of decay, where the hyper-wealthy treated money as disposable paper and the desperate scoured miles of tunnels for a discarded crust of bread.
In one particularly dark, cavernous section of the defunct track, a scene of bizarre exploitation was unfolding. Roughly a dozen homeless men were not wandering, but were congregating, arranged haphazardly near a flickering emergency light.
Directly in front of them, a small group of elegantly but functionally dressed men—pale, sharp-eyed, and wearing gloves—were conducting hurried, almost clinical procedures. They would inspect the documents and bodies of some of the gaunter men before waving them to another area deeper in the tunnel.
The traffic was constant. Occasional men would emerge from the depths, slightly paler than before, clutching crumpled wads of cash that promised a brief escape from starvation. They would often giggle—a sign of exhaustion, relief, or perhaps a sudden, brief euphoria—revealing sparse, rotting teeth.
"Brother, this looks like your first time selling," a thin, nervous homeless man whispered, nudging the tall figure sitting silently opposite him.
The man was an anomaly, even among this collection of the broken. He was exceptionally tall and thin, his body hidden beneath a voluminous, tattered trench coat. A low hood shadowed his face, but as he slowly turned his head, his features were starkly revealed.
His skin was unnaturally, deathly pale, as though it had never been touched by the sun. He was completely hairless—no hair, no eyebrows, no beard stubble. His eyes, indistinct in the weak, flickering light, possessed a strange, unsettling shade of gray-blue.
The most jarring feature was a distinctly defined scar—a smooth, horizontal line that ran across his lower chin and throat, clearly healed but marking the location of a significant, violent incision.
This sight—the hairlessness, the pallor, the scar—was noted but did not alarm the nearby man; most assumed the tall figure was simply gravely ill.
The tall man's gray-blue eyes flickered with a sudden, unsettling intensity as he sensed the homeless man's misplaced pity. He coughed, a dry, grating sound that seemed to scrape against his throat, and confirmed in a voice that was barely a rasp:
"Yes. This is my first time here."