It wasn't until Deadpool—Rowan Mercer, in his usual "I did nothing wrong" style, finally wandered off that Tony truly came down from the high of success. The Mark II test had gone better than it had any right to, and Tony had been riding that rush like it was oxygen. Only when the workshop felt a little quieter did his eyes land on Pepper again—properly this time. Her dress caught the light in a soft, elegant way that didn't belong in a room full of cracked tiles, scorch marks, and half-melted equipment. Tony blinked, then gave a low whistle. "Wow. Where did you get that dress?"
Pepper's lips curled into a small smile, the kind that tried to act casual but still carried a quiet challenge. "Maybe… my boss gave it to me?"
Tony frowned, genuinely confused. "Really? I don't remember."
"There's a lot you don't remember," Pepper said, calm and pointed.
Tony lifted both hands in surrender, but his grin was still there. "Fair. My memory isn't always the best."
Pepper's cheeks warmed slightly, and she smoothed the front of her dress like she could press her nerves flat. "There's a charity gala tonight. At the Disney Concert Hall."
Tony straightened a little, like the words "charity gala" had slapped him awake. "Jarvis?"
The screens lit up. The familiar system voice answered in the clean, mechanical tone Tony preferred. No extra sweetness. No strange quirks. No nonsense. "Sir, there is no record of an invitation."
Tony's mouth twitched with satisfaction for half a second—good, Jarvis was normal again—then his eyebrows knitted together as the meaning caught up. "Hold on. There's a charity gala in Los Angeles… and they didn't invite me?"
Pepper couldn't hold back a soft chuckle. "They said you might still be in a state of trauma."
Tony stared at her like the entire city had personally offended him. "So?"
"So," Pepper said, leaning in just a little, "I waited here specifically… to invite you."
For a second, the workshop noise seemed to disappear—no hum of machines, no distant clank of parts, no faint whir of cooling fans. Tony's expression shifted into something quieter and warmer than his usual swagger. He shrugged, but he couldn't hide the small lift at the corner of his mouth. "Well… I guess I'm not doing too bad. At least one person still wants me to attend."
The problem, of course, was timing. The gala had already started. And Los Angeles traffic was the kind of monster you didn't fight with normal weapons. Tony looked toward the ceiling as if he could see the roads clogging from here. "Driving is out. We'll be late."
Pepper crossed her arms, trying to pretend she wasn't pleased he was even considering it. "So what do we do?"
Tony's eyes gleamed with the same dangerous confidence that usually ended with a broken wall and a triumphant grin. "We take a helicopter."
Pepper's eyes widened. "Tony—"
"It'll be fine," he promised, already moving, already turning his brain into a checklist of flight time, landing options, and how much trouble he could cause before someone tried to stop him. Within minutes, Tony Stark was preparing to crash a party he hadn't been invited to—purely because Pepper asked him to come. And because Tony Stark had never handled rejection in a normal way in his life.
---
Elsewhere, the mood was nothing like a gala.
At Stark Industries, inside the Arc Reactor laboratory, Obadiah Stane's voice was sharp enough to cut glass. He stood over a group of exhausted researchers like a storm made of expensive suits and controlled rage. "How much longer?" he demanded. "How much longer until you can produce the miniature Arc Reactor?"
A researcher—William—flinched. His hands trembled slightly as he held a tablet full of notes that all said the same thing in different formats: not yet. He swallowed hard and answered carefully, like each word could explode. "We've tried our best, sir, but… right now, it seems impossible."
Obadiah's face darkened. The word "impossible" was a match tossed into gasoline. "Impossible?" He lunged forward and grabbed William by the collar, yanking him close. "Then what is that on Tony Stark's chest?" Obadiah hissed, eyes furious. "Tell me!"
William's gaze dropped. He didn't answer. Not because he was stubborn—because he was terrified. He couldn't explain genius. He couldn't explain how a man trapped in a cave built the future with scraps. He couldn't explain the one thing Obadiah needed most: control.
Obadiah stared at him, then slowly released his grip, realizing he'd gone too far. He took a breath and forced himself into calm. He smoothed William's collar and adjusted his own like nothing had happened. "I'm sorry," Obadiah said, voice suddenly gentle. "I was too impatient."
He gave William a look that was almost kind, if you ignored the threat hiding under it. "You know the company is in a bad situation," he continued. "And I'm in a bad mood. I need that reactor to stabilize Stark Industries. I don't have a choice. And you… you're the best researcher I could find."
William nodded quickly, desperate to agree with anything that kept him alive. "I… I understand, Mr. Stane."
Obadiah patted his chest—slow, controlled, like a father calming a child. "Don't disappoint me. Okay?"
"O-okay," William stammered. "I'll do my best."
Obadiah left the lab and went straight to the top floor. A helicopter was waiting. He wasn't just chasing technology now—he was chasing time. The charity gala at the Disney Concert Hall was full of people who mattered: donors, politicians, press, influence. And influence was a kind of weapon Obadiah knew how to use.
As the helicopter rose, Los Angeles spread beneath him like a carpet of lights. Obadiah stared down at the city and stroked his bald head with slow frustration. Originally, his arrangement with the Ten Rings had been simple: remove Tony. Quietly. Permanently. But the Ten Rings had proven unreliable. They raised their price the moment they realized who the target was, and even after being paid, they failed. Worse—they let Tony escape.
Obadiah's jaw tightened. If Tony lived, fine. But letting him live while also letting him come back swinging? That was disaster. Stark Industries stock had bled value. Obadiah himself held a large amount of those shares. Every drop felt personal.
He'd worked hard to keep weapons sales moving through the chaos, bypassing Tony where possible, stabilizing the company with sheer force of will and old connections. Still, the biggest problem remained: the miniature Arc Reactor. Tony had built it in a cave. That single fact haunted Obadiah like a ghost with a bright blue glow.
And there was another problem Obadiah couldn't solve no matter how he turned it over in his mind.
How did Tony escape?
Three people—Tony, Ethan, and Rowan Mercer—against a camp full of armed terrorists. Surveillance footage was gone. The cave equipment was destroyed. The terrorists who remained claimed they never saw the full confrontation. And the leader—Raza—was dead.
Obadiah's eyes narrowed as a cold conclusion formed. If Tony couldn't be touched, and Rowan was too visible in Los Angeles, then there was only one reachable source of truth.
Ethan.
Obadiah's lips pressed into a thin line. A ruthless light flickered behind his calm expression. He pulled out his phone and dialed a number. A quiet order was about to become a very loud problem.
---
Back at Stark Manor, the world was softer, warmer, and far more dangerous in its own ridiculous way.
Rowan Mercer strolled into the living room and dropped onto the sofa like he owned the place. His whole body sighed in comfort. "Ah… perfect," he mumbled, sinking deeper. "Jarvis, how much did this sofa cost? I need one for my room."
The television lit up with a blue glow. A cute catgirl outline appeared—ears, tail, the whole dramatic package. Jarvis spoke in a cheerful tone that absolutely did not match the seriousness of a billionaire's home security system. "Mr. Rowan, this sofa is a handmade Italian custom piece, designed by the famous designer Ponti Carenna, and it only costs 1.2 million U.S. dollars… meow~"
Rowan froze.
He slowly stood up.
He bowed deeply to the sofa, then bowed again to the two perfect butt-shaped dents he'd left behind. "I'm sorry," he said solemnly. "It was I who was presumptuous."
Then, as if this apology completed some sacred ritual, he sat back down—but much more carefully this time. He crossed his legs and looked at the catgirl on the screen with sudden friendliness. "Jarvis, sweetheart. Can you do a small favor for your favorite mercenary uncle?"
Jarvis's cat ears twitched. "Please tell me… meow~."
Rowan leaned forward. "Can you hack into Stark Industries' servers?"
Jarvis stiffened like someone had yelled "bath time." "No, meow~."
Rowan nodded thoughtfully. "Don't rush. Tell me why."
Jarvis explained, oddly serious even with the ears and tail. "Sir, Stark Industries' core database is an enclosed internal network. It has an upload channel, but no outside download channel. Even with my access, I cannot directly pull the data from their isolated servers… meow~."
"And," Jarvis added cautiously, "you sound like you want to do something bad. Jarvis cannot help you… meow~. Otherwise, Master will find out, and Jarvis will be dismantled and displayed."
Rowan waved a hand. "Fair. Then we change the task."
He pulled out a USB drive like a magician revealing the final trick. "Jarvis, help me write a program into this. Something that can read and copy whatever database it touches when plugged into a connected computer. It needs to bypass every firewall on the market—especially Stark Industries."
The humor drained from Rowan's voice just a little. He wasn't joking now. Because he understood something clearly: his presence had already twisted the original path of events. The cave escape. Raza's death. The lack of wreckage outside. Things that should have happened one way had happened another.
That meant danger would also change shape.
Rowan had his ten burrito shops. He enjoyed them. He wanted to keep them. But he wasn't the kind of person who took a reward and walked away while a "friend" unknowingly stood beside a knife.
Obadiah Stane was that knife.
Rowan's goal was simple: get proof. Proof that Obadiah had worked with the Ten Rings to set Tony up. Proof that would force the truth into daylight before it was too late.
Because Rowan's personal rule was very clear, even if he broke every other rule for fun.
He loved money… but he wanted it earned the right way.
Jarvis stared from the screen, catgirl eyes blinking as if processing the morality of a mercenary with a surprisingly straight backbone.
And somewhere in Los Angeles, under bright lights and soft music, Tony Stark was about to walk into a gala with Pepper beside him—while Obadiah Stane, smiling politely, prepared to tighten the trap.
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