Interactive Brokers (IB).
The world's largest electronic trading platform.
Vincent Hall was one of IB's VIP clients. Having opened his account a year ago, his trading frequency was high, but his principal remained suspiciously safe. He made small, consistent profits—just enough to cover the commission fees, which at $0.005 per share, were practically charity.
Today, however, Vincent contacted his account manager for something different. He secured the maximum leverage available: 20x margin.
Target: Stark Industries (SIA)
Share Price: $12.00Market Cap: $120 BillionShares Outstanding: 10 Billion
Before the market opened today, the price had slumped to $10.
Before Tony Stark left for the Middle East, it was trading at $15.
Before his disappearance, the market cap was a colossal $150 billion.
For over two months, Stark Industries had been bleeding value. But Vincent's eyes were sharp; he noticed the subtle volume spikes. Someone was quietly accumulating shares during the dip. Obadiah Stane, perhaps? Even without Tony, the company's assets and IP were worth far more than a hundred billion.
But news had just broken: Tony Stark had been rescued.
On the final trading day of the week, the stock surged back to $12 on the rumors of his return.
"It's time," Vincent whispered. "The most valuable thing about Stark Industries is its weapons division."
He needed to execute the short before Tony took the podium.
To the public, Oscorp was Biology and Chemistry. Stark Industries was Physics and Weapons. They were the twin titans of American industry. Specifically, Stark stock had rallied 20% recently on news of "clean energy" investments.
Vincent knew it was a pump. Stane didn't care about clean energy. But the real Stark Industries—the one about to be born—would eventually dominate energy, AI, and robotics. Just not today.
Vincent transferred $44,000,000 into his IB account.
Using 20x leverage, he borrowed a staggering 73.4 million shares.
He dumped them all.
Total Short Position Value: $880,800,000.
It was an insane gamble. If the stock rose just 5%, his broker would issue a margin call, liquidating his position and wiping out his entire $44 million fortune instantly.
But Vincent knew the future.
Tony Stark was about to walk onto a stage, eat a cheeseburger, and destroy his own company's stock price.
"Stark's return looks like good news to every investor on Wall Street," Vincent mused, watching the screens. "That's the only reason IB let me borrow this many shares. They think I'm the idiot. They want to swallow my margin."
"They want my deposit. I want their lives."
Stark Industries Press Conference.
Tony Stark walked onto the stage, looking haggard. He ignored the podium and sat on the steps, forcing the sea of reporters to sit with him.
He unwrapped a Burger King cheeseburger.
"Hey, can everyone sit? Can you see me? I can see you."
Tony ate and rambled, with Obadiah Stane sitting next to him, playing the supportive uncle. But as Tony began to speak from the heart, Obadiah's smile faltered.
"...I am closing the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries, effective immediately."
The room erupted.
Reporters shouted over each other. Obadiah tried to do damage control. Tony stood up, walked through the crowd, and left.
In a small diner in Hell's Kitchen, Vincent watched the live stream on his phone, a spoonful of fried rice hovering halfway to his mouth. A slow smile spread across his face.
"It's started."
"The drop will be at least 40%. Maybe more."
His target profit was $500 million.
Today was Friday. The markets were closed for the weekend.
Monday morning, the opening bell would be a bloodbath. Panic selling would drive the price into the ground.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Vincent set his chopsticks down and opened the apartment door.
"Hey, Miss Jones."
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Jessica asked, her voice raspy.
"Please."
Vincent closed the door behind her. The air in the room grew heavy.
"I found something," Jessica said, handing him a photograph.
Vincent took it. The image showed two men—street thugs in hip-hop gear, pistols tucked into their waistbands. They were receiving a package of pills from a severe-looking Asian man.
"The Triad," Jessica said. "Madame Gao's people."
Vincent's eyes narrowed. A flicker of icy blue light danced in his pupils, lowering the room temperature by a fraction.
Madame Gao. One of the fingers of The Hand. A major player in the New York underworld.
"Gao's heroin factories are hidden all over the Kitchen," Jessica whispered, keeping her voice low. "Narcotics snapped this. The guys who killed your parents... they're junkies. They got hooked, got in debt, and now they push product for Gao to pay it off."
She looked at him seriously. "This is dangerous, Vincent. Gao is not someone you mess with."
Vincent walked into his bedroom without a word. He returned with a thick envelope and held it out.
"Miss Jones. Your fee. I've had it ready for a while."
Jessica stared at the envelope, then at him. Her dark eyes, usually guarded, looked deep into his.
"You earned this," Vincent pressed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"What are you going to do about them?" Jessica asked.
Vincent's mind flashed to Daredevil. He recalled Matt Murdock getting palm-thrusted across a room by a frail-looking old woman. Madame Gao wielded Chi. She was connected to K'un-Lun, the Iron Fist's lore.
"I'm just a student, Jessica. I can't exactly go vigilante," Vincent lied smoothly, his face half-hidden in shadow. "But I have money. I can hire professionals."
Jessica took the envelope. She wanted to refuse. Taking money from a kid felt wrong. But her landlord had threatened eviction this morning. She was broke.
"If you can... get out of Hell's Kitchen," she warned, turning to leave. "It's getting chaotic. Something big is coming."
"You're right, Jessica. I'm moving."
Vincent had planned this. He had come to Hell's Kitchen two years ago with a purpose—to hide from Child Services using fake guardianship papers he bought from a local contact. But now he was eighteen. He was legal.
He had found his parents' killers. He had the System. He didn't need the Kitchen anymore.
Jessica paused at the door, surprised. "You found a place?"
"Yeah. Tomorrow night, after school, I'm out. Found a nice spot on Park Avenue."
"Congratulations," she said, a mix of relief and sadness in her voice. "Let me know when. I'll help you carry your boxes."
"Thanks, Jessica."
As the door clicked shut, Vincent's expression shifted from the polite student to something colder.
"Madame Gao..."
The air in the apartment crackled, frost creeping up the walls.