After a flight spanning three hours and forty minutes, the Hayes family finally landed in Las Vegas.
Leander, strapped into his seat, pressed his face against the window, gazing down at the city. The sight was overwhelming: a blinding tapestry of neon lights, garish advertisements, and structures built on intoxicating fantasy. A surge of pure excitement, the thrill of finally standing on the precipice of major events, surged through him.
But the excitement was quickly checked by reality. He looked down at his clothes, then mentally checked his height: 1.25 meters. Still so small. The feeling of helplessness against the world's raw physical force, even with his D-Ranked power, was a constant, irritating companion.
After checking out of the airport, they headed straight for the pre-booked luxury hotel. Inside their suite, which offered a panoramic view of the shimmering Sky Tower, Aunt Jenny and Uncle George stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, hugging each other, clearly enjoying their return to the city of their past romance.
The suite was a two-bedroom affair; Leander had the inner room, meaning he had to pass through George and Jenny's suite to leave.
George glanced at his watch, a comfortable smile on his face. "Leo, why don't you get some rest?"
"Uncle George, it's only three in the afternoon."
"Las Vegas doesn't sleep, son. It truly wakes up at sunset. Most of the real attractions aren't even running yet," George replied, stretching languidly. "I've scheduled everything. We'll leave at six, hit a fantastic buffet, then I'll take you to see the musical fountain show—the one from twelve years ago."
"And the pirate show! And the volcano eruption!" Aunt Jenny chirped, gently nudging Leander toward his room. "But you can't wander off, darling. This isn't New York. This place is called Sin City for a reason."
Inside his room, Leander pulled out the complex hotel map. His mind immediately went into tactical mode. Tony Stark.
"He's a flamboyant billionaire. He wouldn't pick a mid-range joint. There are seven major, top-tier hotel-casinos in this area. Where would the 'modern-day Leonardo da Vinci' choose to party?" He began mentally crossing off locations, analyzing the known habits and public image of the soon-to-be Iron Man. The timing was everything.
Two days later, the family routine was established. George and Jenny, enjoying their vacation, slept late. Room service had already delivered their breakfast—which was essentially lunch.
Leander, powered by his enhanced metabolism and the need to constantly cultivate (he had already absorbed and refined several pieces of metal wiring from the hotel walls during the night, pushing his Steel Bars enhancement up to 3%), was already finished eating. He was intensely comparing photos on his phone.
He was down to two hotels. "The entrances are annoyingly similar—both have elaborate fountain statues. It would be a monumental waste of time if I chose the wrong one."
George, mid-bite of a Danish pastry, looked at Leander. "Leo, why are you up so early every day? Yesterday you were scouting casinos. What is the big investigation about?"
"I heard that Tony Stark is in Las Vegas," Leander said, feigning the innocent excitement of a starstruck fan. "I couldn't get close to his company in New York, but maybe I'll finally see him today!"
"Why do you want to see that playboy?" Aunt Jenny frowned, stirring her coffee. "He has nothing to do with us."
"It's nothing, I just wanted to deliver a model," Leander lied smoothly. "A small custom piece I finished a while ago."
"Fine, but we can't linger," George said, checking his ticket. "We have to catch our flight tomorrow at noon."
"Don't worry, Uncle. I just need a quick drop-off."
Leander finally settled on one photo, prominently featuring the New York Grand Hotel. He had cross-referenced news feeds and oblique social media posts he'd mentally archived—the costume party tonight was the key.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., Leander and his aunt and uncle arrived outside the immense, glittering facade of the New York Grand Hotel.
Leander stood before the massive central fountain, studying the white marble sculptures of human figures. The details matched his memory, but what truly confirmed his location was the figure tucked slightly away from the main entrance: a sleek, professional-looking blonde woman concealing herself with a notebook—Christine Everhart.
He strode over confidently. "Hello, Reporter."
Christine Everhart looked down, startled by the tiny figure. She instinctively patted her jacket, realizing she had no visible press badge. She crouched down, meeting Leander's eyes. "Hello, little man. How did you know I was a reporter?"
"You're so beautiful. I recognized you instantly from TV," Leander said, delivering the practiced, disarming compliment.
Christine smiled, charmed. "Why are you here alone? Where are your parents? This is a very dangerous place, you should go back to them."
Leander waved at George and Jenny, who were patiently waiting across the street. "Is my sister waiting for someone important?"
"It's a secret mission," Christine whispered dramatically. "You should leave now. This is definitely not a place for children."
Leander just smiled and stood silently a respectful distance behind her. He didn't need to engage further; he just needed to be present. The next several hours were a long, internal wait. He was about to meet the very first superhero—the "mortal who could rival the gods." The prospect was thrilling.
Time dragged. Jenny was just making her way across the road, ready to retrieve the boy before it got too late, when a sudden commotion erupted at the hotel entrance.
It's time.
Tony Stark emerged, looking like the absolute caricature of an eccentric billionaire: a loud, burgundy silk shirt beneath a black suit jacket, light red-tinted sunglasses, and his trademark slicked-back hair and mustache. Happy Hogan led the way, followed by three imposing bodyguards. They strode toward a waiting black Rolls-Royce.
Leander's eyes lit up. He gently nudged Christine, who was still absorbed in her notes.
Christine snapped to attention, realization dawning. She hastily shoved her papers into her designer bag and sprinted forward in her high heels. "Mr. Stark! Excuse me, Mr. Stark!" She managed to intercept him just as he reached the car. "I'm Christine Everhart, Vanity Fair reporter. May I ask a few questions?"
Tony made to ignore her. Happy leaned down and whispered something to his boss.
"She's really hot," Happy confirmed.
"Really?" Tony, now interested, stopped and turned. "Hi," he drawled, sizing her up.
"Hi," Christine replied breathlessly.
"Alright, bring her over," Stark ordered. The bodyguards opened a path. Leander slipped through easily, his small stature making him virtually invisible to the large men. He immediately caught Stark's attention.
Christine hurried to the front, seizing the moment. "Some people call you the modern-day Leonardo da Vinci. What do you think about that?"
Stark's gaze drifted from the reporter to the tiny figure beside her, then back. "That's ridiculous. Da Vinci couldn't build a miniature fusion reactor. Plus, I don't draw."
"And your other nickname, 'The Merchant of Death'? Your thoughts on that?"
Stark raised his chin slightly. "That's less bad. Let me guess, you're from Berkeley? Or maybe NYU?"
"Brown University."
"Alright, Miss Brown," Stark said, his tone turning serious for a beat. "This world is messy, but someone has to clean it up. I promise you, the minute we don't need weapons to guarantee peace, I'll convert Stark Industries into the world's largest children's hospital."
Leander, standing right next to the conversation, had to cover his mouth to suppress a giggle. The line was flawless and entirely rehearsed.
Christine narrowed her eyes. "You've practiced that line a lot."
"I practice it in front of the mirror every night before I go to sleep," Stark confessed instantly, a self-aware smirk playing on his lips.
Leander laughed outright, a clear, childish sound. Stark glanced at him again, a flicker of irritation mixed with amusement.
"I can tell," Christine quipped.
"I want to show you exactly how much practice I've had," Stark countered, his eyes holding hers.
"Can you answer this more seriously?" Christine blushed slightly.
"Okay, serious answer: my dad had a rule. 'The stick is stronger than the man' is the only philosophy you need if you don't want to get pushed around."
"That's a very convenient philosophy for the stick salesman."
"My dad helped defeat the Nazis, worked on the Manhattan Project... a lot of people, including your college professors, owe him... Wait, wait, is this giggling kid yours?" Stark suddenly pointed straight at Leander.
Stark looked at Leander's wide, amused eyes. "I've been tolerant long enough, kid. Is this really that funny? Does an interview have no solemnity anymore?"
Christine suddenly noticed Leander's continuous presence. "Mr. Stark, I don't know this child! He just... followed me!"
"Excuse me, Mr. Stark," Leander interjected smoothly, removing himself from the background. "I deliberately followed the reporter. I needed to speak with you alone."
Stark stared at the small, masked boy. The bodyguards all took a step back, but Happy remained close, positioned protectively.
"Mr. Stark, what I really wanted to tell you is that people only truly grow through experience. I'm sorry for what's coming." Leander looked up at Stark's arrogant, yet vulnerable, expression.
"Sorry for what?" Tony asked, genuinely puzzled.
Leander pulled a small, incredibly detailed metal model—a miniaturized, perfect representation of Stark's first armored gauntlet design, which he had fabricated the night before—from his pocket and offered it to Stark. "Here you go, Mr. Stark. A gift."
Stark put his hands behind his back, taking a dismissive step away. "Oh, I don't take things directly from strangers."
Happy reluctantly stepped forward, taking the complex metal gauntlet from Leander's hand, then passed it to Stark.
"A small metal model for you. Goodbye, Mr. Stark. I believe we will meet again very soon." Leander gave him a final, knowing smile, then quickly retreated to George and Jenny's position across the street.
Stark glanced at the miniature gauntlet model in his hand. He had been about to toss it into the Rolls-Royce, but the insane precision and weight of the metal object made him pause. The artistry was undeniable.
Christine stepped back to his side. "Excuse me, can we continue the interview now?"
"Of course. Continue," Stark replied, still turning the tiny model over in his fingers.
"Many people say he profits from national crises," Christine pushed.
Tony yanked off his sunglasses, his expression shifting to a practiced sincerity. "Tell me, why don't you report on how we've saved millions of lives with advanced medical devices, or solved global famine with smart-crop technology? All those projects were funded by the military, honey."
Christine was mesmerized by the intensity behind the glasses, a genuine flicker of admiration in her eyes.
Leander watched as Christine, no longer an objective reporter, was invited into Tony's luxury car. As the Rolls-Royce sped away, Leander thought silently: "Enjoy the ride, Tony. The growth starts tomorrow."