genre ⋆ heavy angst , slow burn, unrequited crush, recovery from trauma , family issues, hurt/comfort , fluff romance at some point.
On going. (CHAPTERS LIST BELLOW)
word count: 256k
Summary : Lost in a life that no longer fits, you find yourself trapped in an endless routine. Between a dead-end job and a toxic roommate situation that drains you bit by bit, you're sinking into a daily existence where hope feels distant. Each day brings more difficult choices, and you begin to wonder if you'll ever escape this vicious cycle.
But everything changes when an unexpected opportunity arises a position at Stark Industries. Though the thought of starting over terrifies you, you don’t really have a choice. You take the plunge, leaving your comfort zone behind and stepping into a job that you hope will offer you a chance to start fresh. But amidst it all, you’re left to ask What remains when everything else is torn away ?
CHAPTER 1 A Ghost Among the Living
CHAPTER 2 Fading Into the Background
CHAPTER 3 Between Shadows and Spotlights
CHAPTER 4 Against the Clock
CHAPTER 5 Crossroads
CHAPTER 6 The Weight of a Choice
CHAPTER 7 No Turning Back
CHAPTER 8 No Rooms for Lies
CHAPTER 9 Fractured Resolve
CHAPTER 10 Rest for the Weary
CHAPTER 11 Learning to Hold
CHAPTER 12 Under the Surface
CHAPTER 13 Cracks and Conforts
CHAPTER 14 Shattered Lines
CHAPTER 15 Hidden Stains
CHAPTER 16 Dragged Back
CHAPTER 17 The Art of Breaking Things
CHAPTER 18 The Hunt
CHAPTER 19 Arms of Iron
CHAPTER 20 More Missed Signs
CHAPTER 21 A Bouquet to Hold You Here
more coming soon ♡
If you want to be part of my taglist you can click here !
What Remains | Chapter 21 A Bouquet to Hold You Here (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
TW : Self-deprecating thoughts / self-hatred
Summary : After waking in the medical bay dissociated and exhausted, you’re watched over by Banner, who cares for you with quiet patience and recognizes the depth of your trauma. When you finally break and admit you feel like a burden who should’ve died, Stark overhears. Shaken, he confronts you, forces you to face the truth you’re twisting, and tells you bluntly that you are not dead weight that you would’ve died if he hadn’t intervened. For the first time, he stays with you, listens, challenges your guilt, and leaves flowers beside your bed before telling you to rest. After he leaves, you’re left confused, shaken, and realizing he didn’t stay out of duty he stayed because he cares.
word count: 11.5k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
You stay there, frozen, lying on the examination table like a silhouette
You stay there, frozen, lying on the examination table like a silhouette carved out of glass. You don’t move. You can’t. Every fiber of your body is trapped in a deep inertia, a fatigue so dense it has stopped being called pain and has become a state of existence on its own. Your breath is there, mechanical, short, uneven, but it no longer asks for anything. Not relief. Not respite. It’s just… one more pulse in a world slipping away from you.
The pain doesn’t pierce you anymore. It doesn’t strike, doesn’t sting, doesn’t even burn. It spreads. A flat, uniform canvas, dull, vast as a desert. You can’t even locate it now. It’s not in your arm, nor in your hip, nor in your ribs. It’s everywhere. Melted into your being. It inhabits you like a second skin, an invisible coat sewn from the inside. And in this state, you start to lose the outline of yourself. You no longer know exactly where you begin, or where you end. As if your body were an empty place, cracked, drifting.
Your mind, meanwhile, has detached itself. It hovers above the scene, numb, vaporous. Caught between the lucidity that strangles you and the dissociation that shields you. You know where you are, but it doesn’t really matter anymore. You hear the sounds around you — the steady breath of the machines, the metallic clicks, the distant hum of ventilation — but they reach you as though through a fogged-over pane of glass. They don’t touch anything solid in you. And in that sprawling haze, the space Stark left behind is so clear, so sharply outlined, it almost becomes a tangible absence. A still-warm void. But that’s not the emptiness you feel most intensely.
It’s Banner’s presence.
He hasn’t left the room. He doesn’t speak. He barely moves. He’s simply there. Standing. Motionless, but not frozen. Not paralyzed. It’s a presence measured, deliberate. Not threatening. Not harsh. He isn’t trying to force you, nor to understand you too quickly. He gives you space. He doesn’t intrude. And yet, he fills the room. Completely. Quietly.
You feel his attention settle on you, but it’s never intrusive. It doesn’t dig, doesn’t pierce. It wraps. Like a blanket laid over you with care, without pressure. And in that silent presence, there is something deeply human. A respect. A patience. A knowing. He knows.
He knows you’re on the edge. That you’re in that inner place where pain, shame, and silence blend so tightly that there is no clear way out. He knows it because he’s seen it before. Recognized it in other eyes. And now he sees it in yours. Even if you’re not looking at him. Even if you’re elsewhere. He perceives the weight of what you’re not saying, of what you’ve never said.
And he doesn’t ask for more. Not now. He doesn’t judge you. He doesn’t dissect you. He doesn’t push. He waits. He is that fixed point in a world that sways, that calm marker when everything inside you threatens to collapse. His silence isn’t empty. It’s full of presence, of attention, of respect. You remain there, still lying, still unmoving. But something in you shifts, imperceptibly. You’re not drifting quite the same way. A part of you clings, barely, to the mute anchor he offers you.
He moves with a slowness that has nothing to do with hesitation. It’s not fatigue, nor awkwardness. It’s a kind of meticulous respect, almost solemn, as if every gesture had to be gentle enough not to disturb the fragile silence hanging around you. He doesn’t try to reassure you, nor to fill the air. He doesn’t cover anything. He accompanies. He adapts to the invisible yet immense fragility that still wraps around you, like a glass shell ready to crack at the slightest loud sound, at the slightest misplaced word.
The gestures are simple: a folded compress, a disinfected tool, a vial being closed with deliberate care. And yet each of them feels thought-out. Carried by an acute awareness of the moment. He doesn’t rush anything. He doesn’t force the rhythm. He wipes away the remnants of urgency without ever giving the impression that it’s over, that the worst has passed. He makes room without erasing what you’ve just lived. He cleans without denying. He arranges the chaos around you because he cannot do more not yet.
He thinks. You sense the hesitations in the slowness of a movement, in the infinitesimal pause between two gestures. Then comes the sigh. That slow release of air held for too long, the kind that belongs only to people who understand. Who know. His voice, when it finally rises, is barely louder than a breath. It shakes nothing. It seeks to enter nowhere.
— “You didn’t want him to know, did you?”
He isn’t trying to force you. He isn’t tearing the truth out of you. He receives it, simply. As something obvious. Sad. Inevitable. And you don’t answer. You can’t. You don’t dare. You don’t want to. You close your eyes, slowly, as if that gesture could erase everything that has just opened. As if darkness could become a shelter again. It isn’t sleep. It isn’t even real rest. It’s a retreat. A distancing. A withdrawal from yourself. You want to disappear. Even just a little. Even just for a moment.
But it’s too late. Everything has already been seen. The silences have already been split open. And now, you have to live with it. You hear the soft rustle of plastic again. The neat, methodical crinkle of a sterile wrapper. A tool being opened, a needle being prepared. You don’t turn your head. You don’t ask questions. You don’t even have the energy to be afraid. The idea of pain or relief feels distant, foreign, like it belongs to someone else’s body.
— “I’m going to inject this. It’ll ease the pain for a while.”
His voice stays calm. He isn’t trying to drag your consent out of you. He informs you the way someone warns a sleeping person before adjusting their blanket. Out of respect. Out of principle. Not to get anything in return. You don’t respond. You don’t move. You’re here, but barely. You exist in the margins, in that half-place between awareness and oblivion.
The needle enters your skin. You feel a prick, maybe. A brief pressure, without any real impact. No flinch. No sound. Just passive acceptance, detached. As if you were watching another body endure it, as if you had already stepped out of the room. You don’t fully belong anywhere anymore.
He lets himself sink onto the stool with a quiet sigh, almost swallowed by the charged silence of the room. The leather gives beneath him with a faint, apologetic creak, like it regrets drawing attention. Bruce settles without any abrupt movements, without trying to impose himself into your field of view. He’s there, close enough for you to hear him breathe, but he doesn’t demand your eyes. He simply takes his place calmly, the way someone sits beside a bed without knowing whether the person lying in it wants company.
His elbows rest on his knees, hands clasped loosely, back slightly curved. Not the posture of a doctor. Not one of authority. Just that of a man who knows how to wait. Someone who has learned, in silences and fractures and the slow pace of wordless confessions, that sometimes you must be a witness before you can be of any use. He looks at you without questioning. His gaze falls over you like a light blanket, without weight. A presence, not a pressure.
— “You’re not the first to react like this.”
His voice is soft, muted, stripped of unnecessary inflection. It has neither the coldness of clinical detachment nor the artificial warmth of words chosen to comfort. It’s simply a voice that exists. A voice grounded in experience, in lived reality. It doesn’t try to reach you. It settles. Slowly. Carefully. You don’t respond. You don’t even blink, not yet. Your eyes stay fixed somewhere in the white ceiling light, lost among blurred spots and dissolving edges. The world has no angles now, no clarity. And maybe that’s for the best. Bruce isn’t expecting a reaction. He continues. Steady. Patient.
— “It’s not the first time I’ve seen someone avoid a diagnosis.”
The words settle a little deeper. Not to push, not to provoke. To accompany. They slip quietly into the spaces between your thoughts, into the cracks left open by fear and shame. He doesn’t tell stories. He doesn’t share anecdotes. He states. Like someone who knows what it feels like to walk in darkness without daring to turn on the light.
— “Someone refusing to take off their shirt. Refusing to let others see what they don’t want found.”
Bruce doesn’t look at you like a puzzle. He doesn’t analyze you like a medical file. He looks at you like someone who understands. Who recognizes that language made of silence, of frozen gestures, of a body protected the same way one protects a memory they refuse to exhume. Then he continues, in almost the same tone as before, but heavier now. More precise. Like a stone dropped into a perfectly still lake.
— “Stark will want to know.”
A silent shockwave ripples under your skin, climbs along your spine, coils around your throat like an invisible hand. A shiver pulls a small twitch from your shoulder — so slight it could be mistaken for a reaction to cold, to exhaustion, to fatigue. But it isn’t that. It’s something else. Fear. Not the immediate kind. Not danger. A deeper one. Duller. Heavy. The kind that settles in the folds of your stomach. The kind you’ve carried for so long you can’t even remember its origin. You don’t want him to know. You don’t want to see his eyes linger on those scars again. Not with that look. Not with that anger. You don’t want him searching. Asking questions. Following the thread of your silence until he reaches its source.
You don’t want him digging. Taking things apart. Turning pieces over one by one the way he always does. You know he will. Because it’s in his nature. Because Tony Stark cannot stand blind spots. Not in his machines. Not in his armor. Not in the people he’s beginning to care for, even if he’ll never say it out loud. He’ll dig. He’ll dismantle everything. Even when what he’s dismantling isn’t technology, isn’t an invention… but you. And that’s what terrifies you most. Not that he’ll discover. Not that he’ll know. But that he’ll see. That he’ll see you in what you hide. In what you’ve buried so deeply you avoid looking at it yourself. That he’ll see you as something other than the one who endures. The one who moves forward. The one who holds on.
You inhale. Barely. A short, torn breath that scrapes the back of your throat like dry paper. The air catches, hesitates, struggles to go down. Your chest lifts in a painful contraction, a faulty mechanism that resists its own movement. It’s a breath that doesn’t want you, or maybe one you refuse. You can’t tell anymore. You feel your sternum twist under the effort, a faint burn stretching from rib to rib. And still, you don’t speak. Not a word. Because you can’t. Because there aren’t any.
Bruce stands up. Slowly. Not like someone leaving a room, but like someone withdrawing from a sacred space. He rises with that kind of extreme caution reserved for fragile, precious things. He keeps his arms at his sides, as if not to disturb the air, as if afraid to break the delicate balance of this suspended moment. No rustle. No clatter. Even the leather of the stool seems to hold its breath.
— “I’ll let you rest.”
His voice is almost a murmur, a breath that folds into yours. He doesn’t look at you too closely, doesn’t try to force contact or conversation. He doesn’t ask if he should stay. He knows. You don’t have the strength for a “no.” Not even for a “yes.” Just that slow flutter of lashes, that blurred blink that is neither acceptance nor refusal. Just a call into the void. He steps away. Gently. He gathers the unused gauze pads and puts them away one by one. He closes the open boxes with an almost ceremonial care. He cleans the instruments and lays them into a disinfectant tray without letting the faintest metallic sound break the air. Everything is fluid. Precise. Nothing snags. Nothing jars. He doesn’t fill the silence , he honors it. He lets it settle, thicken around you like a blanket that’s too heavy, but necessary. He understands. You need space. The right to fall apart without witnesses.
And then, just as he reaches the door, he stops. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Just a frozen step, a moment suspended. His back is turned to you, but he tilts his head slightly. A tiny gesture. Human. He doesn’t seek your eyes. He doesn’t turn his face. He leaves you the freedom to stay invisible. But in that small movement, he offers you something. An invisible hand. A trace.
— “When you want to talk… I’ll be here.”
It isn’t a question. Not an expectation. He doesn’t let the words hang like a rope around your neck. It’s just a key. Quiet. Placed beside you. He doesn’t force you to take it. He sets it down. And leaves. The door closes with a soft, muffled breath. No click, no sharp sound. Just that gentle slide that seals the moment. And suddenly, you’re alone.
Truly alone.
But this silence isn’t empty. It’s saturated. Full of everything you’re holding back. Everything you didn’t say. Everything you don’t even know how to shape into words. It doesn’t soothe. It’s heavy, grainy, thick with muted echoes. You hear your heartbeat in your throat, irregular, uncertain. You hear the pain — not in screams, but in diffuse waves, in internal pressures, in muscles too tense to release. Fatigue crashes over you like an airtight lid. It isn’t simple tiredness. It’s total. Absolute. It crushes you with immense weight, pinning you to the mattress like a lead glove. You feel your muscles groan silently, locked tight from the effort of simply remaining lying down. Your bones hum inside you as if they’ve been struck. And yet, there’s no release. No relief. You’re not freed. You’re just… emptied. Exhausted down to the soul.
Sleep doesn’t come.
You call for it anyway. You beg for it, silently, the way someone pleads for deliverance. But nothing answers. Nothing descends. It stays far away, unreachable, like a shoreline your shipwrecked mind can no longer reach. Every beat of your heart seems to push it farther, like a drum pounding wakefulness again and again. You can bury yourself into the mattress, pull the sheet higher, slow your breathing until you mimic it—this feigned calm fools no one. Least of all your own body, which has become your first executioner.
Everything in you stays tense. Too awake. Too aware. Your breath clings to your throat like a strand of wire. Your back can’t find a position. Your limbs flicker between numbness and tiny spasms, as if your body itself is refusing to let you go. It no longer knows how to relax. It has unlearned peace. The night no longer offers you anything but a dark room with walls that are too white, too silent, where even the absence of noise becomes an oppressive presence.
You are trapped inside your own skin.
And your skin… your skin burns. It itches. It suffocates you. Every square centimeter feels like it wants to peel away, as if the scars beneath their thin dermal layer were pulsing with a life of their own. They remind you of their existence, one by one, like cursed fireflies flickering in the darkness. You don’t touch them—you don’t dare. But you feel them. You know exactly where they are. And you know what they say. What they scream every night, without ever falling silent.
You close your eyes. Hard. So hard your eyelids tremble from the strain. As if darkness could erase everything. As if clenching your teeth could silence this body that betrays you, this memory embedded in your flesh. You want to disappear. Just for a moment. To dim out. To stop feeling. But the discomfort is everywhere. It crawls under your skin, slips between your ribs, colonizes your mind. And you lie there, fists clenched beneath the sheets, waiting for sleep that does not come. Waiting for a little peace in a world where even silence hurts.
The bed is too rigid, too smooth, too cold. It doesn’t hold you , it traps you, locking you in a posture that feels anything but natural. Every vertebra protests, every muscle tightens. The air is dry, almost abrasive. It sticks to your throat, irritates your sinuses, makes every breath harder than the last. You part your lips just a little, hoping it will help, but nothing changes. The light—dimmed though it is—still finds its way through your closed eyelids, as if refusing to let you fall. It pulses behind your eyes, off-beat from your own heart.
You don’t even know how to relax anymore. Every attempt is another failure, another sharp reminder that your body no longer responds. That everything in you is too conscious. Too tense. You don’t even know how to breathe without thinking about it. Your breath, once instinctive, has become an obstacle. Present. Irregular. Intrusive. It no longer accompanies anything—it invades. It hums inside your skull, pulses in your temples, scratches the inside of your ribcage. It’s an unfamiliar rhythm, artificial, disconnected from you. As if this breath weren’t yours anymore. As if this body, this diffuse pain, this constant pressure… had been grafted onto you. And was slowly rejecting you.
You’re suspended. Neither awake nor asleep. Caught in that gray zone where time dissolves. A sickly in-between, floating, saturated with silence and invisible tension. Reality around you grows blurry, grainy, distant. You could reach out and touch it… but you know it would slip right through your fingers. You drift through something denser, a dark, stagnant substance. You fall but there is no ground. You sink but nothing engulfs you. Just this warm, sticky void that holds you without really holding you. And in that unstable drifting, in that toxic half-sleep where nothing moves but everything weighs on you, you feel fear return. Not a sharp fear, not a clear danger, not a sound, not a shadow.
No.
It’s an older fear. More insidious. It has no face. It doesn’t come from the outside. It crawls slowly under your skin, settles in your sternum, gnaws at the base of your neck. It’s the fear of yourself. Of what you might do. Of what you might become. Of what’s left once everything has been stripped away. And you stay there, motionless, prisoner of a body that no longer feels like yours, of a mind that refuses to quiet down. Waiting for something to break. Maybe you. Shadows slip sometimes into the doorway. Blurred shapes, silent, little more than shifts in the air. They don’t enter. Don’t speak. They just pause there, briefly, like human echoes frozen on the threshold. Furtive. Respectful. Or maybe simply helpless. They do not cross the boundary. They watch, or stand guard, like keepers of a damaged sanctuary, unable to repair what they see.
You don’t turn your head. You don’t ask. You don’t want to know. You don’t have the energy to guess. Your mind is too far away, drowned in a sticky thickness, numb, as if sealed beneath a glass dome. Reality brushes against you without ever truly reaching you. Banner, maybe. His calm silhouette, his muffled steps, his patient watcher’s posture. Or Pepper. The softness of a shawl on her shoulders, the warmth of a presence that never imposes. Maybe… another shape. Taller. Denser. Harder to ignore.
No.
You shut it down instantly. You refuse that image. You refuse even to think it. You chase the thought away like an insect clinging to your skin. Stark. You don’t want to picture him there, in the dark. You don’t want to imagine his eyes scanning the shadows, trying to pierce the places you yourself avoid. You don’t want to feel that gaze on you—that gaze that misses nothing. That dissects. That understands too much. Too quickly. Too well.
You don’t want to think about his silences, heavier than his words. About the way he looks at you, as if he already sees what you’ve never managed to say. You don’t want to imagine him standing behind the door, saying nothing, waiting for you to break. Watching you without your knowledge, without giving you a chance to shield yourself. You’d rather not know. You prefer the shadow over his gaze. They pass without a sound, but you know why they’re there. You don’t need to hear them speak to understand. They want to make sure you’re still breathing. That your silence isn’t the kind that cannot be undone. That you haven’t slipped, suddenly, into that abyss where nothing answers back. They want to make sure your stillness isn’t surrender. That the absence of movement isn’t the beginning of a definitive void. They just want to check that you’re still here. That you haven’t done something irreversible. Not now. Not after all this.
And somewhere, some small part of you is grateful.
But the rest… the rest is tired. Worn down by this soft vigilance, this suffocating kindness. You’re exhausted from being a living alarm signal. From being this body that must be watched, this breath they fear might stop. And yet… despite the burning sting in your muscles, despite the scraped-raw feeling inside, despite the chaotic storm of thoughts looping endlessly in your skull… something gives way. You stop fighting. You no longer struggle to sleep. You let yourself slip. But it isn’t sleep that comes. Not really. It’s something else. A dense blur, thick and viscous, a heavy cotton in which your mind sinks without ever reaching the bottom. It isn’t rest. It isn’t oblivion. It’s drifting.
A liminal place.
A blurred territory between wakefulness and unconsciousness, where nothing truly hurts… but nothing heals either. A place without edges, without direction. Where time doesn’t move, where the body floats without aim. And in that suspended emptiness, you stop, for a moment, feeling like yourself. Your dreams aren’t really dreams. They aren’t stories. Not even memories. Just fragments. Shards of consciousness scattered into the void. Pieces without logic, without beginning or end, disjointed like broken glass crushed underfoot. Fleeting images, too fast to name. Colors too vivid, almost violent. Blurred shapes trembling at the edge of perception. A sensation of falling. Of cold. Of suffocation. And then nothing. Nothing but the dry bitterness at the back of your throat, that taste of ash clinging to your tongue like the memory of a fire no one has managed to extinguish.
And sometimes, your body reacts. Against you. Despite you.
A jolt in your legs. A sudden tightening in your stomach. Your fingers clutching at the sheet as if trying to anchor yourself, as if the floor were about to give way beneath you. A whimper, muffled, almost animal. Your chest jerks upward, seized by a breath you no longer control—shallow, frantic—as if the air itself had turned hostile. Your mind, trapped, replays sensations on a loop, again and again. Movements. Sounds. Threats. Hands grabbing you—too hard, too fast. A door slamming like a slap. A voice twisting with rage. A cold blade brushing your skin—not pain, not yet, just a promise.
You don’t know if you’re still asleep. You don’t even know if you’re dreaming. You’re caught in a fault line. A tangle of memory and hallucination. A damp, trembling trap from which nothing seems able to pull you free.
And then, little by little, morning seeps into the room. It doesn’t appear all at once. It tears nothing open. It doesn’t arrive like a victor. It slips in, slowly, silently, like a furtive presence unsure it even has the right to be here. A pale glow, almost translucent, drifts through the cracks of the world. It clings to the edges of furniture, wraps itself around corners without a sound, threads its way between the folds of the curtain without disturbing a single crease. It warms nothing. It illuminates without comforting.
On the wall, shadows take shape—blurred, wavering like memories hesitating to return. On the sheets, the light draws silver lines, frost-like trails, almost unreal. They look like fingers. Slow, timid fingers brushing the fabric without ever anchoring to it. As if everything they touched might shatter. The air is calm. Too calm. Suspended in a strange kind of expectation. As if the universe, by mutual agreement, had decided to hold still. To wait. To listen. One heartbeat at a time, without rushing. As if the day itself knew. As if it understood that here, in this room, noise is forbidden. That silence here is not emptiness but something sacred.
Even the light seems to hold its breath. And you, somewhere in this gray space, still float between two worlds. Not really awake. Not really alive. Simply there. Your face is calmer. More relaxed, perhaps. As if unconsciousness had briefly softened the angles, loosened the clenched jaw. But the peace is superficial. It skims the surface like a thin film atop a sea still churning below.
The marks remain.
Bruises stain your skin in dark fragments. Blue, purple, deep. They spread across your neck, your brow, your side. Silent confessions imprinted onto your epidermis. The contrast is cruel. Those violent splashes stand out against the sickly pallor of your complexion—paleness that even rest hasn’t erased. The door opens without a sound. A light breeze slips into the room, timid even, as if it too understood the fragility of the moment. Banner enters first. His step is soft, measured. He pauses at the threshold, still, like a quiet shadow, and his gaze settles on you.
He says nothing.
His eyes travel over you slowly, as though reading a language he knows too well. He has seen broken bodies, open wounds, souls fractured by battle—this is his daily reality. But here, there is something else. Something different. This is not just wounds. Not just aching bones. Not just one more trace of violence to record. No. Here, it’s more diffuse. More intimate. It’s your entire existence that seems shaken, splintered, scattered across a night that refuses to end. A silent break. Invisible. But profoundly real. So he steps forward, carefully. Without a word. He unfolds his stethoscope gently, approaches your side with a measured slowness. His gestures are precise, delicate, almost reverent. He doesn’t want to wake you. He only wants to make sure you’re still here, that your fragile breathing continues its irregular but living rhythm.
The cold metal barely grazes your skin, and you don’t react. And he listens. Not just to your heart. But to what your body says despite your silence. Banner notices the small movements. Your fingers twitch occasionally. Tiny tremors, nearly imperceptible, appearing and fading like nervous sparks. Remnants of tension even sleep can’t erase. Memories locked in the muscles. Sensations that refuse to let go. Then, a quiet sound behind him. Soft. Controlled. He doesn’t need to turn around. He knows.
Stark is here. He feels his presence before hearing him move. Heavy, magnetic, tense like an electric wire on the verge of snapping. He stands near the door at first, keeping his distance. Motionless. Arms crossed, maybe. Eyes alert. His gaze scans the room like a silent AI: the light, the shadows, the machines, your still body. Every detail registered, none of it easing him. He doesn’t speak. Not at first. Then slowly, he steps forward. His steps are slow, deliberate, as if he fears entering this scene fully. As if approaching means admitting that all of this is real.
— “Well?”
His voice is low. Rough. Scraped raw by a sleepless night and thoughts he couldn’t silence. He isn’t performing. He hides nothing behind humor or provocation this time.
Banner exhales. Softly. Like someone releasing a tension carried for hours. He removes his stethoscope, folds it carefully, sets it onto the tray without a sound. Then he crosses his arms, his gaze still fixed on you.
— “He’s recovering slowly. His body is still in shock. But he’s survived worse, apparently.”
A hint. Barely veiled. A sentence carrying more than it states. And Stark understands. Of course he does. But he doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on you. Darker. Calmer, perhaps. But full.
With worry. With guilt. With a thousand questions he hasn’t yet dared to form. Stark drags a hand down his face, slowly, as if trying to dispel a fog he can’t clear. His features are tense, carved deeper by the sleepless night, by the caged anxiety, by everything he’s refused to express. Then he approaches. Step by step. As if every meter toward you demanded a new layer of armor.
— “How long before he recovers from all this?”
His voice is colder than he intends. Sharp-edged. Precise. But it’s not anger. Not impatience. It’s what remains when someone tries to contain too many emotions at once. A mechanical rigidity, a finely polished defense mechanism. Banner doesn’t react to the tone. He nods slowly, eyes on the monitors, on the slight rise and fall of your chest. He speaks quietly, with that resigned calm he reserves for cases too heavy.
— “Physically? A few weeks. Maybe a little more.”
He pauses briefly, then continues.
— “He has fractured ribs, internal bruising, a broken wrist. But that…”
He shakes his head gently, gaze still lingering on your sleeping form.
— “…that’s not what’s going to take the longest.”
A silence. Long. Dense.
Then Banner lifts his eyes to Stark. His gaze is steady, but unflinching. Not accusatory. Not confrontational. Just… clear.
— “You know exactly what I mean.”
Stark doesn’t answer. His eyebrows don’t move. He doesn’t look away either. He simply studies your face, your features still tense even in sleep. He watches the steady rise of your chest, the dark circles under your closed eyes, the faint contraction in your fingers. You breathe slowly. Deeply. But he can tell this isn’t peaceful sleep. He wonders what you’re seeing. What your mind is piecing together. Memories? Childhood fragments? Faces from the past? His, maybe. But mostly… Matthew. And the thought eats at him. Not because he fears what he’ll learn. But because he knows he’s already too late to protect you from what’s carved into you. Stark clenches his jaw. Hard enough for a muscle to jump beneath his temple. His fingers tap nervously against his arm in a sharp, erratic rhythm. A tic he can’t control. Tension spilling out.
— “He shouldn’t have ended up in this shit.”
That’s all he says. But beneath those few words lies an absolute truth. Raging. Irreversible. He means it. Every bit of it. Because he knows he could have done something. Guessed. Intervened. Prevented the fall. And because another question haunts him, buried deep in a dark corner of his mind:
How many times has this already happened? How many nights like this have you survived alone? How many times have you broken with no witness? How many times have you rebuilt yourself in silence, waiting for the next collapse? He hates when his mind digs. Because he knows where it leads.
Banner watches him for a long moment. Then shakes his head gently—not to deny, not to argue. Just… to bring him back to reality.
— “You can watch over him as much as you want, Tony.”
His tone is level. But the blow lands in the next line.
— “But you can’t fix everything that’s already been broken.”
A slap. A hit he didn’t see coming. One he can’t even reject. Stark doesn’t answer. He just stands there. Frozen. Anchored to the floor as though staying still could keep the world from tipping over. His eyes never leave your face. He clings to it. Like a horizon line. Like a project he refuses to give up on. Because he knows Banner is right. But he also knows he’s going to try anyway. Again. Again and again, until he burns himself out, until he loses himself in the process. Because that’s what he does. It’s the only thing he’s ever really known how to do.
Banner, meanwhile, sets the medical file down on the side table with deliberate slowness. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, steady as ever. But his eyes haven’t lost a single ounce of sharpness. He watches Stark from the corner of his eye with that quiet attentiveness reserved for people who can read far beyond words. He’s noticed something. Not enough to speak it. Not yet. But he keeps it in his back pocket. Because he knows that soon, that particular observation will find its moment.
Their voices reach you like a distant echo. Muffled. Distorted. As if they were traveling through thick layers of water or fog. A murmur in an endless tunnel. They slide, bounce, break against the inside of your skull without ever truly entering.
You float.
Suspended between sleep and reality. Trapped in that indistinct in-between, that foggy territory where outlines melt together, where nothing is fully defined yet. Not day, not night. Not past, not present. Just weight. Weight everywhere. Your body is heavy. Too heavy. Every muscle feels like lead, bolted to this medical bed that holds you like a silent trap. You don’t feel at home. You don’t feel anywhere. Everything is foreign. The smell. The mattress. The angle of your neck. This isn’t a room—it’s a field of ruins wearing a disguise of safety.
The pain is there.
Not sharp. Not screaming. But present all the same. A dull hum living under your skin. As if it were breathing too. It sleeps, for now. But it could wake with the slightest movement. Your ribs hold you captive, a cage too tight. Your wrist tingles with a sly, needling ache. And deeper still, you feel a fatigue that doesn’t come from your body. An older fatigue. A heavier one.
You want to move. You want to open your eyes. But nothing responds. Your eyelids are sealed shut by exhaustion, as if they refuse to return you to the world. Even the effort to emerge feels titanic. Impossible. Every attempt pulls you back into darkness—denser each time. Your breath is slow. Steady. But you feel it… constrained. As if it belongs to a different version of you. A medicalized breath. Controlled. Programmed for survival, not comfort. And then, slowly… the sounds change. They sharpen. Become clearer. Voices.
One low. Rounded. Controlled. Tinted with an exasperated calm, where pragmatism wrestles with restrained worry. A voice that has seen too much to panic anymore, but never quite grows numb to it.
The other is sharper. Drier. Carrying something inside it. A fire. A tension he tries to hide, but that spills through every word anyway. It vibrates in your chest like a familiar echo. It speaks of urgency, of control, of that particular way he has of holding the world steady by clenching his teeth. You recognize that voice. And it scares you. Not because it threatens you. But because you can sense that this time… it trembles too.
You try to focus.
To listen. To catch something concrete in that shifting soundscape. Your mind catches fragments, stray words, inflections. You cling to tone more than meaning. You try to pull the string of their conversation like someone dragging a buried wire out of the ground.
And then… a sentence cuts through the fog.
— “He’s going to be okay, Tony.”
The voice is steady. Determined, but soft. It’s Banner. You know it. He isn’t speaking just to reassure. He’s speaking because he wants the other to hear it. Truly. And behind it—nothing. Not right away. A silence. Heavy. Compact. So dense it seems to push the air back. Even in your half-conscious state, you feel it. This silence isn’t a pause. It’s an answer. A deliberate absence of words, filled with everything he refuses to express. A way of not believing it too quickly. Of refusing to let the fear settle. Your breath trembles. Barely. A tiny shiver in an artificially steady rhythm. But it’s real. And it splits the silence.
It’s enough.
— “He’s waking up.”
Banner’s voice. Close. Calm. But different. More attentive. Threaded with a strand of relief he tries not to let show. Another wave rolls through you. A vertigo. Deep, unstable, as though the whole room were tilting in silence. Your eyelids crack open. Slowly. A millimeter. Two. Harsh light slams into you, making you recoil inwardly. Your eyes burn, sting, refuse to cooperate at first. Even the air feels too bright. Too aggressive. Your vision is blurred. Veiled. Shapes sway before you, warped by fatigue and the chaos of your senses. But little by little, the silhouettes sharpen. Banner’s shadow, close by. His bent posture. His measured hands.
And farther… Stark.
Perfect stillness.
Your brow creases slightly—a reflex. Your pupils struggle to adjust, reacting too slowly to the artificial light filling the room. Everything feels unreal. Like a set rebuilt from half-remembered fragments. And every sensation returns. One by one. The sheet against your skin. The bitter taste at the back of your throat. The soft hum of a machine. The latent pain gnawing in your ribs, your wrist, your neck. You’re here. But your body and mind aren’t in the same place yet. They’re drifting back slowly. Out of sync. As if relearning how to co-exist.
Banner speaks first. His voice glides through the air with controlled softness, almost measured, as if afraid to disturb the fragile equilibrium hanging in the room.
— “You’re awake.”
An obvious statement, yes. But not meant as a simple fact. Meant to anchor you. To let you know he’s here. That he saw you return, even through the tremors, even through the slowness of your movements. You blink. Slowly. The light is still too bright. Your throat is dry, raw, coated in something like ash. Every breath burns a little.
You want to speak. But nothing comes out. No sound. Just a broken exhale caught somewhere in your chest.
Banner tilts his head slightly. He doesn’t expect an answer. He doesn’t push. He knows.
— “How do you feel?”
A bitter laugh tries to climb up your throat. It brushes your lips, but never breaks free. Your body doesn’t have the strength. And besides… There is nothing funny about any of this. How do you feel?
Broken. Tired down to the bone. Crushed under an invisible weight made of fear, shame, and memories you refuse to name. You lift your shoulders weakly—a movement so small it barely exists, yet costs far more than you expected.
But it’s all you can give. Banner doesn’t look surprised. He saw it coming. He places his hands on the edge of the bed, no abrupt movements, no attempt to fill the silence.
— “You’re going to need a lot of rest.”
His voice stays low, but steady.
— “Your injuries are serious, but nothing that can’t heal.”
Nothing that can’t heal. His words echo too loudly inside your head. They linger, lodged just beneath your skin. You wish you could believe them. You wish you could hold onto the idea. Tell yourself that in a few days you’ll sleep better, that your body will recover, that all of this will be behind you. But you know it isn’t true. Some things don’t mend. Some pieces stay cracked, even long after. And you… you no longer know how many pieces you have left.
Then Stark moves. A minimal gesture. He uncrosses his arms, lets them fall at his sides, and steps forward. Just one step. But enough. Enough to force himself into your field of vision. Enough to make you look at him again, even if you don’t want to.
— “How long before he can stand?”
His voice is calm. Too calm. Smooth, pared down, perfectly controlled. And that’s exactly where it cracks. Because you can hear what it contains. What it’s holding back. A tension lodged at the base of his throat, like a scream he’s been choking down for too long. He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t address you. As if he knows. As if he respects—or fears—your silence. Or maybe both. Banner inhales softly, the kind of breath that comes before a truth he knows won’t sit well.
— “A few days, minimum. He’ll be able to walk a bit before that, but not for long. His ribs took too much damage. He needs time.”
You see Stark’s jaw clench immediately. A sharp, slicing movement, like a blade gripped too tight between teeth. A nervous tic jolts through his fingers, a quick pulse in the hollow of his hand. He doesn’t like that answer. You know it. You see it. He hates waiting. Hates not being able to act now. Hates not being able to control healing like an algorithm he could fine-tune. And you understand.
Because you don’t want to wait either. You don’t want to lie here, helpless, exposed, trapped inside a body that betrays every weakness, every mark left by the before.
He’s about to speak. His mouth tenses. His gaze drops, slides despite himself and he sees them.
The bandage. And what it doesn’t fully hide. The scars. Not the ones from last night. The older ones. The ones that tell a different story. A different pain. A past he hasn’t touched yet, but that’s beginning to surface through the silence. And you see him look away. Quickly. Almost violently. As if what he just saw was too much. Too intimate. Too unjustifiable. He drags a hand over his face, scraping his palm against his cheek as though trying to erase something. His expression tightens. Cold.
But close to breaking.
— “Great.”
A single word, dropped in a breath. His voice is rougher. Worn down. As if carrying a weight he can no longer hold on his own. And that one word, small as it is, contains everything he isn’t saying. Everything he doesn’t yet know how to face. Stark steps back a few paces. Not fast. Not fleeing. Just… measured. As if he needs distance to breathe. To keep from speaking. To keep from exploding.
Then he turns to Banner. His voice stripped of all decoration.
— “Make sure he recovers fast.”
And that’s it. No more words. No explanation. No sarcasm. He pivots, heads toward the door. His steps are firm, direct, without hesitation. And yet each movement sounds like the kind of departure he didn’t want to make. You should feel relieved. Relieved that he’s walking away. That he isn’t forcing you to talk. That he isn’t digging, dissecting, dismantling everything you’re still struggling to keep upright. But that’s not what you feel. None of what you should feel is there. Instead, there’s this hollow space in your chest. A cold, dull gap settling inside you like a fault line. Not loud. Not burning. Just heavy.
Because it’s the first time Stark turns his back without trying to get the last word. Without poking. Without provoking. Without one final jab disguised as advice. Just a departure. Simple. Brutal.
The doors close behind him with a muted click. But the sound stays. Not in the air—no. In his head. Like a beat that’s too loud, an echo that refuses to fade.Stark drags a hand over his face, his index brushing his temple, his fingers skimming over his closed eyelids for a fraction of a second. His breathing is short, controlled on the surface, but too precise to be natural. He’s holding it in. Reining it in. Because inside, everything is still spinning. Too fast. Too hard. Everything happened too fast. He knows it. He saw it, lived it, but a part of him hasn’t processed any of it yet.
Everything went too far.
And now he’s here, walking down this sterile corridor with walls too white and a floor too polished. His footsteps echo faintly against the immaculate tiles, and yet it feels like he’s trying to run from something that clings to his skin. A sense of pressure. An invisible weight he can’t shake off. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He just needs to move. To put distance between himself and that room. Between himself and that look—your look—even barely open, that said too much without saying anything. He needs air. Silence. Space to line up his thoughts.
But a silhouette stops him in his tracks.
Pepper.
She’s there. Steady, calm, the way she always is. A few meters away. Her eyes already on him long before he truly sees her. In her hands, a small bouquet. Discreet. Soft colors. Nothing extravagant. Just… something gentle, living. A gesture. A symbol. Something fragile in a world that no longer is. Stark slows instinctively. As if his body—if not his mind—recognizes he’s just run into an anchor point. A reminder of reality. And for the first time since he left the room, he stops. Not completely. But almost. Pepper doesn’t move. She waits for him to come to her. To choose to approach. She never forces Tony. She knows that in moments like these, every inch matters, every breath is an internal battle.
He stops one step from her, his eyes lingering briefly on the flowers she’s holding.
— “He’s not the flowers type.”
His voice is rougher than usual. A little cracked. He’s not joking. Not really. He’s stating an awkward truth to break something—or maybe to hold it together. Pepper offers a tiny smile. Fragile. Almost sad.
— “It’s not about the type.”
She pauses, her gaze searching his.
— “It’s so he knows he matters.”
Tony lowers his head slightly. He doesn’t answer. His shoulders are tight, locked in a posture he no longer controls. He tries to keep the facade, but his eyes are far away. Still in that room. Still on that marked body.
— “He’s breathing. He’s alive. That’s what matters.”
His voice is lower. As if he’s trying to convince himself. As if he needs it to be enough. Pepper watches him with the patience she’s never lost. She knows how to see beyond his words. And she sees. She sees the tremor inside him.
— “Will you sit down for a moment?” she murmurs, offering her voice like a hand without touching him.
He shakes his head slowly.
— “If I stop, I collapse.”
And that sentence, simple and bare, hits her harder than everything else. There’s no mask in his voice this time. No filter. Just him. Worn down. Saturated. Human. She steps closer, gently. Slips the flowers into his hand, like giving someone something precious, symbolic, necessary.
— “Then hold this for him. Just for a moment.”
He looks at her—really looks—at last. His fingers close around the bouquet without fully understanding why. He inhales. Deeply. And in that single breath, she sees everything he’s carrying.
— “You can’t fix everything, Tony.”
He closes his eyes for a second. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nods. But he says nothing. Because he knows she’s right. And he’ll still try anyway.
He raises an eyebrow, holding the flowers awkwardly between his fingers like an unfamiliar object handed to him without instructions. He studies them, turns them slightly in his palm, skeptical.
— “What do you want me to do with this?”
His voice is dry, but not hostile. More… disarmed. Like a man who no longer knows what to do with what he feels. Pepper lifts an eyebrow, calm and unshakable in the way only she can be.
— “I don’t know. Put them on the table? Try not to ignore them entirely? That would already be a good start.”
He huffs a laugh. This time, it’s real. Human. A brief escape, but genuine. The sort of laugh that slips out when the weight on your shoulders becomes a little too much, and you allow yourself—just for a second—to loosen your grip on everything. Then his gaze drifts. Slides back toward the door behind him. Toward the room he left too quickly. Where you’re still lying. Still breathing, softly. Where you aren’t talking yet. Where you aren’t standing yet.
But where you’re alive. And that alone pulls him right back to the edge. He tightens his grip on the flowers. Not hard. Just enough for the stems to bend faintly under his fingers. As if he were holding onto something he doesn’t know how to handle. Pepper sees it. She says nothing. She doesn’t need to. She understands. Because she knows him too well to need an explanation. And because she knows he wouldn’t still be holding the flowers if he hadn’t already decided, somewhere deep inside, to stay.
The silence in the room is heavy. Thick. Viscous. It clings to your skin like a too-heavy blanket you can’t shove off. Even the air seems to soak it in, carrying it into every corner, into every faint vibration of the machines around you. You’re awake.
But you don’t want to be awake. Your body is a field of ruins. Every pulled breath, every heartbeat reminds you that you survived—but at what cost. Your ribs throb, your wrist is numb beneath the bandage, and a confused heat pulses under your cold skin. You sweat in the cold. Lying under the white light—too sharp, too clean—half-conscious of your own state. Your awareness still floats, fragile, wavering between here and elsewhere. You want to disappear for a moment. To stop feeling that weight in your chest. To stop feeling your skin. But you’re trapped in this broken body that refuses to let you go.
Your fingers tremble slightly. You try to keep them still. To not reveal what you feel. To not give fear something to latch onto—fear still hiding there, waiting to resurface at the slightest word, the slightest movement. You’re not alone. Banner is here. Still here. Sitting in the shadow of the room. Calm. Steady. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. He lets you return. At your pace. He waits.
But he sees. He saw how you woke up. How your eyes stayed unfocused when Stark was there. How you turned your head away, how your hand clenched the sheet as if trying to escape everything slipping from your grasp.
He understood. So he waits. And then, slowly, after a long stretch of silence, he speaks. His voice is steady, quiet, soft like deep water.
— “You still with us?”
No pressure. No urgency. Just presence. An anchor. You close your eyes for one more second. You inhale. Slowly. And you nod. He rises carefully. No unnecessary sound. No rush. Just slow, deliberate movements—as if he were moving through a sacred space where anything too sudden could crack you again.
He adjusts a few machines. The monitors answer with soft clicks, light signals confirming your heart is still beating, that your breathing is still there—even if it escapes you sometimes. He says nothing. He doesn’t try to make you talk. He moves with that clinical gentleness of someone who knows that even the smallest extra shock can push someone fragile back toward the edge. And you are on that edge. He knows it.
Then his voice returns. Quiet. Reassuring. A distant lighthouse.
— “You slept a bit. Not enough, but it’s something.”
You don’t react. Not a word. Not a gesture. But he knows you’re listening. He feels it in the faint tension of your arm, in the slightly altered breath. He knows how to read silent bodies. He sits again, gently, on the rolling stool. He lowers himself without a sound, leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. He exhales softly—not from fatigue, but patience.
— “You know… it’s normal to feel everything you’re feeling right now.”
And there—a reaction. Barely. You tense. Your neck, your fingers. Just a little. But enough for him to catch it. Enough to know he hit the mark. He continues with that same quiet, grounded voice, without detouring.
— “The shock. The feeling that it’s still there, that it isn’t over.”
A pause.
— “Maybe it ended last night physically… but not in your head.”
He waits a second. Then he says what he really meant to tell you.
— “And it’s going to take time.”
He doesn’t say it to minimize things. Or to comfort. He says it because he knows. Because he’s seen people like you. Too young. Too broken. Too silent. Soldiers returning from battles they never chose. Civilians caught in traumas they couldn’t escape. Souls full of invisible fractures. And he doesn’t want you to become one of them—if something can still be done now. You swallow with difficulty. Your throat is dry. Your breath stumbles. But that sentence… it got in. It settled somewhere. And even if you don’t answer, even if your face stays stone-still—something moved.
Then, after a long while… Something gives way. Barely. But it’s there. A breath. A voice. Hoarse, cracked, scraped straight from your raw throat. The kind of sentence no one plans. That escapes because it can’t stay locked inside.
— “I’m tired… of always depending on other people.”
Not a shout. Just truth. A muffled complaint. An admission you’ve never spoken aloud. And in the silence of the room, it lands like a contained thunderclap. Banner freezes. His movements stop instantly, but gently. He doesn’t move. His eyes settle on you with slow precision—no urgency, but total attention. The kind he saves for moments he knows are decisive. He heard you. And he doesn’t take it lightly. He stays still, breath suspended, as if afraid to scare you away—as if giving you space to exist in your vulnerability.
And you… you slowly lift your eyes. For the first time. You look at him. Not long. Not fully. But it’s a movement you hadn’t made before. A hesitant, exhausted, but real eye contact. You search for something. You don’t know what. A reaction. A refusal. A reproach. Or maybe just… presence. And what you find in his eyes is neither pity nor disappointment.
It’s an old quiet. A quiet that sees you. That doesn’t look away.
You’re not speaking about last night. Not just about this night. Not just about the pain still living in your body. You’re speaking about before. About everything that piled up. About the years you shrank yourself in silence, held yourself together alone, collapsed without witnesses. About the nights you convinced yourself that asking for help was weakness. The moments when relying on someone felt like humiliation.
And that simple sentence—I’m tired of always depending on others—contains all of it. It’s heavier than a scream. More honest than a sobbing confession. It cuts through the silence with surgical precision. Banner hears you. He receives you. He draws a slow breath. Not to buy time. Just to breathe with you, at your rhythm. And his answer lands, steady. Simple. Leaving space for everything else.
— “No one survives alone.”
No lecturing tone. No dramatic weight. He isn’t trying to convince you or correct you. He’s offering a bare truth, pressureless. A fixed point in a world that tilts. A marker left there, without expecting you to believe it right now. And you remain frozen. You don’t know what to do with it. You don’t even know if you want to believe it. You feel trapped.
You’re trapped in this medical bed, as if the sheets themselves were chains. Every attempt to move triggers a burst of pain—sharp, merciless. Your body is a battlefield, and you’re stuck inside it, with no escape, no reprieve. And then… the words spill out. Raw. Heavy. Too true.
— “I’m a fucking burden here. I’d rather have died than deal with everyone looking at me.”
They escape you without filter, without thought. And the second they hang in the air, you regret them. But it’s too late. They’re there, suspended between you and Banner, like a slap you delivered to yourself. An admission you would never have voiced if fatigue, pain, and humiliation hadn’t already stripped you down to the bone. Silence falls. Cold. Dense.
And then… a sound. Barely a rustle. A slight movement—subtle, but different from all the others. Something you don’t identify right away, still drowning in your own spiral. But Banner hears it. He lifts his head slightly, his gaze drifting toward the doorway. As if he’s sensed a change in the air pressure. A storm rolling in.
You follow his eyes. And you see him. The door is open. Stark stands there. Frozen in the frame. Rigid, as if the ground had just dropped beneath him and he refused to show it. His eyes are on you—locked, unreadable. In his hand, a small bouquet. The flowers. The ones Pepper handed him. They’re still there, untouched, absurd in their softness. Their gentle colors clash violently with the burning tension that just crashed into the room.
And his face… His face is a mask.
It shows nothing. Nothing clear, nothing obvious. No anger. No pity. No relief. Just… something frozen. And that’s worse. Because you don’t know what he’s thinking. You don’t know what he heard. But you know it was too much. And you can’t take it back. He blinks slowly. As if his brain needs a second to reorganize what he just heard. As if—for one brief moment—even he, Tony Stark, has no idea what to say. And that silence is colder than any word he could’ve chosen.
Then he moves. Finally. His steps are slow. Measured. Perfectly controlled. But this time, there is no ease in his walk. None of that arrogant lightness that usually makes him seem above the chaos.
No.
Now he walks like he’s crossing a tightrope. Every step weighted, inevitable. His gaze is locked on yours, unwavering. He looks at you with an intensity that burns straight through you. You want to look away. To escape that sharp, clear gaze that cuts right through you—but you can’t. Your muscles betray you. Your mind freezes. So you stay there. Still. Exposed.
He steps up to the bedside. And he sets the flowers down. Simply. Nothing theatrical. No big gesture. But you see it—the tiny hesitation in his wrist. A fraction of a second, a barely-there tremor. But enough to know this small gesture costs him something. Then his voice drops. Calm. Steady. Devoid of open anger. But sharp as ice.
— “Say it again.”
Three words. Perfect in their dryness. They don’t need to be longer. They carry everything he thinks, everything he feels—and more importantly, everything he refuses to let slide. A chill climbs up your spine. Not fear. Not exactly. More like the awareness that you crossed a line without realizing it—and he’s pulling you back to it. It’s not a threat. You know that. He isn’t shouting. He isn’t clenching his fists. It’s not that kind of anger. But he’s Stark. And he never asks this kind of question without a reason.
Never.
If he wants you to repeat it, it’s not to shame you. It’s to make you hear it. To make you understand what you just declared about yourself. To force you to feel the weight of your own words. You swallow hard. Your throat is dry, raw, painful. Every word costs you something. But you no longer have the strength to back down. Or maybe… maybe you just want him to know.
So you breathe out:
— “It’s true.”
Two words. Not shouted. Not defended. Just… given. A damaged truth placed between you. Stark doesn’t react immediately. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. He just stands there, shoulders tense with the restraint he’s barely holding onto. Then he nods. Slightly. Almost invisible. And he speaks. His voice isn’t mocking, nor cold, nor cutting. It’s something else.
— “Okay.”
He steps closer. Calm. He pulls a chair from the corner, slides it without urgency, and sits. Right in front of you. Elbows on his knees. Hands loosely clasped. Leaning forward. Present. Entirely there. His gaze doesn’t leave yours. And then he drops it:
— “Explain it to me.”
Not an order. A challenge. But not to break you. Not to trap you. Not to crush you. A challenge for you. To confront your own words. To hear how warped they sound. To understand—out loud—just how wrong you are. And it disarms you. Because it’s not judgment. It’s clarity. And it hits with surgical precision. You inhale.
It hurts. But you push through it. You need this to come out. Even if it burns.
— “If you hadn’t been there… he never would’ve taken me hostage. If you had just left me in my pathetic life, none of this would have happened.”
Your voice is low, but every word carries a weight you can barely hold. You’re not really looking at him. You’re looking through him. Back at the warehouse. At the fear. At the thin thread that kept you alive.
— “He just wanted money.”
And then you let out a laugh. Short. Bitter. Dry. A laugh made of exhaustion. A laugh with no light left in it.
— “He wanted a bounty on my head.”
The silence that follows is glacial. Suspended. As if even the air has stepped back. Stark doesn’t move. He nods once. Slowly. Not to agree. Not to justify. Just to process what you just threw at him. He’s analyzing. Connecting the dots. Like he always does.
Then he leans in slightly. His elbows press a little deeper into his knees. His hands tighten. And his eyes—those don’t let go of anything.
— “Okay.”
One word. Sharp. Controlled. And then he continues.
— “And if I had left you there… what do you think would’ve happened?”
You freeze. You don’t answer. You can’t. But he doesn’t let you slip away.
— “You think he would’ve let you go with a pat on the back?”
A pause. Then, lower:
— “Or would he have left you to die in that warehouse after playing with you a little longer?”
The tone hasn’t changed. Not a single inflection. But the words hit. Hard. Real. Unfiltered. Not to punish you. Not to scare you. But to force you to look at the truth you keep refusing to admit. Your breath catches in your throat. Because you know the answer. And you know he’s right.
Stark softens nothing. He doesn’t try to cushion the blow. He throws the truth straight at your chest—bare, cold, real. And maybe that’s why you finally hear it. You swallow, painfully. But you still don’t answer. You don’t need to. Because you know exactly what he means. And because even if every part of you wants to deny it… you know he’s right. He drags a hand over his face, a tired gesture, almost mechanical. He rubs his eyes with the tips of his fingers, like he’s trying to wipe away a fatigue he can’t ignore anymore.
— “You’re not dead weight.”
His voice is lower, deeper. As if he’s speaking to a part of you you never let anyone see.
— “You’ve just spent too long believing you were.”
And you close your eyes. Just for a second. Not to hide. But because that sentence hits right where you’ve been trying to bury things for years. Silence settles. Not comfortable. Not soothing. But possible. A silence where you could, maybe, breathe. Just a little. Then Stark straightens.
A stiff movement, slightly slower than he would’ve liked. His hand moves to his side, where his own injury still pulses—dull, rhythmic—a quiet reminder that he didn’t walk away from that night unscathed either. He grimaces, barely. Not to complain. Just because it’s there.
Present. Like you.
— “Alright. Here’s what we’re gonna do.”
You open your eyes, vision slightly blurred, confusion obvious. He doesn’t wait for your answer. He never really does.
— “You’re gonna shut the hell up about that guilt crap.”
It’s thrown without filter. But it’s not a slap. It’s a hand offered—Stark-style. He tilts his head slightly, and you raise an eyebrow. Weakly. Almost against your own will. And in that tiny flicker of reaction, something inside him lets go. A faint smirk cracks his face. Ironic. Tired. Sincere.
— “Sound good to you, kid?”
It’s absurd. That dry tone, that sarcastic shell—it’s all he knows how to use when he means: I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere. And against all odds… it’s enough. After a long, quiet hesitation—almost imperceptible. You nod. Small. But clear. Enough. He doesn’t speak right away. But you see it:
His shoulders loosen. Half a centimeter. A breath he didn’t know he was holding slips out. As if that tiny yes, that mute permission, just closed a chapter he refused to leave hanging. You don’t say anything else. You don’t know what to say. And honestly, you’re too exhausted to fight him. He steps back. As if he’s about to leave. As if he’s said what he needed to say—his way. But before he turns around, he gestures with his chin toward the object on the table beside you.
— “Pepper came up with that.”
You blink, confused. Your mind is slow to connect things. Too much pain. Too many threads at once. He sighs. That sigh he saves for moments when he refuses to admit he’s worried.
— “The flowers.”
He rolls his eyes, like repeating it is too ridiculous to bother with.
— “I’m warning you now, I’m not planning on getting you any more. So try not to end up in here too often.”
It’s said without obvious warmth. But you understand. You lower your gaze toward the bouquet. Pale flowers. Delicate. Placed carefully on the bedside table. The image feels unreal. A softness that doesn’t belong in the room where you woke up shattered. An absurd contrast with your ruined body, your uncertain breath, the violence still lingering in the air. You don’t know what to make of it.
But a part of you is… touched. Without knowing why.
Stark watches you for a moment longer. Not to make sure you understand. Just to make sure you’re still breathing. Then, in a tired sigh, he runs a hand through his hair.
— “Get some rest, kid.”
He doesn’t wait for you to answer. He turns. Takes one step, then another, toward the door. Not rushed. Not hesitant. And just before leaving, he stops. Hand on the handle. He doesn’t turn around. His voice is lower. But clear. Clean.
— “And stop saying you’re dead weight.”
Then he leaves the room. And the door closes softly behind him. Silence floods back the moment Stark is gone. Not empty. Massive. It fills the room, clings to the walls, the ceiling, your skin. Too big for the space. Too vast for your beaten body. You stare at the ceiling, but you don’t see it. Your gaze drifts, unfocused, lost inside the chaotic churn of your thoughts. Everything is still spinning.
A few days ago, Stark spoke to you like you were just another cog in the machine. A name on a list, a pair of hands, a project to monitor or correct. He didn’t even really look at you. You were interchangeable. And now…
Now he stayed in that room. As if your condition mattered more than anything else. As if you mattered. He placed a damn bouquet beside you.
Stark.
With flowers.
And that single detail—ridiculous at first glance—cracks something inside you. Because none of it makes sense. Nothing lines up. You try to rationalize. To find an explanation. To force all of this into a logic you recognize. But nothing holds. Since when does Stark stay? Since when does he speak softly? Since when does he look at you like that? With that silent intensity. That gaze that doesn’t dissect you. Doesn’t measure you. Sees you.
Your stomach twists.
Not from pain.
Not physical.
But from that inner drop— That warning bell. Because it’s unsettling. Not what he said. But what it does to you. You don’t know what to do with it. He wasn’t trying to be nice. He wasn’t performing. He was just… there. Truly there. Not to clear his conscience. Not for show. There was no one else watching. He stayed because he wanted to. And that— that scares you. Because you’re not used to this.
You’re used to being useful. To serving. To earning your right to exist through effort. To being valued for what you can do—never for who you are. And now, since yesterday… he’s acting differently. As if you don’t have anything to prove. As if you’re already someone. You inhale, slowly. Your ribs protest violently, pain throbbing through them like a reminder that your body is still whole. Physically. But that’s not what’s crushing you. It’s what he left behind.
What he let you feel. You’re lost. Disoriented. And you want… you want him to come back. Just for a second. Just so you can ask him. Why? Why is he acting like this? Why didn’t he let you die in that warehouse? Why didn’t he just pay the ransom and leave for good? Why does he refuse to see you the way you see yourself? And why, despite everything… a part of you… is starting to want to believe him.
What Remains | Chapter 20 More Missed Signs (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
TW : Mentions of past abuse / implied physical violence
Summary : In the aftermath of a harrowing night, Stark catches a glimpse of something in you that no one should have missed and knows he’ll never forgive himself for it. His composure hardens into command as he orders Banner to keep you under constant watch. Banner, grave and unyielding, diagnoses you with severe exhaustion and shock, his care marked by restraint and respect. Stark absorbs the words in silence, trapped between the present and memories of failure, answering only with a hollow “I’m fine.” Beneath the stillness, a vow takes shape , an unspoken promise that he will not let the signs slip by again.
word count: 10.8k (AUTHOR UPDATE AT THE END)
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
He leaves the ground with an almost solemn slowness, as if every inch gained in the air had to be negotiated with the world itself. The armor vibrates faintly around you, but everything is contained, calibrated, controlled to the extreme. Not a jolt, not a shudder. The ascent is unnaturally smooth, an aerial ballet dictated not by urgency, but by a fierce will to preserve. It is a takeoff without violence, an elevation steeped in restraint. As if he feared the slightest shock, the slightest breath too harsh, might finish you.
The rumble of the thrusters is muffled, absorbed by the armor’s internal systems. The noise, usually so thunderous, fades here behind a sort of mechanical modesty, as if even the technology had decided to whisper. The air around you bends to the trajectory he draws, dense and humid, saturated with dust and the acrid scent of burnt metal. The shadows of the warehouse stretch around you, long, distorted, silent witnesses to the unreal scene. He holds your body against him with an attention that goes beyond the simple act. This isn’t a standard evacuation grip, this isn’t protocol. His arms hold you with an awkward tenderness, rigid from the armor, yet profoundly human. He holds you as a man might cling to a ghost, a still-warm memory, as if he feared your weight might dissolve, your presence melt between his hands.
You feel that diffuse, radiant warmth emanating from his metal-clad chest, a heat that is not only from the thrusters. It passes through you, envelops you, reminds you that you are alive. Despite the dull pain, despite the cold lodged deep into your spine, there is that fixed point, that burning contact at your back, which keeps pulling you back to the present. Your eyelids flutter, unable to stay open for more than a few seconds. The harsh light outside, glimpsed through the fog of your blurred vision, is nothing but a trembling mirage. You resist it. Your head wavers, tilts imperceptibly to the side. He notices immediately. With a micro-adjustment, almost imperceptible, he rights your face, nestles your forehead against the base of his neck, shields you from vibration, from the wind, from anything that might hurt you further.
He flies straight, cutting through the sky without deviation, but every movement is designed to spare you. He compensates, readjusts, modulates in real time. Not for performance. For you. Every jolt, every change in altitude, every gust he absorbs them. You are nothing more than an inert weight in his arms, but he holds you as one holds a child, a fragile being barely returned from an underworld. And he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t avert his gaze, even though his eyes are fixed straight ahead. It is his sensors that watch you, his thermal regulation systems that monitor your breathing, your heartbeat, the uneven heat of your skin. He sees you without needing to look. He keeps you at the center of his focus as if you were an engine on the verge of shutting down.
The sky opens before you, ink-black, edged with the first trembling lights of the city. But he doesn’t look at New York. He cuts through the nocturnal winds like a silent blade, indifferent to the beauty of the lights. He has only one goal, one trajectory. You. Bringing you back. Keeping you alive. And in this suspended silence, in this almost religious flight, there is nothing left but this intimate certainty: he will not let you go. Even if your breath were to falter. Even if your body grew heavier. Even if the entire world sank beneath your feet. He would still hold you. Because something in him, something he perhaps does not even understand himself, refuses to lose you.
The sky opens before you like a black sea with steel reflections, vast and silent, only broken here and there by the city’s hazy lights. The altitude isolates you in a suspended space where the world’s noise dies away, filtered by height and armor. Below, New York sprawls, proud and blind, its luminous arteries crisscrossing in perpetual breath. It knows nothing of what just happened. It doesn’t look. It waits for no one. It continues, unshaken, while you fly straight through its icy sky. But none of that matters. Neither the mute majesty of the skyscrapers, nor the blinking traffic lights, nor the ignored control towers. The world could tip over and Stark would not veer off course. Everything is drawn into a straight line, fine, sharp, almost sacred a thread stretched between the death you just escaped and the life he promised you. An invisible but indestructible line, like a silent oath.
The wind slides against the metallic shell, whispering over the armor’s joints. You feel it wrap around you, pass through you, but the bite of cold no longer reaches you. He sees to that, too. Every parameter is adjusted so you can drift without slipping away. So that you are carried, guided, protected without ever losing consciousness.
Stark Tower begins to emerge on the horizon. It rises in the night like a landmark, a fixed star in the heart of Manhattan. Its light is sharper than the others, clearer. Not because it shines brighter, but because it waits for you. Because it means refuge. Because it is his and he is bringing you there. In that moment, he tightens his hold. It’s subtle, barely a pressure, but you feel it. It is there, like a heartbeat beneath your skin. He doesn’t hold you because you might fall. He holds you because he needs to know you’re still there. Still alive. Still with him. His voice cuts through the air, deep, steady, strangely gentle despite the weight it carries.
— "Don’t hold on, kid. Let me handle it."
It isn’t a request. It isn’t an order either. It is a murmur of authority, a promise hidden under roughness. He speaks to you the way one speaks to someone on the verge of slipping away, to someone who no longer needs to fight. He wants you to let go. To finally release the tension that has been choking you for too long. He wants you to let him carry for two. Just this once. And through the mist of your vision, through the pain still pulsing in every nerve ending, something passes through. It isn’t just the cold. It isn’t just the fatigue. It’s him. It’s his presence. It’s his invisible hand that doesn’t let go, even when you no longer have the strength to cling.
You understand. It’s not that he refuses to lose you. It’s that he cannot. He will go on to the very end. Until you are laid, intact, in clean sheets. Until you are lying in a silent room, temples at rest, surrounded by care and warmth. He will not leave before that. He will not turn his back. Because he has seen you. Truly seen you. In all your misery, in all your violence, in all your fear. And he did not turn away. He chose you. And in this silence that engulfs you, in this inverted fall through the skies, you feel the simplest, most overwhelming truth of all: he is bringing you home.
The sky splits in silence, barely grazed by the passage of an incandescent breath. Between low clouds, heavy with humidity and night, Stark emerges, a silhouette of steel and fire, carved from momentum. His armor glints gold and crimson, slicing through the dark with almost unreal precision, every motion chiseled by urgency. He cuts through the air like a promise, like an oath launched straight toward the light. As he nears the Tower, his speed decreases, contained by absolute control. It is no longer a race: it is a descent. Controlled. Calibrated. A silent offering. The high-pitched cry of the thrusters softens into a deeper, steadier rumble, like a massive, contained breath. The pulsing blue light of the reactors briefly shreds the mist, casting on the mirrored windows of the facade a moving, immense, almost unreal shadow. A shadow of man and metal, stretching, dancing, folding back on itself like an omen from the skies.
Ahead, the landing platform unfolds slowly, like a stage offered to gravity. It lights with a clear outline, ringed with red and white beacons flashing in the fog like rescue lights. The ground is smooth, wide, unobstructed. It waits for him. Ready to receive him. The metal hums softly under the wind churned by the turbines, shaking the safety rails in slight tremors. Gusts sweep the dust piled at the platform’s edge, driving it toward the void, as if even matter itself had to clear the way for their passage. Stark adjusts his trajectory with jeweler’s precision. Every micro-movement is calculated. Every second counts. He slows further, knees bent, torso slightly inclined, absorbing the oscillations of flight so nothing, absolutely nothing, shakes you. In his arms, you are something precious, fragile, irreplaceable. His back arches slightly to shield you from the whistling wind, from the cold that seeps everywhere, from the night still thick with threats. He holds you so close you hear his heart beating through the armor or perhaps it’s only your own breath reflected against it.
At this exact moment, nothing else exists. Not the height. Not the city. Not the machines softly groaning beneath your feet. Just this posture of absolute protection, this flight suspended in the mist, this shiver of approach. Just him, focused to the extreme, every gesture steeped in fierce respect, in visceral attention. He doesn’t land to deliver. He descends to save. To lay a still-warm, still-living body at the threshold of something new. He descends slowly, with almost ceremonial precision, every fraction of a second weighed, every motion perfectly calibrated. The air vibrates around you, carried by the reactors that gradually lower their intensity, like a mechanical heart slowing its rhythm as it nears rest. He leaves nothing to chance. Not a jolt, not a shudder. He cushions his descent centimeter by centimeter, as if walking on glass. The slightest imbalance would be a betrayal. So he controls everything. Down to the silence.
The contact of metal against concrete is not a crash, nor even a landing in the usual sense. It is a caress. An almost inaudible shiver, a muffled slide, almost respectful. His boots touch the ground with the lightness of a breath. Not a trace of brutality, only this extreme restraint, this inhuman care to avoid disturbing your body against his. The concrete of the platform, still warm from the beacon lights, sends back a soft, muffled echo, as if even matter understood the importance of not disturbing this moment.
And then, he stops.
Right there. Standing. Motionless. Anchored to the ground, yet still tense, as if the universe itself had not yet received the order to resume its course. A second. Maybe less. A breath between two heartbeats. He remains frozen, arms tight around you, legs slightly apart to keep you perfectly balanced against him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Barely breathes. He waits. He listens. He checks, without gesture, without word, without technology. He checks that you are still there. That you haven’t slipped through the mesh of pain. That the weight in his arms is still yours, animated by life.
Then, slowly, mechanically, the armor begins to open.
A first click sounds, discreet but sharp, followed by a series of others, like a lock releasing section by section. The internal clasps disengage in a fluid, almost organic sequence. The armor’s red lines fade gradually, pulsing one last time like a breath expiring, before dissolving into the metal. The hiss of the stabilization system fades, leaving behind an almost sacred silence. The helmet finally lifts a notch, sliding backward with a muffled murmur. It retracts, revealing Tony Stark’s face, suddenly bared to the night’s cold. His forehead is slightly damp, his temples throbbing, his eyes dark under the pale glow of the sky. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. His gaze drifts slowly around him, sweeping the space in a single motion. He analyzes the roof, the angles, the escape lines. Not a superfluous movement. Just the sharpened instinct of a man accustomed to war, to loss, to urgency. The roof is empty. Calm. The wind flows freely, but there is nothing hostile in the air. No signal of danger. Nothing. Just this silent platform, this fixed point at the city’s summit, like a threshold between the fall and the return. And in his arms, you. Still here. Still alive.
He lowers his eyes to you, for barely a second. His face remains impassive. But in the tension of his jaw, in the almost painful stillness of his features, in the way his arms tighten ever so slightly around you, there is something far stronger than words. He says nothing. He is here. And that is all that matters. He walks forward without a word.
His steps resonate softly on the platform, each impact of metal against concrete sinking into the silence like a muffled drum. He walks with an almost solemn gravity, as if the earth itself weighed a bit more under his feet, yet his movement remains inhumanly smooth, that of a man long accustomed to carrying at once the armor, the weight of the world, and the life of another in his arms. You are still there, motionless against him, nestled against his vibrating chest, and he holds you just tightly enough to keep you from slipping, but not so much as to hurt you. He adjusts his grip almost imperceptibly with each step, as if by instinct he could feel the slightest tremor of your breath, the slightest sway of your weight. The slightest pain. He crosses the platform as one crosses an invisible border. A line between chaos and safety. The air is different here. More stable. Less charged with threat. But it is not over yet. He knows it. He keeps moving forward, focused, taut with determination.
As he nears the doors, he does not slow. He doesn’t need to. They recognize him. The armor, his signature, the presence of your body against him. Everything is already read, analyzed, understood. The subtlest sensors trigger the opening before he even reaches the threshold. In a perfectly oiled sigh, the sliding doors part before him, as if the building itself were holding its breath.
The interior light greets him instantly, warm, steady, golden.
It contrasts sharply with the frozen darkness he has just left behind. It’s not simply a matter of temperature or color. It’s a shock. The outside world, with its mist, its threats, and its cries, vanishes abruptly behind you. Here, everything is clean. Controlled. The air smells of well-maintained circuits, discreet disinfectants, and perfectly tuned cutting-edge technology. A place where nothing is left to chance. Where suffering is not meant to cross the threshold. He doesn’t slow down. He moves forward, determined, focused, his boots leaving barely a trace on the corridor’s gleaming floor. The soft strike of his steps seems the only sound in the space, until a calm, measured female voice — surgical in its gentleness breaks the silence.
— “Biometric scan active. Vital signs in progress. Medical priority detected.”
It’s Friday.
And in that sentence, there is neither surprise nor panic. Only the precision of a system that already knows. That has seen what you are going through before you can even say it. She speaks for Stark. She speaks for you. She acknowledges. She takes over. Suddenly, the corridor’s lights brighten just slightly, enough to guide, to accompany. A system activates in the background. The architecture itself adjusts to your passage. Locked doors slide open with muffled hisses. A secondary hallway unfolds. Sensors light up in the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Assistance modules emerge from recessed wall compartments, ready to intervene. And still, Stark doesn’t stop. He follows the route as if it were carved into his memory. His trajectory never deviates. He knows this path — not because he’s taken it often, but because tonight it’s the only one that matters. The one that leads to the Tower’s heart. To the place where he can finally set your body down.
You are still breathing. Weakly. Irregularly. But your breath exists. It draws a thin line between what could collapse and what still stands. And as long as that thread doesn’t break, as long as you hold on, he won’t let go either. The corridor seals itself behind you, doors closing in silence. Stark moves faster now, as if he can feel time slipping through his fingers. Every second counts. Every beat of your heart is a contained emergency. Ahead, the glass walls of the elevator glow at his approach. A muffled chime. A metallic sigh. Then the doors part abruptly in a rush of compressed air.
And the world opens.
Pepper is already there. Upright, tense, a steel silhouette in a suit rumpled by haste. She bursts forward like an arrow. Her stride is almost thrown off balance by worry: her heels strike violently against the floor, a rhythm too fast for elegance, too instinctive to be staged. She hasn’t taken time to change, or to breathe. Just to run. Just to come. Her gaze sweeps the space — a quick, surgical intake of information — before freezing. She sees you. She sees Tony. And in that silent eye contact, something in her breaks. Her hand rises to her mouth, pure reflex, a contained tremor.
— “Oh my god…”
She no longer advances. The shock holds her in place. Behind her, Bruce Banner enters. Slower, but just as focused. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him anything. He has seen. He has understood. His jaw tightens, his medical bag already open in one hand. The calm man vanishes. There is no room for humor or half-measures. Only essentials. Only urgency. He approaches with calm precision, but each movement betrays the tension beneath. His eyes glide over your face, your chest, your limp arm, the purple marks, the dried blood, the pallor. He counts vital signs at a glance, measures risks in silence.
— “Tony. Put him down. Now.”
The voice is firm, direct. A medical instruction, not a request. But Tony doesn’t move. Not right away. He stays frozen, suspended between two moments. His arms tighten slightly, almost imperceptibly, but Bruce notices. Pepper too. It’s the gesture of a man who still refuses to let go. A man holding a weight too precious to be set down, even for a second. He holds you as if carrying you were the last thing keeping you here. As if that contact alone could keep you alive. His eyes don’t leave your face. He hasn’t heard the words — not in the usual sense. He has received them slowly, through a fog of fear and adrenaline, like muffled sounds behind glass. He knows he must entrust you to other hands. But he hasn’t yet released you. Pepper steps closer. Not in haste this time. Her heels no longer strike — they skim the floor, measured, cautious, as if she were approaching the edge of a silence too fragile to be broken. She doesn’t speak. Not yet. She doesn’t need to. She looks.
She looks at your pale face, stained with dried blood and dirt, at eyelids that barely flutter, at a bruised eye struggling to stay open. She sees the bruises, the fingerprint marks embedded in your skin, the desperate tension in your muscles despite your exhausted body. She sees your chest rise with difficulty, each breath pulling on a thread too thin, too taut. Then her eyes shift to Stark. And there, she understands. She reads more than his expression shows. The mask of control, the impenetrable facade, the jaw clenched to the limit… but she sees deeper. The tightness around the eyes. The breath held. The veins pulsing at his temples. The silent grip of his hands still holding you. As if letting go meant accepting the possibility you wouldn’t survive.
So, without jarring him, without rushing, she lifts her hand and lays it — slowly, delicately — on the armor’s chest plate, right between the two reactors still faintly humming, warm from their last flight. Her touch is light but firm. Not forcing. Anchoring.
— “He’s in good hands now.”
Her voice is soft. Steady. But there is neither command nor authority in its tone. It’s not an order. Not even a request.
It’s permission.
A breath given to someone who has been holding theirs for too long. Stark stays still for another second. A full second, where time seems to stop. He closes his eyes, not to escape, but to find himself. A blink that lasts an eternity contained. He inhales — deeply, painfully. Then exhales, silently.
And finally, he moves.
Everything in him is caution. Control. Devotion. His knees bend with the muffled whine of servomotors. The armor kneels slowly, almost in unison with your broken breath. He doesn’t release you all at once. He guides you. One hand slides behind your neck, the other at the curve of your back, and with an almost unreal delicacy, he lays you on the medical bed. But not as one sets down a weight. Not as one frees oneself. He sets you down as one returns something precious. Irreplaceable. Something they failed to protect, and now try to repair in silence. His gestures are meticulous, almost surgical. He supports your back, adjusts the bend of your legs, takes care not to touch the too-prominent ribs, not to press the black bruises under your skin. He slips an arm under your side to balance your posture, smooths a wrinkle in your shirt, arranges the blanket he pulls up to your waist.
He brushes your face one last time without touching it. Just an intention suspended. Then his fingers open. His eyes remain locked on yours — even if you can no longer hold his gaze. He doesn’t leave you entirely. He steps back slowly, as if entrusting a part of himself to the exam table. He stays kneeling for a moment, frozen there, before slowly, very slowly, retreating a step, then another. And he leaves you. To Bruce. To Pepper. To the machines, the protocols, the care. But not really. Because he remains there. Just beside you. And he doesn’t move away. Not yet. Not until he sees your body react, your chest rising more regularly. Not until he is certain that night hasn’t taken you for good. The harsh light of the neon lamps only deepens the shadows under his eyes, the lines of fatigue carved on his forehead, the unbearable tension etched into the shade of his features. His jaw is locked, every muscle taut like a cable ready to snap, but it’s not anger that dominates his eyes. Not this time.
It’s fear. Raw, naked fear. An almost unspeakable fear. The fear of a man who, despite the armor, despite the thrusters and the artificial intelligence, despite the control, feared he might not arrive in time. That he had been too slow. That he had failed. And that fear, silent but devastating, devours the light in his gaze. Replaces the usual arrogance with visceral anxiety. With whole, irreducible human distress. Behind him, in the infirmary’s heavy silence, Pepper and Bruce get to work. There is no panic. No raised voices. Just a few words exchanged in glances, in precise gestures. They don’t speak because they don’t need to. Urgency binds them. And instinct, too. The instinct of those who have seen the worst and refuse to see it again.
Pepper kneels first. Her heels glide on the floor, but she doesn’t waver. She comes to you with incredible gentleness, almost unreal in this context of violence and blood. Her hand slides slowly under your shoulders, searching for the least painful contact point. Her slender fingers tremble only slightly, but in her breathing, in the tension of her throat, you can feel her restraint. She wants to be strong. She has to be. Bruce moves in the same motion. Silent, solid. He kneels too, his knees touching the floor with respectful slowness. His hands find your legs, just below the knees, with a craftsman’s care. He doesn’t touch you as a doctor might handle an unconscious patient. He carries you as one carries a cracked vase they refuse to see break. His warmth seeps through your skin, even in the pain. He is here. Completely here.
When their hands lift you together, your body protests. A wave of pain shoots through your back, twists your sides, tears at your bruised ribs. And despite yourself, a sound escapes. Barely a breath. A hoarse, muffled moan, but real. It cuts the air like a blade, tiny but sharp. Immediately, the movement stops. Both of them freeze. A shiver runs through Pepper’s shoulders. Bruce lowers his eyes slightly, breath suspended. The instant feels carved out of time. As if that sound proved you were still here. Still alive. Still capable of hurting therefore of surviving. Pepper tilts her head slightly. She murmurs, almost too low to hear, but the calm in her voice threads between your heartbeats:
— “It’s over… we’ve got you. It’s over now.”
It’s not a promise. It’s a certainty. An anchor. A truth spoken softly so you can cling to it. They resume their movement, very gently, and lay you on the gurney set beside them. It is padded in white, soft, sterile fabric, prepared since Friday detected the emergency. Every inch of your body set down on it brings fresh waves of pain, but also a paradoxical relief: you no longer have to carry your own weight. You no longer have to fight to stay upright. The fabric absorbs your heat and reflects it back, soft but smothering. You barely feel the contact, except where your skin is raw. The burn spreads, dull, constant. The ceiling slides slowly above you as they push you, its light blurred by the tears you don’t shed, clouded by fever and spasms of pain that keep rising in you like uncontrollable waves.
Each step of their quickened pace resounds in your ears like a foreign heartbeat, steady, reassuring. Their breath, their presence, the human warmth finally surrounding you: all of it anchors you. Holds you. You no longer see Stark. You don’t know if he follows, or if he stayed frozen behind, somewhere between the end of action and the beginning of averted loss. The bed rolls forward with the faint squeak of shock-absorbing wheels. The sound is barely audible, but in your state, every vibration, every shift, feels like a contained quake. You don’t move. You can’t. You only feel that you’re moving forward. That you’re gliding down the corridor. That something is carrying you away from the breaking point. Toward something else. Pepper pushes the gurney, eyes fixed straight ahead, her hands firm on the side rails, though trembling in places. She doesn’t run. She moves quickly, yes — but without haste. It’s a strange balance, almost military: that of someone who refuses to give in to panic, because she knows there is no longer room for it.
Beside you, Bruce walks with a longer stride, his eyes locked on a small monitor he holds in his palm like an extension of himself. The screen blinks at regular intervals, casting blue reflections on his face. He speaks. Murmurs, rather. Data, numbers, precise observations betraying the gravity of your condition.
You catch fragments. “Blood pressure unstable.” “Irregular heart rate.” “Multiple fractures, thorax, maybe ribs.” “Signs of internal bleeding.” You don’t hear it all, but your body understands. It already knows. It screams from within, even if your mouth stays shut. Even if your eyes close at times, unable to keep pace with the light. They turn at the corridor’s intersection. You feel it more than see it. A gentle curve, a change in the neon’s intensity, and suddenly, a silent detonation — the automatic doors opening at their approach in a controlled, almost solemn sigh. Like a stage opening on an awaited, dreaded play.
The medical lab space reveals itself. The light, harsher here, assaults your weary pupils, forcing them to close in a painful spasm. Shadows carve themselves against white walls, machines lined up with millimetric precision waiting in muffled silence. The scent is that of disinfectant and polished metal, of merciless cleanliness. It smells of clinic, of safety… and of fear. The beeping of monitors breaks out suddenly, synchronized with the ragged rhythm of your heart. Friday quietly announces the start of medical procedures. Her voice is soft, almost maternal, but unyielding.
Each word seeps into the air like a deep note. The atmosphere shifts. Graver. Sharper. Everything is ready. Robotic arms power into active standby. Screens split into sections. The room, inanimate moments ago, seems to adapt around you. As if it had been built for this. For you. Without breaking his gaze from you, Bruce gives quiet orders to Friday. He remains focused, but in his movements there is that familiar rigidity: the kind found in those who have too often had to repair broken people. And you… you drift. You no longer know if you are here or not. Everything blurs. Sounds stretch. White turns hazy. Time dissolves.
But what you feel — what you cannot ignore — is the brutal truth etched into every action around you: Bruce may not have planned for this. Not you. Not today. Not like this. But deep down, he knew. He always knew that someday, sooner or later, Tony would come back with something broken in his arms. Something bleeding. Something he couldn’t fix alone. And that day… that day, it was you. They settle you with infinite gentleness, as if fearing the slightest abrupt movement might scatter you into fragments too small to piece back together. The transfer from gurney to exam table happens without a word, but with near-choreographed coordination. Bruce slips an arm beneath your shoulders, guiding your back slowly onto the support. Pepper steadies your neck, her slender fingers threaded into the base of your hair, holding your head with meticulous care. At each touch, you barely flinch, but every shiver triggers tense silence. Everything is measured. Nothing left to chance.
The exam table automatically adjusts to your weight, your posture, your fragility. A faint hum rises from the metal frame as a biomechanical mattress inflates in places to support critical areas of your body, identified in real time by Friday’s initial analysis. The surface is warm, pliant to the touch, designed to soothe, not jar.
Around you, robotic arms move in silence. They descend slowly from the ceiling, pivoting with slow, precise, almost human restraint. Each segment articulates without noise, tips glinting white. They don’t touch yet. They wait. Bruce configures them in quick gestures over a floating screen, his fingers gliding from command to command like a pianist. He places a round sensor on your temple; you barely feel the pressure of the conductive gel on your skin. Another fixes to your wrist, where your pulse beats faintly, erratically. He takes a few seconds to check the signals, eyes narrowed, focused, as colored lines appear in curves on the screen at his right. He murmurs something to Friday — a technical order, a dosage instruction perhaps. You don’t hear. Everything is distant. Filtered. As if you float beneath a layer of cloudy water.
Meanwhile, Pepper leans closer. She is right beside your face, her fingers gently combing through your tangled hair. She brushes damp strands, your sweat-damp forehead, the temples still throbbing. Her touch is light, almost imperceptible, but anchored. Present. She doesn’t try to wake you, or to prompt you. She just stays. That’s all. She holds the invisible thread still tying you to the world.
— “We’re here…” she whispers, almost into your ear, “we’re not letting go.”
Her voice is low. Rounded. Slightly cracked at the edges. But it holds. Because it must. Because she sees you slip at times, sway, drift. And she refuses to lose you. Beside her, Bruce is already adjusting the first intervention parameters. Automated syringes line up in one of the modules. One is ready to inject a painkiller, another a stabilizer. The needles don’t gleam. They aren’t frightening. They wait. Like everyone here, they wait for you to hold on. To stay. To survive a little longer. And under the white light, beneath the blinding ceiling, the world seems suspended around you. No shouting. No chaos. Just that silent tension. That race against shadow. And the two of them, at your side. Still, but ready for anything.
Banner says nothing more. He doesn’t need to. His silence is not indifference — it’s pure concentration, the kind of a man who knows the gravity of the situation, who’s seen it too often, and who refuses to be overwhelmed by emotion while actions matter more than words. His face is closed, sculpted in impassive control, but his eyes do not lie. He watches you with a burning acuity, as if trying to decipher every millimeter of your pain before you show it. He comes closer, his shadow casting slightly over your chest, and his gloved hands graze your skin. He doesn’t hesitate, but he rushes nothing. His fingertips glide along a purple bruise, tracing the outline of a wound hidden beneath dried grime. He presses gently, without drawing a cry, but the faintest twitch of your body tells him what he needs. He adapts instantly, changes angle, avoids the most inflamed zones. His left hand stays flat on your clavicle while the other explores your abdomen, an anchor of reassurance, a signal that he’s there, in control. His words are rare, barely audible. Not meant to reassure you, not like Pepper. He doesn’t offer comfort through language. He states things, simply, for himself, for Friday, for the assistant who slips quietly into the room:
— “Deep contusions. Possible fractured rib… right lateral. Abdominal inflammation… monitor internal bleeding.”
The assistant — young, discreet, in a barely rumpled gray coat — approaches without a word, accustomed to scenes like this. He sets the requested instruments on the tray, a silent metal plate, an IV bag, a perfectly aligned injection kit. Bruce doesn’t even look at him. He holds out a hand without raising his eyes, and already the gauze is there, ready. The needle, disinfected, glints in the stark light, but no tremor disturbs the gesture. He begins to clean a wound beneath your ribcage. The gauze, soaked in saline, barely stings your skin, but you feel your own body’s shiver, unable to guard against the pain. Bruce sets his other hand on your shoulder, gentle yet firm, to keep you still. His thumb presses slightly, just enough to keep you from moving.
— “Breathe slowly. A little more.”
It’s almost a murmur, but that voice never shakes. It’s addressed as much to himself as to you. It’s the rhythm, the measure, the structure keeping panic from bleeding into the movements. As he works through the protocol, tools follow one another with flawless fluidity. Friday announces your vitals at regular intervals. Your heart rate wavers, unstable. Blood pressure is low. Bruce adjusts the IV, injects a light painkiller, prepares a sedative in case the pain becomes unbearable. He doesn’t need to hear you scream to know it already is. Your face says it. Your breathing says it.
But what you truly feel isn’t Banner. It isn’t his precise motions, nor the cool touch of gauze on battered skin, nor even the soft hiss of the machines around you. It’s something else. Larger. Heavier. Hotter.
It’s Stark.
Still there. In the background. A few steps away, or a few light years. Motionless. Silent. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t give orders, directives, not even a sigh. And yet, he’s there. He fills the whole room. He saturates the air like atmospheric pressure you cannot ignore. You don’t see him — you haven’t the strength to turn your head — but you feel him. Intensely. Inevitably. His presence is an invisible force clinging to your skin, weighing on your cracked ribcage, vibrating deep in your stomach. He’s like a note suspended in the silence, a sharp tension between two heartbeats. He’s there like a shadow across your light, like a cold breath at your neck. His gaze, you can’t see, but you know it. You sense it. Fixed. Unyielding. Set on you like a blade too fine to make noise, but sharp enough to hurt.
You breathe slowly, painfully, and each inhale seems to resonate in him. You feel him watching — not like one man watching another, but like someone scanning for any proof of life, any drift, any sign you might still collapse. He is tethered to you, to your motions, to your breath. He is anchor and alarm. The fear he hides. The rage he holds. The guilt he will never admit. And in that apparent stillness, you know a thousand things churn inside. You know he’s replaying the scene. Over and over. Seeing the blood, the floor, the cry. Clinging to your image, your broken body, to keep from plunging into what he couldn’t stop. Because Stark, when he fails, doesn’t cry. He doesn’t crumble. He freezes. And now, he’s frozen.
Like a caged beast. Like a weapon whose barrel still smokes. Like a man unsure if he arrived too late… or just in time. He doesn’t look at your wounds. Not really. His gaze doesn’t linger on open cuts, or on the violet bruises running your flank. He doesn’t track the bloody lines or the bandages already staining under Bruce’s hands. He doesn’t see the damaged flesh, the contusions, the fractures. He looks through. Beyond. As if searching an invisible, underground territory where the real damage isn’t the kind blood shows, but the kind that never heals. He’s searching. And what he’s searching for isn’t a broken bone or damaged organ. It’s something else. An absence of words. A silence you’ve kept too long. A truth you’ve never let surface. He observes as one examines a breathing lie. As if, in your stillness, he reads everything you never said. All the nights you came back hurt. All the mornings you rose without sleep. All the days you smiled while bleeding inside.
It’s not just anger in his eyes. Not annoyance for not knowing sooner, nor the muted rage of someone who feels responsible. It’s not even the familiar frustration he wears with the pride of those who want to control everything. No. It’s something else. Deeper. Older. More personal. A form of repressed wound surfacing, not because you are weak, but because he cannot bear the thought of you having suffered in silence… and him not seeing. Or not wanting to.
And then, he speaks.
His voice cuts the air. It isn’t raised. Not shouted. It falls. Like a blade. A verdict. A truth he’d have preferred never to name.
— “The scars.”
Two words. Brutally sharp. Surgically precise. Two words like a thunderclap in a room already frozen, already heavy with tension. The white light seems to flicker. The machines keep on in indifferent routine, but the atmosphere shifts. It’s no longer mere observation. It’s a fracture. A fault line opening in the conversation. A gulf where everyone holds their breath.
Banner stops. Not for long. Just a barely perceptible pause, a faint tremor in the precise rhythm of his movements. But in that suspended beat, there is more tension than in any shout. Just enough to understand that something has cracked beneath the surface. The clinical precision gives way to doubt. To a sharp awareness.
— “What?” he murmurs without looking away, fingers still resting on a compress.
His voice is calm. But he doesn’t need to look at Tony to know. He’s already understood. He just wants him to say it. For the words to come out, for someone to dare to speak them aloud.
— “The marks on his body. Not from tonight. From before.”
Stark’s voice is clear. Far from his usual sarcasm. It carries neither anger nor panic. Not yet. It isn’t an accusation — it’s a fracture in logic, a painful lucidity that cuts like a scalpel. His words fall with an almost mathematical exactness, stripped bare. Like a surgeon delivering a diagnosis without anesthesia. Bruce doesn’t respond. Not right away. He stays there, leaning over you, his hands slightly frozen above your half-bandaged chest, his eyes fixed on some vague point of the sheet, as if the fabric could absorb the question for him. But the silence answers in his place. It says everything Bruce doesn’t want to admit aloud. He knows. He knew. And he hasn’t said it. Not yet. Stark takes a step. One step. But it’s enough to change the atmosphere. A slow, almost ceremonial shift, as if he were entering sacred ground or a crime scene. He advances with deliberate, measured caution, as though afraid each sound might awaken a memory, each gesture intrude. He approaches the bed as one approaches a field of ruins.
— “You saw it during your exam, didn’t you?”
The words are slow. One by one. Weighed. As if he’d been holding them on the tip of his tongue for days. He isn’t trying to trap Bruce. He just wants the truth. And the truth is already there, in the silence, in the slowness with which Bruce sets down what he’s holding — a clamp, a syringe, it doesn’t matter. It’s no longer medical equipment. It’s a burden. He sets it down with mechanical, almost ceremonial care, as if each motion could atone for what he’s about to admit. He inhales. Deeply. The kind of breath you take before stepping into something inevitable.
— “He refused to take off his shirt.”
A murmur. A statement. Not a defense. Just a naked, powerless fact. And then, everything changes. The silence that follows isn’t just an absence of sound. It’s an abyss. A shockwave. The air itself grows heavier. Denser. Something drops over the room — a new, brutal gravity. Like a slab of lead. The walls seem to close in. The machines fall quiet. Even the lights seem to hesitate to flicker. You are at the center of this emotional minefield. Frozen. Trapped in a bed that suddenly feels too big, too exposed. Tension is everywhere. In the glances avoided, in the breaths held, in the way Pepper lowers her eyes almost imperceptibly, in the way Bruce no longer moves, in the way Tony stands there, fists lightly clenched, jaw locked, eyes fixed on you. He’s understood. And now, he won’t look away. The moment is suspended, frozen in an almost unreal density. The silence is no longer just the absence of sound — it has substance. Thick. Vibrating. It hums between the walls, in the lungs, in the veins. You hear your own heartbeat, frantic, uneven, like an alarm no one is silencing. And in that silence, you feel it.
Stark. Behind you. Motionless. But not neutral.
Something in the air has changed, subtly, violently. An invisible tension stretches like a bowstring. His presence shifts, grows denser, sharper. He doesn’t make a sound, no sudden move. But you know. You know he’s understood. Not with tangible proof, not with spoken words. With something else. A raw instinct, sharpened by years of reading between the lines, detecting chaos where others see only a false calm. He doesn’t need anyone to explain. He’s seen. He’s sensed. He’s guessed. He understands what it means. What it reveals. And at that exact moment, something collapses silently in the room.
You don’t see it immediately. Your vision is blurred, too focused on following Bruce’s movements, clinging to something objective, rational, so as not to lose your footing. But you feel him move. Slowly. A controlled rotation of his body, as if pivoting on an axis planted in his own anger. Not an explosion. Not visible violence. Just a shift. A displacement of balance, of center of gravity. And then his eyes find yours. That’s when your breath catches.
His gaze pierces you. He’s not seeking confirmation. He doesn’t need your words, your approval. He already knows. But he looks anyway, because he has to see in your eyes what no one else wanted to see. What you’ve hidden. What you still hide. It’s no longer the gaze of a superior. No longer the sharp irony of an irritated genius. Not even the authority of a man who’s taken responsibility for keeping you alive. It’s something else. The raw pain of a man who’s just realized he failed to prevent the irreparable. That he left you alone too long. That he’s seen you collapse, get back up, bend, endure, without ever asking the right questions. It’s the pain of guilt, of failure, of fearing he wasn’t there — not fast enough, not strong enough.
And deep in that gaze, there’s a fracture. Something fundamental that has just broken. It isn’t trust. It isn’t the image he had of you. It’s more intimate than that. It’s a silent promise he thought he’d made — that he would never let you fall. And now, he realizes he already has. You were already broken long before you met him. Maybe even years before. He came too late. And you can’t say anything. Can’t do anything. Because deep down, you knew he’d see it one day. That he’d know. You just hoped that day would never come. He no longer sees the fresh wounds from tonight. Not the violet bruise consuming your eye, not the still-red cut on your temple, not even the dried blood in your hair. Those injuries, he’s already cataloged. Seen. Counted. Classified.
No.
What his eyes fix on now is everything else. What was there long before tonight. What speaks louder than any emergency. He’s looking at the old scars. The ones you never show. The ones that no longer call for help. Under the harsh light, they appear gradually, as if revealed by an invisible developer. Thin but indelible white lines, carved deep into the flesh, mapping a pattern only an attentive gaze can decipher. They snake between shadows, traced as if by hand by someone who had no right. Some are straight, methodical. Others interrupted, trembling, left hanging like aborted gestures. Some climb too high along your sides. Others cross your ribs, too close to the heart to be accidental. And then there are the burns. Old. Raised. They no longer have the raw violence of flames, but their imprint remains. Thick, in relief, as if the skin had never truly managed to close. Some bear the clear shape of an object. A buckle. A corner. A cylinder heated white-hot. Geometric imprints, absurd, mechanical in their horror. He doesn’t touch. He doesn’t dare. But he sees. And that’s enough.
He sees the pressure scars, where the skin has toughened as if to shield itself from a force too often repeated. He sees the shifts in color that even artificial light can’t even out. He sees the places where your skin gave up on healing perfectly. He sees the traces of a past no scanner can erase. And together, these marks form a map. An intimate topography. A chart of pain carefully hidden for years. He doesn’t know its legend, but he understands its language. A silent language. An alphabet of slow violence, of contained suffering, of silence measured to the millimeter. And that map — he should never have read it. Not like this. Not now. Not against your will.
And yet it’s there. Offered. Imposed. Bare. And he stays frozen. Rooted. He says nothing. His breath is short, invisible but uneven. His features, so often creased in anger or focus, are different now. Unmade. He looks, and you feel he’s no longer seeing just your skin. He sees the years. The nights. The raised hands. The turned eyes. The words never said. The air stretches like a too-thin sheet, ready to tear at the slightest breath. You hear it vibrate in your ears — or maybe it’s your own heart, frantic, pounding, uneven. Each breath is a struggle. Your chest barely rises, your inhale catching in your throat, a mix of pain, mute panic, and shame. But it’s not your breath that’s the heaviest, nor Banner’s suspended one. It’s Stark’s. You don’t really hear it, but you feel it — a dense, low, animal vibration lodged somewhere behind you. Like an engine ready to explode under pressure. He says nothing, and yet his presence roars, consuming all the oxygen in the room, occupying every gap in the silence. He’s there, massive, frozen, and paradoxically more vulnerable than ever.
You hear a sharp, organic crack. It comes from him. His jaw has locked to the extreme, muscles tight as cables under strain. He allows himself no word, no extra breath, but his body speaks for him. And his fist — his fist has closed around the metal edge of the exam table. Fingers clenched white. Veins standing out, pulsing. A slight tremor runs through his arm, minimal but impossible to ignore. As if that single contact with the metal were the only thing keeping him from blowing everything apart. Banner continues, seemingly unshaken, his actions dictated by an almost surgical discipline, but his calm is only a mask. Every motion he makes — every soaked cotton, every pressure on your damaged skin — carries an extra charge of care. Not because he doubts what he’s doing, but because he feels, as you do, that the atmosphere has become unstable. The air is heavy, saturated with unspoken things, with anger and pain that no antiseptic can cleanse.
He brushes over a fresh cut on your side, his gloved hand barely making contact, as if afraid to open something beyond the wound. He cleans it slowly, gently, with a sterile cotton dipped in warm solution. The liquid bites a little, makes your skin shiver, but it’s nothing compared to the chill climbing your spine when you hear Stark behind you, still silent, still unmoving, like a figure frozen in an emotional storm. The cotton leaves a wet, almost shining trace along a superficial cut. Bruce presses just enough to stop a thin line of still-living blood, then applies a fine compress, a transparent dressing. Everything is clean, measured, almost tender. But in that tenderness lies a tension — his, yours, Tony’s. A tension nothing can dissipate.
Bruce hesitates to continue. His hand hovers over the next wound. He casts a quick glance toward Stark, as if gauging the scale of the inner tremor he senses but won’t question. But Tony doesn’t move. He’s still there, immobile, on the boundary between man and fracture.
So Banner sets down the instrument in his hand — a fine, metallic clamp — with almost excessive delicacy. The sound of it meeting the tray is crisp, clear, but muffled by the moment. Like a discordant note in a mute concert. He could have done it quickly, without care. But he chooses silence. He chooses control. Because he knows, deep down, that one sudden gesture, one word too many, and the fragile stability left would collapse in a single block. The tray vibrates faintly under the weight of the tools, but that small sound is enough to make the moment quiver. A muted alarm, an echo of all that remains unsaid. And in Banner’s eyes, when he lifts them to you for a second, there is no panic, no pity. Just calm lucidity. A sharp awareness that the real work of healing goes far beyond visible wounds.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. He’s there, planted in that pool of white light, jaw so tense you can see the nerves pulled tight into his temples. Bruce, facing him, has just spoken one of those simple, unadorned sentences that says it all:
— “I couldn’t insist.” A statement like a turning point. But it slides off Stark without touching the surface. It pierces deeper.
He doesn’t answer. Not a word. Not a breath. He stays anchored in his own paralysis, in that strange muteness where his anger has nowhere to go, where incomprehension becomes almost tangible. His shoulders hang low, heavy. His gaze doesn’t let go. It stays locked on you. On every inch of exposed skin. On every ridge of your ribcage. On every whitened line of your past. It’s no longer shock. Not even rage. It’s a kind of dry, compressed distress, wordless, because no word would be sharp enough to express it. So he stays frozen. He doesn’t even allow himself to blink.
His breath is caught in his throat, as if each inhale had to pass through fire. He’s fighting himself, the rising tide pounding behind his ribs, the primal urge to smash everything. His fingers, still gripping the metal edge, tremble slightly, but it’s a heavy tremor, dense, full of contained tension. His shoulders are rigid, locked by an instinct he’s muzzling with all his strength. He’s a flesh armor about to crack. Then the word falls.
One word. Just one.
— “Who.”
Sharp, cutting, irrevocable. It holds neither panic nor pleading. Just a bare, honed demand that slices the air like steel. The sound of imminent war. And everything freezes. The machines’ discreet hum seems to vanish. The silence grows thicker. Tighter. Banner lifts his eyes without haste, but worry slips into them immediately. He knows that voice. That precise, grave, surgical tone. He’s heard it before, in contexts he’d rather forget. Not the eccentric genius masking fear with irony. No. The man who has decided nothing will stop him.
— “Stark—”
But his attempt at appeasement is cut off before it exists. Stark’s voice returns, lower, darker, heavy with lead.
— “Who did this?”
This time, it’s no longer a question. It’s a summons. A suspended blade. A sentence barely delayed. He isn’t asking for an answer — he’s demanding a truth. He’s calling it forth. And if he doesn’t get it, he’ll find it himself. His gaze is black. Unfathomable. He’s no longer looking at you as a puzzle to solve, but as a riddle he already has the answer to — and is ready to destroy. But deep down, he knows. He knows he’ll get nothing tonight. Nothing but your silence. A silence heavier than any confession. Because you can’t speak. Not yet. Because your throat is knotted with pain and fear. Because putting words to those years would make them real again. And you don’t have the strength.
So you look away. Slowly. Like a mute confession. And that small motion tips him into another dimension of reality. Not vengeance. Not yet. But certainty. Absolute. Unshakable. He doesn’t need your voice. Because now, he knows. You stay there, frozen, your body stretched under the unyielding neon lights, but it isn’t the pain that locks you in place. It’s not the burn of fresh wounds, nor even the sting of antiseptic Bruce applies with method. It’s his gaze. That fixed, burning, unyielding gaze you can’t meet but that refuses to leave. You don’t see it, but you feel it. It hangs over you like a truth waiting, like a blade ready to fall at the slightest word, the smallest blink.
You know what he’s just said. You don’t need it repeated. The word still snaps in your memory like a muffled detonation. Who. It isn’t curiosity. It’s justice, maybe vengeance. Reparation. But above all, it’s a question asked too soon. Too brutally. At a time when every part of you is still just trying to survive the night. You feel the weight of that demand in every inch of skin. It presses on your chest, keeping you from breathing. You feel Stark’s urgency, his contained rage, his fierce need to understand, to react, to act. You feel too that rage is wrapped around something more fragile — worry, guilt, maybe even an attachment he can’t explain. And that’s what hurts most.
It’s too much. Too much intensity, too much heat in this cold room. Too many expectations, suspended truths, emotions without a place. You don’t have the strength. Not now. You’ve held on all night. You’ve survived his arms, the violence, the darkness, the fear of never being found. But this gaze, this simple gaze, is stripping you raw.
A shiver runs through you, like a nervous jolt you can’t contain. It starts at the small of your back, where the table is coldest against your battered skin. It climbs your spine, scrapes between your shoulder blades, brushes your neck, evaporates into your arms. You tremble. Not from pain. Not from cold. From overload. From saturation. You want to curl up, protect yourself, get away from it all. You want him to look away, to look anywhere else, to just… let you breathe. But he doesn’t. He stays. And that stillness consumes you. You don’t cry. You don’t speak. You barely move. But inside, you’re screaming. And that scream, silent, desperate, doesn’t call for help or pity. It just says: I can’t. Not now. Not yet. You’re still here. Whole, but barely. Like a cracked vase standing by miracle. Like a fragile presence that one misplaced word could shatter for good.
He looks away for a second—no more—but it’s enough for the space to shift. A millimetric escape, a breath out of the overflow, as if your body, lying there under the neon lights, had become a mirror he could no longer hold. He doesn’t turn away out of weakness. He turns away because the image is unbearable. Because he’s just seen what no one should have missed. And he’s already blaming himself for it. His jaw clenches so hard you could almost hear the grinding of teeth. Beneath the taut skin, the muscles vibrate with restrained effort. He doesn’t tremble—he holds. But that holding is a battle in itself. An inner fight, furious, muted, its debris lodged in every line of his face, in every breath stolen at the edge of collapse. Slowly, methodically, his fists curl, knuckles whitening with the tension, tendons drawn like cables about to snap.
Then he moves. Not a step back. Not a flinch. A pivot. Calculated. Cold. Just enough for his gaze to lock on Banner again. And now, nothing in it holds the texture of doubt or emotion. What leaves his mouth is dry, sharp, without blur. A blade set against the throat of the world.
— “You keep him under constant watch.”
No tremor in his voice. No visible emotion. Just the straight line of an order that brooks no argument. Not a protection. Not a precaution. An ultimatum. A raw necessity. It’s the voice of a man who realized too late. Who let the signs slip past him. And who will never allow it again.
Banner doesn’t argue. He doesn’t even flinch. He absorbs it. His face closes, not from disagreement but from fatigue. A dull, deep weariness, older than this night. He inclines his head, barely, the motion weighed down by something unseen. His eyes never leave your outline. He’s not looking with curiosity. He’s watching. Already. As if he feared the moment might slip through his fingers. His hand hovers, suspended inches from your skin, in that careful limbo only true healers know. He doesn’t touch. Not unless ready. Not unless your body allows it. He respects the invisible threshold between care and intrusion. And when he speaks, it carries the gravity of someone who knows what they face—and knows they won’t be able to fix it all.
— “He needs rest, Stark. A lot of rest. His body’s taken too much damage. He’s in shock.”
Each word falls with the weight of a diagnosis he’d rather not make. He speaks low, but he’s clear. He hides nothing. Doesn’t try to soften it. Because here, there’s nothing left to soften. And it’s not only your body he’s talking about. It’s your absence. Your distance. The frozen silence that lingers despite the light, despite the care, despite the voices. The emptiness in you that stays whole even now that danger has passed. Stark stays silent. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t protest. He absorbs. Slowly. Like taking a hit without showing it. His eyes barely blink. They stay caught in-between, suspended somewhere between the brutal reality of this room and a memory still holding him captive. Something old. Maybe not a precise memory, but a familiar sensation: of having failed. Again. He inhales—barely. A discreet pull of air, but the twitch of his nostrils betrays the tension pulsing beneath his skin.
— “I know.”
His voice doesn’t cross the room—it settles in it. Barely a breath, almost stolen from his throat, without the usual armor, without the sarcastic height, without the carapace of control. Just two words, plain, raw, cast into the silence like a hand extended too late. They don’t sound like an answer. Not like a reproach. More like an admission. A statement. A bare truth.
And then, everything stops.
Time, movement—even the light seems to hesitate. A suspended moment settles between them, between you, between what no one says but everyone feels. It’s not an empty silence. It’s a weight. An invisible ceiling lowering slowly, pressing on shoulders, on lungs, on hearts. A mass made of what’s guessed, of what’s not yet understood, but which screams without sound. Nothing moves. Only the machines beep steadily, as if they alone could keep a semblance of rhythm in the frozen chaos. Only the breaths: yours, short, uneven; Banner’s, deep, slowed; Stark’s, almost absent, caught somewhere between throat and chest. And always that gaze on you. That gaze that doesn’t falter. Doesn’t turn away. Holds you like an invisible, relentless hand. Then, slowly, Banner lifts his head. He doesn’t move yet, doesn’t break the silence with anything abrupt. His voice, when it returns, is soft. Soft but solid, like a hand on the shoulder of a man on the edge.
— “You should rest too, Tony.”
It’s not a suggestion. Not a plea. It’s an observation. He sees it all: the tension in Stark’s neck, the clamp in his shoulders, the dark shadows under his eyes, the lines carved by hours without sleep and adrenaline in free fall. He notices the hands too. The ones that barely tremble. But tremble all the same. A tiny sign, but undeniable. Stark doesn’t react. Not right away. He stays frozen, prisoner of the gaze he keeps fixed on you as if trying to carve your image into his memory. Not the image of your injuries. Not your silence. The image of you alive. The image of you still here. Just that. And it’s already too much. A second stretches, drawn like a cord ready to snap. Then another. And finally, he speaks. Without turning. Without taking another breath. Just that word, that absurd, mechanical answer, emptied of everything—even of him.
— “I’m fine.”
The lie is so grotesque it’s not even worth contesting. He’s not trying to convince. Not trying to make an illusion. It’s a reflex. A worn-out line, repeated a hundred times in the dark, in hallways, in the armor, in front of others, in front of himself. He doesn’t believe a word. Neither does Banner.
But Banner doesn’t contradict him.
Not out of weakness. Out of clarity. Because what’s the point? Because he knows this isn’t the moment. Because Stark, here, before you, in this state of vibrating silence, isn’t a man you can persuade or comfort. He’s nothing but tension and fixation. Everything in him is locked on you. Anchored to you. As if you’ve become the only thing that matters. As if his whole world has narrowed around your fragile breath, your battered body, your silence full of secrets. You say nothing. You can’t. And he doesn’t wait for a reply. He waits… for something else. An explanation you can’t give. A justice he doesn’t yet know how to deliver. But he wants to understand. He must. Because tonight, what you went through… he knows. It was only a fragment. A spark that revealed the fire. The smoke he smells now comes from far away. It soaks into everything. And it’s already haunting him.
So he turns. Slowly. Each step seems reluctant, as if he’s tearing himself from you against his will. He walks away, but his shadow stays. Fixed in the white light, imprinted in the space like a trace of his mute anger. The metallic click of the door closing behind him echoes strangely. Not a slam. Not an escape. Just a mechanical sigh, discreet, but strong enough to break the tension. He’s gone. Physically. But he’s still here, everywhere. In the weight of the air. In the burn of what he didn’t say. In the silent promise he just made. This isn’t over.
taglist🥂 @the-ultimate-librarian @Beanman6669 @aarushi009 @n0tl @lailac13 @kaitotsubaki @ihatepaperwork
if you want to be part of it here
Hey everyone, sorry for the wait. I’m not going to lie and tell you I’m doing fine, but please know that every positive comment really helps me fight through my own struggles. I hope I’ll be able to update this story again soon. From now on, just know that after Matthew’s arc, we’ll move into something a little darker but with a lot more fluff. Tony’s going to soften up ... I promise 🙏
What Remains | Chapter 19 Arms of Iron (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
TW : Depictions of revenge and moral ambiguity. Near-death experience
Summary : Tony Stark rescues you from the edge of death, carrying you in his arms through a ruined warehouse soaked in blood, silence, and trauma. As your broken body clings to life, Stark becomes a living shield, absorbing a bullet meant for you. In the heart of chaos, faced with your attacker’s last desperate attempt to kill, Tony comes terrifyingly close to delivering final, lethal justice. But a single breath from you , a whisper of his name pulls him back from the edge. He chooses restraint. He chooses you. Amidst the rubble, the blood, and the unbearable weight of vengeance, he carries you out not as a hero, but as a man refusing to let you die. Not today.
word count: 17.5k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
His voice had dropped like a blade, but it wasn’t the question that mattered. Not really. It was what he was trying to cover. What he was trying to hide. Because it wasn’t a real question. It was a decoy, a fog cast between him and reality. A desperate attempt to keep control. To pretend there was still a conversation to be had, an exchange, a world where words could hold a bullet at bay.
You don’t answer. You can’t. There’s no word that could answer that.
No breath, either. Just a suspended tension, suffocating, sticking to your skin like cold sweat. Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. It’s frozen, cemented in place. Everything is focused on the barrel of that gun. On the potential trajectory. On that fraction of a second you might not get. The silence that follows isn’t a lapse — it’s protection. A refusal to feed the scene he’s playing out for himself.
And he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even acknowledge your silence. Because he’s not really waiting. It’s not a request. It’s a game. A demonstration. Raw, brutal, sordid domination. He stares at you without truly seeing you. He talks just to hear himself exist. To convince himself the world still revolves around him, even on the edge of collapse. He keeps playing the role of master even as the stage crumbles beneath his feet. But what he doesn’t see, what he refuses to feel in the room, is the shift. Subtle, at first. Invisible to someone who can’t read silences. But it’s there.
Thick. Dense. Electric like the air just before a storm tears open the sky. A silent pressure, suspended in the atmosphere, ready to burst. Something has changed. It’s not a feeling — it’s a certainty. An invisible but undeniable shockwave. The air has grown heavier. Every particle seems frozen, waiting. And you, even without turning your head, you feel it. You know. Because at that exact moment, Stark isn’t looking at you anymore.
The shift is imperceptible, but total. The slightest movement of his armor, the way the angle of his helmet adjusts, the way he straightens by a single millimeter… everything changes. It’s a silent, surgical mechanism. There’s no sound, no word, but the impact is stronger than a scream. He’s no longer here to cover you. No longer waiting for a move. He’s not gauging the situation. He’s read it. He’s decided.
And now, every fraction of his attention is aimed at the one holding the gun. The barrel hasn’t moved. But he’s no longer holding the scene. Not really. Because in this closed space, now sharp as glass, a new force has emerged. Not loud. Not theatrical. But absolute.
Stark is motionless.
But that calm is a lie. It’s the calm of predators. Of intelligent weapons. Of rage that’s learned to disguise itself as silence. The red light in the center of his chest pulses softly, like a heart that’s learned patience. But you know that light. You’ve seen it glow fiercer, sharper, when it switches into combat mode. And now, it’s changed. The angle of his helmet is fixed. Too fixed. His gaze, hidden behind the golden visor, is locked onto Matthew like a targeting system. He’s not watching the gun. He’s watching the arm. The shoulder. The center of gravity. He’s calculating. Anticipating. Waiting for the exact fraction of a second.
Matthew, for his part, doesn’t seem to have realized yet. He’s still talking. Or pretending to. A sentence. A half-taunt. Maybe a threat. You don’t hear the words anymore. Only the void around them. The tremble in his voice he thinks he’s hiding. The barely visible tension in his fingers. His clenched jaw.
Stark moves. No warning. No cry. No signal.
It’s not an attack. It’s a sentence. The motion doesn’t come from a jolt, or a desperate reflex. There’s no panic, no sign of improvisation. That move — he had it in mind before the scene even started, before Matthew spoke a single word. He knew. He’d seen your body. Noted every visible contusion, every barely contained tremor, every micro-fracture in your expression. He’d heard that voice, flat, disconnected, and recognized that tone — the one that still believes it holds power because it holds a gun. But what he didn’t know was that Stark wasn’t here to negotiate.
Inside the helmet, the interface deploys with a blink barely perceptible. Holographic markers tighten around Matthew’s silhouette. The thermal scan pulses one last time, the heat of the live barrel flaring in bright red. An angle appears. A firing arc. A margin of error. Everything syncs with icy fluidity. A choreography of lethal engineering. And the right glove moves. Not a punch. Not yet. Nothing showy. Just a pulse. A quick pivot of the shoulder. A millimetric rotation of the elbow. The metal plates glide over each other without a sound, as if the suit itself is holding its breath. The palm shifts slightly, in a gesture of unnerving restraint. It doesn’t promise violence. It delivers it.
The beam fires. A flash, red and sharp, searing. Barely visible. Not a burst. Not a shot meant to kill. Stark isn’t aiming to kill. He’s aiming for certainty. For neutralization. For total control. The impact is instant.
A dull thud, a muffled snap — and Matthew’s hand jerks. His fingers splay open in pain like twigs crushed in an invisible vice. If he cries out, it’s swallowed by the shock. He doesn’t fall. He staggers. And the weapon drops from his grip.
It spins through the air, in a grotesque arc, almost slow despite the speed. You see it, suspended for a heartbeat, before it hits the ground with a sharp clack. Metal on concrete. A cold sound, final. The pistol slides a few inches. It doesn’t smoke. It didn’t fire. It won’t again. Matthew looks down. As if he doesn’t understand. As if he needs to see the absence to believe the loss. His injured hand trembles slightly. A red glow rising along the tendons, a burning pulse, almost invisible unless you know how to read pain. But Stark doesn’t move.
He doesn’t speak. He waits. His arm is still raised, half-extended, ready to correct if needed. His silhouette is upright, locked onto one point: him. The attacker. The one who thought holding a gun was enough to control a scene. The error has been made. And in the air now, there’s no threat. No imbalance. The error has been made.
And in the air now, there’s no threat. No imbalance. Only this residual tension. This silent vibration, like a chord suspended. Like a question that only has one answer left. The answer to what Stark will do, now that the gun is on the ground. He straightens in the same motion, fluid, sharp, as if the previous action was only the first step of a prewritten sequence. And now he moves forward. Slowly. Relentlessly. Each step is a sentence, made audible by the dull thud of alloy striking concrete. He’s no longer just a man. He’s no longer Tony Stark.
He’s Iron Man.
The cadence of his steps is metronomic, unalterable, like a war clock. Each metallic impact vibrates in the air, echoes through the walls, shakes the silence itself. There’s no hesitation, no visible fury. Just that cold, determined mechanic that knows neither pause nor mercy. He doesn’t walk — he devours the space between them. He still doesn’t speak.
There’s nothing left to say. Words belonged to before. When balance was still possible, when the weapon still rested in an outstretched hand. Now, the language is metal. Impact. End. And it’s that absence of voice that breaks Matthew. He screams. But it’s not a cry of pain or submission. It’s raw, deformed, warped by shattered pride. A guttural burst, spat like an injured beast. It comes from the gut, from panic, from that sudden fear of never having been anything more than a fragile puppet, losing the stage. His injured hand, the one that held the weapon seconds earlier, hangs limp, fingers twisted, trembling, unable to grasp anything. But his other arm remains free.
And he raises it.
It’s a gesture without calculation. Without tactic. An animal reflex, one buried in marrow, triggered by terror. He charges. The scream that comes with it has nothing human left. It’s a tear. An implosion. A desperate attempt to reclaim dominance, to erase humiliation with a single punch. He runs. Not fast. Not straight. But with that blind rage that keeps cowards standing a second too long. His legs drag on the filthy floor. His boots slide across debris, his shoulder slams into a metal crate he doesn’t even see. But he keeps going. He rushes toward him, arm out, fist closed. He still believes. He believes that punch will bring him down — the man of metal. As if you could topple a wall with an insult. As if armor could feel the weight of an ordinary man.
But Stark doesn’t back down. He doesn’t need to.
He’s anchored to the ground, center of gravity locked like a rupture point. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise his voice. He stands there, upright and threatening, expected like an answer forged in iron. And deep down, even in panic, even in his charge — Matthew knows. He already knows he’ll strike only air.
He dodges.
It’s not dramatic. Not a heroic leap, no cape fluttering in the wind. It’s a half-step. A minimal shift. A slip barely noticeable, like a breath moved aside. Like a musical note just off from the last. A cold elegance, almost dance-like, fluid as if gravity itself hesitated to impose on him. The suit follows silently. No creak. No stray sound. Flawless engineering. And in that slight movement, his elbow rises.
Not in a burst of rage. Not in a violent explosion. A sharp, calculated pivot. The arm lifts, the shoulder locks, and the elbow draws its arc through the air with the precision of a blade. No need to look. No need to aim. He knows. He’s already read every trajectory. The strike lands — surgical, clean, mute.
And it hits.
The contact is brutal. Metal crashes into Matthew’s temple with a dull, horrifying crack. A clean snap, like a branch broken with firm hands. No scream. No outburst. Just that bone-deep sound, final, undeniable. Matthew’s body reels from the impact, his skull whipped sideways like a puppet cut loose. The violence of it freezes the air, slows time. But he doesn’t fall.
His foot stumbles back, his shoulder hits a decayed pillar, he staggers. His breath hitches, torn into ragged shreds. He gasps. One hand clawing at the air for support, the other clutching his temple, already swelling, purpling. Blood drips from his mouth, darker than red beneath dying lights. He shakes his head once, twice, as if he could snap his thoughts back into place. He spits. A thick, viscous string staining the floor between his boots.
He growls. A sound that’s neither human nor alive. A vibration. A primal whimper. A wounded beast not yet finished. And he comes back.
Not with intelligence. Not with plan. Just with that filthy rage that eats through guts, screaming that losing isn’t an option. His eyes drop. Searching blindly. His trembling fingers graze dust, shards, rubble. Then close on something. A piece of rusted metal, thick, heavy — a collapsed beam fragment, filthy and scarred. And he rises, swaying, holding this improvised weapon like a sacred axe.
No thought. No measure. He lifts it over his head in a shaky arc, trembling, but loaded with brute violence. And he swings. A wide strike. A gesture of desperation, a frozen scream in motion. Like a drunk lumberjack swinging at a storm. Metal slices the air. It’s the attack of a man who has nothing left. Nothing to lose. Nothing to prove. Nothing to save. The impact rings out in the silence like a shattered drum.
The metal smashes into the armor with all the force Matthew can summon, every ounce of rage, hate, and desperation. But this isn’t ordinary armor. Not just a shell. It’s a wall. A mobile fortress. The alloy doesn’t budge. Not a crack. Not a vibration. Not even a flicker on the surface. The hit makes a dull, almost mocking sound. A muted clong, as if the suit swallowed the blow just to show how meaningless it was. The improvised weapon rebounds, hits the dust with a pathetic thud. Matthew stumbles back, disoriented. And in front of him, Stark doesn’t move a single inch. No reaction. No hesitation. The armor renders him unreachable, nearly inhuman. He doesn’t even flinch.
And this time, he gives no more leeway. He strikes back. His arm lifts in a fluid motion, almost slow. No haste. No rage. Just a logical response, mechanical. A blow delivered with the force of a motor and the cold of a verdict. The fist strikes true, direct, into Matthew’s abdomen. Not to the side. Not to injure. To take the breath. To break the core.
The impact is brutal. The sound, a muted burst, like a sandbag tearing open.
Matthew’s body lifts from the force, thrown back a few centimeters before crashing to the ground. His feet give way. His chest folds. Air is torn from his lungs in a horrific wheeze, like the world collapsing inside him. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just a silent gasp, a stolen breath. He wavers. His arms wrap around his belly in a reflexive, pathetic gesture. His legs tremble, buckle, fail. And he falls.
First to one knee. Then the other. Slowly. Inevitably. He stays there, kneeling in the grime, back hunched, breath shattered, racked by small spasms. Dust clings to his palms, his knees, his sweat-slicked cheeks. He trembles. He gasps. He’s nothing but an emptied body, a rattled shell. A man reduced to silence by a blow too precise, too well-placed, to be mere defense.
Stark still says nothing. He watches. Fixes his gaze. A statue of metal and contained fire. And you, now lying on the floor, finally discover what it feels like to no longer be in control. But even there, even on his knees, breath ripped away and ribs bruised, Matthew doesn’t let go.
He pants like a wounded dog, but he still spits. Blood at first—thick, dark red, sliding down his chin and hitting the floor with a dull splat—then words. Fragments of sentences, scattered, without logic or structure. Formless curses, guttural growls, syllables vomited in a mix of rage and bile. His voice is broken, trembling, but still carries that brutal hatred, that venomous bitterness that seems to rise from a bottomless pit. He clings to that anger like a lifeline, even if it won’t save him. Because that’s all he knows. Destruction. Defilement.
He raises his head in a painful effort, features contorted, jaws clenched. And despite the blood in his eyes, he searches for Stark’s gaze. He wants to be seen. He wants to be understood. And in that twisted, feverish stare, there’s still that spark. Sick. Obsessive. A flame refusing to go out. He won’t surrender. He doesn’t want to. He wants to keep going. To hurt. To wound. To kill, if he can. Even if his body no longer follows. Even if reality is already closing in on him like a cold jaw.
And Stark sees it. He doesn’t need a scanner. Doesn’t need analysis. He reads that hatred like a red warning signal on a screen. He knows what it means. What it demands. What it justifies. So he steps forward. One step. Then another. The metal of the suit echoes on the soiled ground, a dull, regular sound, implacable, like an endgame clock. He no longer needs to speak. No need to aim. No weapons, no blasts. Technology fades, unnecessary. He has become the weight itself. The answer. The wall.
Reaching Matthew, Stark stops. A dense silence falls, interrupted only by the man’s broken wheezing. Then, he raises his arm. His glove clicks gently as it tightens. Slowly. Like a lock closing. He doesn’t grab violently. He doesn’t strike. He simply closes his hand around the collar of Matthew’s shirt, where the fabric is torn, damp, clinging to skin. He grips—not excessively, but with terrible constancy.
And he lifts him. Not in a snap. Not with violence. He hoists him. Like lifting an empty sack. A body already drained of power, of authority, of threat. Matthew’s feet leave the ground in a pitiful scrape. His arms flail weakly, his breath whistles, trapped somewhere between terror and exhaustion. His feet kick the air, in an irregular, desperate rhythm. Frantic jerks, twisted knees, heels searching in vain for support, for grip, for a way to find the ground. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the void beneath him, and the iron grip suspending him like a useless, dismantled puppet.
His breath cuts off. Brutally. Clean. The collar of flesh and cloth tightens around his trachea, and the world becomes narrow, trembling. His lungs scream for air they won’t get. A sharp whistle rises in his throat, strangled, pitiful. He tries to cry out, but the scream chokes on nothingness. Matthew’s hands, already wounded, claw at Stark’s wrist. His fingers cling like a man grasping a cliff’s edge. He scratches, pulls, slaps ineffectively. His knuckles whiten, his skin slips against smooth metal, no grip. He struggles with all the misery he has left. But nothing moves. The arm holding him is fixed, unshakable, sculpted from brute will.
And yet, Stark isn’t squeezing to kill. Not yet. He could. With a simple gesture. He knows it, and so does Matthew. It would be so easy. A bit more pressure. A sharp move. And it would all end. But that’s not what he does. He holds him there, between heartbeats. Suspended. Halfway between punishment and sentence. And above all, he looks at him. Not with anger. Not even with hate. He stares. Straight into his eyes. An implacable gaze. Silent. Charged with something infinitely colder than rage. And what Matthew sees in that frozen instant has nothing of a hero. Nothing of a savior lit by glory.
It’s the gaze of a man emptied out. A man who’s lost time, peace, sleep, faith in logic. A man who’s been forced to act. To cross his own lines. To choose between containing horror or erasing it. What he sees is a vast fracture behind the steel. A calm darkness. A silent abyss. And above all, he understands, at last, there will be no mercy. Not tonight. Not for him.
Then Stark throws him to the ground. Not like shoving an obstacle. Not like dropping a sack. No. It’s a calculated, measured motion, still carrying all the force of a verdict. A cold, controlled trajectory—no unnecessary excess—but no softness either. The dull thud of impact echoes like a hammer on concrete. Brutal. Sharp. Irrevocable.
Matthew’s body hits the ground in a crash of flesh and bone, a grotesque shockwave folding him in half. Some limbs tuck beneath him at awkward, almost absurd angles, like a puppet with cut strings. His head hits the dust, breath shattering in his own chest. He groans. A hoarse, painful, strangled moan, more like an expelled breath than a voice. Every breath is a tear. A wheeze. A rebellion of the body against what it’s enduring. His chest lifts in jerks, unstable, uncertain. He gasps, mouth open, pulling air through a burning throat. The sound he makes is no longer human—a choked, rattling sob. His fingers claw the ground without really feeling it, his legs tremble, curling in on themselves. He tries to move, to rise, but every muscle screams its own fracture. He doesn’t get up. He collapses further with every attempt.
This is no longer resistance. Not even survival in the noble sense. It’s instinct. A primal urge. Not to die here, in the dirt, in front of him. And despite it all, despite the obvious failure of every gesture, there’s still breath in his throat. A twisted, crawling will, clinging to the ruins of his pride. A sick spark, refusing to go out. He still wants to believe he can resist.
But Stark isn’t finished. Not yet. He doesn’t move right away. He observes.
His eyes, invisible behind the mask, analyze every spasm, every breath, every millimeter of the collapsed body before him. It’s not the look of an executioner. Nor that of a savior. It’s the look of a man deciding. A judge. An enforcer of truth. The silence that follows is more threatening than any scream. And Stark, standing over him, is the shadow that remains when all light has been torn away.
He tries to crawl.
His elbows slip on the sticky concrete, drawing a dirty trail through the dust, like a wounded slug. His muscles tremble, too weak, too dislocated to truly support his weight. Every movement is agony. A slow, painful, desperate friction. He barely moves a few centimeters forward, crawling more than progressing, his ragged breath echoing like a muffled whimper against the floor. Mouth open, he gasps, sucking in air like a drowning man.
His face, contorted by pain, is smeared with blood — from his temple, his split lip, his shattered teeth. He blinks, grimaces, pulls his injured arm forward. The other hand dangles lifelessly, broken earlier by the surgical shot. But that one arm... still clings on.
And his gaze. That wild, sick, incandescent look. It scans frantically around him until it stops. There. Just a few inches from his bloodied fingers, just out of reach: a blade. His blade. Thrown earlier in the chaos, abandoned but not forgotten. A metallic silhouette, half hidden in shadow, lit only by the flickering reflections of unstable neon lights.
A breath. An impulse.
He stretches, slowly, painfully, every centimeter gained at the price of a groan, a gasp, a shiver of pure suffering. His fingers reach, extend, almost brushing the handle. He believes. He still believes. One last chance. One last act. Maybe with that knife, he could still change the course. Hurt. Scare. Leave a mark. Regain a fragment of control. Even a sliver.
But it's too late.
The shadow above him never left. Stark saw him crawl. Saw his gaze latch onto the weapon. He anticipated. As always. He waited, patiently, unhurried. Until the exact moment. And when it comes, he acts.
A simple weight shift. A servo impulse in the leg. Clockwork precision. And the boot slams down. A dull, sharp noise, a thick snap. Like an overripe fruit crushed, like a dry branch giving under a heel. It's clean. Absolute. Metal meets bone. And bone loses.
The scream erupts immediately. Raw, tearing. It shatters the air like an animal alarm. Not a man's cry. A child's, almost. Something broken, beyond anger, beyond hatred. A naked sound, ripped from the throat like a primal scream. The echo bounces off the walls, pure, raw, unfiltered. He doesn't even beg. He screams because he can't do anything else. Crushed fingers twitch uselessly at the void. The knife is there, still there. Within reach. Untouchable. Pain wipes out everything.
Matthew writhes on the floor, shaken by uncontrollable spasms. His body still tries to resist, but it's a lost cause. Everything in him screams — with pain, with fear, with shattered rage. His face is wrecked — no longer by hatred, but by naked suffering, the kind that can no longer hide, the kind no pride can silence. His features twist into a grotesque grimace, deformed by agony. His eyes, bulging so wide they look ready to pop, are flooded with tears he no longer controls. They run in filthy streaks down his hollowed cheeks, mixing with blood, with sweat, with the metallic taste clinging to his cracked lips.
His mouth opens and closes in ragged, arrhythmic gasps. He chokes. He coughs. He tries to breathe, but air refuses to come. And through this suffocating panic, torn sobs escape. Harsh, broken, humiliating. Nothing noble, nothing dignified. Just the desperate cry of a cornered animal, reduced to a raw state, incapable of hiding its collapse.
And Stark moves.
Not abruptly. Slowly, even. He leans down, with mechanical control, almost ceremonially. The armor barely groans under the tension. The sound of metal sliding on metal, quiet, chilling. He doesn't rush. He doesn't need to. He comes down to Matthew's level not to lower himself, but to dominate. So that Matthew has no escape, not even visually. So he can't look away, can't flee, even in thought.
The slits of the helmet glow with a dark light. Behind the visor, Stark's eyes are invisible to the world. But Matthew feels them. He feels them on him. Cold. Fixed. Merciless. There's nothing human in that gaze. Only judgment.
Judgment without appeal.
At this moment, Stark no longer sees an adversary, or even a criminal. He doesn't see a man. He sees a mistake. An aberration. A parasite. An anomaly to be eradicated from the system. His breath, inside the helmet, stays calm. Steady. Not a word has been spoken in long seconds. And that silence weighs the most. It crushes.
Then, finally, the voice falls.
A sentence. Simple. Relentless.
— "You made a monumental mistake."
The words are cold, sharp. No emotion clings to them. No anger, no contempt. Just the icy neutrality of a verdict already rendered, already weighed, already written. It's a condemnation. Not a threat. Not a promise. A bare truth, spoken like a knife sliding into flesh.
Matthew gasps, each breath a stab to the chest. His torso rises with difficulty, shaken by painful spasms, and his blurry eyes seem to drift without anchor. His pupils flicker in their sockets, swinging between raw panic and the numbness of pain. It looks like he no longer really sees. That everything around him is a blur of light and noise, that reality slips away under his clouded gaze. But deep in that chaos, something still crawls. A toxic impulse, a habit rooted in his bones: arrogance.
And then, despite everything — despite the blood on his chin, the nerves snapping under his skin like broken cables — he tries to smile. A rictus. Abominable. Twisted. More a grimace of pain than a true smile, but the intent is there. Split lips stretch into a parody of defiance, revealing teeth stained with red. It's not bravery. It's provocation. Pure vice. A last reflex of a pitiful player refusing to fold even when the game has long been lost.
— "Fuck... Stark..."
His voice is raspy, strangled, barely more than a whisper. It slides out of him like a malformed sigh. The words bounce off his broken teeth, drown in iron-tinged spit. He spits, a thick thread of blood spurting from his open lips, splattering the cracked concrete beneath him. But he goes on.
— "I can still negotiate..."
And in that phrase, everything tips. The tone, the intention, the subtext. There's nothing rational. Nothing intelligent. It's a pathetic instinct — that of the manipulator who still believes words can reverse the tide, even when drowning has already begun. He may think it's still a game. That naming the right cards can change the outcome.
But he's wrong. He just made the worst possible choice.
In front of him, Stark doesn’t answer. No word escapes his lips. No sarcastic line, no judgment. Only a subtle, glacial shift in the tension of his body. The jaw tightens under the mask. A brief tic of disgust. Of revulsion. Then silence. And that silence says more than all the threats in the world.
Stark doesn’t need to speak. His body speaks for him.
The arm lifts. Fluid. Natural. As if the motion had been restrained too long. And the fist comes down. Without flair. Without performance. Without explosive anger. It’s a dry fall, a verdict dropped straight from the sky. Alloy meets flesh with a dull, muffled sound, almost silenced by the weight of the impact. A pure hit. Clean. Devastating. The kind of blow not measured by strength — but by finality.
Matthew's head jerks violently backward under the force of the blow, as if torn by a titanic force. A dull thud echoes through the warehouse when the back of his skull slams against the ground — but he doesn’t get the chance to fully collapse. Stark’s hand catches him. The metal glove, clenched like a hydraulic clamp, grips him by the collar and holds him there, suspended at the edge of the void, keeping him from crumpling completely. Not yet.
It’s a cruel suspension. Deliberate. As if Stark refuses to even grant him the relief of surrender. As if he wants him to stay right there, conscious, lucid, to hear every word. To feel the slow sting of each second that follows. And Stark speaks. Finally. His voice comes from the helmet like a glacial blade, perfectly controlled. Without apparent hatred, but with a firmness that crushes everything in its path.
— "That was for daring to touch him."
No need to specify who. The tone, the density of the word, is enough to make the absent name echo. It’s a sentence. A judgment carved into speech. And before Matthew can utter even a defense, Stark’s fist rises. Not in rage. Not in excess.
It’s a mechanism.
A movement of clinical precision. The elbow bends, the shoulder pivots, and the fist comes down with relentless regularity. A hammer falling on a living anvil. The point of impact is the jaw. Right there, on the edge where the bone is vulnerable, where the shock can shatter the balance of the entire skull. The sound is sharper, more targeted, a contained crack within a muffled vibration. This is no longer a blow of anger. It’s an operation.
Matthew’s head bounces against the concrete, shaken like a dislocated puppet. His mouth opens in a disjointed groan, without a scream. He doesn’t scream anymore. He can’t. He moans. A low, hoarse sound, no longer human. A muffled, slippery whimper, like the breath of a wounded animal, cornered, emptied of hatred but not yet of fear. His body trembles. Not a shiver from cold, nor conscious fear. It’s a spasm. An uncontrolled nervous discharge. His arms buckle, his legs twitch as if still trying to flee, but there’s no direction anymore. No logic. Just a series of convulsions, a visceral, animal panic shaking his muscles in a last reflex of survival.
Dust floats around him, stirred by even his slightest movements, as if the air itself refuses to cover him. And Stark, standing over him, doesn’t move yet. He watches. He measures. He decides. He doesn’t need to rush the next step. Because in this chaos, he sets the rhythm. Stark straightens. Slowly. Like a mechanism returning to its default position, a war machine whose systems haven’t powered down. Every movement of his armor produces a subtle metallic creak, the scrape of advanced alloy against itself. It’s not a jolt. It’s not rage. It’s a verdict concluding.
His shadow stretches across the cracked concrete, immense, shifting, elongated by the artificial lights overhead. It spreads like a wave, engulfing Matthew’s curled form effortlessly. It covers him entirely, surrounds him, erases him. It leaves no doubt: here, now, Stark is everything. The ground, the ceiling, the sky. The authority. The unrelenting. His shoulders square, locked into a stance both defensive and predatory. A cold tension animates his neck. His chest rises in a perfectly measured rhythm. He breathes. Calm. Controlled. But his eyes, behind the visor, still burn. Two embers that refuse to die. Two centers of judgment still ablaze.
Then his voice drops. Low, calm, composed. But every word is weighed down with deep gravity, a tone that leaves no doubt about the sentence:
— "You thought you’d get away with it."
No emphasis. No shouting. Nothing theatrical. Just the raw truth, brutal, sharp as a blade.
And suddenly, movement. Direct. Sharp. Without warning. Stark lifts his foot. And brings it down into Matthew’s ribs with surgical precision. Not a wild strike. A controlled blow, measured to hit where it breaks but doesn’t kill. The noise is muffled but heavy — a dull, organic thud that resonates through the space like a sinister drum. Matthew’s body folds instantly under the impact, thrown onto his side like a marionette with snapped strings.
A rasp tears from his throat, hoarse, twisted, strangled. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. Air seems to escape him, snatched away, ripped out by pain. His chest rises in a brutal spasm, his arms curl around himself, seeking protection that no longer exists. He chokes. He can’t see anymore. His eyes flutter into the void, roll back. His body still searches for meaning, direction, escape. But there’s nothing.
Stark doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t yell. He watches. His armor, dust-streaked, stands firm in the heavy air like a rampart. He is the silence after the storm. The echo of judgment. And even without moving, even without another word, he places over Matthew a threat greater than all the blows already dealt. Because at this precise moment, it’s not just the man he’s facing. It’s what he represents: consequence.
He stares.
Coldly. Motionless. No hesitation. No visible emotion filters through the metallic mask. And yet, in the silence that settles, it’s clear everything inside is burning. That everything he’s held back so far pulses, swirls, seeks a breach. But he doesn’t give in. He doesn’t move. He simply watches. Steady. Unyielding. Like a judge staring at the condemned before pronouncing the sentence.
At his feet, Matthew is nothing more than a disjointed body. Chopped breath. A carcass drenched in sweat and blood, incapable even of lifting itself. He trembles. Shudders. But still exists, still takes up space, still soils the air. A crawling presence, still here, still alive. And that’s the worst part. Stark could end it. Right here. Right now. A simple move. A command to his armor. A shift of his heel. That’s all it would take. He could silence him, crush that grotesque groan, smother that breath of hate and poison like erasing a mistake on a board. He could erase all trace of that face, those hands, that voice.
He could let it all go. Let the anger he’s swallowed for far too long erupt. Release the tension coiled into every fiber of his being. Let out a war cry against the injustice of having watched that child — that fragile, broken being he’s seen fall, stand again, fight — be hunted, beaten, shattered all over again. He could strike in your name. For the fear he felt. For the dread that gripped him. For that image he will never forget: your body on the ground, your scream in the night, your silence ever since.
But he doesn’t. Not yet. Because he knows it wouldn’t be enough. It would be too easy. Too brief. A flash, an end, a hasty conclusion. No. What Matthew deserves isn’t a quick death. It’s not an immediate outcome. Not an end that would free him. What he deserves is to understand. To feel the weight of his choices. To see his own failure reflected in every passing second. He needs to feel fear seep in slowly, shame settle in, pain grow dull, heavy, unbearable. He needs to understand that he lost. And not just physically. Not just because of the blows. But because he holds no power anymore. Because he never truly did. Because everything he thought he held in his hands vanished the instant Stark walked in.
Tonight, vengeance must not be swift. It must be methodical. Cruel in its slowness. Complete. And Stark, a statue of metal with eyes of burning light, knows exactly how to do it.
A little farther away, removed from the incandescent chaos left behind, in that zone where the light barely flickers, where the walls seem to close in under the weight of night, a sound breaks the silence. Faint, nearly absent. But it’s there. A minuscule vibration. An anomaly in the weightlessness of fear.
A breath.
Shaky, disordered, clinging to life by a fraying thread. It rises from a corner where nothing had moved, where everything seemed frozen by violence. At first, it's a rattle. Coarse. Uneven. The sound of a body trying to surface while still buried beneath the black waves of shock. A breath that falters, stumbles at the threshold of the lungs. Then another. Sharper. More urgent. Like a jammed engine sputtering a cloud of pain before restarting. A raw survival impulse cutting through the space without anyone noticing right away. Not even you.
Because it’s you.
You, curled up in the shadows, erased by the brutality that just unfolded before you. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. Your entire body froze under the threat, reduced to a paralyzed observer. A spectator of your own impending end. Prisoner of terror, pain, and vertigo.
And now, slowly, you resume. A breath, a spasm. Your chest rises, but it’s an immense effort. As if every breath scrapes the bottom of a burning well. You gasp, like someone dragged too late out of the water. Your ribs protest. Your stomach tightens. A wave of pain ripples all the way into your clenched jaw. Your hands clutch at the floor, seeking anchor in this trembling reality. You feel the filth, the blood—yours, someone else’s. It’s all mixed. Your throat, burning, emits only a muffled sound. You want to scream, but you can’t. You want to speak, but your tongue is stuck to your palate like cloth forgotten in the rain.
A viscous liquid rises up your trachea. Blood. You know it even before you taste it on your tongue. It tastes like metal, iron, impact. You half-swallow it, half-choke on it. Then you turn your head. Slowly. One centimeter, two. As if each degree stolen from your stillness sets fire to your tendons. Your cheek grazes the floor. Your eyes try to open wider, but the light is too harsh, too raw after the darkness where you’d sunk. You make out shapes, distant movements. Sounds, distorted, reach you in waves: the breathing of the armor, metallic clicking, ragged breathing further away.
You’re here. You’re alive. But nothing holds.
Your body is broken along its axis. Your mind drifts, still clinging to fear like a lifebuoy. But one thing is certain, indisputable, almost violent in its clarity: you are breathing. It’s not a triumph. Not even a victory. It’s just… a return. A starting point. The spark of a comeback.
And then you spit.
It’s involuntary, uncontrollable. A hiccup, a jolt, a brutal rejection of what’s choking you. The liquid is warm, thick, saturated with that metallic heaviness unique to blood. It slides from your mouth in a thin line, dark and viscous, crawling slowly to the floor. There, it spreads, lazily, flowing into the concrete’s cracks, mixing with dust, oil, filth. It leaves a trace. A mark. Your imprint. A silent declaration of pain, of existence, of survival. A rasp escapes you, hoarse and gravelly, strangled before it even reaches the air. It’s not a call for help. It’s a reaction. A primitive sound, almost animal. The proof that something in you still stands, even if everything else is falling apart.
Your fingers move. First one, then two. Slow, numb, as if your whole body were thawing after a too-long winter. Your muscles protest. Your nerves scream. But they respond. You’re here. Not intact. Not unscathed. But here. Present in this soiled room, in this aftermath. And on the other side, Stark stops dead. It’s not theatrical. He doesn’t freeze to dramatize. He stops because a detail, an infinitesimal shift in the saturated air, just struck him head-on. It’s not a sound he hears. It’s a vibration. A wave. A shock.
You.
It’s as if your breath passed through the walls, pierced the alloy of his armor, struck directly into the fibers of his being. A flash at his neck. A vertigo. The sound of a truth no one expected anymore. He felt it, like an invisible hand on his shoulder. His shoulder pivots slowly. Almost mechanically. The rest of the body follows, in a silence thick with electricity. His arms, still tense, are heavy with contained energy, with rage not yet fully dispersed. His fists, still clenched, vibrate under the weight of restraint. But his breath halts. Just for a second. A suspension of air. As if the world, too, had stopped alongside him.
He looks for you. He doesn’t know what he hopes to see. He fears what he might discover. A slumped form. A lifeless body. A snuffed-out light. And yet. What he feels at that exact moment is neither fear nor relief. It’s something else. A dull wave of relief tainted by guilt. You are breathing. And he knows. Because he just heard you return. Because your rasp, your blood, your spit, your breath… it’s the sound of presence.
His eyes fix on you. At first, you’re just a spot in the scenery. A detail misaligned in the surrounding chaos. A form half-hidden in shadow, covered in blood, dust, silence. Then the illusion shatters. The high-tech armor, packed with sensors, doesn’t react yet. But the man inside falters. He doesn’t understand. Not right away. His visual receptors analyze, measure, compare. But his brain, still charged with the adrenaline of a lawless fight, refuses to connect the data. His mind wants to believe what he sees is a shock residue. A hallucination.
Until he sees the movement.
Tiny. Broken. But real.
Your chest lifts. Unevenly. As if battling an invisible weight, a sea of pain and exhaustion. A breath stolen from the void, torn from asphyxiation. He sees the spasm in your throat, the dull jerk that stirs you, the silent fight to hold the air. And he hears it. That wet gargle, that sound of agony suddenly turned into a cry of life. The breath scraping, rasping, whistling through blood.
Then he moves. Already. Without thinking. Without warning.
A step — heavy, precise, loaded with cold urgency. Then a second, faster, almost desperate. The armor grinds against the concrete at each impact, pounding the floor like a tragic metronome. Every step is a slap to fear. A denial of the impossible. He crosses the space in seconds, driven not by tech, but by raw instinct. That of the man, not the hero.
He falls to his knees. Hard. The shock makes the metal vibrate. But he doesn’t care. He no longer feels the armor’s weight. Not the room’s cold. There’s only you, lying there. Your grayish face, smeared with dust, stained with red too vivid. Your eyelashes stuck with sweat. Your split lips. Your jagged breath. And that puddle growing under your cheek, mixing into the filth of the floor.
His hands, once weapons, now hesitate.
They lift slowly. Unsure what to do. Protect? Stabilize? Support? He wants to rip you from this vile floor, get you out of here, but he knows the slightest move could worsen your state. So he stays, frozen, inches from your face, watching for the slightest twitch, flutter, sound from your throat. Then you move. You move. It’s slight. Barely noticeable. But real. A shiver runs through your arm. A spasm in your hand. Your mouth parts more, letting out a breath heavy with blood. It’s ugly. It’s fragile. But it’s alive. Tony inhales, and for the first time in hours, it’s not out of rage.
It’s a breath cut short by emotion. A tension unraveling inside but refusing to collapse. He feels his own heart pounding against his chest walls like a caged beast. Not panic. Not yet. But a fracture. A wave. Hope. Fierce. Unstable. Twisted, like everything in him. But unshakable. Because you’re here. You’re breathing. You’re holding on. And it’s all he needs to keep going. To believe, even for a second, that he can still get you out. That it’s not over. That despite the blood, the fear, the violence — he wasn’t too late.
Your eyelids move.
Barely. First a tremor, faint, nearly imperceptible. Just a twitch at your skin’s surface, drowned in the general stillness of your broken body. An involuntary spasm that could be a leftover nerve reflex, an empty motion. But it returns. A second tremor, more marked this time. Rooted in flesh, in will. A micro-rebellion against unconsciousness.
Your brow contracts. A line slowly forms, deeply, between your eyebrows. Like a crack on a wall kept too long in tension. Your lashes, glued by fragments of dust, dried blood, acid sweat, tremble with effort. They shake under the weight of the world, of what you’ve just endured. And then, with the painful slowness of a body coming back from the brink, you open your eyes. It’s not a simple gesture. Not a waking. It’s a tear. A raw ascent, wrenched from the darkness where your mind had taken shelter. Your lids part by mere millimeters, each fraction of opening struggling against exhaustion, gravity, and the pain pulsing through your skull. You open them, slowly, against the current of the panic still lurking inside you.
Even dim, even dirty, the light hits you like a shock.
It assaults you instantly. Pierces your retinas like a blade, raw, invasive, unwanted. A white burn. Your eyes, flooded with a surreal blur, struggle to focus. Shapes dance, liquid, inconsistent. Nothing is stable. Everything dissolves. You can’t make out the ceiling above, or the walls closing in.
And most of all, you don’t yet recognize the figure leaning over you.
It’s just a mass of metal and shadow. An imposing blur, haloed in light like a mirage in armor. A presence without a name. You feel more than you see. The heat of a gaze fixed on you, the magnetic tension in the air, the echo of a heartbeat close by — not yours, his. You barely distinguish the muted red of the visor, the cold sheen of steel shoulders. But your body knows. Your unconscious mind recognizes the aura, the weight. Something in you wants to flee. Something else refuses to move. You don’t speak yet. Your throat is ruined, your tongue dry, your chest too painful to make a sound. But you’re here. Present. Pulled to the surface. And that’s already a miracle. An act of resistance.
Your blurry, derailed gaze finally catches a steady light. Two eyes, behind a visor. Two embers locked behind glass. They’re there. Watching you. Worried, maybe. Furious, surely. But they found you. And in this moment suspended between shock and lucidity, that’s all that matters. You breathe. The helmet hisses softly as it lifts, almost solemnly, like the metal knows it must be silent. And suddenly, his face appears. Clearer. Closer. More human.
Tony.
You recognize him before you can truly see. It’s a feeling, an anchor in the chaos. It’s the way his eyes pierce you without violence, but with an intensity that freezes the world. That light in his gaze doesn’t come from the suit or the surroundings — it’s deeper. Older. Fiercely alive. His face is tight, marked by fatigue, by still-burning anger, but above all by silent worry. His features don’t move, but you feel the tension beneath. The stillness isn’t calm: it’s restraint. A dam about to break. His eyes scan you, read you, as if searching for every micro-expression, every twitch of muscle. He observes like he’s afraid to miss a sign. A blink. A breath. An absence.
And he says nothing. No commentary. No panic. He just stays there. Present. Not like a dream, not a last image summoned by a dying brain. Not a remnant before the end. He’s really there. The man. Not the hero. Not the billionaire. Just him. In the silence, in the dust, in the blood. His hands, still covered by the suit, approach. Slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t touch you — not yet. He brushes. He avoids pain. He leaves space. A gesture that could seem clumsy, but is actually perfectly controlled. He doesn’t want to hurt you more. He won’t risk snapping the thin thread of consciousness you’re clinging to.
He waits. He waits for you to be lucid enough to understand. To feel. To know. He doesn’t need to say it. Doesn’t need declarations. It’s in his presence. In how he doesn’t look away, how he kneels despite the armor, despite the blood. He came.
For you.
Your lip trembles. You taste blood in your mouth — metallic, thick, bitter. Your jaw opens slowly, like a door rusted by pain. Every motion makes you flinch, every inch is a battle. Your lips part at last, cracked, dry, nearly fused together. Your tongue, rough and sore, searches for a sound. A word. Just one. Then, in a breath barely audible, more groan than voice, you call him.
— "T… Tony?"
His name escapes like a moan from your core, a syllable broken by pain, doubt, fear. A fractured whisper the air barely carries. You don’t know if he’ll hear. You don’t know if he’s real. You don’t even know if your brain invented that face to comfort you before the end. But you say it anyway. Because you must. Because there’s nothing else. Because that name, in your mouth, is your last link to the world, your last refuge. A desperate call. A reach for solid ground. A lifeline in the wreckage. And you fix your gaze, best you can. Through the blur, through the too-bright light, through tears that won’t fall. You search for his eyes. You want to hold on. You want to see an answer. Proof. Even if the world shakes around you, you feel it: he heard you.
You know it. He looks at you. Long. Deeply. Without once turning away, like his gaze alone could anchor you to the world. Like looking at you could be enough to pull your shattered pieces together. He barely moves, but his silence is thick with unspoken words, searing tension. And then he answers. Not with empty lines. Not with grand declarations. He answers with what he is, what he offers in that instant: a short, shaky breath. A barely visible pulse in his throat. A light in his eyes that has nothing to do with his suit. It’s a promise. Raw certainty. Undeniable truth.
He’s here. And he won’t leave. His face, still tight with fear and rage, softens just enough for you to notice, even through blurred vision. He dips his head, leans his forehead slightly toward you — not too close, just enough so you feel his warmth. And his voice cuts through the space.
— "Hey, kid…"
It’s low. Gentle. A rough caress in the chaos. Nothing sharp left in it, no sarcasm, no defense. Just what matters. Naked vulnerability, stretched between the fear of losing you and the relief of finding you. He doesn’t talk like to an employee. Not like a lost kid. He talks like to someone he almost lost. Someone he searched for. Someone he found. A shiver runs down your spine. Your eyelids flutter shut for a second. You inhale. The air still scrapes. Each breath is a fight, but you continue. You want to stay here. With him. Then your eyes open again. Slowly. Like rediscovering the world inch by inch. Like your body itself needs confirmation. That face, hovering above, is real. That voice belongs to this moment. Not a trick of a delirious mind.
You blink once. Then again. The image sharpens a little. You recognize the contours. The details. The exhausted black eyes. The drawn features. The sweat on his temple. The dust on his cheek. It’s him. It’s Tony. And he came. You want to speak, but your breath is too short. Your body, too heavy. So you stay there, half-conscious, clinging to his gaze like to a rope stretched over the void.
You’re not alone anymore.
Not abandoned in this corner of misery, of cracked concrete and walls weeping grime. The smell of blood, rust, and dried fear still hangs in the air like a second skin — but it no longer traps you. Something pierced it. Someone. He stands before you, frozen in a stance that’s not stiff. It’s contained tension, dense, like a spring stretched to its breaking point. He doesn’t move, but not from hesitation. From total control. Alertness. His eyes lock on you, burning with a fire his armor can’t hide. The metal shell, the articulated plates, the sleek lines of technology — they seem irrelevant now. It’s not Iron Man kneeling there. It’s Tony Stark. A man. Present. Focused. And his sole purpose, his one anchor, is you.
— "We’re getting out of here."
His voice is low. Flat. Not a shout, not a command. A clipped phrase, direct, nearly hoarse, like it was carved from stone. He’s not trying to joke, not defusing the moment with a quip. He’s not trying to sound heroic. What he says isn’t a promise — it’s a fact already in motion. You won’t stay here. Not while he still breathes. You want to answer. To tell him you can handle it. That you can walk, or at least try. That you’re not just dead weight. You want to move, prove you still exist, that you’re more than this broken body he has to carry. Your arms try to bend but collapse. Your legs are just pain, tension, inertia. Every nerve screams. Your back tears out a silent cry at the slightest motion. You claw at the air like a man condemned — but nothing responds. You want to help. But your body has deserted you.
And he sees it. Every flicker of your jaw, the smallest twitch of your fingers, your chest struggling to pull air like a rusted forge. He reads the effort. The wounded pride. He understands you want to fight, even now. And he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t say anything to shame you. He just moves closer.
— "Let me handle it, kid."
His voice is different this time. A softness in the rough. Almost a whisper. Not a command. An accord. A hand offered over the abyss. Then he acts. His movements aren’t mechanical, despite the suit. They’re precise, controlled, but hold a tenderness that feels almost unreal. He lifts you slowly, as if he feels you are far more fragile than you appear. One arm slips behind your back, dodging pain with surgical care. The other cradles your neck, supports your head without pressure, just enough so you won’t fall.
You feel his chest against you — smooth and cold under metal, yet oddly reassuring. You hear, against your ear, the low hum of his artificial heart. That steady sound becomes a reference point. An anchor. And in this suspended moment, where everything still teeters, you understand he’s truly holding you. Not just your weight. Not just your body. You. Your existence. Your pain. Your damaged breath. He holds them all. Without flinching. Without backing down.
You let go. Without shame. Because this isn’t weakness. It’s finally safety. You feel yourself floating. Literally. Like your body gave up all structure, all logic, all will. You’re nothing but a suspended weight, raw flesh battered by pain, consumed by exhaustion. Your breath is short, choppy, erratic. You don’t know if you’re inhaling or exhaling — just that air moves, barely enough to keep you between two heartbeats. And in that drift, there’s him. Tony. An anchor. A presence. A weight unlike any other.
His arms hold you, firm and sure. He doesn’t shake. He doesn’t waver. And even through the suit, you feel something human. A strange warmth. A steady calm. The metal is warm against your skin, as if it’s absorbed some of you — the panic, the blood, the fever. And his gestures... they aren’t those of a man in a hurry, or a soldier on a mission. They belong to someone who’s careful. Who adjusts every step to keep from jarring you, every shift to avoid worsening your injuries. He wraps you in a silent promise: that he won’t let go.
You want to thank him. But your tongue won’t work. You want to open your eyes, keep them open, show him you’re still here, holding on. But the light becomes an assault. It pulses, wavers, dissolves into white blots, then black. Glare, halos, as if reality itself melts into patches of filthy light. Your vision narrows. Everything wavers. Even sound changes. Footsteps, the scrape of armor, the breath in your ear it all blurs into a hazy echo your mind can’t hold.
You’re slipping. Softly. Slowly. And yet, in the void, you still feel. His arms around you. The curve of his forearm beneath your head, the hand steady on your shoulder, the way he cradles your neck without weight. You feel the steady hum of his chest reactor, like a second heart — mechanical, faithful, unwavering. You feel the control in his fingers, the calculated support of your body, as if every angle, every contact, was planned to spare you pain. And you feel something else a tension, a mute urgency, beating against him like a restrained fear.
So you hold on. To anything you can. To that warmth. That metal. To him. You don’t need to fight anymore. Not really. Just stay. Present. Conscious, even a little. Because now, you can let go. Just a little. You can surrender to that grip without fearing the fall. You can sleep knowing he’s watching. He’s here. And he won’t let you fall again.
Then a noise. Sharp. Distant. A metallic crack. A vibration too precise to belong to the empty space of this room. The sound of a mechanism. A lock. A step that doesn’t come from him. Something is coming. The sound slices through the air like a blade. Distinct from everything else. Not a groan. Not a sigh of pain. Not even the crash of something falling. No. It’s sharper. More precise. More intimate. A click. Pure. Cutting. Like a guillotine dropping. The familiar sound of a safety catch being disengaged, slowly, methodically, as if it had been anticipated. As if it heralded what’s to come. It’s a sound you never forget. A promise folded into metal. A threat spoken by a machine only the hand of a dangerous man knows how to wield.
It’s not just a sound. It’s an ultimatum.
And immediately, the silence — that fragile tension stretched out for long minutes — shatters like glass under a blow. The moment freezes. Every molecule of air locks into deadly stillness. Stark stops. Instantly. A block. His whole body locking like a defensive system on maximum alert. The suit doesn’t creak, doesn’t shake. But you feel the tension, everywhere. In the angle of his shoulders. In the sudden curve of his back. In the way his head stays immobile, as if the slightest move could trigger what’s next.
And you. Even you. Even in this dissociative state, this blurry space between consciousness and collapse, you feel it. You recognize it. That sound. That chill. You don’t know exactly where it comes from in the room, but your body knows. It remembers. It contracts. Instinctively. As if every nerve, every cell, every bone recognized that frequency. That message. That danger signal etched into your flesh.
It’s not an ordinary sound. It’s a silent scream. The scream of fractured memory. Of a body that hasn’t forgotten what fear is. Real fear. The kind that freezes. That anchors you. That always comes back through the sound of a weapon being cocked — above your head, behind your back, or in the middle of the night.
And then, the voice.
It scrapes the walls. Twists the air. It’s there, too close, rising from a poorly extinguished corner of shadow. Broken. Hoarse. Soaked in bile. Strangled by hate. It stumbles on the words but doesn’t die. A voice you’ve heard scream, laugh, whisper, bite. A voice capable of everything. And nothing. A voice that hurts even without strength.
"Put him down."
Not a scream. Not a command. An order. Spat through clenched teeth. A groan of frustration, of muffled rage, but still standing. He’s there. Still. Standing. Armed. And what he demands, what he insists on, is unthinkable: that Stark lets you go. Puts you down. That you return to the floor. That the pain starts again. That the terror returns.
And all at once, you feel the cold. Not the cold of the metal. The cold of possibility. Of threat. Of fear. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not yet. He doesn’t need to.
He knows. He’s always known that a man like Matthew doesn’t vanish without resistance. That he never really falls. Not as long as he has breath, a pulse of hate, a muscle left to bite with. That’s a rule, a constant for that kind of filth: they don’t go out — they detonate. And Tony understood that from the first second. From the moment he saw that flicker in his eye, that twisted thirst for power, that sick need for control.
So he stays still. Not out of surprise. Not out of hesitation. But calculation. Perfect read of the moment, the trajectory, the danger. His body remains locked, like a beacon rooted in the ground. But inside, his sensors activate. His instincts too. And in that short lapse of time, in that suspended fraction of a second, he measures what’s coming. Matthew is still there.
Behind him. A few meters away. Maybe less. Standing — or something close to it. A grotesque, fragile balance. His silhouette flickers like a sick flame, shuddering with spasms and tremors. His legs are bent, unstable, like two shattered stakes too proud to collapse. One arm hangs useless. The other, armed.
His face is a shredded mask of flesh. One eye almost shut, purpled to the bone. His mouth barely bleeds now, as if his body no longer has the strength to bleed properly. A raw gash cuts across his temple from a blow poorly absorbed. He looks like a ghost. A leftover human who should’ve been buried long ago. And yet, he’s here. Alive. Threatening.
And in his right hand the only one still mobile glints a compact shape. The other weapon. Not the one Stark knocked away earlier. Another. Kept warm, hidden in a boot, a pocket, a sleeve. Plan B. Last trick. Final venom. The barrel trembles, blurry, but aligned.
Not at Tony.
At you.
At your weakened body, leaning against the suit, clinging to what’s left of consciousness. You don’t see it — not yet — but you feel the shift. You feel the silence twisting around you, like the world holding its breath. And Tony too. Just for a second. Enough to calculate. Enough to confirm. The barrel is aimed at you. And in Matthew’s eyes, despite the pain, despite the exhaustion, despite the blood dripping into his collar, there’s that fire. Weak, but there. A wild ember. A sick rage. A blind, desperate fury. He doesn’t want to win anymore. He wants to destroy. He doesn’t want to flee anymore. He wants to mark you. One last time. To erase you. To own you all the way into your fall.
Even if it kills him.
Stark feels his pulse pounding against the inside of the armor, stronger, more brutal, like a deafening echo reverberating off the metal. Each beat is a war drum hammering in the hollow of his chest—heavy, steady, ready to explode. His jaw tightens slowly. He doesn’t move yet, but every nerve in his body is on high alert, every joint primed to unleash lethal force in a fraction of a second. He has become silence. He has become steel. He has become threat.
His arms tighten around you with an almost unreal slowness, millimeter by millimeter. Not to suffocate you. To hold you. To shield you. He pulls you closer against him, as if the armor isn’t enough to protect you anymore, as if his own body must become the barrier, a living rampart, a fortress between you and the bullet. He knows where the barrel is aimed. He saw the trajectory, the shift, the alignment. It’s not him he’s targeting. It’s you.
He says nothing. Not yet. Words would be a luxury. A useless noise in a scene that has become too fragile, too saturated. There’s no more room for banter, no more space for sharp retorts he knows so well. There’s only this short, held breath, and this heat in his throat, this growl, this fire rising and threatening to overturn everything.
And he knows that this time, if he acts… it’ll be to kill.
The gun is there. Raised. Steady. A black cylinder aimed at them like a sentence, a final injunction. Matthew’s arm trembles slightly, but not enough to make him doubt. It’s not weakness shaking his muscles. It’s adrenaline. Excitement. Hatred. His fingers, clamped to the grip, are clenched so tight they’ve gone white, every joint taut like a cord about to snap. It’s the final spasm of a mind refusing to go down without leaving a last scar.
And his eyes.
They’re not looking for Tony. Not even for fear or recognition. They’re looking for damage. For the impact. For the end. Bloodshot, swollen with rage, they gleam with a sick, icy intensity. A raw hatred, ancient, visceral, almost religious in its obsession. A hatred without aim, without meaning, just one need: to scar. To erase you.
Then he speaks.
— "You really thought it would end like this?"
His voice rises, rasping, strangled. A thin thread of sound scraped from damaged vocal cords, saturated with bile, blood, pain, and crushed pride. Each word seems to cost him a bit of life, but he doesn’t care. It’s not a line for dialogue. It’s not a question. It’s a bite. A spit. A final provocation. He growls more than he speaks, a kind of dying breath, a defiant snarl from a beaten dog who refuses to die without biting one more time.
And Stark, still frozen, knows. He knows this isn’t a scene. Not a confrontation. It’s the moment. The one before. The one where everything can flip.
Stark exhales.
Not out of fear. Not even anger. A heavy sigh. Worn out. Bone-tired. Like a father at the end of his rope facing the same mistake for the hundredth time, one he doesn’t even bother correcting anymore. The kind of sigh you let out when everything has already been said, when words are too light to hold the weight of the obvious. It’s a breath that stretches. That rasps along the edges of his helmet, infiltrating the tense silence like a crack.
Then, slowly, Tony closes his eyes.
Not for long. A second, maybe two. But in that brief instant, everything in him closes. Resets. He pushes away emotion. He buries it. He stores the fire, the panic, the protective instinct that’s devoured him since he saw you on the ground. He shelves it all to become what he’s always known how to be when it counts: a damn machine. Efficient. Surgical. Unstoppable. When he opens his eyes again, they’re void of compassion. Just a glint of steel. Sharp. Cold.
— "You really are a fucking idiot."
His voice is flat. Slow. Devoid of any emotion, except for the weariness hanging from every syllable like a silent threat. No need to raise his voice. No need to get angry. He doesn’t even need to say he’s about to act. It’s all there already, in the way his body shifts balance. Subtly. A shift in stance. A micro-adjustment. Just enough to strengthen his footing, to restore gravity around him, to calculate.
But he doesn’t let go of you. Not for a second. Not an inch.
His arms remain closed around you, held with infallible precision. He holds you like one would hold an answer. A promise. Like he refuses to abandon you, even for a heartbeat. Like the idea of laying you down on the ground — that ground soaked in blood, fear, agony — is an offense he won’t tolerate. Not after all this. Not now.
Across from him, Matthew wavers.
His legs buckle beneath him, stiff, tense like two rusted metal rods about to snap. He clutches his side, fingers clenched on his ribs as if trying to hold himself together, keep his body from collapsing. His breathing is a rusted saw, wheezing, chopped into irregular, painful segments. He tastes blood on his face. Along his cheek. On his split lips. The taste of metal and dirt, acidic. He trembles.
But he still has the gun.
And he feels it, that last sliver of power. That fragment of unstable balance in the hollow of his hand. He grips it like someone clutches a grudge. He’s not shaking from fear. He’s trembling with tension. With pride. With the refusal to bend, even on the edge of the end. He straightens slightly, still swaying, but raises the barrel toward you both.
And he spits:
— "I swear if you move another inch, I’ll blow his head off."
His words fall like stones into an empty well. Raw. Warped by pain. Loaded with a filthy, childish rage, almost pathetic. He throws in everything he has left: his anger, his fear, his illusion of control. He wants to be taken seriously. He wants to inspire fear. But Stark doesn’t respond. Not yet. He stays still. Silent. And that silence… is worse than a threat.
Stark does nothing — or so it seems. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t yield. He stays rooted to the floor, in the moment, in this suspended second where everything can fall apart — but nothing is lost yet. He’s still holding you, firmly, with a precision that defies pain, fear, even logic. And yet, in this perfect stillness, something shifts.
He simply raises an eyebrow.
Nothing theatrical. Nothing ironic. Just that small, barely perceptible movement, almost mechanical, as if he had just decoded the utter stupidity of what he just heard. As if Matthew’s words were nothing more than a distant echo, a threat already dissolved before it even hit. Then, with calculated, glacial slowness, he finally turns his head. Not in surprise. Not in a flinch.
No, he turns his head with the calm of an ancient god. With that silent authority only men tired of violence can carry without trembling. And when his gaze lands on Matthew — direct, sharp, total — it’s no longer Tony Stark standing there. It’s something else. A stripped entity, devoid of humanity. It’s no longer arrogance. No longer exasperation. Not even rage. It’s emptiness.
Not a hollow void, not a fragile nothingness. No. A void of steel. An absolute absence of emotion, so sharp, so dense, it seems to suck the air around it. A gaze where everything is already over. Where the verdict has fallen, irrevocable, final. A gaze that doesn’t threaten — it condemns. That doesn’t kill — it denies existence. Denies the right to be.
And Matthew feels it.
Oh, he feels it. In his gut. In his bowels. In his knees that, despite himself, begin to give way. He takes a step back. A tiny retreat, almost imperceptible. But it’s too late. Stark saw it. And that movement, that simple body shift, that instinctive micro-defense, is worth more than a thousand confessions.
Then Stark speaks.
— "You really wanna play this game?"
The question is asked without emphasis. Without drama. Like a blade laid on a table. Sharp. Cold. Needlessly polite. And the sound of his voice cracks the air with the same intensity as glass shattering in a silent church. No need to raise the tone. No need for added threat.
Because everything is already there.
Matthew straightens his shoulders. Or tries to. His back bends under the pain, but he wants to give height back to his body, pretend he hasn’t flinched. He tries to swallow the step he took back, erase the gesture. He tightens his grip on the gun, grits his teeth between jagged breaths. And he speaks, louder, to cover the wavering.
But in his eyes, the confidence is cracking. His breathing is too fast. Uneven. His forehead drenched in cold sweat — not from effort, no — from fear creeping in, drop by drop, down his spine. His fingers tremble. Barely, but just enough to throw off the aim. And his movements, suddenly, become too much. Too jerky. Too erratic. He flails like a puppet whose strings have been yanked too hard.
He’s no longer in control. Not of the scene. Not of the pace. Not even of himself.
And Stark feels it. Not just through the suit’s sensors, not only via the micro-vibrations of the ground under his feet or Matthew’s thermal signature burning from the inside. No, he feels it like an animal senses a storm, like a predator senses the irregular heartbeat of prey. It’s visceral. Primal. Obvious. Because he’s learned to recognize it — that vibration, that nervous derailment, that fault line running through a man when he loses control.
Because everyone, sooner or later, has felt that terrible thing when Tony Stark closes up like this. It’s not explosive anger. Not a roar. Not a flare of rage. It’s an internal collapse, controlled, contained, a thousand times more terrifying. It’s the void settling in. The absolute silence before a surgical strike. It’s the moment when humanity fades to make way for something else. Fear. It’s there, in the air, suspended between the grimy walls of this room, between the debris on the floor, between each irregular heartbeat. And Stark, without a word, moves. Almost nothing. A bend of the knee. A subtle weight shift from one foot to the other. A barely perceptible adjustment in posture. But enough. Enough to shift the scene into another register. The gun barrel rises instantly.
— "DON’T MOVE!"
The scream cracks. High-pitched. Nervous. Hysterical. An explosion of panic, a pure fear discharge, vomited into the space like a desperate reflex. Matthew’s voice, already broken, tears itself into a lopsided shriek, too shrill to be solid, too shaky to be dangerous. And in his eyes, you can see it. The moment of terror. The crack.
He wavers.
His pupils dart from Stark to you, and back to the gun. Then to his own hands. As if suddenly realizing he no longer controls anything. That he’s just a link dangling in a mechanism that no longer belongs to him. His breath accelerates, grows loud, almost wheezing. His chest heaves with difficulty. He tries to compensate. To keep face. But the tension betrays everything. His arms tremble. His fingers, clenched on the grip, vibrate despite him. A shiver runs through his shoulders, derails the aim, throws off his center of gravity. He tightens his hold on the weapon, but it’s too late: the doubt is there. The instability. The obvious. He knows.
He knows he’s losing. Not just the upper hand. Not just the battle. But everything. The scene. The power. The narrative. And he feels it, in his broken bones, in his exhausted muscles, in the clammy heat of his blood spilling too fast: this part right here — it’s the end. There will be no glory. No final revenge. Just the fall. And like all cowards, like all monsters too weak to fall alone, he wants to drag you down with him.
— "Put him down. Now."
The phrase comes out in a rasp, between clenched teeth, like a final desperate plea for a balance that no longer exists. It’s no longer a command. Not really. There’s something fractured in the tone, a tremor, a break. He’s begging without admitting it, panting, lost. His voice is jagged, unstable, stretched to the extreme, oscillating between threat and collapse.
But Stark doesn’t answer.
He doesn’t need to speak. You watch him think. Calculate. With surgical precision deployed in perfect silence. Every microsecond becomes a world; each fraction of a moment an equation. He reads everything — the tension in Matthew’s shoulders, the subtle twitch of his arm, the increasing pressure of his index finger on the trigger. He analyzes the angle, the velocity, the firing radius. He isolates trajectories. Assesses the margins. Corrects for the unforeseen. The right moment. The only moment. The one where everything can tip. And then, Matthew screams. A shout. A spasm. A total rejection of lost control. A dying man’s order, a final command hurled like a stone into a storm he can no longer stop.
— “STARK!”
And the shot is fired. A flash. A tear. A sonic implosion in a room saturated with tension. The detonation isn’t just a noise. It’s a shockwave. A blade of fire that lacerates space, rips the air, splits the scene in two. The yellow flash spits its light into the gloom like lightning dropped into the heart of silence. The barrel flares, violent, blinding, and the bullet flies. A sharp whistle. Shrill. A vibration that pierces the eardrums like a scream of metal. A shiver of steel. A heartbeat. Not even a second. Not even a full breath. If Stark’s inhale had been different, if he’d hesitated, if he’d blinked, if gravity had been heavier by a single milligram... the bullet would’ve hit you. Split your throat, your chest, your skull. It would’ve ended everything — brutal, filthy, final.
But it didn’t. Because he left no room for error. Because he saw it coming, sensed it, anticipated it. Because the exact moment Matthew’s finger twitched, the moment the gun’s internal mechanism clicked, Tony Stark had already moved. Already shifted his center of gravity. Already pivoted half a step, his arm pulling you in, shielding you with the armor, ripping you from the line of fire in a motion so swift the world didn’t have time to react. The steel wall intercepted the bullet. An impact. A spark. A tiny burst of light on the reinforced chestplate. The dull sound of a bullet meeting a world it cannot pierce. You didn’t feel a thing. Just a breath. A warmth. Then a tremor through Stark’s entire body — the shockwave he absorbed for you.
And for a fraction of a second, he doesn’t move. He remains frozen. Not out of fear. But to make sure. To listen to your breath. To confirm that you’re alive. Then he slowly lifts his head. And this time, it’s not a look. It’s a sentence.
The impact tears through you like a silent thunderclap. You didn’t understand at first. You felt a warm gust skim your cheek, like the scrape of an invisible fire. Then the rumble echoed inside Stark’s chest — the one cradling your body, limp and suspended between terror and exhaustion. The metal vibrated. His armor took the hit. And you — you couldn’t do anything. Not even scream. Your breath locks in your throat, ripped away by the violence of the moment. You want to speak. To move. To cry out. But your vocal cords are tied, your muscles unresponsive. Your fingers try to cling to him, to seek an anchor, anything — but they slip, powerless, drained of strength. Your entire body is dead weight, suspended by another’s will.
And him… he moves. Slowly. Deliberately. Like an ancient statue waking after a thousand years of silence. No panic. No rush. Just chilling, methodical, surgical precision. His head pivots on a perfect axis. A single angle. His gaze finds Matthew. And something shifts in the air. It’s no longer that abyssal void that burned seconds ago. It’s not flaming rage, ready to consume. No. What emanates now from his eyes, his movements, every line of his face… is worse. Older. More fundamental.
It’s the total absence of forgiveness. An implacable, cold, silent force that seeks nothing but a conclusion. He’s no longer looking at you. Not really. But he hasn’t forgotten you. And yet his movements remain gentle. Tender, incongruously so. He lays you down with surreal slowness, as if afraid to break you more. Every motion is measured. Controlled. Deliberate. His arm slips behind your back, supports your descent, holds you until the last moment. And then, with the care of a surgeon, he slides you against the wall.
You feel the concrete against your back. Rough. Cold. It almost burns. But his fingers linger a moment longer. Just long enough to keep you from falling. Just enough to offer a last anchor. Then his gaze tears away from you. For a second. Just one. Like a parenthesis. Like a temporary farewell. He entrusts you to the ground. And from here on, everything that follows is no longer about you… it’s about him and Matthew.
Then, he rises.
The metal groans softly, as if the suit itself were holding its breath. A low vibration escapes the still-warm joints. A deep murmur, almost organic. A beast waking up. The lights embedded in the joints shift — first imperceptibly, then abruptly: the bright white turns to pulsing red. Combat red. Retribution red. Judgment red. Every LED becomes an ember, each glowing point a silent siren screaming the irreversibility of what’s coming.
Matthew sees it. And he understands.
He tries to back away. A step. Then another, stumbling, uncertain. His body won’t follow. His legs buckle beneath him. His arm lifts again, but the gun in his hand shakes more than he does. The barrel wavers, dances in the air, uncertain. He still believes. In one last chance. One final shot. He tells himself he can fire. That he can take Stark down, or at least slow him. That he can hurt him.
But Tony gives him no time.
The roar of the thrusters splits the space. The armor launches, carried by raw, thunderous force. A comet of metal and fury. The distance between them vanishes in a fraction of a second, erased by the taut trajectory of a body hurled like a cannonball. The impact is brutal. The weapon flies. A palm strike — dry, surgical — hits the grip and sends it spinning into the dark. It spins, skids somewhere out of reach. Harmless. Forgotten.
But Stark doesn’t stop.
His fist crashes down the next instant. It plunges into Matthew’s abdomen like a hammer through plaster. His breath is ripped from him, torn out in a high-pitched gasp. His torso folds, his body lifts, before slamming into the wall with a sickening, wet thud — flesh against concrete. He collapses like a sack, half-conscious, half-empty. But the second blow follows fast. Sharper. More precise. The jaw. A clean crack of bone. A red burst explodes between his teeth. Blood, saliva, a thread of bile. Matthew screams — or tries to — but only a gargle escapes. He crashes to his knees, arms slack, mouth twisted in a grotesque, disjointed grimace.
And Stark advances. This time, he doesn’t run. He walks. Slowly. Methodically. Like an executioner. Like judgment embodied. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t speak. He moves, and that’s enough. His shadow engulfs the floor. It blankets Matthew’s body like a shroud. He stands above him — towering, immovable. The red light from the arc reactor at his chest pulses, bright, steady. His arm lifts.
The gauntlet expands, and the lines etched in the metal ignite a deeper red. Energy hums, pressure rises. The core in his chest vibrates, ready to unleash full power. Each pulse is a promise. A warning. A useless one. Because this time… Stark is ready to finish it. Matthew raises a hand. Not to attack. Not out of anger. Not a trick. It’s a plea. A tremor. Feeble, pathetic. His blood-covered arm struggles to extend. His fingers, bent, broken, flutter in the air as if they no longer remember how to beg. His whole body trembles, his knees trying to hold but collapsing with each passing second. His mouth opens, slowly, painfully, and a word slips out. A syllable, barely. A groan more than a voice.
— “Wa… wait…”
But Stark doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His gaze is locked. Glacial. Immutable. And his voice falls into the room like a verdict etched in stone, low, metallic, inevitable.
— “You should’ve stayed down.”
And you watch. Pinned to the ground, trapped in your own body. Your breath trembles, unstable, each inhale a tear through your chest. The air burns, scrapes, resists. You no longer have the strength to move. Your arms are limp, your legs feel torn from your control. Your muscles won’t respond, your nerves scream, and yet, you remain conscious. A consciousness glued to the pain. A clarity sharpened by fear. And your eyes… your eyes stay open.
They see it.
They see Stark, standing there, frozen in a stillness that no longer feels human. His silhouette is black, almost liquid under the red reflections of the pulsing armor. Every light seems to beat in rhythm with his heart, but in this moment, that heart no longer beats to protect. It beats to strike. His arm is extended, a perfect line—cold, rigid. His open palm is aimed at Matthew, and in its center, the reactor pulses. Incandescent, unstable light radiates from it like a tide of contained fire.
You hear the crackling. The charged energy vibrates around him, dances in electric arcs along his gauntlet. The armor groans under the surge of power. It growls, lives, almost breathes. Like a beast untethered for too long. The lines of the suit light up in shades of scarlet, the red veins of a war monster waiting only for the order. And that order won’t be shouted. It’s already there. In Stark’s eyes. In the silence that follows the last chance.
And in front of him, slumped against the wall, Matthew no longer resembles anything. A dislocated puppet. A sack of hateful flesh. Curled up. Unable to flee. His face is a mask of blood, fear, and despair. His eyes are wide—far too wide—locked on the outstretched gauntlet like the muzzle of a cannon. He knows. Every fiber, every still intact bone knows. He knows it’s over. That there will be no mercy, no return, no escape.
And you know it too.
You feel it, deep down, that Stark won’t stop. That the rage he’s held back this long is begging to be unleashed. That it’s no longer a decision. It’s an instinct. A drive. A need. He’s gone too far to halt now. Too far to turn back. And in your pain-drenched gaze, fear returns. Not for yourself. Not for what you’ve endured. But for him. For what he’s about to do. For what it will leave in him. For what that blast, if unleashed, will shatter—not in Matthew. In Stark.
You want to speak. But your throat is a raw wound, a voiceless pit. You want to scream, but nothing comes. Even a sound is a mountain. Your lips barely move, cracked, salted by tears and blood, trembling like the leaves of a tree shaken by an inner storm. The air you try to inhale scrapes your larynx, too dry, too thick, like every particle stabs you. But you keep going. You refuse to give up. Because it’s all you can do. Because you have to stop him.
So, slowly, painfully, you gather what strength remains. You dive into the pain, arms wide open—you embrace it, you swallow it, you use it as your anchor. You cross that frozen sea, that threshold you thought impassable, and somewhere, buried deep inside, you find a breath. A whisper. One last echo.
— “Stark...”
It’s not a cry. It’s not even a sentence. It’s barely a breath. A shard of soul, scraped, raw, fragile as the wingbeat of a broken bird. And yet… that word slices the air like thunder. It lacerates the silence. It pierces. It cracks it open.
Stark hears it.
He blinks. A single beat. An imperceptible tic in that fortress of steel. But you see it. You feel it. The silent shockwave. A hesitation. A micro-movement. A fissure in the war mask. His gaze doesn’t leave his target… not right away. But something just struck him. A private tremor. A call he wasn’t prepared for.
Then, he looks at you.
Not for long. A second. An eternity. But it’s enough. Enough for your eyes to meet. For your eyes—reddened, exhausted, shadowed with pain and terror—to offer something other than fear. It’s not a plea. It’s not forgiveness. It’s not even an order. It’s a truth. Bare. Silent. An evidence as simple as it is searing: you don’t want this ending. You don’t want to see his arm become a sentence. You don’t want his hands, the ones that carried you, supported you, protected you, to become the tool of an irreversible vengeance. You don’t want him to cross that line. Because deep down, you know what it would do to him. And you know that he knows it too.
Stark doesn’t move. But you feel the tremor. The internal storm. His mind is fighting. Behind the mask, behind the metal, calculations spiral, pulses of rage beat like war drums, demanding justice. He has every reason. You know it. He could do it. He wants to. Part of him screams to do it. It would be so easy. So clean. So just.
But you’re there.
And you spoke. You threw him that rope at the edge of the cliff. You held him back. With one hand. With one syllable. You just saved him—not from danger, but from himself. From an act that would never leave him. You stopped him from crossing a line that can never be uncrossed. So he breathes in. Slowly. Deeply. A breath long, heavy, weighted like a world. He closes his eyes, briefly. He lets the tension drip away, drop by drop. He feels the heat recede from his gloves, the energy ebb. Without a word, he releases the rage frozen in his arm.
And for a second, you think the world starts spinning again. And the arm begins to lower.
Slowly. Like an overloaded pendulum, like a weight that even technology, even titanium and fire, can barely bear. The energy in Stark’s palm dissipates, dull, into red wisps that flicker, then die. The internal circuits of the suit, which just a second ago vibrated like a heart ready to explode, calm. The sound muffles. Silence returns. Not peace—suspended tension. An electric silence, like the pause before lightning, the moment the air tightens. Stark stands there, half-raised arm, body frozen in a posture of painful restraint. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. His eyes stay fixed on Matthew, his fist still clenched, jaw tight enough to break teeth. His breathing is short. Shallow. Like every breath is a battle against instinct, against the call of swift justice. He trembles. Just enough for you to see it. Just enough to understand.
You feel it. You know it. This isn’t forgiveness. It’s not mercy. Not even principle. It’s you. Just you. A broken voice, a syllable on the verge of drowning, enough to make him lower his arm. Not from weakness. Not from morality. Out of respect. A silent promise. To honor you. And this silence, this suspended moment… could’ve been the end. But then it happens.
A sound. Faint, at first. Almost inaudible. A shadow scraping through the rubble. Then clearer. Sharper. Dissonant. Unreal.
A laugh.
Dry. Broken. A rasp twisted by pain and blood. A sound that shouldn’t be there. That doesn’t belong in this field of ruin. And yet, it echoes. It rises—ridiculous, chilling—like a specter refusing to die. Matthew. He laughs. His disfigured mouth half-opens, red, shattered teeth visible. He laughs through the pain. Through the fractures. Through the blood dripping from split lips. A filthy laugh. Cracked. Sick.
You see him lift his head. Just a little. Too little. But enough for his gaze to catch Stark’s. And what’s in his eyes… it isn’t fear. It’s not even hatred anymore. It’s something rotten. Hollow. A madness laced with clarity, a pure provocation, raw, thrown like a slap.
— "That’s it..." he spits, between ragged breaths, his voice like chewed paper. "The great Stark. The hero. The savior."
He coughs. Violently. A spasm bends him. A spray of blood gushes from his throat and spatters against his chin. But it doesn’t stop him. Quite the opposite. He smiles. A smile that’s anything but human. A hyena’s snarl. Twisted, swollen with violence. A pathetic grimace of hollow triumph.
— "You raise your arm. You could erase me. Literally. And you... you look down because of him."
He turns his head. Slowly. Like a broken puppet refusing to shut down. His gaze slides toward you. And there... it’s worse. Worse than the blows. Worse than the barrel pointed at you. He looks at you with that clammy intensity. Vicious. A viscous hatred. Filthy. A contempt so strong it almost becomes intimate.
— "Fuck... you’re just a parasite. Even now..." His voice breaks halfway in his throat. He swallows it back. Stitches it together with anger. "You need someone to carry you. Defend you. You can’t even stand up. And he listens to you. You."
You feel your stomach twist. Not from fear. From disgust.
— "I knew you were weak..." He laughs again. A hiccup barely human, a rasp that becomes almost a sob of madness. "But not weak enough to make Stark your fucking guard dog."
Silence returns. Not the kind of forgetting. But the kind that rumbles. The kind that doesn’t fall, but rises. Like a tide. Like a warning. In Stark’s eyes, something just reopened.
Stark doesn’t move. Not yet. But something shifts in his posture. Tiny, and yet terrifying. His fists close slowly, the metallic knuckles tightening until the joints of the armor groan. His shoulders tense, muscles — or their steel and servo-motor equivalents — lock into a silent tension. A pressure, muffled and incandescent, builds in his chest like a second energy core about to implode. But he doesn’t look at him. Not yet.
He looks at you.
You, and nothing else. His eyes don’t leave your face. They anchor into yours with such intensity that the world could collapse around him and he wouldn’t flinch. He studies you. Every millimeter. Every breath. As if searching for an answer. A green light. Permission. As if he doesn’t want to decide alone this time. He’s heard the words, the insults, he’s seen the sneer, felt the provocation. He could answer. He could crush him like an insect. But he waits. He’s waiting for you. It’s in your eyes that he searches for the end.
And the choice floats there, suspended between the two of you.
Between the still-glowing red lights in the joints of the armor, pulsing like a heart of war, and the bloodied, grotesque figure on the ground, still laughing despite the pain. Between cold justice... and pure vengeance. The universe holds in that suspended beat.
Then Stark moves. One step. The ground barely trembles under the impact. Another. Slower. Heavier. Every movement is measured, sculpted from steel and decision. But he doesn’t go to Matthew. No. He doesn’t approach him. He doesn’t even touch him.
He comes to you.
He turns slightly, stares at you again like he needs to count you, to register you among the living. And he advances. He walks toward you, his arms still heavy with tension, his jaw clenched hard enough to fracture a soul. He chooses you. Not the hate. Not vengeance. You.
And Matthew, still on the ground, lies there. Abandoned. Sunk in his own filth, mouth still open in a pathetic snicker. A laugh turned rasp, muffled, trembling, with no more substance than the rest of his broken body. Stark doesn’t even grant him a last glance. Not a word. Not a breath. He has erased him from his line of sight. Reduced him to what he’s become: a leftover. Waste. A mistake.
Because he saw your blood on the floor. Because he saw your chest rise with difficulty, as if each breath threatened to collapse under its own weight. Because your body slumped further against the wall, your head dropped a few centimeters too much, and for a moment — he thought. He thought you were going.
He crosses the space between you with no hesitation, each step grounded in brute determination, like he refuses to let distance exist between you. The alloy of his armor groans softly, echoing through the air with a deep murmur, almost organic, like the breath of an alert beast. The lights on his shoulders, hips, pulse faintly, oscillating between the red of alert and the clinical white of medical protocol. He’s not a superhero anymore. Not Iron Man. Just Tony, stripped of everything but the absolute urgency to reach you.
He kneels beside you, and this time the movement is faster, less contained, almost instinctive. This isn’t about control. It’s about survival. Your eyelids flutter, heavy, as if each blink demands an effort your body can’t afford. And yet you see him. You recognize him. Despite the pain tearing your insides apart, despite the fire burning through every exposed nerve, you’re still there. And he sees it.
— "Hey... hey, kid..." he breathes, reaching a hand toward your face, palm open. The glove stops a few millimeters from your skin, suspended in the air like a prayer he doesn’t dare complete. The metal doesn’t touch you. He won’t let it. He won’t risk adding one more pain. But his breath, behind the mask, you feel it. Light. Shattered. As if each word tears his throat. "Breathe. Can you hear me? Breathe... stay with me."
He’s bent over you, back curved with almost animal tension, his arms carefully sliding beneath your limp body. He lifts you, but nothing is abrupt. Nothing mechanical. He adjusts his grip, millimeter by millimeter, avoiding the worst wounds. One arm slides beneath your shoulder blades, the other under your legs, bringing you slowly against his armored chest. He holds you. Cradles you. Protects you. You feel the artificial heat of the armor through your blood-soaked clothes, a synthetic warmth — but comforting.
Your breathing is erratic. Broken. You gasp like each puff of air has to cross a minefield. Your chest rises, trembling, then drops too fast. A bead of sweat slides from your temple to his forearm. And he doesn’t move. He anchors you. He becomes that pillar, that column, the only fixed point in a collapsing world. His sensors — he almost ignores them. But they’re screaming. Your heart rate is irregular. Your temperature dropping fast. The numbers scream in his interface, red, unstable, merciless. But he doesn’t look at them anymore. He looks at you.
And as long as you’re here, he’ll get you out of this hole. No matter the cost. Not in a bag. Not under a sheet. Not in the clinical silence of a hospital hallway where your name is whispered in the past tense. Not as just another statistic. Not as forgotten collateral damage. No. Not this time. He’s here. He crossed hell for this. He found you. He heard you. And you are not a burden.
You’ve never been dead weight. You are not a problem to solve, nor a mistake to erase. You are a life. A voice. Fragile, broken — but alive. And that’s all that matters.
He holds you a bit tighter. Not to constrain. To hold. To remind you that you’re here. That you’re back. That even if everything in you screams it’s too late, that it’s over — he hasn’t decided that.
— "Told you I wasn’t gonna let you fall..." he whispers, his voice muffled in the helmet, but close enough to brush your ear. Not a heroic declaration. Not a punchline. Just words. Bare. Trembling. Worn by fear, charged with a promise that surpasses gestures.
And his voice trembles. Just a little. A crack. But you hear it. You feel it. A strangled note, drowned in the emotion he never allows.
He holds you tighter, slowly adjusts your back against his chest, until your head rests beneath his chin. He braces your shoulders, stabilizes your position like one would cradle a flower against a strong wind. His armor, designed to destroy, becomes a cocoon around you. A fortress of metal, bent on one mission: to keep you alive.
With a wrist flick, he activates the interface on his forearm. Lights shimmer in an electric shiver, dancing along the glove like a controlled wave. No words. No need. The armor understands. It executes. A trajectory opens. A signal fires.
You hear the rumble. First from afar. A low buzz, barely a tremor in the tainted air. Then stronger. More distinct. The sky answering. A vibration approaching. Not a threat. A response.
The armor. The sky. The way out.
And you, in his arms, feel it. Truly feel it. The artificial warmth of his chest, the tension in his arms, the calm returning to his breath. Not because the danger is gone. But because he’s got you. You falter. No panic. No terror spike. Just... the limit. The edge. Your body has nothing left to give. You left it all here. On this floor. In these walls. In that scream you launched without knowing if it would find an ear.
Stark adjusts his grip on you with almost supernatural precision. One arm under your knees, the other supporting your back against his chest, like he’s carried you a thousand times in nightmares without ever daring to touch you in reality. The gauntlets, built to withstand atmospheric pressure, cradle your shattered body like one would hold a secret too fragile, too precious. He calculates every angle, every support point, every buffer zone so nothing — not even a jolt — aggravates your wounds.
You’re there, against him, your body surrendered in the crook of his armor, forehead pressed to the warm curve of his shoulder. Your breath is uneven, raspy — but present. He feels it. He counts it. Through the metal, he senses every heartbeat, every tiny vibration betraying your pain. And he clings to it. Like a prayer. Like a mission.
Around you, the warehouse has become a tomb. The echo of blows has faded. Screams have given way to a cottony void, warped by crumbling walls and twisted beams. Even Matthew, somewhere in the shadows, makes no sound. No words. No snicker. Just silence. Heavy, dense, saturated with what you’ve both left here. With what you’ll never get back. Only Stark’s footsteps break the mute air, a slow, controlled march that vibrates through the ground with every step. The metal of his boots strikes fractured concrete in a deep cadence, almost ceremonial. He carries you toward the center of the room, where the extraction platform has opened in silence, like a mechanical mouth ready to swallow you and lift you from this hell. The locator beam already draws lines of a safe trajectory. Beacons light up one by one in a discreet ballet of bluish lights.
Stark doesn’t speak right away. He looks at you. Checks one last time the curve of your neck, the tension in your arms, the faint twitch of your eyelids. Then he whispers, barely loud enough for the world to hear:
— "We’re going home."
It’s not a victory speech. Not a boast. It’s a promise. To you. To himself. To what’s left alive between you.
He clenches his teeth. His gaze sweeps the shadows one last time, scanning the scene to make sure nothing is left behind. No enemy. No detail. No threat. Then, finally, his thrusters deploy with a low growl, a rumble from deep inside the suit, like the roar of a monster still held in check. The reactors heat up, shift from blue to red, and a powerful jet forms beneath his boots, casting an orange halo around you.
Dust rises. Bits of concrete vibrate. Metal fragments roll across the floor, pushed by magnetic force. The air shivers. The moment hangs suspended.
But Stark doesn’t take off yet.
He stands still, holding you in his arms with strength made more incredible by its restraint. He checks your weight. Your axis. The openness of your ribcage. Your temperature. He cross-references every signal, every clue, as if he can still delay the moment you leave this place. As if he must be certain you’ll survive every meter of the trip. And then he lifts off. In a single motion. Fluid. Perfectly vertical. A precise ascent, rapid, powerful. The ground recedes, walls blur. The warehouse becomes a gray smudge, swallowed by shadow. And you, in his arms, you rise. Away from the blood. Away from the concrete. Away from fear.
You leave the darkness.
taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 @the-ultimate-librarian @ihatepaperwork
if you want to be part of it here
What Remains | Chapter 18 The Hunt (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
TW : Detailed depictions of injuries and abuse. Mentions of past abuse
Summary : Tony Stark becomes something beyond human , a machine driven by icy rage, relentless focus, and a singular goal: to find you. After receiving a horrifying call laced with sadistic cruelty and a scream he instantly recognizes as yours, Stark enters a sleepless, foodless, voiceless trance, transforming his office into a war room. Every screen, every algorithm, every ounce of technology is bent to his will in a digital manhunt for your location. When Jarvis finally locates a faint signal in an abandoned warehouse, Stark launches without hesitation, donning a specialized combat suit built for one purpose: ending this.
word count: 16.1k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Stark hasn’t closed his eyes. Not for a second. He hasn’t swallowed a bite, hasn’t taken a sip of water. He hasn’t moved from his desk since the exact moment that voice slithered into his ear, slick and jagged like a rusted blade. Since that obscene breath passed through the line, that whisper soaked in menace and sadistic delight. Since that scream that raw, flayed scream, human, far too human ripped from a throat he knows too well, just before silence fell, sharp as a guillotine. Something broke then. Not in him. No. Something froze.
He’s no longer a man, not really. Not in this suspended moment, where even time seems too afraid to move forward. He’s become engine. Mechanism. Open-heart alert system. His blood doesn’t circulate it pulses, furious, carried by a cold, methodical, almost clinical rage. He is anger, but an anger without shouting. An anger that thinks, that calculates, that watches, that waits. A storm contained in a steel cylinder, ready to explode, but for now channeling all its violence into the glacial logic of action.
In the office, the tension is almost tangible. The air feels charged, saturated with something indefinable a blend of ozone, electricity, and pure stress. Every surface vibrates slightly, as if the metal itself shared the heartbeat of its occupant. The silence isn’t soothing. It’s oppressive, built on thick layers of concentration, anticipation, restrained fury. Only mechanical sounds mark the space: the faint crackle of a screen refreshing, the nervous clicks of his fingers on holographic interfaces, the low vibrations of the servers in the adjoining room, humming at full capacity. Around him, a dozen screens stream data without pause. Some display ultra-precise satellite maps, sweeping over New York rooftops for any suspicious movement. Others track mobile signals, tracing the latest paths of every device even remotely connected to the target. Still others comb through databases, merge biometric information, detect faces, match voice prints. A thermal image of a building overlays a 3D city map. An audio feed scrolls at high speed, saturated with static. Nothing escapes analysis. Nothing is left to chance.
Stark is motionless, but every muscle in his body is tense. His back is hunched, elbows braced on the desk edge, fingers clenched around the projected interface hovering above the glass. His bloodshot eyes lock onto the central screen without blinking. His eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not until the target is found. Not until the one he’s searching for is no longer missing. He won’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. He swore he’d never let anyone be hurt again. And he holds to his vows the way others hold to weapons. The blue glow of the monitors cuts across his face with surgical cruelty. Every shadow on his skin is a confession: fatigue, deep dark circles, drawn features, hollow cheekbones. But these marks don’t diminish him. They add a near-inhuman intensity to his gaze, a ruthless clarity. A will that, for now, eclipses even the most basic biological needs. He hasn’t slept, because he doesn’t have the right. He hasn’t eaten, because the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. His body is secondary. It’s nothing but a vessel for the mission.
He murmurs sometimes. Commands, codes, equations. He speaks to no one, but the AI responds instantly. Every word he utters is sharp, precise, guided by a logic untouched by panic. One name comes back again and again. A biometric file. A GPS identifier. Trackers. Coordinates. He’s no longer looking for a person — he’s hunting a fixed point in the storm. The center of a search and rescue system. And Stark is ready to flatten entire city blocks to bring that point back to him. When the internal alerts go off soft, discreet, almost polite signaling a drop in blood pressure, critical dehydration, or prolonged hypervigilance, he silences them with a flick of the hand. He shuts them off. Nothing exists outside this room, outside this moment. Outside this mission. The rage is there, but tamed, carved into a weapon.
Somewhere, he knows he’s crossing the line. That he’s nearing an invisible boundary. But he doesn’t care. He’s seen too many people die, too many names fade into archives. This time, he won’t be too late. So he keeps going. Relentlessly. He cross-references data, filters messages, follows leads. He digs, over and over, down to the bone. And behind him, the world can tremble all it wants. He’ll hold. Because he made a promise. Because this time, no one will disappear into the shadows without him tearing them out of the night.
His eyes never leave the screens. They’re locked in, anchored, consumed to the point of obsession. They devour every bit of information, every image, every pixel variation, as if he might uncover a hidden confession. Nothing escapes him. No movement, no data, no anomaly in the flow. His pupils, dilated from exhaustion, cling to the smallest detail, hunting a trace, a footprint, a breath left behind by the one he’s chasing without pause. He’s isolated search zones. Redrawn entire sections of the city. Compared every map of New York with thermal readings, overlaying layers like a surgeon operating through urban tissue. He’s overridden protections on multiple private networks without hesitation. Intercepted anonymous communications, analyzed movement patterns, recalibrated his internal software to tailor the algorithms to a single, solitary target. The tools he designed for international diplomacy, for global crisis response — he’s repurposed them now for a personal hunt. A cold war fought in the digital guts of the city.
And always, he comes back to that name. That shadow. That absence. Matthew. A ghost with no fingerprint, no signal, no flaw to exploit. But Stark refuses that idea. No. That kind of man doesn’t vanish. That kind of man always leaves traces — out of pride. Out of carelessness. Out of vanity. And if it means turning the city inside out, if it means digging down to reinforced concrete, to buried cables and the forgotten strata of the network — then so be it. He’s ready to search through the world’s marrow to find what remains. Cables snake across the floor, twisted like raw nerves, connected to makeshift terminals. Holograms hover in the air, pulsing with spectral, slow, almost organic light. The room, once functional and sterile, has lost its ordinary shape. This is no longer an office. It’s a clandestine command post. A digital war cell born out of urgency, powered by fear and brute will. On one wall, an unstable projection flickers: a gridded map of New York, each red zone corresponding to growing probabilities, invisible tension. Alternating, a partially reconstructed file plays pulled from a burner phone. The lines of code shimmer as if still resisting comprehension.
And at the center of it all, him. Motionless. A sculptor of chaos. He doesn’t move an inch, but his mind roars. He calculates, projects, anticipates at a speed even his most advanced AIs couldn’t match. He’s faster than the machines, because this time, it’s not for a global mission. It’s not to protect a council or a treaty. It’s not for peace. It’s personal. And nothing is more dangerous than a man like him when he’s acting for himself. His face is frozen. Carved from stone. No expression filters through. No emotion leaks out. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not a word. His jaw is locked, clenched. His chin trembles sometimes under the pressure, but he doesn’t give in. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, blink on autopilot but his gaze stays sharp, cutting. That look… it belongs to a man who’s already made up his mind. It’s no longer a question of if. It’s a matter of when, how, and how much time is left. And above all, of what will be left of the other man once he finds him. He is cold. Precise. Fatally focused. Each beat of his heart seems to align with the hum of the machines. He’s perfectly synchronized with his environment. A machine among machines. He’s become the system’s core. The cold, methodical intelligence of a silent hunt — carried out without rest, without sleep, without mercy.
The door slides open with a discreet, almost timid sigh. As if it, too, understood that this moment must not be disturbed. No sound dares to break the fragile balance of the room. Not here. Not now. Even the walls seem to hold their breath, petrified by the intensity that fills the space. The bluish light of the screens slices through the artificial darkness in shifting shards, casting sharp, vibrating shadows across Stark’s features — like carvings made by a blade. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Nothing escapes him. His silence is a barrier, a verdict. He’s there. Frozen. Silent. Unshakable. And around him, the universe seems to understand that something has been set in motion. Something that can no longer be stopped.
Pepper enters without a word. The silence wraps around her instantly, like a heavy veil she doesn’t dare pierce. She says nothing — not yet. Everything about her is more subdued than usual, as if her body has attuned itself to the electric tension of the room. Her usual heels have been traded for flat shoes, chosen mechanically, without real thought. She knew when she got up this morning. No need to read the reports or check the alerts. She felt it, in every fiber of her being — this day would be different. Draining. Slow. Hard. And Tony, on days like this, is not a man to reason with. He becomes a wall. Steel. An unbreachable frontier. This isn’t a state crisis, not one of those media storms they’ve learned to face together, side by side, dressed to perfection with rehearsed smiles. No. This is something else. A silent war. Private. Intimate. And in that kind of war, Tony lets no one in. Almost no one.
In her hands, she holds two mugs. One is for her — a reflex gesture, more for the weight than the content, because she’ll set it down somewhere and forget it immediately. The other is for him. Strong coffee, black, unsweetened, scorching. Just how he likes it. She didn’t ask, didn’t guess. She knows. Because for years, she’s known his silences, his mood swings, his automatic habits. She knows the rare things that bring him a sliver of stability when everything is falling apart. She walks slowly. With that quiet elegance that is uniquely hers. Each step is precise, measured. She avoids the cables snaking across the floor like exposed veins. Dodges the hastily pushed chairs, the luminous angles of suspended holograms hanging in the air, slow and unstable like open wounds. Everything around her pulses, breathes, crackles. The smell of steaming coffee mixes with metallic fumes, with the warm emissions of overheating machines. A fleeting human note in this lair transformed into a war organ.
She approaches. Just a few feet from him now. The blue halo of the screens washes over her, casting cold, almost supernatural shards onto her skin. She still doesn’t say a word. Because she, too, senses what’s happening here. She reads silence like an ancient language. She knows that if she speaks too soon, too quickly, she could shatter everything — the balance, the tension, the fierce concentration holding him upright. Tony doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s her. He saw, without really looking, her silhouette trembling on the standby screen, like a spectral apparition. He recognized her breath — controlled, steady, modulated by habit not to disrupt critical moments. He felt her presence the way you feel a warm current crossing a frozen room: discreet, but undeniable. She’s here.
But he doesn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers keep dancing over the interfaces, his eyes fixed on the data. His jaw remains locked, his posture rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t reject her presence. He accepts it without acknowledging it. She’s part of the setting, part of the very structure of this ongoing war. She is the silent anchor he’ll never ask for, but needs all the same. And she knows it. So she stays. Present. Still. Mug in hand. Waiting for him to speak — or to break. His fingers glide over the holographic interface with almost surgical precision. They graze the projected data blocks in the air, moving them, reorganizing, dissecting them as if trying to carve raw truths buried under layers of code, pixels, and silence. A building on 43rd Street. An unusual thermal signature spotted at 3:12 a.m. A encrypted phone line briefly located in South Brooklyn, before vanishing into a labyrinth of anonymous relays. He isolates. He cross-references. He sorts. He discards. He starts again. Every manipulation is an act of war. He develops a thousand hypotheses per minute, evaluates them, abandons them, replaces them. A thousand leads, a thousand fleeting micro-truths, vanishing as soon as he tries to fix them. And always, that voice in his head. That twisted, wet breath haunting him since the call. That scream — shrill, inhuman. That panic. And the silence that followed. The kind of silence only blood knows how to echo.
Pepper, still silent, watches. She hasn’t moved since entering. Her eyes shift from the screen to Tony’s face, then to his hands. She sees what he refuses to admit: his movements are less precise. They tremble sometimes. Nervous flickers, involuntary, imperceptible to others — but not to her. There’s that tiny jolt in his palm when two images overlap without matching. That subtle twitch of his fingers when the algorithm returns an empty result. That tension in his joints with every failure, every dead end. She takes a step forward. Slowly, silently. She places the mug at the edge of the desk, just within his field of vision. Not too close, not too far. She sets it where he could reach for it without thinking, by reflex, if some part of him still remembered how to drink something. If his lips still knew how to welcome anything other than orders. But deep down, she knows he probably won’t. Not now. Maybe not at all. She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes never leave him. They linger on his neck, that taut, rigid line, almost painful. On his shoulders, hunched forward, drawn tight like bows ready to snap. She reads the exhaustion in the way his muscles clench, in how he holds his breath when results elude him, in that violent stubbornness that keeps him from stepping back — even for a second.
Then she speaks. Barely. Her voice is a whisper. A caress in a space saturated with tension. A suspended breath, respectful. As if she were speaking to a wounded animal, to a raw heart that a single harsh word might cause to shatter.
— "You should drink something."
No reproach. No judgment. Not even any real expectation. Just an invitation, soft, almost unreal in this room ruled by the cold light of screens and the hum of machines. A reminder, simple and human, that he still has a body. That he’s still a man. Not just an overheated mind, a burning brain, dissociated from everything else. She doesn’t expect a response. She doesn’t even want one. What she’s offering isn’t a solution. It’s a breath. An interlude. A hand offered at a distance, without conditions, in the eye of a cyclone she can’t stop — but refuses to abandon. Stark doesn’t answer. The silence remains, impenetrable. But she sees it. That blink. Singular. Slow. Almost lagging. Like a discreet malfunction in an otherwise perfect line of code. A micro-event, almost invisible but for her, it means everything. He heard her. He understood. Somewhere beneath the layers of adrenaline and frozen focus, her words registered. But he can’t stop. Not yet. Not while what he’s searching for remains out of reach.
She moves a little closer. Her steps are slow, calculated. The slightest movement could shatter the fragile equilibrium he maintains between lucidity and overload. She skirts the screens projecting a relentless flow of data, passes through the light beams of overlapping maps, walks through the holograms dissecting New York in real time: facades, sewer lines, rooftops, drone paths, shifting heat points. A fractured digital world, reconstructed for a single mission. And she, the only organic presence in this sanctuary of glass and light, walks forward until she’s beside him. Upright. Calm. Unshakable. She stands there, just a meter away. A silhouette in the bluish light. A presence. An anchor. Non-intrusive, but constant. And in that data-saturated silence, she looks at the screen in front of him. Blurry images flash by. Figures captured by an old security camera. Red dots blink in the darkness of a poorly mapped basement. Nothing conclusive. Nothing obvious. But she sees beyond that. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him.
She sees what he doesn’t show. What he himself struggles to ignore. That back, a bit more hunched than before. That hand clenched around the desk edge, knuckles white with tension. That breath, irregular, barely perceptible — but betraying an inner fight. That exhaustion, layered in invisible strata, like ash over an ember that refuses to die. He’ll never admit it. That’s not an option. But she knows. He’s burning out. Eroding. Slowly bleeding out everything that keeps him human. So she acts. Gently, but without hesitation. She reaches out. Picks up the mug left on the edge of the desk, still faintly steaming. And she moves it. Places it right in front of him. Where his gaze can’t avoid it. Where his fingers could reach it without thinking. A mundane gesture, almost insignificant. But heavy with meaning.
— "You need to stay sharp." Her voice is soft, but firm. It cuts through the thickness of the moment. "If he’s counting on you, he needs you at your best. Not collapsing."
He stays still for another second. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts. Like he’s returning from a far-off place, from a tension zone where the real world no longer reaches. He looks at her. Directly in the eyes. And she sees. She sees everything. The fatigue eating away at the edges. The redness at the corners of his eyes, signs of brutal sleeplessness. But most of all, that clarity. That burning precision still intact in the depths of his pupils. It’s a gaze that doesn’t waver. The gaze of a man broken a thousand times — but still standing. And in that gaze, she reads three things.
Fear. Raw. Visceral. The fear of not making it in time. Rage. Pure. Mechanical. The kind he holds back to avoid destroying everything.
And the promise. Absolute. Irrevocable.
— "I’m going to get him out."
No conditional. No wiggle room. He doesn’t say he’ll try. He doesn’t say if he’s still alive. He refuses to let those phrases exist. He leaves no space for doubt. Because doubt would be a crack. And if he cracks now, he collapses. She nods. Once. That’s all it takes. A silent agreement. A trust she offers him, without questions. Then she places a hand on his shoulder. Right there. A simple contact, but real. Solid. A light, firm pressure. Just enough for him to know he’s not alone. That she’s here. That she will remain here. Even if there’s nothing more she can do. An anchor in the chaos.
— "Then drink."
She adds nothing else. No need. Not now. And then she turns on her heel, leaving behind that room saturated with tension and blue light, walking away in silence, her steps barely audible on the hard floor. She slips away as she came — discreetly, with that silent dignity that’s hers alone. No unnecessary gesture. No look back. Just the quiet certainty that he heard her. That he understood. And that he’ll do what he must. A breath. A second. Then another. Stark remains still. His eyes still locked on the numbers, on the blurry images, on the shattered map of New York pulsing slowly before him. A suspended moment, almost frozen in code and light projections. And then, slowly, as if his body weighed a ton, his fingers stretch out. Slow. Almost hesitant. They brush the mug, grasp it. Raise it to his lips.
One sip. Scalding. Bitter. Perfect.
The taste, too strong, seizes his tongue, his throat, then burns its way down like a reminder. He closes his eyes for a second. Not out of pleasure. Out of necessity. Because that simple contact — the liquid, the heat, the sensation — reminds him that he still exists outside the war machine he’s become. And then, almost immediately, his eyes open again. Latch onto the screen. The map. The hunt. The engine restarts. But behind the invisible armor, behind the hard gaze and automated gestures, the man is still there. Just enough. For now. The mug, barely set down on the desk, hits the surface with a muffled clack. The sound, though minimal, seems to shake the atmosphere. Stark exhales. One of those irritated sighs that vibrate between clenched teeth, that fatigue turns into frustration, and frustration reshapes into buried anger. His fingers snap against the desk, nervously. Not a blow. Just a dry, rhythmic sound. Accumulated tension seeking an outlet, a culprit, a breaking point. Something to strike — or someone. But no one here is responsible. No one except him.
And then, it bursts out.
— "Fuck… why didn’t he activate it?"
The voice is low. But it slices the air like a blade. Sharp. Brittle. It doesn’t need to be loud to carry. It’s so charged with tension that it seems to vibrate in the walls. No explosive rage. No yelling. Just that clean line, that icy edge that says it all. It’s not a question. It’s an unbearable fact. A flaw in the plan. A betrayal of logic. He doesn’t need to clarify. The device, the gesture, the fear behind it all of it is obvious. In the hallway, Pepper has stopped. Without realizing it. As if her muscles responded to that voice before her mind did. She’s frozen. And she understands. She knows too. He’s talking about the device. That small, discreet piece, barely bigger than a coin, that he slipped into an anodized case with a falsely detached air. That neutral tone he adopts when the stakes are too high to admit. He presented it like a gadget. Just another safety.
A thing for emergencies. "Press and hold for three seconds" he said. Simple. Effective. And his location would be transmitted to the Tower in real time, with immediate triangulation and constant tracking. He insisted, without seeming to. Like a father too proud of a dangerous toy. Like a man who’s already lost everything once and won’t let chance roll the dice again. The kind of thing he doesn’t give to everyone. The kind of thing he only entrusts once. And even then. Under the pretense of humor. Veiled in sarcasm. And yet, you didn’t activate it. That thought gnaws at him. Consumes him. Because if it wasn’t forgetfulness, then it’s worse. Then maybe there wasn’t time. Or maybe he was afraid. Or maybe you thought it wouldn’t make a difference. And that Tony can’t accept.
Because the alternative… he can’t even imagine it. He built it in just a few hours. One sleepless night, a few curses, two black coffees, and a diagram sketched on a crumpled napkin. Because he was tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of not being able to protect. Tired of seeing him wander through New York like a ghost without an anchor, sleeping in sketchy squats, living on the generosity of people as reliable as March weather. He was done with uncertainty, with instability. So he made something simple, small, efficient. A distress beacon. A miniature safeguard. Mostly to protect him from himself. He even tucked a secondary mic inside. Discreet, compressed in anodized metal layers. Inaudible to the human ear. Just a sensor, a passive ear, in case something went wrong. Because he knew it could go wrong. Because deep down, he felt that danger was never far. And now? Nothing. No signal. No vibration. No blinking light. No trace. The void. Nothingness. The shadow of a silence that screams. Abruptly, Stark spins in his chair. The movement is sharp, abrupt. His fingers slam down on the projected keyboard in the air, striking commands, executing code, calling internal logs. He pulls up the history. Checks for connection attempts. Scans the security logs, network access, secondary frequencies. No recording. No triggered signal. No distress call. The device was never activated.
— "It was right there." His voice is hoarse. Slow. Painfully contained. "Within reach. Three fucking seconds. And I could’ve…"
He cuts himself off. Right there. The breath caught. No anger. Not yet. It’s not rage. It’s vertigo. An inner fall. He sees the scene again. Precisely. In the hall, just days ago. He was holding the little device between his fingers, between two sarcastic lines. A detached, mocking tone, as always. Trying not to push too hard. Not to seem worried. He said it with a smirk, hands in his pockets: "Just in case. It beeps, it blinks, I show up. Easy."
And he remembers. That hesitation. The lowered gaze. That muttered thank you, without real conviction. As if it didn’t really concern him. As if he didn’t believe it. As if he was afraid to disturb and didn’t think he was worth coming for. Stark clenches his teeth. Bitterness sticks in his throat.
— "He didn’t get it, did he?"
The question escapes. Not aimed at anyone. Not really. He’s speaking to the void, the desk, the walls. To himself. To the echo in his head.
— "He thinks it only works for others." His voice tightens. Fractures. "That no one comes for him. That he has to wait for it to get worse. That he has to nearly die to justify help."
His fingers slap a screen with the back of his hand. A furious swipe. The images vanish in a spray of light.
— "Shit. Shit."
He gets up. Too abruptly. His chair rolls back. He paces, circles, like a caged beast. A shadow of armor without the armor. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it without thinking. His gestures are nervous, disordered. He teeters between genius logic and raw emotion.
— "I had him in my pocket," he breathes. "I could’ve found him in under two minutes."
His fist hits the back of the chair. A dry strike. Not brutal. But deep. A dull echo that lingers in the air.
— "But no. He keeps it on him like a fucking keychain. A symbolic thing. A gadget he doesn’t want to use. Because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Because he doesn’t want to raise the alarm."
He suddenly freezes. His breath halts. He stares at the floor as if seeking an answer no data can provide. The silence stretches. Then, in an almost inaudible murmur, rougher, more bitter:
— "He’s convinced no one’s coming."
And that thought. That simple idea. It destroys him from the inside. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. He fights. To hold back what rises. He won’t say he’s afraid. He won’t say he’s in pain. That he blames himself until it eats him alive. No. He won’t say it. So he turns back. Resumes his place. His fingers return to the controls. His gaze locks onto the screens. The maps. The fragmented data. What he still has. What he can still control. Because if he can’t turn back time… then he’ll find a way to catch up. No matter the cost. And he mutters under his breath:
— "I’m going to find him. Device or not."
Then he types. Not to write. Not to command. He types like someone striking. As if his fingers could punch through matter, bend the universe, shatter the whole world through the silent keys of a holographic keyboard. Every keystroke is a discharge. A sharp hit. A blow aimed at that invisible wall he can’t break through. A fight of data against the void, of will against absence. He types with an urgency that allows no delay, no hesitation. As if life, somewhere, depended on it.
Because it is.
And in the meantime, silence remains. Insidious. Heavy. The tenacious shadow of the action that never happened. The one that would have been enough. Three seconds. A press of the thumb. And he would have known. He would have moved. He would have run. He would have acted. He would have been there. But no. That absence, Stark feels it lodged in his throat, like acid he can’t swallow. It rises, clings, radiates. It stays, constant, until he brings him back. Until he has proof tangible, irrefutable that it’s still possible. That he’s still alive. The minutes pass. Like blades. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving.
They cut into his focus, erode his patience, chip away at his certainty. Every second is a brutal reminder that time is passing. And this time, time isn’t an ally. He feels it slipping over his skin like a cold blade that can’t be stopped. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t blink. The office is bathed in semi-darkness. The blinds are down, the outside light filtered, as if daylight itself no longer had the right to enter. Only the screens cast their bluish glow on the walls, on the cables, on the opaque glass. And on him. That cold, spectral light slices across his closed-off face in sharp angles. Hollowed cheekbones. Brow etched with tension lines. Lips tight. He looks carved from quartz. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.
His eyes, fixed, barely blink. They follow lines of code, coordinates, overlaid maps, signal analyses, with inhuman precision. His stare is locked. Obsessed. He doesn’t falter. He scans. He waits. His fingers still move. Barely. With mechanical regularity. An almost hypnotic rhythm. They glide over holographic interfaces, brush through data windows, launch diagnostics, cross-reference streams. There’s no hesitation anymore, no improvisation. Only a logical sequence. An algorithm embodied in a man who refuses to give up. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t for a while. He doesn’t even think — not in the usual sense. Human thoughts, full of doubts, memories, emotions, have been pushed to the background. He leaves space only for function. He calculates. He maps. He eliminates. He acts. Because that’s all he can do. And because as long as he acts, as long as he moves, as long as he searches, he’s not imagining the worst. And the countdown continues — silent, relentless. Invisible but omnipresent, it eats at his nerves like a tourniquet pulled too tight. A constant, dull pressure. There’s no number on the screen, no red blinking timer, but he feels it. In every heartbeat. In every passing minute, every interface click, every breath that’s too short, too sharp. He feels it under his skin like slow-diffusing poison.
Twenty-four hours.
That was the deadline. The ultimatum. Spat in his face with disgusting insolence, with the kind of sneering arrogance Stark knows too well. A provocation. A signature. A trap — not even hidden. A price laid out in black and white. The kind of message sent when you’re sure you have the upper hand. But it wasn’t the money that kept him awake all night. Not the numbered threat. Not the offshore account, not the conditions. That, he could have handled. Bought peace. Hacked the system. Turned the trap back on its maker. That’s not what stopped him from blinking, that jammed his throat, that retracted his muscles like a shock. It’s something else. It’s the image. Frozen. Unstable. Blurry. But recognizable. It’s the sound. That breath. That scream. Distorted by distance. By network static. But raw. Human. Ripped out. So real that even now, he still hears it. He could replay it in his head a hundred times, a thousand. He knows it by heart. The tone, the break in the voice, the burst of brutal panic just before everything was swallowed by silence.
That fucking silence. That’s what’s destroying him. What eats at him. What stops him from breathing normally. The silence afterward. The absolute nothing. That break that said everything, summed everything up. That screamed at him what he failed to hear in time. What he should have seen coming. That silence — Stark will never forgive it. Not the other. Not himself. Then suddenly, a voice slices through the air. Soft. Controlled. Synthetic. Like a strand of silk stretched to the limit, about to snap — but still holding.
— “Mr. Stark.”
He doesn’t even turn his head. He’d recognize that voice among a thousand. It’s been there forever — in his ear, in his walls, in his head. An extension of himself.
— “I’m listening, Jarvis.”
— “I believe I’ve found something.”
A shiver. Cold. Brutal. It shoots up his spine like an electric surge. For one heartbeat, his heart forgets to beat. Then everything reactivates all at once. Adrenaline. Tension. Hypervigilance.
— “Talk.”
Instantly, one of the main screens expands. The map of the city appears — familiar and vast — then begins a slow zoom. Details sharpen. Colors darken. The center pulls back. The frame shifts. Outskirts. Sparse buildings. Wasteland. Finally, a precise point. An abandoned industrial zone. Gray. Timeworn. Forgotten by the world. Drowned in abandonment fog. Where no one looks anymore. Where things are hidden when no one wants them found. Coordinates blink at the bottom of the screen. Precise. Cold. Real.
— “A minimal network activity was detected,” Jarvis continues. “Almost nothing. A very weak signal — just a few microseconds of connection — but enough to leave a trace. It was a disposable phone.”
Stark steps forward. He’s drawn to the map like it’s magnetic. His eyes latch onto the screen, fix on it, hold. He sees beyond the image. Through the ruined facades, under the layers of metal and dust. He wants to believe he can see what’s hidden there. That something is waiting.
— “Can you confirm?”
— “The model’s signature matches what we detected during the call. It briefly connected to a secondary relay antenna nearby. It might’ve gone unnoticed, but—”
He’s no longer listening. Or rather, he hears everything. He registers it all, but his mind is already elsewhere. Locked in. Compressed around a single fact. A single certainty. His thoughts tighten, converge on a single point. A red dot. Blinking. Clear. An abandoned warehouse. No activity for over ten years. No cameras. No patrols. No recorded movement. Nothing. The kind of place you choose when you don’t want to be found. The kind of place where secrets are buried. Or people. And then, a single thought imposes itself. Emerges from the chaos like a brutal flash of truth. A certainty branded into his mind like a red-hot iron.
You’re there.
Not maybe. Not probably. Not possibly. You’re there. His fist clenches. Slowly. Each finger curling until the knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes. One second. One breath. One anchor. Then opens them again. And in his gaze, there’s no more doubt. No more fear. No more wandering emotion. Just steel. Just fire. Just the mission.
— “Prepare everything. Now.”
And in that exact moment, the whole world narrows. There’s no more sound. No more fatigue. No more failure. Only this. A straight line. A single target. A burning urgency. To get you out. Pepper is there. Just behind him. Motionless. Straight as a blade. Her arms crossed tightly against her, in a posture that might seem cold to someone who doesn’t know her. But it’s not distance. It’s a barrier. A dam. A desperate attempt to hold back what she feels rising.
The pale glow of the screens casts his shadow on the floor, long and sharp, like a silent specter frozen in anticipation. Around them, the room is bathed in incomplete darkness, pierced only by the soft flickering blue halos on the glass surfaces — witnesses to this sleepless night that stretches on and on.
His face, usually so mobile, so expressive — the face that knows how to smile even during the worst press conferences, that can reassure with a single look — is now closed. Frozen. Like carved in marble. His jaw slightly clenched. His brows drawn in a barely perceptible but unyielding tension. But what betrays it all are his eyes. A gleam, contained. A discreet fire. Both anxious and annoyed. A light that flickers between anguish and a barely concealed anger.
She watches him. In silence. Lips tight. Shoulders tense. And she knows. She knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She knows the gears, the silences, the calculated movements. She recognizes this posture. This calm. This false calm. This almost elegant stillness that always comes just before impact. She’s seen it once. Maybe twice, in her entire life. And each time, something broke afterward. A wall. A promise. Someone. So she speaks. Not to convince him. But to try and hold him back for just one more moment at the edge of the abyss.
— “You should wait for the police, Tony.”
Her voice is calm. Measured. Perfectly composed. But it cuts through the air like a blade honed too well. It slices without shouting, without striking. It hits the mark. He doesn’t respond. Not right away. He moves. Slowly at first, then with dreadful precision. He reaches for the back of his chair, pulls his leather jacket from it — the one he wears when everything becomes too real, too dangerous, too personal. He puts it on in one sharp, fast motion. Automatic. Without even thinking. Everything is rehearsed. His movements are crisp, stripped of any hesitation. He’s no longer reflecting. He’s in motion.
One hand slides into the side drawer of his desk. The metal barely creaks. He pulls out a small object, barely bigger than a watch case. Smooth. Chrome. Discreet. He inspects it for a fraction of a second, spins it between his fingers, gauges it. His gaze clings to it, focused, as if making sure it’s the right one. Then he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. A tracker. A prototype. Maybe both. Maybe something else. When Tony Stark leaves like this, he never leaves empty-handed. And in the suspended tension of the room, in that moment when every gesture weighs like a decision, Pepper feels her heart pound harder. Because she knows, once again, he won’t change his mind. Not this time.
Without a word. He crosses the room like someone going to war. No haste, no visible tension. Just a methodical, silent advance, heavy with intention. Each step echoes faintly on the floor, absorbed by the cold light of the still-lit screens, by the walls saturated with nervous electricity. He heads toward the elevator, straight, relentless, like a guided missile.
— “Tony.”
This time, her voice cuts through the space. Louder. Sharper. She’s dropped the polite calm. There’s urgency in that word, a crack, something tense, fragile. Pepper steps forward, rounds the table. It’s not a command. It’s not a plea either. It’s a disguised entreaty, cloaked in reason, offered as a last attempt to connect. She’s searching for a crack. A hold. Any one. Not to stop him — she’s never held that illusion — but to slow the momentum. To crack the armor. To make him think. Just one more second.
— “This is exactly what he wants. For you to charge in headfirst. For him to have control.”
He stops. His body freezes all at once, mid-distance from the elevator whose open doors wait, patient, like the jaws of a steel beast. Slowly, he turns toward her. Not violently. Not with irritation. But with that icy precision that, in him, equals all the angers in the world. He looks at her. And his gaze is black. Not empty. Not crazed. No. It’s a sharp gaze. Cutting. Shaped like a glass blade, able to slice cleanly without ever shaking. He stares at her, without flinching, without softening the impact. His shoulders slightly raised, chin lowered, neck taut. A compact, tense posture. Not defensive. Not exactly. More like a predator’s. The eyes of a man who sees no alternate paths. Only the target.
— “You think he has control?”
His voice is low. Deep. Vibrating with that particular intensity he only uses in very rare moments — when everything tips, when what remains inside compresses until it becomes unstoppable. Every word is controlled. Measured. Almost calmly delivered. But in their precision, there’s something unsettling. A promise. A fracture forming. Silence falls behind that phrase. Suddenly. A thick silence. Charged. Almost unbreathable. It lasts only a few seconds, but they seem to stretch time. The elevator still waits behind him. The slightly open doors pulse softly, as if they sensed the suspended moment. Then he adds, without raising his voice, without looking away:
— “He made the biggest mistake of his life taking him.”
And it’s not a threat. It’s not provocation. It’s a verdict. A raw, cold truth carved in marble. It’s a fact. And it’s far worse than a scream. Then he turns away. One last time. And he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t leave a phrase hanging. Doesn’t try to reassure. He disappears into the steel maw, and the doors close on him with a quiet hiss. Pepper remains there. Upright. Frozen. Her arms cross a little tighter, as if to hold back something threatening to collapse. The screen lights continue to flicker over her unmoving features, but they’re not what illuminates her. It’s intuition. Instinct. The one that whispers what she already knows deep down, what she’s felt from the beginning. Something is going to explode. And this time, she’s not sure anyone will come out unscathed.
The metallic floor barely vibrates beneath his steps. Just a discreet, restrained resonance, almost respectful. But in the frozen silence of the hangar, each echo seems to strike the air like a muffled detonation. Every step is a warning. A countdown. A declaration of war. The space is vast. Immense. A cathedral of technology bathed in cold, clinical, almost surgical light. The walls, made of reinforced glass and brushed steel, reflect sharp, precise flashes, slicing his shadow with every movement. Nothing here is decorative. Everything is functional. Calibrated. Optimized. Ready to serve. Ready to open, to strike, to launch. Ready to close behind him, too.
Tony moves with slow, controlled steps. Nothing rushed. He’s not running. He’s not hurrying. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every stride is calculated. Controlled. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unwavering. No detours. No curiosity. His body is tense, but steady. Focused. There is no room left for doubt. At the center of the hangar, the launch platform awaits him. A circle of polished steel, inlaid with white LEDs pulsing gently, slowly, like a heart in standby. The light follows a steady, hypnotic rhythm, as if the structure itself were breathing. It sleeps. But it's ready to awaken at the slightest command. Around him, holographic showcases come to life at his approach. Sensors recognize his presence. Interfaces open by themselves. Images appear, fluid, clear. Silhouettes rise in bluish light, floating like specters of war.
His suits. The most recent. The strongest. The fastest. Masterpieces of power and precision, lined up in military silence. No words. No announcements. They stand there, frozen, waiting, like a metallic honor guard ready to activate at the slightest signal. Majestic. Relentless. Inhuman. They are beautiful in their coldness. Intimidating. Perfect. But he doesn't look at any of them. Not a single glance. Not a hint of hesitation. He passes through them like one walks through a memory too familiar to still fascinate. The suit doesn’t matter. Not this time. He isn’t here for spectacle, or showy power. He doesn’t want to impress, or buy time. He wants only one thing.
Efficiency. Extraction. The end.
His steps remain steady. His silhouette moves alone among the giants of metal. And in his wake, the air seems to vibrate with low tension, restrained anger, pain too vast to be named. The soldier is on the move. And what he’s about to do now… he’ll do it without flinching. His gaze is fixed. Frozen. With an almost inhuman intensity. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t deviate. He aims. His attention is a taut line between two points: himself, and the target. It’s not anger you see in his eyes. That would be too simple. Too mundane. No — it’s worse. It’s frozen resolve. A sharp calm like a scalpel's edge. Clinical determination, purged of raw emotion, as if every feeling had been distilled, compressed into a single objective: locate, neutralize, retrieve. At all costs.
The suit he’s come for… it’s not the one from interviews. Not the one for demos. Not the one that dazzles crowds or makes headlines. This one, he only brings out when someone has to fall. No flash. No light. No declaration. With a sharp gesture, he activates the control interface embedded in the platform. The floor lights intensify, blink once, then a metal ring slowly rises from the ground, encircling him with solemn gravity. Everything remains silent. Nothing overreacts. Everything is perfectly calibrated. Robotic arms unfold around him, in a mechanical choreography of military precision. They don’t tremble. They don’t hesitate. They take position, ready to interlock, to serve, to build the weapon.
— "Omega configuration."
His voice snaps. Dry. Dense. Like a hammer strike on glass. And instantly, the machines comply. Without delay. Without flaw. The first pieces of the suit lock around his legs, securing his joints, enclosing his muscles in layers of reinforced alloy. The boots anchor to his feet with a soft hiss, each plate sliding into place with a perfectly tuned metallic click. Then the chest modules rise, locking over his ribcage. The red and gold lines slowly take shape, forming a symmetrical, ruthless architecture. Nothing is superfluous. Everything is there to protect, to absorb, to strike. The metal climbs along his arms, embeds into his shoulders, clamps onto his back. A vengeful exoskeleton. A body of war. Every movement is fluid, exact. The machine knows his rhythm. It knows his silence. It recognizes this moment when Tony Stark is no longer joking. He lowers his head slightly. The helmet drops with a magnetic hiss. It seals with a muffled chhhk. Instantly, his vision turns red. The interface lights up. Sensors activate. Data streams appear. Code scrolls. Maps. Thermal signals. Local comms networks. Building schematics. Ballistic paths.
A moment. Just one. A tenuous silence. Like a held breath. Then Jarvis’s voice, lower, almost hesitant. A soft note. A nearly human tone, as if trying to reach through the metal to something deeper.
— "Tony… you don’t have to do this alone."
Not a tactical suggestion. Not a precaution. An offering. An outstretched hand. But Tony doesn’t respond. Not yet. One beat. Just a suspended moment between question and answer. But it won’t come. Because he’s not. Not alone. Not really. It’s not solitude that lives inside him. It’s worse. It’s that weight, hanging on his chest like an anvil: responsibility. He feels responsible. And that kind of responsibility can’t be delegated. Can’t be shared. It must be borne. Endured. To the end. He’s not doing this because he’s alone. He’s doing it because he’s the one who must. Because he was there when it happened. Because he should have seen, understood, foreseen. And because he will never forgive himself if he arrives too late.
A metallic breath escapes his shoulders. Light, but precise. The thrusters arm with a restrained growl. Internal turbines hum softly, like a beast holding back its power before leaping. The entire platform tenses. A low vibration rises under his feet, echoing the energy condensed beneath his heels. The lights turn orange. The floor opens. Slowly. In segments. Like a mechanical wound revealing the hangar’s nuclear heart. The air grows denser. Warmer. Electrified. Stark bends his knees. His muscles instinctively adjust for the imminent thrust. And then, without hesitation, without countdown, without another word…
He lifts off the ground.
With a piercing roar, the suit tears through the air. Flames burst from his heels, searing the platform, and Tony’s body becomes a comet of metal and fire shooting through the open ceiling, soaring at blinding speed into the already paling night. The hunt has begun.
The sky races around him. A continuous stream, distorted by speed, slashed by incandescent trails. Every inch of the armor vibrates under the strain, every thruster hums with surgical precision. The wind slams into him, compressed, transformed into pure force that only the flight algorithms manage to contain. The city stretches out below. Gigantic. Vast. Insignificant. Skyscrapers blur past like mirages. Rooftops, streets, glowing points of light — all turn into abstraction. But he sees nothing. Not the glowing windows, not the crowded avenues, not the numbers blinking across his heads-up display. Not even the overlaid messages, trajectory readings, or secondary alerts. He sees only one red dot. One destination. One objective. And nothing else exists.
He thinks only of you.
Of your body, twisted under the blows. Of your features, contorted by pain. Of your breath, ragged, torn, like each inhale is a battle against agony. Of your face, bruised, sullied, pressed against a floor too cold, too dirty, too real. He sees the blood, the unnatural angle of your shoulder, the fear diluted in your half-closed eyes. He sees everything. Even what you tried to hide. He still hears that fucking scream. The one he never should’ve heard. The one he should’ve prevented, before it ever existed. A scream you can’t fake. A scream torn from you, raw, visceral. He heard it through the phone, compressed, muffled by your breath, crushed by the violence of the moment. But despite the static, despite the distance, he felt it. Like a blade to the heart. Like a shockwave that didn’t just hit him. It went straight through him.
And in his mind, that sound loops. Again. And again. And again. Louder than any explosion. More violent than a collapsing building. It’s not a memory. It’s a living burn. An active wound. He sees it all again. Every second. Every word. Every tone. That bastard’s voice.
Matthew.
Every syllable spat like poison. Every word sculpted to wound. To provoke. To leave a mark. Not on you — on him. It was all planned. Orchestrated. A performance. A slow, cold, painfully precise execution. Meant for one person: Tony Stark. To hit him. To show him how badly he failed. To push where it hurts most.
And it worked. Fuck, it worked.
He still feels how his throat closed. The exact moment his heart skipped a beat. The absolute void that swallowed him when he realized he was too late to stop it but maybe not too late to save you. That instant shift, when all logic shattered, replaced by one certainty. He will pay. Not for the humiliation. Not for the provocation. But for putting you in that state. For daring to lay a hand on you. And Stark, now, isn’t flying toward a hideout. He’s flying toward an execution. His heart is pounding too hard. It no longer syncs with the armor’s rhythm. It hammers against his ribcage like a primal reminder that, beneath all the metal, despite all the tech, he is still a body. A man. And that body is boiling. His fingers tighten inside the gauntlets. The joints, calibrated down to the micrometer, creak under the pressure. He clenches. Too hard. Pointlessly. As if the pain might return control to him. As if he’s clinging to the sensation of something real. The internal temperature climbs a notch. A brief alert flashes, notified by a beep that Jarvis cancels instantly. He knows. Even the tech feels that something is cracking. That the tension line has reached a critical threshold. The tactile sync grows more nervous, less fluid. Not from failure — from resonance. As if the suit itself were reacting to the rage boiling beneath the metal. As if it knew he’s on the verge of detonating.
But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t speak. He breathes. And he moves forward. Because rage — real rage the kind that doesn’t erupt but eats you alive, the kind that carves deep and anchors in silence, isn’t fire. It’s ice. A blade. A metallic tension that sharpens second by second. This is no longer about ransom. This is no longer an intervention. It’s not even a mission anymore. It’s personal. Because you… you’re not just some kid he hired. You’re not an intern, not a checkbox on some HR dashboard. You’re not a casting mistake he corrected in passing. You’re not one more name on a list of talent. You’re not a recruit. You’re that lost kid who showed up one morning with bags heavier than your shoulders, a voice too quiet, gestures too small. The one who looked at screens like they mattered more than the world. The one who barely spoke, but worked until you shook. Until you collapsed. Without ever complaining. Without ever asking for help. The one who clung to the work like it was the surface of a frozen lake. Just to keep from drowning. And that’s where it started.
Tony doesn’t know exactly when. When it slipped. When he stopped seeing you as an employee and started caring differently. Started checking if you’d eaten. Turning concern into jokes — but counting the times you said "not hungry." Setting rules. Break times. Making sure you got home. That you slept. That you didn’t vanish into the blind spots. Getting used to hearing you mutter when he worked too late. Paying attention. And now, he realizes it too late. This thing, this invisible thread, clumsy, imperfect, but real… it’s there. Damn it, it’s there. And now, you’re gone. And he’s going to cross fire, smash through every wall, burn everything down to find you. Because nothing else matters now. And that’s what’s eating him alive. Not guilt. Not passing doubt. No a slow burn, rooted deep in his chest. A slow poison, distilled with every heartbeat. Because that little idiot… you had a device. A fucking distress device. Not just any gadget. Not a toy.
A device he designed. Refined. Gave to you. Built in haste, but with care. Meant for this. To stop this. To block the worst. So he’d never have to hear screams like that. So he could get there before the blood spilled. And you didn’t even use it. Not a press. Not a signal. Nothing. You took it all. To the end. In silence. Like always. And that’s what drives him mad. The silence. That fucking habit of suffering quietly. As if it doesn’t count. As if your pain isn’t valid. As if your life isn’t worth protecting. As if pressing a button to ask for help… was already asking too much. As if he wouldn’t have come.
And now? Now you’re in the hands of a madman. A psycho acting out of vengeance, control, power hunger. A man with no limits, no brakes, who already crossed every line. Tony saw it. Heard it. He knows. Tortured. Broken. Gasping. The images come uninvited. Your face. Your features twisted in pain. That ragged breath, barely audible. The weight of your body giving out. The hard floor under your cheek. Blood seeping from a wound he can only imagine. And that look, more felt than seen, somewhere between fear and resignation.
Tony clenches his jaw. So hard his teeth slam together inside the helmet. The sound is dull, amplified by the metal echo. It vibrates through his temples. A muffled detonation ringing through his skull. He wants to scream. To hit something. To do anything. But he stays focused. Rage can’t come out. It’s compact. Controlled. Targeted.
The worst part? He still hears you. That murmur. Between gasps. That muffled breath, fragile, but so distinct. That tone. That voice he knows now. He recognized it instantly. There was no doubt. No room for illusion. He could’ve denied it. Lied to himself. Said it was a mistake. A coincidence. But no. He knew. He knew immediately. And from that moment, something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. No collapse. A clean fracture. Like an overtightened mechanism breaking in silence. Because now, it’s too late to argue. Too late to reason. Too late to call the cops. Too late for rules, procedures, delays.
Matthew is already dead. He doesn’t know it yet. He still breathes. Still thinks he’s in control. Thinks he’s running the show. But he’s not. He’s already finished. Erased. Condemned. Because Tony Stark heard that scream. And that scream changed everything. That scream signed Matthew’s death warrant. And he’s going to make him pay. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Until he gets you back. Or burns the world down to drag you out of the dark.
When the Iron Man suit finally lands, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.
A metallic breath explodes beneath the impact, followed by a dull rumble that cracks the already fractured concrete of the ground. The shock ripples through the foundations of the old industrial district, awakening the ghosts of rusted machines, worn-out beams, and gutted walls. Dust immediately rises in thick, greasy, lazy swirls, dancing around him for a moment before slowly settling, as if even it knows not to linger here. The air is saturated. Heavy. It reeks of rust, moldy wood, and decay embedded in the walls. It reeks of abandonment. And worse: expectation. The congealed oil on obsolete pipes reflects faint black gleams, almost organic, like fossilized blood. The ground creaks under his boots. All around him, the environment seems frozen. Trapped in a time that forgot how to die.
Icy wind rushes between the metal structures, howling through broken beams, whistling past shattered windows. It carries the cold of a soulless place — emptied, but not deserted. Not entirely. Around him is nothingness. A heavy, oppressive void. No sound, no light. Nothing lives here. Nothing breathes. Not even a rat. Not even a shadow. As if the rest of the world had the decency to look away. As if even the city itself knew that what was going to happen here… should not be seen. And in that thick silence, saturated with contained electricity, Tony remains still. His body in the suit doesn’t tremble. But everything in him is ready to strike. The HUD displays thermal readings, sound scans, parasitic electromagnetic signatures. Traces. Remnants. Leads.
He ignores them. He doesn’t need confirmation. He looks up. There. Right in front of him. The building. A block of blackened concrete, eaten away by time. It rises before him like a vertical coffin, planted in the ground. Its windows are empty sockets. Its crumbling walls seep with moisture and menace. It’s a carcass. A gaping maw. A lair. The kind of place where people are held. Erased. Buried. And deep inside, somewhere in there, he knows. You’re there. And Tony Stark came to get you.
The windows are shattered, slashed like screaming mouths frozen mid-silent howl. Shards of glass still dangle from some frames, claws of dead light ready to cut. The gutted openings let in a freezing wind that rustles the remains of forgotten curtains, faded, trembling like surrender flags. The concrete holds together only by habit. Cracked, eroded by seasons, cold, rain, and grime. By time. By indifference. Parts of the facade have collapsed in whole sheets, revealing the interior like a raw wound. Rusted beams jut from the gaping holes, still supporting broken, twisted staircases whose steps are gnawed by corrosion. A withered metal skeleton groaning under its own weight.
The scene is saturated with signs of dead life. Hastily scrawled graffiti, some grotesque, some terrifying, scream from the walls like echoes left by shadows. Split-open bags. Scattered trash. Abandoned syringes. A broken stroller, overturned. An old moldy couch under a porch. Traces of human passage, old, sad. But nothing lives here anymore. Everything reeks of neglect. Of misery. And something worse still: violence. That scent doesn’t lie. It seeps everywhere, even into the walls. A stagnant, invisible tension, but palpable. As if the very air had absorbed a memory too painful to vanish. An echo of blows. Of screams. Of fear.
Inside, it’s swallowed in thick, grimy darkness. No light. Just the blackness, mingled with dust, rot, and silence. But he doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need to see. His scanner activates instantly. The interface opens in a silent click, layering across his HUD. Schematics align, partial blueprints of the building take shape in 3D. Partial plans, modeled reconstructions from thermal scans, wave sweeps, mass detection. Heat sources appear. Faint. Distant. Unstable. And then, deep in that rusted steel maze, cracked concrete, and rotten silence… a thermal signature. Human. Residual. Nearly gone. A blurred point, nestled in a windowless room, behind thick walls. A trace. A breath.
Tony clenches his fists.
The sound is minimal. A quiet metallic creak, but full of tension. The gauntlets respond to the pressure, contouring his restrained rage, absorbing the shock. He doesn’t need confirmation. Doesn’t need to see more. Doesn’t need to wait. He knows. His instinct — that damn sixth sense he spent years mocking — screams through his body. It’s here. This rat hole he chose. This rotten theater for a filthy ransom. This stage for torture. A place not built to hold… but to break. To terrify. To harm. A bad choice. Tony approaches.
One step. Slow. Calculated. Methodical. Every movement is measured. The suit follows without fail, amplifies his stride, makes the ground tremble with each impact. Metal boots pound cracked concrete like war drums. A warning. A sentence. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to. Matthew’s time is already counted. His sensors scan blind spots. He identifies exits, access points, high ground. He’s already plotting firing lines, breach paths, fallback routes. He thinks like a weapon. Like a strike. Because he’s no longer just an angry man. He’s become a projectile. A terminal solution. A promise kept too late. And inside… someone is about to learn what it costs. To lay a hand on you.
He pushes the door with a sharp, decisive gesture. The metallic impact creates a brutal clang, and the battered frame wails in a piercing screech. The sound is long, grotesque, almost human. It slices the air like a cry ripped from a bottomless throat, the shriek of a grave forced open, or a coffin pried too late. The metal scrapes, shrieks, protests — but obeys. Before him, the hallway stretches. Long. Narrow. Strangled between two walls dripping with damp. The air is dense, fetid, soaked with stagnant water and ancient mold. A cold breath seeps from the walls, icy and clinging, sneaking into the suit’s seams as if to slow him, to warn him.
The walls are alive. Not with organisms, but rot. Dark mold clings to them, spreading in irregular patterns like necrotic veins. It crawls across the concrete, invades corners, slips into cracks. In places, the plaster has given way, reduced to gray dust. Beneath, twisted, rusted rebar protrudes — like broken bones, as if the building itself had been tortured, split open. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, bare. Dirty. Its globe yellowed by time, its sickly light flickers intermittently. Suspended from a wire too long, too thin, it dances with every draft like a rope ready to snap. It blinks. Once. Twice. The yellow halo it casts wavers, bleeding against the walls. The shadows it throws stretch, distort, crawl along the ground. Shapes too long, too fluid, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the dying light.
Tony doesn’t slow.
He doesn’t hesitate. His stride remains straight, steady, heavy. Each step echoes off the floor, amplified by the armor’s metal. Debris cracks underfoot: broken glass, plaster fragments, splinters of forgotten furniture. Every sound ricochets in the narrow hallway, trapped between the walls like a muffled volley of gunfire. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look around. He advances. Like a metronome. His eyes never leave the end of the hall, even as everything around seems to want to swallow him, smother him. He sees the corners, the ajar doors, the stains on the floor, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t deviate. He walks this hall like a trial. A purgatory. He knows hell waits ahead. He feels it.
And he’s ready to tear it open with his bare hands. Each step is a countdown. Each breath, a burning fuse. Each heartbeat in his chest, a war drum. He knows what he’ll find. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the form. But the essence. He knows the scent of blood is there, somewhere. That fear has left its trace. That pain has seeped into the walls. And he knows that you… you’re at the end. You’re there, in the dark, at the end of this sick corridor. Maybe unconscious. Maybe barely alive. But you’re there. And that’s enough. Because even if the entire world has to burn for him to find you,
Stark walks down that hall like a blade sliding into a wound. Slowly. Silently. Without flash, without unnecessary sound. He doesn’t strike. He infiltrates. He dissects. Every step is measured, controlled, charged with clinical precision. The weight of his body, perfectly distributed, flows with the suit’s supports. His boots barely graze the floor, but even that friction seems to vibrate through the air, taut with tension. Tension is everywhere. In his muscles, locked beneath the metal. In his jaw, clenched to the point of pain. In his nerves, on maximum alert. He’s taut as a bowstring. Like a weapon whose safety was disengaged long ago. Even his breathing is suspended. He hardly breathes. He’s sunk into a slowed rhythm, between apnea and absolute focus.
Then the smell hits him. Not softly. Not in waves. Brutally. A wall. An invisible punch to the chest. Heavy. Thick. A metallic stench clings to his throat, invades his nostrils like a warning. Blood. Not fresh. Dried. Hours old, maybe. Mixed with damp, with the building’s mold, with dust saturated with dead micro-organisms, with the stagnant rot that infests places where nothing lives anymore. The smell of a trap. The smell of pain. His stomach tightens. Not from fear. From rage. His heart doesn’t race. It slows. As if syncing to the place. He shifts into a deeper, duller, more dangerous frequency. His pulse beats like a drum ready to strike.
Above him, the bulb still swings — a pathetic relic of a once-functioning past. It crackles, flickers, sputters to life at intervals. Each pulse casts sickly light across cracked tiles, warped walls, and scattered remnants of a forgotten world. The shadows stretch, shrink, crawl along the walls like filthy hands. Even the walls seem to hold their breath. He steps forward again. One step. Then another. Every movement is fluid, silent, nearly unreal. His visor scans relentlessly. It overlays stacked data layers, displays thermal signatures, rough volume outlines, hidden masses behind walls. He examines blind spots. Gaps. Floor markings. Broken hinges, scuff marks on wood.
He doesn’t see Matthew yet. But he feels it.
Like a presence. A greasy vibration in the air. A low tension running beneath the walls like a rogue current. A sensation that cuts through him, visceral. It’s not intuition. It’s certainty.
He’s here. Somewhere.
And then he sees you.
You.
There’s no sound. No warning. No orchestral swell. Just that brutal, abrupt moment when the image slaps him in the face like a blow that nothing can soften. You're there. Not standing. Not sitting. Collapsed. Against the wall. No — not against. You’re melded into it. As if your body were trying to dissolve, to disappear. A trembling mass, dirty, slack with pain. No longer a person. No longer a boy. Just a heap of living, broken flesh. A dislocated silhouette in the dark. His brain takes a moment to understand what he’s seeing. This isn’t you. Not the you he knows. It’s something else. A ruined version. And the violence here isn’t hypothetical. It’s tattooed on you. Your arm is twisted.
Not bent. Twisted. At a monstrous, impossible angle. The elbow joint reversed. Bones displaced under stretched skin. Something that should only appear in accident reports. Not here. Not like this. Your shoulder has collapsed. Your hand, almost detached from the rest, barely trembles.
And your face... It takes Tony a second. Just one. But it lasts an eternity.
He doesn’t understand right away. He recognizes nothing. No features. No familiar contours. Just damage. Open wounds, horrible swelling, bruises stacked upon bruises. Your eyes — if they’re still there — are buried under hematomas. Your lips are split. Your right cheek is so swollen it distorts the entire shape of your skull. It’s a mosaic. A work of pure cruelty. And the blood… It’s still flowing. Not much. Not in spurts. In seepage. Slow trickles, like a steady leak. It slides down your temple. Your mouth. Your neck. It’s sticky. Matte. It ran, dried, and ran again. It’s on your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest. You’re soaked.
Not with sweat. With blood. With fear. With the filth of the floor. Your clothes are just rags now. Torn down to the skin. Deep tears are visible, laceration marks, fingerprints, nails, blows. Your hands are open. Literally. Cut. Your palms are cracked, marked by a desperate attempt to defend yourself. Your fingers are splayed as if caught in a frozen spasm. Your knees are red, shredded. Raw flesh peeks through peeled skin. And your back... He doesn’t even want to look. He can guess. He knows what he’ll find there. Marks. Burns. Blows. Traces of what no one should ever do to another human being. But he doesn’t look. Not yet. Because then... he sees it. Your chest.
It moves. Barely. But it moves. A breath. Weak. Jagged. Rough. A struggle with every motion. A breath that doesn’t really come out. A choked wheeze. But alive. You’re breathing. You’re there. Still there. And Tony stops cold.His entire body freezes. The armor locks with him, as if the machine itself understood. As if every fiber, every metal plate had turned to stone. Time collapses on him. A crushing weight. A shroud. His heart? It stops. It no longer beats. Just a void. An absence. A pulse. Heavy. Dry. In his temples. His throat. His stomach. What he feels has no name. It’s not fear. It’s no longer even anger. It’s a breaking point. A place in the soul where everything stops. Where everything is too much. Too much pain. Too much hate. Too much regret. Too late. Too far. He’s here. In front of you. And he can’t go back.
It’s a fracture. A rupture in everything he thought he could control. You’re alive. But at what cost? And somewhere, just a few meters away... Matthew is still breathing. But not for long. A cold shiver, sharp as a steel blade, climbs Stark’s spine. He doesn’t push it away. He lets it slide between his shoulder blades, slip under the metal like a warning that what he’s seeing isn’t an illusion, but raw, naked, implacable truth. Yet nothing on his face betrays this vertigo. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not even a blink. His rage, once explosive, has retracted into a clean, focused line. It’s no longer a storm. It’s a blade. Smooth, cold, sharp. A perfectly honed weapon, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. Not before.
His eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Every detail imprints itself in his mind like a photograph branded with hot iron: the grotesque position of your broken arms, the dark brown blood dried in rivulets on your chin, your neck, your chest; your skin, so pale beneath layers of grime and pain it looks almost like that of a corpse; the faint flutter of your chest, a fragile reminder that you haven’t crossed over yet. He sees it all. He doesn’t look away. And he will remember it. Until his last day. And yet, he doesn’t move right away. Everything in him is screaming. Every fiber, every muscle, every electrical impulse of the armor and his own body calls him to you, to rush, to drop to his knees, to check your pulse, your breath, to place his glove at your neck, to say your name. But he doesn’t give in. He is Tony Stark, yes. But here, now, he is also Iron Man. And Iron Man knows how to recognize a trap. Instinct needs no explanation. He feels that grimy vibration in the air, that invisible weight that warps the atmosphere around you, that intent still lingering, ready to pounce. He knows he’s not alone.
So he advances, but his way. Not slowly out of hesitation, but with control. One step. Then another. Controlled. Silent. The floor crunches beneath his boots, and even though the armor absorbs most sound, here, in this room saturated with shadows and stench, every movement rings out like a barely contained threat. The air is still. The walls seem to listen. The silence, tense, fills with static. He stops a few steps from you. Just close enough to see you breathe, to catch that tiny tremor in your ribcage, that breath that fights, clings, refuses to yield. Just far enough to strike, to raise his arm, to hit in half a second if something emerges. Because he knows: this is the moment Matthew is waiting for. The moment he thinks he can finish what he started. But he’s about to learn that this time, he’s not facing a wounded child. He’s facing Iron Man.
His eyes scan the room relentlessly. Every detail is absorbed, analyzed, memorized. The walls, covered in peeling paint, reveal patches of bare stone, gnawed away by damp. Mold streaks stretch up to the ceiling, which has collapsed in places, letting frayed wires dangle alongside crumbling fragments of plaster. Rusted pipes run along the walls like dead veins, slowly bleeding black water into the corners of the room. A distant drip echoes, irregular, distorted by reverb, like the heartbeat of a body already emptied of everything. The air is thick. Stagnant. It smells of oil, blood, mold, and abandonment. This isn’t really a place anymore. Not a living space, not a shelter. A dead place. Forgotten. A pocket outside of time, perfect for monsters to hide in.
And Stark knows it. It’s too quiet. The space is frozen in a dull anticipation. The smell is too sharp. The scene, too carefully placed. Nothing here suggests an accident. Everything has been calculated. And he hasn’t come to negotiate. He’s not here to understand. He’s not here to reach out. He’s here to end it.
So he speaks. Not loudly. Not shouting. His voice slices through the silence like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Low. Slow. Sharp. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t seek to impress. It states. It targets. It’s the voice of someone who’s gone beyond fear. Who knows the war is no longer a risk. It’s happening. It’s here. Present. Inevitable.
— "That’s your big plan, Matthew?"
The words hang in the air. Clear. Sharp. And they cut. The silence that follows is even sharper. It relieves nothing. It stretches. It weighs. It presses on the nerves like a finger on an open wound. A silence with a taste. That of blood just before the blow. That of a held breath, of the instant suspended between lightning and thunder. A silence ready to rupture. And Stark is ready to tear through it. He kneels.
The suit exhales softly, like a restrained sigh, when Tony bends a knee to the ground. Metal meets filth, dust, and the invisible fragments of an abandoned world in an almost solemn hiss. It’s not a brusque gesture, nor heroic. It’s a humble movement. Precise. One knee placed in the grime of a ravaged sanctuary, a cathedral of pain frozen in time, where the slightest sound feels blasphemous. He places himself near you. Within reach of your voice. Within reach of your breath.
Above you, the light flickers. It trembles at irregular intervals, swaying like a sick pendulum. It doesn’t truly illuminate. It hesitates. As if it, too, refused to fully expose what it reveals. The scene seems unreal. Suspended. Out of the world.
Stark only sees you now. His eyes are on you. At last. Truly. He no longer sees you through the lens of worry or authority. He doesn’t see an employee in distress, nor that lost kid he tried to protect from afar without ever really getting involved. He doesn’t see a responsibility. He sees you. The body you’ve become. This collapsed, mutilated body, barely breathing. That breath, ragged, whistling, clinging to life like a flame battered by wind. The position in which you’ve fallen, curled in on yourself, speaks of an instinct stronger than thought: to hide, to disappear, to avoid another blow.
Tony doesn’t move. Not yet. A long moment suspended in a bubble of silence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Only his fist, slowly, curls. A controlled movement, silent, without tremor. A gloved hand, silently absorbing the rising tension, the seething rage, the refusal to accept what he sees. He observes you. He scans every visible patch of skin, every line of your battered face, every gap between the tatters of your torn clothing. He doesn’t want to miss anything. He wants to know. To understand. To see what you’ve endured. He’s ready for everything — except looking away. And what he discovers freezes him.
The recent wounds, he expected. He had imagined them, feared them. The swollen bruises, the black and violet hematomas covering your ribs, your stomach, your face. The clean or jagged cuts, open or dried. The blood clotted at the corner of your mouth. The split lip. The torn brow. Skin ruptured in places, stretched by swelling. All of that, he had seen coming. He had already heard the echo of the blows. Guessed the brutality.
But what he hadn’t expected… were the other marks.
The ones left by someone other than Matthew. The ones no sudden rage could justify. Scars. Fine. Old. Some nearly faded, white, invisible to the untrained eye. These delicate lines, precise, snake along your forearm, disappear under the fabric, reappear on your side. He recognizes some of them. He knows those clumsy cuts, those poorly closed edges. He’s seen them before. On other bodies. In other contexts. He passes a hand — slow, without touching — over your chest. A gesture both useless and necessary. An attempt to understand without harming, to see without interfering. Your top is torn. Not by accident. Deliberately. As if someone wanted to expose your fragility. As if your skin had become a trophy. A message. Your ribs are streaked with deep bruises, a blue so dark it looks black. These were blows delivered methodically. Not to kill. To mark. To leave a print. And beneath that recent violence, other, paler shadows appear. Older bruises, half-faded. Hidden scars. Belt marks. Traces of falls, perhaps. Of repeated gestures. Systematic ones. Not wild brutality.
Habit. Not battle scars. Survival marks. And Tony feels something fold inside him. Slowly. Painfully. As if the steel of his suit tightened, turned inward, crushing his bones, compressing his breath. He inhales, despite everything, but the air is too heavy, too foul. He feels cold sweat on his neck. The taste of metal on his tongue. This didn’t start yesterday. Not even this week. Not even this year. And the hatred rising now is no longer a fire. It’s a collapsed star. A core of pure fury. A point of no return.
— "Fuck..." he breathes.
The word slips from his lips in a hoarse whisper, no louder than a murmur. It doesn’t snap. It doesn’t strike. It falls. Heavy. Exhausted. It’s not an insult. It’s a prayer. An apology. A confession. A verdict. He could have said your name. He could have screamed. But he no longer has the strength to hide the collapse eating away at his gut. That single word carries it all: the guilt, the shame, the shock, the poorly disguised love, and that powerlessness he hates more than anything in the world. His eyes rise slowly to your face. He studies you, searches, hoping for a sign, a crack in that absence. You’re still unconscious. Or maybe just trapped in your own body. Your eyelids, heavy with pain, barely twitch. As if you’re fighting inside a nightmare too real. Your lips, cracked and swollen, part in an almost imperceptible motion. Sounds escape. Weak. Shapeless. Phantom syllables, swallowed by your raw throat, crushed by the shallow breath of survival.
You’re fighting.
Even now, half-dead, on your knees in the mud, in the blood, in the fear — you're still fighting. And Tony, he doesn’t understand how he missed it. How he could’ve overlooked it. He thought you were folding because you were fragile. That you were falling because you were weak. He discovers now that you never stopped getting back up. Again. And again. And again. And that by climbing back up alone, without help, without a hand to reach for, you broke. Slowly. Silently. From the inside out. Another anger rises in him. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burst like an uncontrollable flame. It’s slow. Deep. A fury that doesn’t make noise as it climbs but anchors in his gut, between his ribs, in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t burn. It freezes. A precise, surgical anger. Against Matthew, of course. Against the monster who did this to you, who turned your body into a map of pain. But not only.
Against himself. For not seeing it. For not wanting to see. For believing his rules, his demands, were enough. For forcing you to maintain an image when you were already falling apart. Against the system that let you slip through. Against the entire universe that abandoned you without so much as a flinch. Against the silence. Against the averted gazes. Against the excuses. Against everything that brought you here, barely breathing, bleeding in a place no one should know. And this anger — he keeps it. Not for the night. Not for the moment. He keeps it for what comes next. Because this isn’t a mission anymore. It’s not even vengeance. It’s an answer. A cold, precise, implacable answer.
His fingers spread. Slowly. As if releasing something too heavy to contain any longer. Then, just as slowly, his hand closes. Not in rage. Not to strike, nor to threaten. But as one seals a vow. As one locks a promise in the palm, sheltered from the world, where it can never fade. A discreet gesture, small, but charged with immense weight. He leans forward. Just a little. Just enough for his face to draw closer to yours, his features blending into the trembling light, his breath almost brushing your skin. He doesn’t try to wake you. He doesn’t disturb the fragile silence. Only to be closer. To speak for you, and only you. And in a breath that belongs only to him — hoarse, broken, dragged up from deep within — he whispers:
— "I’m sorry..."
It’s not a phrase said lightly. Not a line of circumstance. The words struggle to come out, each one bearing the weight of a collapsed world. They don’t shake. They crash. Heavy. Dense. Inevitable. And it’s not for the blows. Not for the broken bones, the bruises, the wounds, the blood. Not for the absence of rescue, the nights you waited without response, without a call, without presence. Not even for the hesitation or delays. Not for the wavering between compassion and distance. No. That’s not what he regrets. It’s something else. Deeper. More insidious.
He apologizes for what he didn’t see. For everything right in front of him that he ignored. For all the times he looked at you without really seeing you. For all the moments he should’ve understood, read between the silences, the tight gestures, the small changes in your voice, the blankness in your eyes. He’s sorry because he should’ve been the one to know. The one who reached out without being asked. He didn’t. And he knows it. You never told him. Not clearly. Not with words. But he doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. His inattention. His blindness. His comfort. Because he should have known. He should’ve seen past the surface, not settled for what you showed. He’s a genius, after all. He cracked codes, AI, government secrets. But he didn’t read you. You.
And now he sees you. Really sees you. You're here, lying down, broken, beaten, emptied to the bone. You carry the recent scars — but also all the old ones. The ones that tell something else. Another story. A life that didn’t begin tonight. Pain accumulated like strata in rock pressed too long. Blows someone made you believe were normal. Silences you were taught to keep. Constant adaptation, until survival became a reflex. Each scar is a sentence. Each bruise, a word from the story you carried alone, your throat tight, your body tense. And Tony is only just beginning to understand. Not everything. Never everything. But enough for the void to open beneath his feet. Enough for something to snap. For guilt to root itself where it will never leave. It’s not just Matthew. It’s not just this night. It’s everything that came before. This whole life you lived in the shadows, moving through with false smiles and stiff gestures. And he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He didn’t reach out.
He feels that truth in his fingers, in his tight throat, in the strange way his vision blurs without fully knowing why. And the anger returns. Deeper. Colder. But this time, aimed only at himself. Because he should’ve been there. But now that he is — now that he sees you — he swears, without even needing to say it, that it will never be too late again. Not a second time. Never. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not right away. He stays still, locked in a perfectly controlled posture, his chest still bent over you, his body still tensed above yours like a shield of steel. But his eyes narrow, just slightly. An imperceptible detail to anyone else. An almost microscopic change, but revealing. He saw it. Or rather, he sensed it. Not a clear movement. Not a sharp sound. Just a shift. A faint vibration in the air. A thermal fluctuation, too precise to be natural. A flicker in the visual field, where there was nothing seconds ago.
The suit confirms it silently. A variation in air pressure. A subtle thermal footprint. A disturbance in the suspended particles. Something moved. Someone. In the shadows. He already knows. He doesn’t need confirmation. No detailed analysis. His instinct and the machine speak with the same voice. Matthew is here. He never left. He never fled. He waited. Coiled in the darkness like a knot of hate, hidden behind the ruined structures of the warehouse. A corner too dark for ordinary eyes. But Stark isn’t ordinary. His gaze adjusts. The armor’s sensors recalibrate instantly. Every shadow pixel becomes a map, a data set analyzed in real time. Shapes emerge, unfold, reveal themselves under thermal filters. He sees the silhouette. Humanoid. Crouched. Twisted in animal tension. Almost glued to the damp wall. Motionless — but falsely so. Ready. Ready to strike.
A predator. Or so he thinks. But to Tony, he’s not a beast. Not an opponent. He’s a parasite. A pest. A residue of misdirected hate. A mass of cowardice wrapped in a semblance of human flesh. Nothing more. And he waits. Stark sees it. He waits for the right moment. The right angle. He still hopes. One wrong step. One lapse. One second of distraction. He still thinks he can win. He thinks he can strike from behind. Finish what he started. Reduce further. Humiliate again. He believes this stage is his, that the dark protects him, that fear is on his side. But it’s not the same game anymore. And Stark is no longer the same man.
His fists clench. Slowly. Not in rage. In certainty. A cold pulse runs through the armor, from his shoulders to the thrusters in his forearms. Internal systems activate in silence. Energy builds. Not for show. Not to intimidate. But to strike. Coldly. Deliberately. And yet, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t break the silence. He remains there, by your side, his body lowered like a barrier. You're still beneath him, fragile, barely breathing. And he stands, in that false calm, as the last thing between you and the one who still thinks he can reach you. But this time, there will be no negotiation. No ultimatum. No speech. This won’t be a warning. A chuckle. At first almost imperceptible. Just a scrape, a discordant note in the tense silence of the warehouse. Then it swells. Gains volume. Becomes a clearer sound — thick, mocking, like a bubble of bile rising to the surface. It comes from the shadows. From that cursed corner of the room that even the light avoids, as if refusing to reveal the truth. A place too dark for nothing to be there.
Stark doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up. Not yet. He stays crouched beside you, his body interposed between you and the thing that finally creeps out of its lair. A sentinel. A wall. A blade ready to cut. But his shoulders stiffen. His breath halts. His fingers stop trembling. He listens.
— “You really came in the suit, huh…”
The voice pierces the darkness like a carefully distilled poison. It has that dragging tone, unbearable, dripping with sarcastic self-confidence. It oozes obscene pleasure, filthy arrogance, sick amusement. The kind of voice that wounds before it strikes. It seeps into the air, hungry to exist, to dominate, to stain.
Matthew steps out of hiding—or what’s left of it. A shadow barely separated from the dark. Just enough for part of his face to appear under the sickly glow of a dangling bulb. Half a face. Half a smile. Wide. Frozen. Too tight. And his eyes… wild. Shining. Flickering with an unstable light, unable to fix on a single point for more than a few seconds.
— “For him? Seriously?”
He gestures vaguely toward your body on the floor, careless, almost lazy. As if pointing at a gutted trash bag. A carcass of no worth. His grimy fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.
— “The little favorite. The loser. The kid who can’t even breathe without collapsing.”
He takes a step. Slow. Pretentious. Nonchalant. His chest slightly puffed, arms wide, almost cruciform. A show-off stance. A provocation. As if offering himself for judgment, convinced he’ll walk away untouched. As if he’s challenging God himself amid the ruins of a world he helped destroy.
— “You sure brought a lot of gadgets to save a half-broken body, Stark.”
A higher, more nervous laugh escapes him. He doesn’t have full control. He thinks he does, but his words are speeding up. His breath quickens just a bit. A trace of madness laces every syllable.
— “You think all that’ll be enough? The thrusters, the scanners, the AI?”
He stops a few meters away. Far, but visible. Too visible. Grime clings to his clothes, his skin, his hyena grin. His face is gaunt, cheeks sunken, hands filthy. He looks like someone who lives in filth. And carries the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. He believes he’s won. That he still holds the cards. That he has the upper hand.
— “You showed up like a superhero. Big savior. Like you actually care whether he’s still breathing.”
He tilts his head. A tiny movement. Almost childlike. Almost mocking. The gesture of a brat waiting for the adult to raise a hand just so he can laugh louder afterward.
Then, in a whisper, lower, crueler, slid in like a needle through skin:
— “Sad. To see you stoop to this.”
That’s when Stark moves. Not a sharp gesture. Not a threat. Just… he rises. Slowly. Very slowly. Each vertebra seems to align with inhuman precision. His back straightens. His shoulders lift. His gloved hands open slightly, fingers spreading, joints clicking faintly. A stance. A charge. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.
Because Matthew goes on. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still believes words protect. That taunts disarm. He still thinks Stark is here to play. That this restrained rage is only for show.
— “I mean, come on… look at him.”
He points again. His filthy index finger extended, trembling slightly. Not from fear. From ecstasy.
— “Take a good look at what he’s become. What I made him. And ask yourself what you were doing all that time.”
And that silence after — that void between two breaths… it’s the most dangerous moment. Because right now, Stark doesn’t see a man in front of him. He sees the outcome. The cause. The shadow behind the screams. And this time, he won’t look away. Matthew moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s a reflex. A sharp jolt of intention, of venom, of premeditation. His arm snaps in a motion too quick, too precise to be theatrical. He’s not trying to intimidate. He’s trying to end it. His hand plunges into his jacket with mechanical brutality, the rustle of fabric too sharp, a sound that splits the silence like a silent detonation. A glint of metal slides between his fingers. The black barrel of a gun emerges like a verdict. Cold. Final. He lifts his arm. But not toward Stark. Not at the looming figure of steel, red-lit, poised to strike. Not at the obvious threat, the armored man, the living weapon who could incinerate him with a single gesture.
No. He points it at you. You, still on the floor. You, vulnerable. Shattered. Barely breathing. You’re lying there, more ghost than flesh, your chest struggling to rise, your face drenched in blood—and that’s exactly why he aims at you. Because you can’t fight back. Because you can’t even look away.
The barrel aligns with clinical slowness. A descending trajectory, methodical, unbearable. A deliberate motion, thick with silence, cracking the air like an invisible slap. There’s no tremble of doubt, no hesitation. The quiver in his wrist isn’t fear—it’s anticipation. A sick pulse shooting through his arm, twitching his fingers on the trigger. Obscene pleasure in this total domination. His breath quickens. His eyes gleam. He savors. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Where he’s aiming. How he wants this to end. It’s no longer a threat. It’s an execution. A scene he’s imagined, rehearsed, craved. A twisted revenge. A show where he’s both executioner and audience. And in this suspended second, this instant where everything can tip, he becomes something worse than an attacker.
He becomes a man convinced he’s about to kill. Because he wants to. Because he can.
— “You got the money, then?”
The words fall like a dull-edged blade. No hesitation. No dramatic delivery. Just a string of words spat low, almost casual. Like a logistical question. His voice is dry, flat, stripped of emotion. Verbal mechanics, a routine, a question tossed out like checking an order. But the poison—it's in the posture. The gaze. The barely-contained tension in his outstretched arm.
The gun’s barrel stays still. Perfectly aligned. No longer shaking. Calm. Cold. A disturbing steadiness, almost clinical, like a surgeon ready to cut — except he’s not seeking to heal. He’s aiming to rupture. To erase.
He’s not really talking to Stark. Not really to you either. He’s speaking to himself, to feed the illusion of control he’s desperate to maintain even as he feels the ground slipping. He keeps playing, just long enough to delay the inevitable. To fabricate a role. The one who asks. The one who decides. The one who ends things. But there’s that barrel. Black. Smooth. A heavy promise stretched from his arm. He doesn’t move. He waits for an answer he knows is pointless. He knows there’ll be no deal. No negotiation. But he asks anyway. As if asking is enough to pretend he still owns the scene. As if it can mask the obvious rising in the air like an imminent detonation.
He’s ready to shoot. And it’s not the money he wants. It’s what comes next.
taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 @the-ultimate-librarian @ihatepaperwork
if you want to be part of it here
What Remains | Chapter 17 The Art of Breaking Things (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
TW : Graphic Description of Physical and Mental Torture, Humiliation, Dehumanization.
Summary : You’re tortured—body and mind—by Matthew, who pushes harder every time you refuse to break. Burned, beaten, humiliated, you cling to silence like a final shield. But in the end, you’re left alone, broken, with only one thing holding off death: time. Stark has hours to pay. If you’re lucky. And the silence that follows is heavier than pain.
word count: 8.1k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Matthew yanks you violently off the street, making you stumble harshly onto the sidewalk. You don’t even have time to scream before you're dragged, forced, into a narrow alley, squeezed between two grimy buildings. The air is thicker here, saturated with humidity, as if even the light itself refused to enter. He pulls you further, all the way to a rusted metal door, which he bashes open with his shoulder. The shrill screech of the hinges tears through the silence, twisting your stomach even tighter.
He shoves you inside a crumbling, half-collapsed building, abandoned for years. The walls are stained with green patches, devoured by moisture and mold. The musty smell is almost tangible, a slimy presence creeping into your throat, making you gag. Every step causes the floor to creak beneath your feet. The ceiling drips steadily, drops falling into a rusted basin in the corner of the room, adding a morbid rhythm to the scene.
You don’t even have time to take in the place when a sharp crack slices the air.
Pain slams into your temple like a bolt of lightning. His hand crashes against your cheek with brutal, almost calculated force. A ringing bursts in your ear, your head slamming against the metal doorframe with a dull thud. A burning heat explodes under your skull, radiating down to your jaw. You stagger, barely staying upright, the metallic taste of blood already stinging your tongue.
But he doesn’t let you fall.
He grabs your collar like someone gripping an overstuffed bag, yanks you upright with a snap, prevents you from collapsing. You’re hanging between his hands like a limp puppet, legs trembling, breath caught, unable to grasp how everything escalated so quickly.
He wants you to feel every second of your powerlessness. Every moment etched into your flesh like an unerasable scar.
He throws you to the ground with calculated brutality, like tossing a worthless sack of meat. Your body crashes onto the rotting floorboards, pain flaring up in a dry wave from your back to your neck. The wood groans beneath the impact, a cloud of black dust rising around you, stinging your nose, clinging to your damp skin. The stench is unbearable — a blend of moldy wood, dead rodents, and damp earth. It feels like you're sinking into an open grave.
You want to move.
You want to get up, scream, fight, grab onto something, anything. But he's faster. And he doesn’t wait.
His foot slams into your stomach with the raw force of a sledgehammer. You feel your ribs squeeze under the blow, air rushing out of your lungs in a strangled gasp. Your chest collapses, like it’s been crushed between two iron plates. A blinding pain explodes. You choke, unable to breathe, muscles frozen from the shock.
Your body folds in half from the blow. Your mouth opens in silence, but no scream escapes. Just a rough, pitiful gurgle. And him, standing above you, barely panting. As if this was just the beginning. You roll to the side, half from reflex, half from survival instinct. Your arms curl protectively around your shattered abdomen, but another kick slices through your flesh like a stake. It rips a cry from you — raw, guttural, animal. Your breath shatters. There’s no more air. Nothing left.
The metallic taste of blood rises in your mouth. Hot, thick. You feel it slide against your tongue, sink into your throat clenched tight from pain. You want to spit it out, but you can’t. You’re drowning in your own saliva, your own nerves giving out one after another.
— You really think I’m just going to kill you?
His voice cracks like a whip — too close, too intimate. A moist whisper dripping into your ear, trembling with restrained excitement. His breath, hot and foul, scorches your cheek. It reeks of cold cigarettes and fury.
He drops into a squat with a sharp motion. You hear his knees strike the rotting floor. Then his hand slams down on your head, seizing a handful of your hair with brutal force. And he pulls.
Your neck twists back with a sinister crack. Pain bursts from your skull like an electric jolt. Every root, every nerve screams under the tension. Your jaw clenches, your eyes fly open, drowning in panic. His face is there. Inches from yours. Distorted. Red. Twisted by something sick. He smiles. And you can't tell if he's about to kiss you or rip your throat out. You see his eyes. Two bottomless black voids. Nothing but a flicker of pure hatred, a sick glint of greed burning like oil on fire.
— "So you're working for Stark now, huh?"
His grip tightens in your hair. One notch more. Enough to make your scalp feel like it's about to tear off. You grit your teeth. You won't give him that pleasure, that whimper. But the burn is there, searing, anchored in your skull like a rusty hook.
— "You’re fucking lucky, you know that? Because if you were just some lost little shit... I’d have already killed you."
His voice is slow. Mocking. He savors every syllable like a twisted caress. You feel his breath against your cheek, hot and acidic, like it could melt your bones from the inside. A smile twists his lips. Slowly. A sadistic smile, the grin of a predator sure of its power.
— "But no. You, you’re a goldmine."
And he lets go. Your head drops back brutally, no control. The back of your skull hits the floor. A dull, sick thud. Your vision blurs instantly, streaked with white flashes. A starburst of pain explodes in your skull, radiating down to your jaw. For a moment, the world tilts. And he laughs. Softly. Like it was just an appetizer. You feel your strength draining, second by second. Your whole body is caught in a vice of pain, every muscle on high alert, but he gives you no chance to recover.
— "Just one question."
With a sharp, brutal motion, he flips you over like a bag of meat. Your shoulder blades scrape the rough floor, rotten wood tearing through your clothes and into your skin. Before you can even register what’s happening, his knee slams into your sternum. A brutal, wet crunch echoes through your ribcage. You try to breathe. You want to inhale. Nothing. Your lungs convulse in the void, desperate, helpless. You open your mouth, frantic, but only a choked gurgle escapes, a twisted, inhuman rasp.
Panic crashes into you. Your heart pounds against your temples, frantic. No air. The world goes blurry, the edges of the room rippling like underwater.
— "How much would he pay to get you back in one piece?"
You look up at him. Your gaze meets his. A graveyard chill spreads through your chest. He knows. He already knows. And it makes him smile. A slow smile, stretched, almost tender. A parody of affection painted on a mask of sadism.
— "Let’s find out what you’re really worth, kid."
You want to scream. Push him off, run, scratch, bite, crawl, beg — anything. But your body won’t move. Your chest still tries to rise, gasping, in a mockery of breath. Air remains stuck somewhere in your throat, as if your own body had turned against you.
And he doesn't move.
His knee stays there, planted in the center of your sternum, heavy, unrelenting. You hear cracking sounds. One by one. Bones. Your bones. Your ribs, crushed under the pressure. The pain is total. A devouring black tide, consuming everything—breath, thoughts, will. He looks at you with a curiosity almost fascinated. Like a kid pressing down on a bug just to see how far he can squash it before it stops moving.
— "Funny, isn’t it?"
His voice oozes a sick pleasure, almost a warped tenderness. You feel his fingers tighten in your hair, then a brutal pull—your head yanked back before being slammed against the grimy floor. A dull thud echoes in your skull. The back of your head strikes the boards with a wet, sticky sound.
The smell of stagnant dust, rotting wood and rusty metal fills your nostrils. You feel your own blood seep into your mouth, slide slowly against your tongue, flow down your throat. Salty. Warm. Too familiar.
— "You’ve always had a face that begged for trouble."
His thumb brushes your cheek, slowly, as if petting a cat—then, with a sharp motion, he grabs your jaw and squeezes until the bone threatens to snap. Your teeth grind together painfully. You feel your jaw about to dislocate under the pressure.
— "Think you're clever with Stark behind you?"
You want to answer. Spit something back. Provoke him. Anything. But nothing comes out. Your throat is dry, your mouth clogged with blood and saliva. He sees it. And he doesn’t like it. He wants a reaction. He demands it.
He requires it.
His fist hits you without warning, a blast of raw violence. The pain is searing. Your cheekbone explodes on impact. Your eye pulses, throbs, radiates heat. Your skull bounces off the floor like a deflated ball. The shock echoes through your brain, a deep pounding that grows louder. You can't even feel your face anymore. Only the sticky warmth of blood pouring down, and flashes of white light bursting behind your eyelids.
You try to keep your eyes open, but the world tilts. The room spins, swells, distorts like a panicked camera. Sounds stretch and warp. You're not even sure you're breathing. You're not even sure you're here.
Matthew laughs. A thick, guttural laugh, dripping with the vilest satisfaction. Not a laugh of humor. A butcher’s laugh. A hunter’s. The laugh of a man who's never felt more in control, savoring every second of his domination.
— "Wanna see something funny?"
His fingers finally leave your jaw, leaving your skin painfully imprinted. For a quarter of a second, barely a heartbeat, you think it’s over. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, uneven, like a buoy ripped from the sea. But it was just a trick. A trap.
You see his foot rise, a dark silhouette against the dim exterior light, then crash down with inhuman force.
CRACK.
It’s not an external sound. It’s you breaking. Your ribs, fragile and already battered, give under the pressure. The pain is blinding, absolute, radiating through your left side like a fire ignited inside your ribcage.
Something breaks. Something tears.
Your back arches, your whole body convulses in agony, and a scream bursts from your lips—primal, tearing, slicing through the damp, stagnant air of the room. And him—he was waiting for it. Hoping for it. He tastes it like a triumph.
— "Ah… There we go! That’s more like it!"
His foot hovers for a second above you. And then he does it again. Again. And again.
Each impact is more brutal than the last. Each blow a deliberate, precise act of cruelty. His foot crashes down like a hammer on glass. You feel your ribs cracking, your skin stretching, your muscles twisting. A dull, wet sound accompanies each strike—the disgusting sound of a human body reduced to an inert, vulnerable mass. Your body spasms uncontrollably, jerks of pain wrenching you from yourself.
You claw at the floor with your nails, trying to escape, crawl, move an inch away—but there’s nowhere to go. Only the cold wall behind you, and him. Always him.
— "Gonna cry now?"
He leans over, and his hand slams into your throat with such force it rips a choked gasp from your lungs. His fingers clamp like a steel trap around your windpipe, merciless, squeezing without hesitation. You feel the cartilage compress, the air cut off instantly.
He nearly lifts you from the ground, just enough to snap your neck's alignment, force your head back. His thumb presses your chin upward until your vertebrae groan, your throat stretched like a wire ready to snap. His face twists into a grotesque expression. A mix of pure excitement and hateful rage.
— "Huh?! That’s where you’re at, huh?"
You open your mouth, but no sound escapes. Your breath stolen. Your scream smothered. Black stars explode at the edge of your vision, flashes like silent lightning splitting your temples. Everything goes blurry. Everything fades away.
You feel your body struggling in vain, like a trapped animal. You want to scream, beg, bite, fight back — but you can’t even breathe anymore. Only that suspended moment, that unbearable vertigo. And the weight of his hand, relentless.
Your body begins to weaken. Your legs won’t hold you, your arms weigh a ton, and your breath shortens, harsh and ragged, caught somewhere between your chest and burning throat. You want to curl up, disappear, become empty so the pain will slide off without catching. But he’s not finished. He looks at you with an almost awed glint in his eyes, as if he’s finally discovered the best part of the show.
— "You’re fragile, you know that?" he murmurs, his sweetened voice laced with disgust. His hand slides down your arm with unbearable slowness, his fingers brushing your clammy skin as if testing its resistance.
Then he finds your wrist. The broken one. The one you protect without even realizing it. The one Stark examined, Bruce scanned, Peter glanced at with quiet worry. Matthew recognizes it. He grabs it. And with a swift, almost surgical twist, he jerks it.
Pain explodes instantly. It’s not a burn or a blow. It’s lightning ripping through you, shooting to your skull, reducing your entire being to a pure scream. You scream. A hoarse, raw cry torn from your guts. It shreds your throat, it tears the air, it tears you apart. It’s the cry of a body being crushed. Of dignity fracturing like bones under his grip. You’ve lost control. Your arm flails uselessly, and you feel your wrist swelling, pain flooding in like acid tide.
Matthew watches you, impassive. No — satisfied. Like a child crushing a bug and watching the twitching legs. He tilts his head slightly, almost tender. Then he finally lets go of your wrist, dropping it like useless trash. You collapse, your breath jagged, your throat raw, your cheek on the dirty floor. And he smiles.
— "There. Now you sound real," he says. And you want to disappear.
Until he sighs. Not from boredom — from contentment. A slow, satisfied breath, like after a hearty meal or a night of pleasure. And that sound, more than the blows, turns your stomach. He leans toward you, his words dripping like poisoned sugar.
— "You're cute when you're obedient."
A shiver runs through you, icy and foul, sliding down your spine like rancid oil. You want to rise, spit in his face, scream that you're not this, not this trembling thing he’s delighting in breaking. But you can’t. Your body responds only to pain now.
— "I wonder if Stark’s ever seen this version of you?" he whispers, mocking, his voice dripping with obscene amusement. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming like a predator savoring victory, taking time to admire the terror in its prey.
— "The little Stark Industries prodigy… on his knees, shaking, at someone’s mercy." He laughs. A fat, empty, unbearable laugh. And that sound hits you like another punch. Your stomach contracts. You want to get up, gather whatever pitiful strength remains, to throw a punch, a curse, anything. But your body stays there, inert, broken, paralyzed by fear and exhaustion. He feels it. He knows. He revels in your stillness like an offering.
And maybe that’s the worst part. This complicit silence between your breathless body and his endless cruelty. You’re just an empty puppet. And he’s taking full advantage.
His hand tightens slowly around your neck, his fingers pressing into your skin with deliberate slowness — almost tender, if not for the pain radiating into your jaw. You feel each knuckle, each squeeze, like a chain closing around your throat.
— "I'm going to call Stark now." His voice carries that false softness, that singsong tone that never means anything good. He’s playing. Enjoying himself. Like a cat with a mouse whose legs are already torn off.
— "And he’ll realize you’re not that important after all."
He pulls something from his pocket. You hear plastic crackle in his hand before you see it: a burner phone, plain, worn, probably stolen or bought to disappear right after. A banal object — but in his hands, it’s a weapon. He turns it on. The screen glows with a pale light. He taps a pre-saved number. No name, just digits. Your heart skips a beat.
He leans closer, pressing the phone against your bruised cheek, the screen nearly glued to your sweat-soaked, blood-streaked skin. The light outlines your face, illuminating the wreck you’ve become in a few hours. You’re forced to watch, to see the name appear, to hear the beeping tone echo on screen. A slow, repetitive pulse, vibrating through the rotting walls, like a muffled alarm. Each ring is a slap, a violent reminder of what you’re no longer: free, strong, dignified.
He doesn’t even look at you anymore. He stares at the screen with a smile glued to his face. He’s not waiting for a response. He expects nothing from the other side. Because to him, placing the call is already a victory. He’s reduced you to this — a voice that might beg. A proof of weakness to flaunt. A bargaining chip to threaten or break to get more.
And you, lying there helpless, hear your own breath tremble, caught in your throat, while the ringing continues, obsessive, like a countdown to the ultimate humiliation.
He grabs your hair again, his fingers digging into your scalp, and with a sharp tug, jerks your head back violently. Your vertebrae protest in a silent crack, sharp pain slicing up your neck, making your skull hum like a cracked tuning fork. But he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t soften. He doesn’t care. He wants you stretched, exposed, offered.
— "Come on, pick up, asshole." His voice is snide, mocking, impatient, like he’s already savoring the upcoming show.
The phone buzzes in his hand. Beep. Then another. Beep. You feel tension thicken in the building’s humid air, each second tightening the knot in your gut. And suddenly — a click. The line opens. No doubt. The call went through. And that’s when he changes.
His voice shifts in a fraction of a second. The sneering tone vanishes. The insults fade. In their place, syrupy politeness, fake sweetness, the tone of a well-mannered parasite who knows he’s latched onto something valuable.
— "Good evening, Stark."
And immediately, he throws you to the ground like a sack of meat. Your back hits the rotten boards with a dull thud, and a strangled gasp escapes your throat — shock, pain, terror all in one. He did it on purpose. He wants Stark to hear. To make the impact echo. To let that gasp say more than any word ever could.
Then comes silence. One of those heavy, stretched, deadly silences. You hear only your ragged breathing, your racing heart, and in the receiver… a breath. Light. Controlled. But unmistakable. He’s listening. He’s there. And the tension turns glacial, like the blood itself freezing in your veins.
Then Stark’s voice. Calm. Controlled. But sharper than a scalpel. Each word placed with surgical precision, a cold threat oozing through the circuits.
— "You just made a fucking mistake." No yelling. No panic. Just that implacable statement — a promise.
Matthew chuckles. Not loudly. Not like some manic burst. No, it's a low laugh, grating, self-satisfied. A laugh reeking of cruelty and the smug certainty that he's got the upper hand.
— "Yeah? You think so?"
With a flick of his foot, he flips you onto your back, carelessly, like someone turning over a corpse just to check it’s really dead. Your head hits the floor with a dull crack, and you taste blood in the back of your throat.
— "What I think is, you care way too much about that kid. And that might cost you."
His hand slides slowly down your jawline, brushing the bruises, the cuts, the marks he's etched into your skin with blind rage. It's not a tender gesture. It's possession. Mockery embodied in a touch.
You try to turn your head, to recoil from that repulsive contact. But his fingers tighten around your face, forcing your gaze toward the phone.
— "Take a good look, Stark." His voice is thick with perverse glee. "He's not as strong as you think. Actually, he's... fragile." And without warning, he presses down hard on your fractured wrist.
Pain erupts through your arm like a grenade. Your vision blurs with searing tears, your back arches, and a scream bursts from you — raw, ripped, inhuman. It bounces off the bare walls, saturating the already stifling air. Matthew bursts out laughing.
— "You hear that?" He tilts the phone toward your mouth, like he's offering your agony live. "Beautiful, isn’t it? I think he's starting to learn his lesson."
Then, nothing. No sound from the other end. Just silence. A deathly silence. So thick it crushes your chest even more surely than Matthew's weight. A silence that says something just broke. Something Matthew may not have expected.
Then Stark speaks. One sentence. But every syllable slices like a blade honed against stone. Cold. Precise. Irrevocable.
— "You're dead."
Nothing else. Not a word more. None needed. Matthew doesn’t laugh. His smile freezes, just for a second. He flinches, almost imperceptibly. Like a cold current just ran down his spine. Then he straightens up, swallows the jolt, and puts his mask of arrogance back on.
— "You're right. I'm mortal, after all." He chuckles again, but the confidence is gone. "But before that... you're gonna pay, Stark."
He grabs you roughly under the shoulders, yanking you toward him like a weightless sack of sand. Your body screams in silent protest. Your ribs, your wrist, your skull — all shrieking. You don’t even have the strength to groan. Just a strangled gasp escapes as he hoists you up, the cold barrel of a gun suddenly pressed to your temple. He holds you like a trophy. Like a living threat. Like a ticking clock.
— "Ten million." His voice is steel. "And he sees him alive."
Then comes silence. Icy. Not a breath, not a sound, not a word through the speaker. A silence that presses. That claws. That devours. A silence that says death is no longer a threat — it’s a promise.
Then Stark’s voice returns. Lower. Slower. Each word dragged with surgical precision, like driving a blade into the moment’s flesh.
— "You have no idea what you’re doing."
No yelling. No screamed threats. Just that unbearable gravity in his tone. That promise of vengeance that won’t come in a flash of rage, but in a storm that leaves nothing standing. Matthew freezes for half a second. Just long enough for you to feel it. His fingers, clenched at your nape, tighten. A shiver runs down his spine, but he straightens immediately, violence reasserted on his face.
You feel his breath against your ear — hot, damp, animalistic. He looks at you the way one evaluates a stolen object. Gauging the value of a bargaining chip.
You're no longer a person. You’re currency.
— "You’ve got twenty-four hours."
A beep. Sharp. Final. The line goes dead. But not him. Not you. Not this creeping nightmare latched to your bones. Matthew remains still a second, frozen in a temporal fracture. Then he explodes. A swift, brutal motion — the burner phone flies from his hand and smashes to the ground with a sharp crack, small, insignificant, yet soaked in fury.
The smile he’s worn all along falters. A fraction of a second. A crack. Then he looks at you again. And you know it’s only just beginning.
Something’s changed in his eyes. A spark. A feverish glint replacing the simple rage. He’s not just hitting to blow off steam now. No. Now, he’s playing. He’s calculating. He’s savoring.
His smile returns. Slowly. Like a blade being sharpened. And this time, it’s worse than before. Worse, because he got what he wanted. Because he knows Stark heard. Because he knows Stark is coming. And that certainty? It intoxicates him. It makes him almost euphoric.
— "So now, we wait. Like good little boys."
He raises his hand. You see it. You know what’s coming. You can almost feel the air tremble around his fist. But your body is too heavy. Too slow. Too broken to react. Your eyelids flutter, your mind fights to stay present, but your muscles no longer respond. And when his fist slams into your face again, it’s the end. Everything goes black. The world disappears in a cold vertigo. A sticky, bottomless black hole that devours all.
You feel your body slipping backward, as if swallowed by an endless fall. You are nothing but pain. A dull, boiling pain that throbs in every corner of your being. Your brain tries to hold on to something, anything. But everything unravels.
Every nerve screams. Every bone grinds. Every part of you feels like it’s about to break, like a dam under pressure for far too long. You have no idea how much time has passed. Minutes. Hours. Days maybe. The world has lost all shape. All color. Just this void. And the burning.
Time stretches, warps, dilutes. It has no logic anymore. No rhythm. It collapses like your breath—irregular, chopped. Sometimes, you think you’re falling asleep, fading out, but the pain always pulls you back—a jolt, a spasm, a nerve twitch. You don’t even know if your eyes are open. You don’t even know if you’re breathing. Every movement, however small, is a tidal wave in your shattered chest, a ripple of fire in your wrist. Your skull pounds to the beat of a distant war drum.
You still hear his voice. It floats there, between your own body’s shallow sighs. No more screaming. Now it whispers. Sometimes, it laughs. And that’s worse. You want to hold on to something. A thought. A memory. A face. But even that, he’s taken from you. There’s nothing left. Nothing but pain. You drift somewhere between the void and a pain so sharp it seems to have hijacked your breath, your pulse, your entire being. You’re just a body in fragments, suspended in a black sea. Each heartbeat hammers your wounds like a rusted mallet, pumping a slow, searing poison through your veins. One pulse after another, like a sentence being carried out.
Then, slowly, you surface. Against the current. Pulled upward by a cruel force, a glacial drag that refuses to let you sink. And it’s the smell that greets you. The stench hits you first. Rancid. Foul. A blend of stagnant damp, rusted metal, dried blood, and animal sweat. The air is a swamp—thick as tar, laced with mildew and fear. Every breath is a battle, each inhalation a burn in your throat. The floor beneath your skin is freezing. Jagged. You feel the splinters, the cracks, the grime embedded in the cement. You’re lying on a hard surface, no warmth, no comfort. Your body is frozen, numbed by the blows, the cold, the shock. You want to move. You just want to turn your head.
But at the first attempt, a searing pain erupts in your chest, stabbing through like a spike. Your crushed ribs scream in unison. A muffled groan escapes your cracked lips. You swallow the rest. You swallow it all. Even that—you won’t give to him. And yet, a sound slices through the silence. Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
They echo in the enclosed space like a countdown to judgment. The echo slides along the walls like a serpent. He’s not walking. He’s circling. Like a predator around a wounded body, waiting for the perfect moment to bite again. Then his voice. That laugh you’d recognize anywhere. Wet. Smug. Foul.
— "Oh… waking up, are we?"
Matthew.
Your stomach clenches. You tremble. From pain, from exhaustion, from rage. But in his eyes—it’s fear. And he likes it. It excites him. You can hear it in his voice, in his breath. You open your eyes. Slowly. Your eyelids are heavy, glued by sweat and blood. Your vision is blurry, distorted by tears, the harsh light, and fever. But his silhouette stands out. Unmistakable. He’s right there. In front of you.
Sitting on a rickety chair, legs apart, elbows on knees, as if watching a show. His face is lit by a sickly flickering neon above, deepening the shadows under his eyes and the vicious line of his grin. A predator’s grin. A hunter’s grin. You want to speak. You want to scream. You want to bite. But your throat is on fire. Dry, choked by panic, pain, and the memory of his hands. No sound comes out.
And he laughs.
— "Shit, you really look like hell now."
He watches you like a painter before his canvas, eyes scanning each mark, each bruise, each freshly inflicted wound—as if claiming his work, a blood signature carved into your skin. His gaze is both possessive and cruel, assessing the worth of your suffering. Casually, he drags on a cigarette, the smoke tangling with the already suffocating air, adding another layer of unease. Then, almost theatrically, he reaches toward you and, without hesitation, presses the ash into your skin. The burn is sharp, sudden, unbearable—a sting that makes you groan involuntarily, your head hitting the wall in an uncontrolled reflex.
Matthew bursts into a hoarse, inhuman laugh—like a predator roaring at its victory.
— "Think I like seeing that look on your face," he sneers, his voice soaked in perverse sadism.
Without waiting for you to catch your breath, he lunges forward and grabs your face. His thumb presses against your brow with clinical precision, and pain shoots through your skull as if every nerve ignites at his touch. He pulls you closer, forcing your gaze up, and with terrifying intensity, he says coldly:
— "Stark thinks you’re important, huh?" His pupils, gleaming with sadistic thrill, lock onto yours with ruthless determination.
— "You’re nothing but a pawn," he adds, merciless. You try in vain to look away, to escape this mirror of your own misery, but he holds you with brutal strength, chaining you to his control.
— "Look at me," he commands, then, as quickly as he grabbed you, he releases you.
Like in a horror film, your body—broken by pain and fear—slumps against the wall, powerless, with no energy left to fight back. You want to fight, to defend yourself, to scream, but you’re spent. Your mind and body have hit their limit. Matthew rises, circles the space slowly, looming like a beast prowling its prey. Then, without warning, he lunges and grabs your throat with a devastating motion. His grip is deliberate violence: a brutal hold, tight, calibrated not to knock you out, but to make you feel every second of your helplessness. In a chilling tone, he whispers,
— "If Stark shows up… I want him to find you on your knees." His smile widens—cruel, perverse—before adding with a stinging tone,
— "Broken."
A jolt of pain shakes you, your breath shortens, and your vision begins to blur. The impact has drained you, like a puppet without strings tossed in the chaos of a game you no longer control. Then Matthew pulls back and, with terrifying calm, sits back down, crosses his arms, and throws at you, detached:
— "You’ve got less than twenty-four hours before Stark pays." A merciless sneer draws across his face, heavy with dark promises, before he adds in a low, menacing voice:
— "And I’ll make sure every hour counts."
The atmosphere inside Stark Tower has become suffocating. A raw, stifling void fell over the room the moment the call ended. Not a word. Not a breath. Even the screens—normally vibrant and full of motion—seem frozen in a glacial suspension of time. The air hums with an electric tension, ready to snap at the slightest spark. But no one dares to move.
Tony remained there, unmoving, bolted to his leather chair as if the slightest motion might shatter the already precarious balance of the moment. His phone still rests on the desk—black, silent. Harmless. And yet, charged with threat. As if the poison distilled by that voice—Matthew’s—still clings to the walls, to the skin, to every frayed nerve.
His gaze is fixed, locked onto some invisible point ahead. But inside, everything is turmoil. A methodical chaos. His jaw is clenched so tightly you can almost hear the tension in his muscles. He hasn’t blinked since the call ended. Hasn’t drawn a full breath. He’s frozen in a state of absolute alert. In his mind, the words loop. Ten million. Or he dies. The echo seeps in, corrosive, like a blade jammed into his neck. He hears the scream again. He sees the blows. The blood. The bastard’s laughter. That parasite. That piece of shit.
Tony calculates. He maps trajectories in his head, estimates response times, potential locations. He pictures walls, angles, shadows. He does what he does best: finds the weakness. But this time, there are no elegant solutions. No multiple outcomes. Only one end. Matthew is not walking out of this. Not this time. Not after this. Not after what he’s done.
A sharp crack slices through the silence. Tony’s hand slams against the desk with a contained, brutal force, like thunder in a room already saturated with tension. The wood groans under the impact, and the noise, sharp as a blade, startles Pepper. She doesn’t cry out. Doesn’t flinch. But her fingers, clenched around the tablet she held, tremble—just enough to say she understands. She hasn’t spoken since the call ended. Not one word. But she knows. She knows exactly what’s brewing in the shadow of this silence, between Tony’s held breath and the icy fire in his eyes. She’s seen him like this before. Once. Maybe twice. And that look, that hollow black void that takes him over when his anger crosses a certain line… it’s never good. Never.
— “Tony.”
Her voice cuts the air like a fine blade, unwavering. Calm. Steady. But firm. The quiet authority of someone who’s been through every war by his side. Who knows his cracks. Who’s seen them open before. But he doesn’t really hear her. Not truly. His eyes remain fixed somewhere in the shadows. Black. Completely black. A void. His face is still, carved in cold rage. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. His breath is slow. Mechanical.
It’s an expression he hasn’t worn in a long time. Far too long.
And Pepper knows. When that look returns, something’s about to fall. Something is going to die. She steps forward—quick, determined. Her heels barely tap against the floor, but each step is a declaration of the battle to come. She moves around the desk without hesitation, comes to stand right in front of him—close enough to force eye contact. To make him see her. Hear her.
— “You can’t charge in blindly.”
A suspended silence. Then, finally, a blink. He closes his eyes. Slowly. As if the gesture costs him something. His head turns toward her, millimeter by millimeter. And when his gaze locks onto hers, the air between them turns to stone.
— “Look at me, Potts.”
The voice is low. Razor-sharp. Icy calm. Each syllable falls like drops of mercury onto an already frozen surface. A distant tone. Dangerous. One she never wanted to hear again.
— “You really think I’m just going to sit here and throw money at it?”
Pepper freezes. Just a second. It’s not a question. It’s a verdict. And it’s exactly what she feared.
— “We don’t even know where he took him.”
She tries. Again. But already, she can feel him slipping. Drifting to the other side. Where emotion is replaced by the machine. Cold revenge. Strategic intelligence weaponized.
— “I’ll find him.”
His fingers latch onto the desk edge, dig in like claws. Knuckles whitening with pressure. He doesn’t tremble. He doesn’t raise his voice. But everything in him screams. A silent rage. Surgical. And this time, she feels it—this isn’t Iron Man speaking. It’s the man. Tony Stark. And he’s ready to burn the whole city down to bring him back.
— “And then what?”
Bruce’s calm, deep voice cuts through the silence like a slow, deliberate blade. He’s just walked in—no noise, no display—but his presence shifts the entire room. It’s not a reproach. Not a command. It’s a question. But it holds an entire world of meaning. He heard the call. He saw the tension in Stark’s frame, the microscopic tremors in his hands still flat on the desk. He knows. He knows exactly what’s unfolding. And more importantly, he knows what Tony is capable of when fury eclipses reason.
— "What are you planning to do, Tony?"
There is no anger in his voice. Not like in Pepper's. No fear either. Only that heavy concern, laid down softly, almost paternally. The way you would speak to a man standing at the edge. Because he’s seen him jump before.
Stark doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are locked onto an invisible spot on the wall, frozen, opaque. He seems absent—but Bruce knows him too well. He’s not lost. He’s assembling everything. Every variable, every scenario, every option. It’s a silent storm behind those empty eyes.
And at the heart of that storm, one single certainty burns: he will find him. And he will make him pay. Dearly.
He rises in one sharp, abrupt motion, as if sitting one second longer might make him explode.
— "I’ve got work to do."
His voice is dry, metallic, stripped of all warmth. He grabs his phone in one hand, his glasses in the other—automatic, precise movements, like a machine rebooting with a single directive: locate, strike, eliminate. He doesn’t even glance at Pepper as he passes. He moves around her without slowing. Without a word.
— "Tony!"
She tries to stop him, just to make him pause, think one second longer. But he ignores her. He crosses the room like a heat-seeking missile. Unstoppable. Bruce, still standing motionless, watches the scene. His crossed arms slowly relax as he lets out a tired sigh.
— "He won’t wait."
— "I know." Pepper’s voice is tense. Exhausted. But she’s already calculating too.
He nods slightly.
— "Then we better make sure he doesn’t do something stupid."
His gaze stays fixed on the place Stark just vanished from, as if he’s afraid the whole building might follow the billionaire’s rage. Because with Stark in that state... there will be no half-measures. Only consequences.
You don’t know how long you’ve been here. There are no more points of reference. No more day, no more night. Just this dirty, pallid light pinning you down in a morbid in-between. The concrete beneath your back is freezing, uneven, but your skin is burning. The fever rises in suffocating waves, gluing your clothes to your sweat-soaked body. Every breath is torture. A sharp blade lodged in your side, slowly slicing the inside of your ribcage with every movement, every sigh. You breathe in fragments. You breathe offbeat.
The room is a prison of concrete and mold, drowned in a swampy gloom. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, squeaking, suspended from a wire that's far too long, swaying at the slightest draft. Its light flickers, pulses, like the beat of a sick heart. Shadows crawl across the damp walls, twisting into monstrous shapes, puppets of a cruel theatre. They distort, stretch, merge with you. Sometimes, you think you see something move—but it’s only your fever. Or your mind, slowly breaking.
And the silence. The real kind. The one that doesn’t comfort. The one that clings to your skin, screaming of absence, of solitude, of death waiting to happen. That silence is worse than the blows. It's full of what might come. It devours you from within.
Then, footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Steady. The sound of a verdict approaching. They echo off the walls like an ending. Each step makes your stomach churn. You recognize it immediately. That rhythm, that weight, that way of walking like the world belongs to him. Matthew.
He had left you alone. You don’t know for how long. Maybe hours. Maybe a day. But he always comes back. He never truly disappears. He haunts you even in his absence. And when he returns, it’s always worse. Like a nightmare you thought was over, coming back crueler, more inventive.
You feel him before he even speaks. His gaze pierces you through the darkness. You feel it crawling across your skin, your wounds, your weakness. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. He’s here.
— "Still holding on, kid?"
His voice drips with pleasure. That filthy pleasure of seeing you on your knees, broken, on the edge. You don’t answer. You can’t. Your throat is on fire. Your mouth, dry. And more than anything, you don’t want to give him that. Even if you have nothing left.
You fixate on a spot on the wall. Anything, just to avoid meeting his eyes. But you already know he’s coming closer. That he won’t leave you be. Not yet. Not now.
Your body is nothing but ruins. A carcass, wheezing, too weak to sit up, too damaged to even shiver properly. Every part of you is a silent scream. Every bone seems ready to break again. Your muscles are raw cords, pulled to the limit. Your breath is shallow, erratic, caught in a vice of pain and fever. You don’t even know how you're still holding on.
But Matthew can’t stand that. The silence. That muteness that slips through his fingers. That refusal to scream. He takes it as an insult.
A metallic sound rings in the muggy air. Something he picks up, without hurry. Then, the blow. Brutal. An explosion inside your skull. Your head slams against the wall behind you with a dull, animalistic thud. You feel the stone scrape your skin, a hot wetness dripping down your neck—blood, sweat, you can’t tell. Your jaw clenches. You resist the scream, the primal urge to cry out. You give him nothing.
— "I said: still holding on?"
His voice is harder now, clipped. He wants to hear you. Wants you to crack, to beg, to plead. He wants to rip away the last shreds of dignity you still have. Reduce you to flesh, to barely human breath. But you don’t scream.
You hate him too much for that.
Even if your body shakes. Even if you are nothing but pain and vertigo. Even if every nerve in your back screams for it to end. You cling to your silence like a weapon. One of the last things he hasn’t taken from you. A thick silence falls again in the room. Heavy. Viscous. Suffocating. Then he crouches. Slowly. Too slowly. Like a predator approaching a dying prey, not to finish it off, but to watch it suffer from up close.
He’s there, right in front of you. At eye level. And you can feel his breath.
— "You think Stark’s coming, huh?"
He pulls a cigarette from his pocket, rolls it between his fingers like he’s got all the time in the world. Lights it with a lazy, ceremonial gesture. The crackle of tobacco cuts through the silence, a harsh soundbite in this endless night. He takes a long drag. And looks at you. Like he’s already savoring what’s next.
He exhales slowly in your direction, a calculated, calm provocation. It hits your face—thick, acrid, blending with the room’s stench, with sweat, with dried blood. It makes you cough, stings your throat, but you stay silent. Still. Only your gaze locked on him.
— "You think he really cares that much?" The laugh that follows is low, filthy, soaked in that smug contempt that makes you nauseous.
— "You’re no more special than the rest. It’s just a game, kid. He pays. He gets his toy. And he forgets you in a week."
You slowly lift your eyes to him, each blink sending a pulse of pain through your temples. But in your gaze, despite the fever, despite the tremors, there’s something even he can’t stomach. A cold hatred. Silent. Relentless. And he sees it. He feels it. He loves it. His smile stretches. Slowly. Disgustingly. Then, without warning, his expression shifts. Freezes. Closes off. There’s no more amusement in his eyes. Just a primal, instinctive command: strike.
His fist flies before you even have time to see it. It cuts through the air—fast, brutal—and bursts your brow open with a soft, horrible thud. Your head jerks to the side under the impact, slams against the wall. A white light explodes behind your eyelids.
The pain is immediate, explosive, and your vision blurs at once. Blood trickles down your temple in a warm line, sticky and inevitable. You feel it seep into your mouth, metallic, nauseating. You don’t move. Not a cry. Not a word. But it’s your gaze he’s aiming for.
— "Stop looking at me like that."
His voice is harsher. Deeper. A new tension, colder, more direct. Because he knows. He feels that despite everything he’s done to you, he hasn’t broken you. Not completely. And that, he can’t stand.
He grabs your collar with a dry, brutal grip, lifting you a few inches off the ground—just enough for your feet to lose contact before dropping you back down. Your legs buckle instantly, unable to support your weight. You collapse against him like a puppet whose strings were cut, your body heavy, slack. A broken puppet. And he knows it. He sees it. He feeds on it.
— "Still wanna play tough?"
His voice is low, mocking, but he doesn't wait for an answer. Because he knows he's pushed you to the edge. Because he knows that answering means playing his game. And you refuse to give him that. You stay silent, despite the tension in your throat, despite the rotting adrenaline twisting your gut. He sighs—a long, impatient breath, as if your resistance is nothing but an annoying whim.
Then, slowly, like one savoring a meal long prepared, he lifts his hand. The cigarette, still lit, glows between his fingers. He brings it closer to your arm, just above the bruised skin. The heat brushes against you at first, a scorching breath, almost bearable. You tense despite yourself. But you don’t move. You want to believe he’s bluffing. You want to believe he’s only after a reaction, a flicker of panic, a flinch.
But no.
He’s not bluffing. The cigarette presses against your skin with a vile sizzle, the hiss of burning flesh twisting your insides. A wave of raw pain shoots through you, blinding, inhuman. You gasp. You clench your teeth. But no scream comes. Only that awful sensation, that searing burn drilling into your bones, branding itself deep into your flesh. Matthew clenches his jaw, his features tightened with a dull fury he no longer bothers to hide.
— "You’re exhausting, you know that?" His tone is sharp, irritated, but not tired. He still has energy to burn. He just wants it to hurt. He presses the cigarette against your skin again, grinding the ember with a slow, controlled twist—like plunging a blade just for the pleasure of it.
This time, you can’t hold the moan back. It slips out—hoarse, muffled, broken. And he smiles. A satisfied sneer, almost relieved. He got what he wanted. A sign. A crack. He straightens slowly, like he has all the time in the world, like there’s nothing more urgent than watching the damage.
— "You’ve got a few hours left before Stark pays."
His hand drifts lazily across the rotting table until it finds the gun lying there like a stage prop. He picks it up, twirls it between his fingers with the ease of a man who fears nothing. Then, without warning, he points the barrel right at you. Not to shoot. Just to remind you it could happen. That it will happen.
— "If you’re lucky."
And without another word, he turns and walks out, leaving you alone. Alone with the searing pain on your charred skin. Alone with the taste of blood, the gnawing humiliation, and the sticky dread settling in. An anticipation that tastes like nightmares and smells like dried blood.
taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13
if you want to be part of it here
What Remains | Chapter 16 Dragged Back (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
TW : Violence/Physical Assault. Gun Violence.
Summary : Exhausted beyond your limits, you collapse in the middle of a meeting at Stark Tower. Bruce tends to you with calm precision, while Stark masks his worry behind sharp remarks. You're forced to rest, though it feels like failure. Later, you head to the police to report your abuser, hoping for protection — but the system greets you with cold detachment. No help. No real concern. Just a form and vague promises.
word count: 14.6k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
The first sound you perceive isn’t a voice, nor a word — it’s a low, almost organic hum. It pulses against your skull like an underwater current, steady, distant. Everything seems to come through a glass wall, as if the world exists at a distance you’re not yet able to reach. Then, the sounds evolve. At first vague, formless, like echoes distorted by water. Voices.
A conversation, maybe. Fragments of syllables gently bumping against your awareness, not yet forming meaning. Your body, for its part, still refuses to respond. It’s heavy, exhausted, anchored into the mattress as if every bone had been replaced with molten lead. A dull pain stretches across your back, between the shoulder blades, and the arm in the sling is numb, nearly absent. Even breathing requires too much precision, too much consciousness. Then a voice pierces the veil — deep, steady, familiar.
— “Can you hear me?”
You don’t open your eyes yet, but you’d recognize that voice anywhere. Bruce. His calm, his grounded presence, that way he always keeps control. He’s here. Another voice follows — closer, sharper, and far less patient.
— “Great. Of course this had to happen now.”
Tony.
There’s tension in his voice. Not panic, not really. More that typical mix of restrained anger and poorly hidden concern. His very own way of showing he cares without having to say it. It twists something in your chest, but you can’t reach him yet. Not fully. You want to respond. You try. But your lips remain sealed, as if your brain and mouth haven’t reconnected. The world continues on without you for a few more seconds. A cold shiver slowly climbs your spine. It runs through you like a dull wave, waking your nerves one by one. Your mind still floats somewhere between unconsciousness and the surface, halfway through a too-dense dream. But already, the world starts to assert itself, in small strokes.
The floor is cold beneath your palms. A raw, almost aggressive chill, stark against your damp skin. You also feel pressure against your arm — faint but present — a hand, maybe, or some kind of support. Someone caught you. Or softened your fall. Or stopped you from collapsing entirely. The air around you smells metallic, sharper than before, with a trace of ozone, like after an electric discharge. Nothing familiar. You’re not at home. The realization hits you with unpleasant clarity. The Tower. You’re still in Stark Tower.
You try to open your eyes, but your eyelids refuse to budge. As if sewn shut by fatigue, or sealed by fear. Instead, you breathe in — or try to. Your breath is short, choppy, irregular. It struggles to fill your chest, stuck somewhere between anxiety and instinct. A hand settles gently on your wrist. Not abrupt. Just there, measuring. Evaluating. You feel the warm touch of fingers, the light pressure searching for your pulse.
— “Heart rate’s a little high, but it’s stabilizing.”
Banner. His voice reaches you with newfound clarity. Still calm, still that almost detached analytical tone. But not cold. Never cold. Just… measured.
— “Yeah, great, thanks Doctor. And what do we do now?”
Stark. Again. His voice cuts like a short blade — sharp but restrained. No usual theatrics. No sarcasm. No irony. Just a dry tone. Practical. Maybe worried. Maybe… not ready to admit it yet. You remain motionless, caught between two worlds. You know you’ll have to choose. Rise. Respond. Return to your body. But for now, you listen. Silence settles. Dense. Heavy. You can’t see it, but you feel it — that suspended waiting, that frozen moment where everyone holds their breath — as if your stillness sets the tempo of the room. Then a sound of movement, subtle, fabric shifting, a shoe gliding softly across the floor. A presence nears. You don’t know which one, but you feel it looming near your face.
A light tap brushes your cheek. Gentle. Measured. Not a slap — just enough to stir the fog. A physical summons to come back.
— “Come on, kid, back to Earth. I’ve got better things to do.”
That voice is unmistakable. Even without the arrogance, it holds that sharp clarity, that stubborn refusal to let things stay blurry. He doesn’t allow panic. He reshapes it into impatience. You let out a faint groan, barely audible. Your throat is dry, scratchy, as if you’d swallowed dust. Just making a sound pulls a grimace from you. You don’t speak yet. Not sure you can. But the effect is immediate. Something in the air shifts. A slight movement. A breath released somewhere near you. A tension easing by a fraction. Relief. Unspoken. Unshown. But present. Almost tangible.
You feel eyes on you. Not invasive. Just… watchful. Maybe worried. Probably curious. You’re still here. And so are they. You gather what willpower you have left and force your eyelids open. Slowly. The light hits you like a slap — raw, unfiltered, too harsh for your still-numb mind. Your retinas protest, burn, and your pupils contract in a desperate attempt to adapt. The first images are blurry. Shapes, indistinct, sway as if seen through murky water. Then, slowly, the edges begin to sharpen.
You’re lying on the floor, slightly turned to one side. The cold metal seeps through your shirt, climbing up your spine like a wave of ice. Your left arm rests against something soft — a jacket, maybe. Someone broke your fall. Bruce Banner is crouched beside you. His usually serene face is marked by focused worry. Furrowed brows, alert gaze. He doesn’t move abruptly. He’s watching you. Waiting. Just behind him, Tony Stark. Arms crossed, posture rigid in his flawless suit, he glares at you like he’s expecting an explanation for a technical failure. His eyes, dark, are locked on you — but there’s no contempt in them. More like… irritated concern, barely veiled beneath a mask of irony.
— “Did you really have to give us a dramatic collapse right in the middle of a meeting?” he says, brow raised, that familiar bittersweet irony floating in the air like smoke.
You close your eyes briefly, weary. That tone. That pathological need to hide concern behind a well-placed jab. You don’t even have the energy to care. Your body is still too heavy to react, your breathing still too shallow to string together more than two words without exhaustion. But your mind… your mind is starting to return. To piece things together.
You inhale slowly, struggling to order your thoughts, then croak out in a raspy whisper, barely audible:
— “I’m… not dramatic.”
A whisper, hardly more than breath. But enough to crack the silence around you. Banner studies you for a moment longer, his eyes following your breathing, then lets out a light, almost resigned sigh. He turns to Stark, weighing his words before speaking.
— “He’s just pushed his body too far. Sleep deprivation, chronic stress, acute exhaustion… Nothing surprising. But he needs rest. Now.”
His tone is calm, but firm. Final.
— “Well then let him rest,” Stark replies without missing a beat. “Get him a room, shoot him up with whatever it takes to keep him from crashing in the halls, and let’s move on.”
His cynicism rings like a poor defense. Almost automatic. You’re not sure if he talks like that because he doesn’t care, or because he doesn’t know how to care any other way. Maybe both. Banner presses his lips together briefly — a silent tic that says plenty. He doesn’t comment, but the irritation shows in the slight clench of his jaw. Then he turns back to you, voice returning to its usual softness.
— “Can you sit up?”
You take a deep breath, as if probing your body’s state. Every movement seems to demand permission your muscles aren’t ready to give. But the dizziness isn’t as violent, and the floor’s chill is beginning to sink into your skin. You move one arm. Then the other. Your elbows find your knees, and you push yourself up — slowly, onto one elbow, then sitting up. The world tilts for a moment, but you steady yourself, eyes down, breath shallow, trying to find your balance. Your hands tremble slightly. You choose not to focus on it. Pepper is here now. You didn’t hear her arrive, but her presence instantly brings a new tension to the room. She fixes you with that expression she’s perfected — a mix of exasperation, sincere concern, and that fatigue unique to people who’ve given too much without being heard. Her crossed arms speak for her, well before her words.
— “Why am I not even surprised this is happening?”
She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even raise her voice. And yet, you feel almost guiltier than when Stark rants.
— “Because you know him well enough to know he’d crash eventually by ignoring everyone,” Banner replies, using that soft irony he adopts when he’s at his limit but still polite.
You sigh, forehead in your hands, slowly massaging your temples with your fingertips. Your head still hums, like a hive has taken residence inside it, but at least the floor no longer sways beneath you. The peak of discomfort has passed, leaving only a deep, tenacious exhaustion.
— “I’m fine,” you murmur.
And instantly, you feel three incredulous stares converge on you. Three mirrored reactions.
— “Yeah, sure. That’s exactly what guys who just collapsed like lifeless puppets say,” Stark snaps — tone dry, but oddly devoid of mockery. Almost concerned, if you dig a little.
Banner crouches again, eyes searching yours.
— “You need rest. And not a rushed night tossing in a stiff bed, gritting your teeth pretending you’re fine. Real rest. Otherwise, your body will decide for you.”
You don’t respond. You don’t have the strength. Pepper nods decisively, already pulling her phone from her pocket. Her gaze doesn’t leave you.
— “I’ll take care of it. He’s not setting foot in an office today.”
You lift your head, ready to protest, and force your body to follow despite the weariness pinning it down.
— “I still have work to do,” you say, trying to stand, arms trembling under your own weight.
But before you can fully sit up, a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Not rough. Just… unwavering.
— “Yeah, and I’ve got an empire to run. We all make sacrifices.”
You lift your eyes to Stark, who raises a brow, unfazed. Your glare slides over him, but he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even seem annoyed by it. And then, he lowers his voice slightly.
— “Get some rest, kid.”
No sarcasm. No jab. Just a simple sentence, almost gentle, ringing with an unusual sincerity in his voice. And for once, you can tell — he actually means it.
You don’t quite know how you got here. The trip is blurry, erased by a fog your mind still refuses to lift. Everything seems to have played out without you, as if your body had been moved on autopilot while your consciousness drifted elsewhere.
Now, all that remains is the mattress beneath your back — warm, slightly dented where your weight sinks in. The quiet hum of the ventilation system fills the air, steady, almost soothing, but it doesn’t erase the heavier sensation pressing on your chest like a concrete block. You’re in your room. The one in Stark Tower.
The light, soft and diffused, paints the walls in an amber halo, unreal. For a second, you wonder if you’re still dreaming. The room feels suspended outside of the world, as if time itself decided to give you a break, for once. The dizziness is gone. But your body feels numb, drained, like it used up every ounce of energy just standing upright too long. You inhale slowly. A sigh escapes before you even choose to let it. Your throat is dry, scratchy. Even breathing feels like work. You stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open, but your mind is somewhere else.
It pisses you off.
Not explosively, not with boiling anger — no, it’s more insidious. A dull disappointment, wedged into your chest like a splinter you can’t pull out. You should have been in the meeting right now, seated around that big table, defending your project, proving — again — that you deserve to be here. Showing that you’re not just another kid Stark scooped up on a whim. But no. Instead, you’re here. Lying down. Pinned to bed like dead weight, unable to do anything but stare at the damn ceiling, feeling useless.
You turn your head slightly. The movement pulls a groan from you due to the tension in your neck, but you push through. And then you see it: a bottle of water, placed within arm’s reach on the nightstand. An ordinary object. Transparent, simple. And yet, it hits you like a dissonant detail. Because you didn’t put it there. A frown forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drifts toward the desk. And you notice something else. A touchscreen lies on the edge, still lit, as if it’s waiting for you. You sit up slightly — just enough to see better — and discover the interface open on the morning’s meeting notes. Everything’s there. Precise, clear. Annotated line by line in that cold, structured handwriting you could recognize anywhere.
You don’t need to think long to guess who it’s from.
An irritated sigh slips from you, sharp, more anxious than anything. Your hand trembles slightly as you reach for the screen. Fatigue still stiffens your movements, but you refuse to give in. The device slides into your palm with a soft click, and you scroll with blurred eyes, trying to piece things together. The notes scroll by. Clear, concise. Line after line, key points appear. Technical adjustments, comments on ongoing projects, decisions you should’ve heard with your own ears. Phrases you should’ve defended, corrected, approved. But you weren’t there.
Your absence echoes in your head like a reprimand. Not a casual absence — a collapse, mid-meeting. In front of everyone. And of course, your mind gives you the image instantly: Stark, sitting in his chair, one hand on his chin, the other tapping against the table. His cold gaze likely scanned the room, then he rolled his eyes. You can almost hear it — that slightly dragging voice, mockingly weary: "Can someone pick up the intern before he bleeds all over the cables? Thanks." Your stomach tightens.
He must see you as a burden. More than ever now. Before, at least you could hide behind frantic productivity. Now? Now, you’ve proven even your own body can’t keep up. That you’re not strong enough, not sturdy enough. That even staying conscious through a damn meeting is too much. A muted anger builds in you. It grabs your throat — acidic, seething. At your own body, too weak, too slow. At this sticky exhaustion clinging to you like a goddamn shadow you can’t shake. You want to scream, hit something, anything — but even that, your body won’t let you do anymore. Then, a noise. Three knocks. Sharp. Neither hesitant nor polite. Just firm enough to signal that the person on the other side doesn’t for a second expect you to say no. You don’t even have time to answer. The handle turns. The door opens.
Stark.
He walks in like he owns the place. Because in a way, he does. A coffee cup in one hand, the other stuffed into his pants pocket. His eyes sweep the room — the water bottle, the still-active screen in your hands. Then his gaze meets yours. No visible concern. No “are you okay?” No preamble. Just that perfectly neutral expression, controlled, like he’s analyzing a slightly defective technical panel.
— "You look great."
The tone is almost light. But not quite. A disguised jab, barely wrapped in irony. Classic. He doesn’t wait. He crosses the room, sets his coffee on the desk with clinical precision, and drops into the armchair like he’s walking into a board meeting — not your bedroom. No further words. No permission asked. As always. You stare at him for a second, saying nothing. Just watching, trying to guess what he came here for. But his face stays unreadable, locked down. Finally, you drop your gaze to the screen still in your hands.
— "I see I still got the summary."
— "Guess you’re one of the lucky ones."
His tone is light. Too light. Like a velvet glove over steel. Beneath the sarcasm, you sense the evaluation. The test. He’s not just checking if you can sit upright — he’s watching how you take it. How you react. You slowly set the screen on the table, cross your arms, wear a tired frown.
— "I suppose you’re here to tell me how pathetic it was to collapse in front of everyone."
One eyebrow lifts. He grabs his coffee with almost insolent calm before replying:
— "Oh, believe me, it was a deeply moving moment. I almost shed a tear."
You roll your eyes, drained. But you know he’s not done.
— "But no, not really."
He takes a sip, savoring it like he’s got all the time in the world. Then he sets the cup down slowly, fingers drumming softly on the armrest.
— "I just wanted to see if you were going to give us another dramatic performance or if you could finally sit still for more than ten minutes."
You clench your jaw. You sense the trap, the subtle provocation. But you refuse to bite. Not this time. Stark doesn’t waste time. He didn’t come here for small talk. And you know damn well — if he came all the way to your room, he has something in mind. He watches you like he did in the meeting room. That same piercing, analytical, unforgiving stare. He’s not trying to be comforting — he never is. Just trying to see if you’re still standing or about to crumble again under the pressure.
— "You’ve gone past your limits before, but this time… you full-on crashed mid-flight. And guess what? That’s not a win."
You barely nod, then let out, more sharply than you intended:
— "I know."
He doesn’t react to your tone. Not this time. Maybe he expected worse.
— "Do you? Because so far, your only reaction is getting defensive. Like this is all somehow my fault."
You take a deep breath. The kind you take to keep from breaking — or exploding. You look away, toward the window, where daylight still wrestles with the haze.
— "I just wanted to do my job."
— "Yeah. And you ended up flat on the floor. Great productivity."
The silence that follows isn’t harsh. It settles in gently, like extra weight on your chest. Not crushing, but enough to feel. Neither hostile nor soothing. Just… real. Stark crosses his arms, sizing you up without flinching. His eyes — dark but sharp — study you like a machine that was supposed to work fine, but showed an unexpected fault. Then, his voice drops, steadier, deeper.
— "Let me be clear: I don’t need an employee who collapses mid-meeting."
You brace for the sarcasm. The sharp jab. But it doesn’t come.
— "But I need even less of an idiot who thinks he can work like a machine when he’s one step away from dropping dead."
You grit your teeth. It’s harsh, blunt. But there’s no venom this time. Just a cold truth. The kind you can’t throw back in someone’s face.
— "Keep going like this, and it won’t just be a faint. And I’m not in the mood to deal with an employee who self-destructs on my watch."
He stands, grabs his coffee off the table. Movements calm, almost mechanical — like closing out an unpleasant file. He heads to the door, and you already know the conversation’s ending. But just before leaving, he pauses. Turns his head slightly, catching your eye.
— "You’ve got 24 hours. Use them. Sleep. Breathe. Do whatever you want. But if you show up tomorrow still looking like the walking dead, I’m kicking you out of my office before you even step in."
The handle turns under his fingers. He’s ready to vanish, like he always does. But something twists in your gut. You could stay silent. Let this scene become another bitter, hazy memory. But no. Your voice leaves your mouth before you really decide to speak.
— "Thanks."
Just one word. Barely a breath. But it echoes loud, even in your own head. Stark stops dead. His back tenses, barely noticeable. The stiffness in his neck betrays surprise he won’t show. He doesn’t turn immediately. You feel time pause for half a second, just long enough to sense that something’s happening behind his stillness. He’s thinking. Weighing the weight of what you just said, deciding whether to ignore it or respond. Then he turns slightly, just enough to glance back at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
— "For what exactly?"
You take a second before replying. You focus on a blurry spot between him and the wall, unable to meet that gaze too long.
— "I don’t know. For coming. For giving me the notes. For not telling everyone I’m a fucking burden."
Silence. Dense. Uncomfortable. You expect a mocking laugh. A sharp retort. That classic way he has of defusing emotion with sarcasm. But it doesn’t come. He watches you a moment longer. And for once, he doesn’t try to dominate the exchange. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t judge. He just sighs. A short, tired breath. Shakes his head slightly, almost with a resignation that’s not aggressive. Then, in a flatter tone than usual, he says:
— "Yeah. Don’t get used to it, kid."
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. But he doesn’t need to. And this time, without hesitation, he opens the door and leaves the room without looking back, leaving you alone with a strange sensation in your chest — a mix of discomfort, relief, and something else, murkier. Maybe, just maybe, the first real sign that he sees you. The door closes with a dull, muffled sound, absorbed by the thick walls and returning silence. You stay there, motionless, eyes fixed on the exact spot where he stood moments ago. The empty chair, the table where his coffee still sits lukewarm, the long shadows of day’s end slowly sliding across the walls.
A sigh slips from you before you even notice. And somewhere inside, a tension fades. An invisible tightness — maybe old — that you hadn’t even noticed until now. As if, for a moment, something had shifted. Just a millimeter. But enough to let you breathe a little easier. Maybe he does see you as a burden. Maybe he doesn’t know how to handle what you’re going through. But he came. He talked to you. He saw you. And maybe… just maybe… it’s not as hopeless as you thought.
Stark walks the corridors with a measured pace, his coffee still warm in hand. At this hour, the Tower is calm—almost too calm. The familiar sounds—quiet ventilation, fabric rustling, the soft click of automatic doors—fade into the background. His mind, however, is elsewhere.
Usually, he’d categorize this kind of conversation as a minor incident. An insignificant detour in an overly long, overly full day. A scene with no consequence, to be filed away with the hundreds of other interactions he has every week.
But this time… there’s a grain of sand. Something’s bothering him. A low, persistent tension he can’t shake. And it’s not you. It’s him. Why did he even bother to come see you? Why does it bug him that you collapsed in the middle of a meeting? He could’ve let Banner handle it, as usual. He could’ve ignored your state, waited for your return, reviewed your work with a clear head. That’s what he does with others. Delegate. Stay distant. Be Tony Stark. But this time, he moved. Climbed the stairs, opened the door, spoke actual words. And even if most of them were coated in a thick layer of sarcasm… they were real. And he doesn’t like that.
He observed you. More than he would admit. He saw the dark circles, the tremble in your fingers, the way you held yourself too straight, as if tension alone kept you standing. He noted every warning sign, every supposedly insignificant detail that should’ve led him to simply fire you for built-in burnout. And yet, he didn’t.
Yes, he gave you an ultimatum—brutal, direct, as always—but not because he needed to. Not because you were essential. Because, somehow, your recovery mattered. As if your balance somehow belonged to him. As if your collapse had, in his eyes, become a problem to solve. And that… that irritates him deeply. He pushes open his office door with a brisk motion, walks in without slowing, and drops into his leather chair as if he just crossed a minefield. He runs a hand through his hair, leans back, closes his eyes for a moment.
Is he overdoing it? That’s not like him. He’s not the type to dwell, even less on emotional nonsense. Normally, he lets the weak ones fall. Natural selection, ruthless efficiency. You keep up or fall behind. You work, or you’re out. End of story. So why is he still thinking about this? But this time…
He reopens his eyes and scans the room, searching for a distraction. An escape. Anything to silence the noise inside. His desk is like always: impeccably organized. Too much so, maybe. The screens scroll silently, displaying performance reports, AI simulations, financial projections. Numbers, graphs, algorithms. Tangible. Predictable. He could dive in. Forget. Regain control. But his eyes slide over the data without really seeing it. Because, despite himself, he’s still thinking about you. Your collapsed silhouette on the floor. Your ragged breath. That whispered “thank you” pulled from your lips like an apology for existing. And that pisses him off. Not because it’s weakness. Because it got to him. Because it lodged somewhere between his ribs, a tiny detail far too human to simply erase.
After your collapse, your phone had slipped from your pocket—or maybe you dropped it as your body gave up. Stark picked it up silently, placed it on your desk like an object of no importance. But now, it vibrates. Once. Then again. Then again. Insistent. Aggressive. The sound isn’t loud, but in the tense calm of his office, it hits like a hammer. A provocation. A sonic assault disguised as a call. And on the screen, a name Stark doesn’t even need to read twice.
Matthew.
Again. And again. That name flashing, returning, imposing itself. Like an alarm. Like a tick refusing to let go. Stark doesn’t touch the phone. He could. He could pick up, toss a sharp remark, deliver a crisp warning. But he remains still, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the screen like he could make it explode by sheer will. He doesn’t need to dig deeper. He knows this type of guy. The persistence, the repeated calls, the silence between attempts. It’s a pattern. Clear. Violent in its predictability. A friend sends a message. A stranger leaves a voicemail. A manipulator keeps calling until someone breaks. But Stark has never caved to that kind of pressure. And he has no intention of letting you cave either. He hates it. The vibrating, that name flashing like a parasite—and most of all, what it stirs. Because despite himself, memories surge. Not vague. Not blurry. Precise, photographic.
That night. Stark remembers everything. Not distant. Not vague—clear. Too clear. Like someone pressed “play” inside his skull.
You stepped out of the building, slightly drunk, shoulders low but smiling—still caught in the afterglow of a good night. He’d kept an eye on you. Discreetly. Silently. Because he knew. He saw your fatigue, knew you were standing more from pride than strength. That sometimes, you lose yourself in a semblance of normal just to forget how much it burns underneath. He could’ve let you walk alone. Tossed a “Good night” and gone back to his own life. But he didn’t. He offered to walk you back. A simple reflex, he thought. A precaution. A nearly banal gesture. But in truth, it was more than that. Because Matthew was waiting for you. Not a coincidence. Not bad timing in a big city. No. It was planned. Cold. Calculated. He’d picked that exact moment. He knew you’d be there, at that hour, in that state. And Stark remembers it all, with unbearable clarity.
Your step slowing as you neared the car. Your gaze freezing a second too long. That shiver you didn’t have time to name. You sensed something. A gut twist, a lurch in your stomach. And Stark saw it. Saw your body stiffen, your breath falter for a second. Then chaos. Matthew emerging from the dark, gripping your arm with brutal force. You, surprised, unbalanced, dragged into a narrow alley like a puppet. Alcohol dulled your reflexes. Your body lagged. And then the violence. Your back slamming against the ground. The sharp echo of impact on concrete. Your cry—brief, strangled—almost immediately cut off. The wrist giving out under your own weight, twisted at an angle Stark will never forget. And the knife. That fucking knife. Metal gleaming under a flickering streetlight. Not just a prop. A real threat. Alive. Humming in the night air. Stark remembers Matthew’s voice. Smug. Falsely calm. Drenched in that dangerous arrogance of someone who thinks they’re untouchable. Who knows just how far to go… or maybe hopes to go too far.
He remembers himself accelerating, fists clenched. His voice cutting through faster than his steps. And your face. Not just the pain. Not just humiliation. Fear. Raw. Guttural. Unjust. And that—that—enraged him. More than anything else. Because a lost kid battling himself? Stark can handle that. But a look like that—he’s never been able to stomach it. Not in a kid he pulled from the dirt by the strength of his talent, who’s only just started to get back on his feet. He clenches his jaw.
The phone rings again. Vibrates again. Loud in the stillness of his office. Stark closes his eyes briefly, rubs a hand across his face, weary and frustrated. The coffee in his hand is lukewarm, forgotten. He casts a dark glare at the screen, at that name repeating endlessly. Why now? Why again? That guy should’ve vanished after that night. Should’ve understood. Better yet—he should’ve disappeared. Faded like the parasites do when you crush them. But no. He’s still here. Persistent. Insistent. A damn splinter under the skin.
Stark clenches his jaw. He knows he shouldn’t get involved. It’s not his place. Not his problem. You’re an adult. You should handle your own shit. But there’s that instinct. That goddamn instinct. The one that never fails him. And this vibration—again. That name—again. Like a direct provocation. He hasn’t forgotten that night. The knife. The alley. The fear in your eyes. That wasn’t a meltdown. It wasn’t a mistake. It was a warning. A clear threat. And now, that threat is back—banging at the door like nothing ever happened. Stark doesn’t believe in coincidences. He doesn’t like lingering threats. And he hates guys who haunt his projects like badly buried demons. Another vibration. His gaze sharpens, blade-like. He knows he should let go. Let you handle it.
But he doesn’t.
He grabs the phone in one swift motion, lifts it, stares at it for one last second. The screen glows—provocative. Matthew. And without a word, he answers. He slowly raises the phone to his ear. Says nothing. Not yet. He lets the silence settle—heavy, deliberate. Like a suspended threat. Not a sound. Just the quiet hum of the open line, then… a breath. Slightly too loud. Like someone preparing to play a role.
— “Finally.”
Matthew’s voice cuts in—drawling, falsely bored, oozing fake irritation. As if he’s the one being kept waiting. As if he’s the victim of this silence.
— “I was starting to think you’d never answer, you little shit.”
A faint smile flickers across Stark’s lips. He lets a single, frozen word fall.
— “Surprise.”
And the silence that follows is much heavier than the last. Almost tangible. Matthew wasn’t expecting that. He expected your voice. Your shaky breath. Your hesitation. Not Stark. Not a wall.
— “Who the hell are you?” he finally mutters, suspicion leaking through a tone trying hard to stay confident.
— “Too late to ask questions.”
Stark leans back slowly into his chair, one elbow on the armrest, the other hand still resting on the forgotten cup. His voice is calm, precise as always — but each word is a blade.
— “You call too often for someone who doesn’t know who they’re talking to.”
Silence. Then a dry, nervous chuckle. Matthew tries to recover, or at least pretend he has.
— “So what, he gave you his phone now? Can’t answer by himself anymore?” His voice drips with disdain, every word trailing with fake lightness. He pauses, then adds, mockingly:
— “What are you, Stark — his babysitter?”
Tony’s jaw clenches just a touch, but his voice doesn’t budge.
— “Listen carefully, asshole.”
No yelling. No shouted threats. Just cold, surgical calm. The kind of tone that shuts the loudest mouths. And Matthew, for once, falls quiet.
— “I already warned you last time. Very clearly. But since you seem to have a memory as full of holes as your ego, I’ll say it again. One last time.”
A pause follows, heavy as lead.
— “You’re going to hang up this phone. You’re going to do it now. And you’re going to forget he exists. You’re going to erase him from your pathetic excuse of a life.”
On the other end, a scoff. Matthew tries to gather his nerve again.
— “You’re funny, Stark. You think you scare me?”
Wrong move. Stark doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even blink.
— “No.”
He tilts his head slightly, voice dropping to a near whisper.
— “But you should.”
Silence. Not a word. Not a breath. Stark stares at the black screen of the phone like he can see right through it. He knows guys like this. The ones who bark to feel bigger. Who think they win by making someone else their target. But they always forget one fundamental truth: He’s faced gods. Monsters. Beings that would’ve reduced this parasite to dust without noticing. And he survived. So no, Matthew doesn’t scare him. But Stark? Stark knows exactly how to terrify rats like him. He leans forward slightly, elbow resting slowly on the desk. His voice becomes even lower, denser, a whisper — but one that cuts straight through any pretense.
— “Let me tell you something, Matthew.”
A pause. Brief but loaded.
— “You already fucked up once. And I was there. I saw what you were willing to do.”
On the other end, Matthew’s breath shifts. Slower. More cautious. A reflex he doesn’t even realize.
— “How do you think it’ll go if you try again?”
The silence stretches — tense like a wire ready to snap. Then Matthew’s voice returns, sharper, but less certain.
— “That’s between me and him.”
A pathetic attempt to regain control. Stark rolls his eyes, lips curling in something close to amused disgust.
— “No, it was. Until you tried to put a knife to his throat.”
He straightens a bit, leaning back again into his chair.
— “You lost that right the day you laid a hand on him. There is no ‘you and him.’”
Each word lands with clinical precision.
— “You. Leave. Him. Alone.”
The silence that follows is glacial. Not a single breath. Just that suspended threat in the air. Stark doesn’t blink. He waits. Then comes a reply. But Matthew’s voice is different now. Lower. Less steady. A last-ditch effort to save face, clinging to whatever control he still believes he has.
— “You might have money, Stark. Power, too.”
A pause. Not theatrical — hesitant.
— “But even you… you can’t control everything.”
Stark doesn’t move a muscle.
— “Try me.”
His voice is quieter than ever. Razor-sharp.
— “And you’ll see what I can control.”
The silence that follows is final. Irreversible. A point of no return. Matthew doesn’t reply immediately. But Stark doesn’t need to hear it to know. He knows what that kind of silence means. Matthew understood. Too late, maybe. But he understood. He thought he could provoke. Intimidate. Gain ground. But now, he’s hit a wall. And he feels it.
— “You’re making a big mistake, Stark.”
A dry, humorless smile twitches at Tony’s mouth.
— “Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you.”
One last pause. Almost resigned. Then the short, sharp click of the call ending. Stark stares at the screen for another second, expression unreadable. No satisfaction. No visible anger. But in his eyes, a darkness that says everything. He slowly places the phone back on the desk, like defusing a ticking bomb. His finger taps the polished wood in an irregular rhythm — a tell of the storm brewing under the surface.
Matthew isn’t stupid.
He knows when he’s lost ground. And if he kept calling this much, it wasn’t panic. It wasn’t desperation. It was strategy. Calculated. He wants something. And with that kind of guy, it’s never a fucking good thing. Stark lets out a sharp sigh, wipes a hand down his face. His eyes remain locked on the phone — still now, but heavy with tension.
He finally sits upright, his back cracking faintly as he moves. His mind already shifts to what’s next. Security. Blind spots. Weak links. He hates this. That diffuse feeling, that gut instinct squeezing tight. But he’s learned to listen to it. Because he feels it. This isn’t over. And next time, it won’t just be a call.
You step out of your room without a sound, closing the door behind you like someone sealing a chapter they have no desire to reread. The hallway air feels fresher, lighter than the air in your room. You’re supposed to be resting, obediently following orders, but lying still, doing nothing, makes you feel like you’re rotting from the inside. It eats at you. You spiral inside your own head, and that’s worse than any fainting spell. Your body is still numb, each step slowly waking muscles stiffened by fatigue and stillness. But you’re on your feet. And for now, that’s enough.
The Tower’s hallways are quiet, bathed in that soft, dim light that makes time feel suspended. A pause in the world, almost too calm to be real. Your footsteps echo faintly on the shiny floor, steady and discreet, like you’re afraid of disturbing the fragile balance. You inhale slowly. The pressure in your chest is still there, subtle, like the remnants of an undigested nightmare. But it no longer crushes everything. You’re moving forward. That’s already something. As you pass an adjacent hallway, a glow catches your eye. Faint, but persistent. Light filters from under the door of the break room, along with the quiet murmur of voices. Not a lively conversation — just the calm breath of a gentle exchange, almost confidential.
Drawn by a mix of curiosity and an instinctive need not to return to the silence of your room, you approach. As you pass the doorway, your eyes immediately catch the two figures sitting by the counter. Pepper and Banner. Still in the moment, like a quiet painting in the middle of the Tower’s invisible turmoil.
Pepper, impeccable as always, is leaning slightly forward, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. Her face holds that soft form of concentration — the one she wears when she’s thinking of ten things at once. Banner looks more relaxed, slouched comfortably in his chair, an elbow resting on the table. He seems at ease, but his eyes lift toward you the moment you enter. Sharp. Present. Like he was waiting for you. Pepper is the first to look up.
— “You should be in bed.”
Her voice is calm, almost too calm. No direct reproach, but her gaze doesn’t let go. Piercing. Precise. She evaluates you in a single glance, like she’s waiting for you to collapse again at any moment. You shrug slightly as you move further into the room.
— “I just needed to stretch my legs. No need to call a crisis committee.”
Banner watches you in silence. His fingers gently graze the edge of his mug — a small tic that betrays his focus. He doesn’t speak right away, but you feel his eyes on you. Not intrusive, not suspicious… just attentive. A doctor, before anything else. Pepper folds her arms in that way that says everything.
— “Tony gave you twenty-four hours. That means rest. Not a guided tour of the Tower like nothing happened.”
You sigh slowly, leaning back against the counter, letting the cold surface meet your spine. A small gesture, but it reveals more exhaustion than you’d like to admit.
— “I’m fine.”
The phrase rings hollow, automatic. You know it. So do they. Banner lets out a short laugh — not mocking, but not indulgent either. He shakes his head slightly, looking vaguely amused, vaguely tired.
— “Of course. People who pass out in the middle of meetings always bounce back perfectly in three hours. Everyone knows that.”
You give him a tired look, without real hostility. He doesn’t press. That’s not his style. He just shrugs slightly and takes a slow sip of his coffee before setting the cup down with measured calm, almost meditative. The silence that follows is brief, not heavy, but loaded with unspoken meaning. You can feel they’re waiting for something more honest from you. For you to drop the act — just for a second. But you’re not ready yet. Pepper sighs softly, picking up her cup and slowly rotating it between her palms, eyes lowered as if searching for words in the bottom of the coffee.
— “You know you don’t have anything to prove to anyone, right?”
Her voice has shifted. No longer all order and structure. It’s calm, almost gentle. It catches you off guard. You lift your eyes to her, a little confused. She doesn’t look away.
— “You work hard, we know that. Tony knows it too, even if he’s incapable of saying it without throwing barbs. But if you collapse in the middle of a project, you’ll be far more useless than if you’d just taken the time to recover properly.”
You don’t know what to say. The words stick in your throat. Because deep down, you know. They’re right. But it doesn’t change that feeling stuck to your skin — that idea that if you stop, even for a second, everything will fall apart. That if you ease up, you’ll slip away from yourself. Become invisible again. Become that burden no one wants to carry. But here, in the break room’s dim light, their eyes on you don’t carry the weight of a burden. Not today. You can’t help the slow frustration bubbling up from your stomach — a wave of helplessness you can’t suppress.
— “It was a damn important meeting.”
Your voice is just a hoarse murmur, muffled, but clear enough to draw reaction. Banner nods gently, elbows on the table, hands folded like he’s giving you space to hear yourself.
— “Yeah, that’s true,” he says without downplaying it. “But believe me, Stark handled it. He’s a pain in the ass, but he knows what he’s doing in a meeting room. He covered for you.”
You let out a joyless smile — dry, bitter.
— “Yeah… except when it comes to his own health.”
A brief silence. Then a quiet, sincere laugh escapes Pepper’s lips.
— “Touché.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it hums with things unspoken. A kind of quiet understanding. A discreet complicity, woven in the margins of chaos. You’re not the only one who pushes too hard, burns your wings just trying to stay airborne. You hesitate. The question burns on your lips, but you’re afraid of the answer. Still, you ask it — voice lower, as if that might soften the blow:
— “Did he say anything after the meeting?”
Pepper and Banner exchange a quick look. The kind that says everything. Banner is the one who finally speaks, voice measured but direct:
— “He took your phone.”
Your heart skips a beat. A flash of panic shoots through your chest. You sit up straight, eyes locked on him.
— “What?”
Pepper slowly sets down her mug, her expression more serious now. Almost sorry.
— “You’d left it on the floor. And… let’s just say it got a few calls.”
A cold knot forms in your stomach, thick and viscous, tightening steadily.
— “Who?” you ask, though you already know. You can feel it in their silence. In the tension in the air.
Banner meets your eyes. Doesn’t look away. His voice is calm. Steady. But the words hit like a slap of ice.
— “A guy named Matthew.”
All the air leaves the room. Your blood turns cold.
— “Shit.”
The word escapes in a raspy breath, nearly strangled. Your heart races, breath growing short, erratic. A jolt of adrenaline climbs your spine like an alarm your body can’t shut off. Pepper notices immediately. Her gaze sharpens, anchoring. She doesn’t panic, but her eyes stay alert, ready to move if you falter.
— “Stark picked up,” Banner adds, still calm, but eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for the storm.
You run a shaky hand down your face, trying to push the panic back down. Your jaw tightens. Every muscle in your neck is coiled tight.
— “And?”
One word. Short. Sharp. Like a command you didn’t mean to give. Another glance between them. It infuriates you. Like they think you’re too fragile to hear what really happened. This time, it’s Pepper who speaks.
— “We don’t know exactly what was said. Stark walked out of his office with that look…”
She pauses, searching for the right phrase. Something a little more diplomatic.
— “…the one he gets when someone just signed their death warrant.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose between two fingers, trying to calm the dull ache pulsing through your skull.
— “Fucking hell…”
You can’t even think clearly. A brief dizziness. Real fear grabs you this time — not for yourself, but for what it means. For what Stark might do. For what Matthew might dare in return. The silence falls again. Heavy. Almost electric. And you understand, without being told, that something just shifted. Banner slowly straightens, resting his elbows on the table in a measured motion. His usually calm gaze sharpens.
— “Who is this guy?”
The question is simple, but it pins you in place. You breathe in deep, eyes locking on a random spot on the counter, like an answer might be etched in the wood grain. Your pulse is still hammering in your temples. You could dodge. Downplay. Pretend it’s nothing. But not anymore. Not after this. Stark knows. And if he knows, then the story’s already surfacing. You slowly lift your head, locking eyes with Banner. Steady. Unflinching.
— “He’s a mistake from the past.”
Your voice is low, frayed at the edges. Every word heavy, soaked in bitterness, anger, shame. You could stop there. But something inside refuses.
— “And if Stark answered… it means that mistake is coming back.”
The silence that follows is too full. So you stand, a little too abruptly. Your chair scrapes against the floor, but you don’t care. Your body still protests, dulled by exhaustion, but your mind is on high alert. You walk out of the break room, your footsteps echoing down the hallway. The conversation with Pepper and Banner loops in your head. Matthew called. Stark answered. And now, you need to know. You need to know what was said. You need to know how far this will go.
The Tower's hallways feel colder than usual. Not in temperature — in atmosphere. As if every corner were holding its breath. Maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s just your own heart beating too fast, your thoughts racing too far, too fast. But you can feel it: something has changed. You walk briskly, almost without realizing it, as if your body had taken over for your mind. The regular echo of your steps on the polished floor sounds strange, amplifying the dull sense of urgency in your chest.
Matthew. He never let go. He never really disappeared. And now, he’s back in the picture. Lurking on the edges, insistent, insidious. If Stark answered... it means the shadow has drawn closer. You arrive at his office almost automatically. You’re not aware of the distance covered, only of the door in front of you, closed, unmoving. It feels more imposing than it should.
You raise your hand and knock. Once. Then again. No answer. You hold your breath, listen carefully. No sound inside. Nothing distinct. But you know. You feel his presence behind the wall. This silence isn’t empty. It’s loaded. Stark is there. And you have no intention of leaving without talking to him. So you open the door.
It opens slowly, without creaking, but the soft whoosh of displaced air sounds louder than expected. The room is shrouded in semi-darkness. A bluish glow from the screens cuts the space into cold, almost unreal tones. The reflections dance across the metallic surfaces, giving the office the look of a cockpit suspended in space. Stark is there. Still. Seated in his chair, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen in front of him. He doesn’t look up. Not right away. But you know he heard you. You feel the tension in the room, palpable, suspended between you like a live wire ready to snap. You remain there, standing in the doorway, half-lit by the hallway, half-swallowed by the room’s shadows. Your heart beats faster than you’d like to admit.
He says nothing. And you don’t move yet. You stand there for a few seconds, frozen on the threshold, the weight of uncertainty lodged in your chest. You don’t know if you should step forward or retreat. Speak or stay silent. But your eyes drift toward the desk, despite yourself. And you see it. Your phone. Lying just beside him. Like a silent reminder. He didn’t give it back. He kept it. Your heart skips a beat — imperceptible, but enough to twist your stomach. Finally, Stark breaks the silence. His voice is calm. Too calm. No sarcasm. No arrogance. Just calculated neutrality.
— "You should be in bed, kid."
You don’t answer that. You don’t even look away from the phone.
— "You answered the call."
It’s not a question. You already know. It’s a bare truth, laid bare between you like a freshly drawn blade. This time, he finally looks up at you. And what you see in his eyes stops you cold. No mockery. Not even his usual annoyed half-smile. Just a cold sharpness. Precise. Measured.
— "Yeah."
One word. Dry. Brutal. Your breath shortens, as if an invisible hand had suddenly closed around your throat.
— "What did he say to you?"
Stark doesn’t answer right away. He picks up your phone between his fingers, turns it slowly on itself, using just his index. A seemingly idle gesture, but heavy with tension. He taps it once against the desk. Then again. As if weighing every syllable to come. Finally, he sets the device down with deliberate slowness, leans back into his chair, and says:
— "Nothing smart."
You feel your jaw clench.
— "Stark."
One word, but it holds everything you’re not saying. The fear. The anger. The helplessness. He holds your gaze for a moment, then sighs, both weary and sharp. He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to chase off a migraine, or a thought too stubborn.
— "That guy still thinks he can wear you down. That he can circle around without anyone saying a word. And clearly... he hasn’t been hit hard enough yet to get the message."
You inhale, but the air gets stuck somewhere between your throat and chest. A dull pressure settles — the kind that makes your whole body go rigid in one go. You knew it, deep down. You knew Matthew wasn’t done. But now that Stark confirms it, it’s like everything becomes real all at once. Definitively real.
— "Did he threaten anything?"
A pause. Just long enough for your heart to pound louder. Then Stark’s voice. Still calm. Too calm.
— "He just tried to play tough. Told me even I couldn’t control everything."
You inhale too sharply. Your back curls slightly under the rising pressure. You lean on the desk edge like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
— "Fuck..."
Your hand nervously scrapes your face, trying to wipe away something you couldn’t even name. Shame, maybe. Fear. The exhaustion of constantly being on alert. Stark watches you. He doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze clinging to every gesture — every jaw twitch, every micro tremor in your fingers on the desk. When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Not out of softness — out of precision. A blade held close to the throat.
— "Why does that guy still think he has the right to get near you?"
You raise your head abruptly. His gaze doesn’t let go.
— "Because Matthew’s a fucking bastard." Your voice barely shakes, but it’s enough. "A parasite. He can’t stand losing. He always needs the last word. Always. Even if it means coming back months later, just to... to dirty what’s left."
Your fists close on the edge of the desk. You don’t even know anymore if it’s rage or fear coursing through you. Probably both. Stark doesn’t respond right away. But he watches you. And in that silence, you realize something: he doesn’t just see a messed-up kid on the verge of cracking. He sees a battlefield. And he’s already calculating the best way to neutralize the threat. Then he slowly nods, as if he’s just made a decision that leaves no room for argument.
— "Alright."
You narrow your eyes slightly, wary.
— "Alright what?"
He grabs his coffee, takes a sip, unhurried. The gesture is too calm not to be deliberate. He sets the cup down on the desk with almost clinical precision before lifting his eyes to you.
— "Alright, we’ll deal with it."
You stare at him, a heartbeat behind.
— "What do you mean, we?"
He smirks — the one you’re starting to recognize. The one that never reaches his eyes. And this time again, his gaze remains perfectly impassive.
— "I warned him once. That bastard’s trying again. So now, it’s my problem too."
You feel your breath catch for a second. A strange, almost unreal tension settles in the space between you. You should say something. Protest. Take back control.
— "Stark, this isn’t... this isn’t your role."
But your voice lacks conviction. Because deep down, you know you’re at your limit. This isn’t about pride or dignity. Handling this alone would mean walking right back into the lion’s den. And he saw it. He saw you collapse. Fall. He heard the voice of the one who broke you, and now, he’s decided enough is enough. You want to argue. Really. But you lower your eyes. Because part of you — tiny and broken — exhales in relief. And Stark too. He hasn’t looked away since you walked through that damn door. His gaze is still piercing, still inquisitive, as if trying to read between the lines of your gestures, your voice, everything you’re still refusing to say.
He crosses his arms slowly, a nervous tic briefly tightening his jaw. You see it. He’s irritated. Not because you’re here, but because this problem — this guy, this mess, you — has come back to screw up his radar. And now it’s spilling into his space. Into his business. You sigh deeply, running a hand down your face. The fatigue settles again on your shoulders, no longer physical. You’re tired of having to explain. Tired of the past grabbing you by the collar to remind you it’s not done with you. And seeing Stark involved — concerned, implicated, ready to take it personally — just adds another layer of tension. Like your chaos might infect the fragile balance you were barely starting to build.
So you breathe, the words burning on your tongue.
— "Fine. I’ll go to the police if that’s what you want."
You finally look him in the eye, trying to keep your tone neutral, controlled.
— "But don’t make this personal, Boss."
You reach for the desk, for your phone still lying there, between you like a piece of evidence.
— "And give me back my phone."
Your voice is sharper than you meant, and you regret it instantly. But you can’t help it. The fear, the exhaustion, the maddening feeling of losing control of your own life. You want to at least keep that. That damn phone that, despite everything, still belongs to you. You extend your hand toward the phone, still within reach, like a small gesture of reclaiming control. But Stark doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift a finger. He just watches you, elbows resting on the chair’s arms, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s trying to read a lie you won’t admit. Then slowly, he raises his eyes to yours. And when he speaks, his voice is low, steady — but each word cuts deep.
— "You think the police will get you out of this mess?"
You clench your teeth. Of course he’d say that. Of course he thinks it’s naive. And maybe it is.
— "That’s what they’re for, right?" you mutter, without much conviction.
A short laugh escapes him. Bitter.
— "Yeah. I’m sure they’ll jump right on it. Sit you down in a room that reeks of disinfectant, ask you to recount the worst moments of your life to a cop already checking his watch. Hand you a form to fill out, then file it under personal disputes between consenting adults."
He straightens a bit, crosses his arms over his chest, his gaze sharp as a blade.
— "Meanwhile, that bastard keeps circling, ruining your life. Because guys like him know how to dance between the lines. How to slip through the cracks, manipulate doubt and lack of proof."
You look away, jaw tight. Because you know he’s right. Because you’ve lived it. Because you’ve tried. And each time, it only reinforced that crushing sense of powerlessness. And hearing it from him — with such precision, such clarity — it stings. Because there’s no judgment in his tone. Just harsh, relentless truth. Your gaze darkens. You feel a dull tension rising in you, like a barely restrained beast gnawing at your calm. Your fingers tighten on the edge of the desk until your knuckles turn white.
— "So what? I do nothing? I just sit here and wait for him to come back and ruin me again?"
Your voice is harsher than you meant it to be. Almost an admission of powerlessness disguised as rebellion. Stark doesn’t answer right away. He stares at you. His gaze doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. And maybe that’s what unsettles you the most — the way he looks at you like he’s already run through every scenario, every response, every move you might make. Then, without a word, he reaches out and grabs your phone. The silence between you is heavy, dense. He holds it in his palm for a brief moment, spinning it once between his fingers, before extending it to you. You reach out too, but he keeps the device just a second longer. Not enough to be aggressive, but just enough to make you meet his eyes.
— "You do whatever you want, kid."
The tone is neutral. Almost too neutral. But his gaze tells another story entirely. It says everything the words don’t: I’m giving you freedom, but not the option to self-destruct. You take the phone and shove it into your pocket with a muffled sigh, as he slowly stands. He walks calmly, deliberately, around his desk and leans against the edge, arms crossed, eyes fixed on yours.
— "But if you think I’m gonna sit back and watch him destroy you, then you clearly don’t get how I work."
You swallow slowly. He hasn’t raised his voice. He hasn’t threatened you. It’s not even a promise. It’s just a blunt fact. Unavoidable. And that’s what makes you shiver. There’s no violence in his tone, no anger. Just that icy certainty that he won’t back down. That he’ll go all the way. That he’s taken you under his wing, whether you like it or not. You slide your phone into your pocket, slowly, heart still pounding under the tension. You sigh. Not out of relief. Not yet. Just a breath to keep from bursting.
— "I’ll handle it."
Your voice is firm. You want it to be. Even though deep down, you know you’re mostly trying to convince yourself. Stark nods slowly, his gaze still locked on yours. But his expression doesn’t shift a single inch. No approval. No skepticism either. Just... a silent expectation.
— "Yeah. Do that."
But you know. You can see it in his eyes: he has no intention of just watching. He’s letting you take the lead, sure. But he’s not leaving you alone. And he’s not going to sit idle and see how it turns out. You say nothing more. There’s no need. You turn on your heel, leave the office without looking back.
A few minutes later, the Tower door closes behind you with a metallic sigh. And the crisp outside air hits your face like a slap. A clumsy attempt to shake off the tension that’s been eating at you since Stark handed you that damn phone. But it’s not enough. You inhale deeply. A lungful of icy oxygen that your chest welcomes like a wake-up call. You stare straight ahead. Matthew called. Stark picked up. And now, you don’t have a choice. You’re going to do what you said. Head to the police station. It’s not like you actually believe it’s going to change anything. You’re not naïve. But at least it’ll show Stark you’re trying to "handle it properly." Do things by the book. Check the box. Maybe he’ll back off. Maybe not.
Beside you, Happy walks with his usual heavy step, hands deep in his jacket pockets. He’s got that unmistakable gait — somewhere between professional alertness and total indifference to everything around him. A man used to everything… except playing babysitter.
— "Just so you know, I’m not your damn taxi."
You glance at him, half-bored, half-grateful, and shrug.
— "Yeah, yeah. I know."
You sigh softly, eyes locked on the black car parked just ahead. Of course Stark insisted you be accompanied. He could’ve sent a random security agent, some anonymous face with an earpiece and black sunglasses.
But no. He sent Happy.
Not that you hate Happy. He’s not a bad guy, really. He’s even kind of reassuring, in his massive, silent kind of way. But he’s got that "designated babysitter" vibe you have a hard time tolerating. That forced protective edge, like no one trusts you to walk down the street alone without collapsing. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even sigh. He just circles the car slowly before opening the passenger door for you with a short motion. No comments. No judgment. You get in without protest, sinking into the seat without trying to start a conversation. The door shuts with a dull thud, sealing in a silence neither of you wants to break.
The engine rumbles quietly, and the car rolls into the streets. New York slips by behind the tinted windows — people, lights, distant sirens. You don’t look. You don’t feel. Happy doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t try to fill the silence. But you can feel his eyes on you at every red light, quick glances to make sure you’re still breathing. He says nothing. He doesn’t need to. But you feel the pressure rising in your throat. Your heart starts beating faster the closer you get to the station. Because this report… it’s more than a formality. It’s a step toward something you can’t quite name yet. When the silence gets too heavy even for him, Happy finally sighs and mutters in a neutral tone:
— "Why do you think Stark wants me to come with you?"
You don’t even turn your head. Your eyes stay glued to the buildings passing by outside, your reflection blending with the blurred lights of the city.
— "Because he doesn’t trust me."
Your voice is tired, almost resigned. Happy slowly shakes his head, eyes still on the road.
— "No. It’s not you he’s watching. It’s him."
You don’t need to ask who he means. The answer hangs between you like a bitter truth. Matthew. You inhale slowly, trying to calm the pressure building in your chest. But it’s not enough. Because deep down, you know he’s right. They didn’t assign you a bodyguard. They gave you a witness. A buffer. Protection, in case things go south. And if Stark doesn’t trust Matthew… then maybe you shouldn’t still be hoping this will all stop just because you’ve decided it should. Another silence settles in the car. One of those thick silences that doesn’t need an answer — because it’s already been given. You could argue. Insist that you can handle yourself. That Stark’s overreacting as usual, blowing everything out of proportion. But you don’t. Because you both know it’s not true.
So you let it drop.
When the car pulls up in front of the station, nothing has changed since last time. Same gray, worn façade. Same flickering neon signs buzzing like they’re not sure they want to do their job. Cops go in and out, talking, complaining. Some look too rushed to be helpful. Others too slow to be efficient. You stand still for a second in front of the entrance, hands in your pockets, heart clenched with familiar dread. Then you breathe in, deep, like you’re forcing your body forward. Happy stays behind you. He doesn’t say anything. But you feel him. Like a silent wall. Arms crossed. Shoulders square. Ready to step in if needed. And even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you is relieved he’s there.
A police officer behind the counter barely lifts his head at the sound of your steps. His tired eyes flick briefly over you before returning to his screen, as if your arrival were just another interruption in an endless routine.
— "Need help?" he asks in a flat tone, not fully lifting his eyes.
You take a quiet breath, trying to keep your voice steady.
— "I’d like to file a report."
The officer gives a vague nod, then reaches toward a stack of worn-out forms. He grabs one and slides it across the counter toward you, along with an old pen that’s seen better days.
— "Have a seat. You can fill this out while you wait for someone to take your statement."
Not another word. No trace of empathy in his gaze. Just the procedure. The routine. You take the paper and pen, then step back a few paces toward a row of faded gray plastic chairs. Happy follows, sitting beside you. He pulls out his phone, looking detached, but you know he’s scanning the whole precinct with practiced vigilance. He’s the type who never fully turns his radar off. You lower your eyes to the form and start writing. Name, surname, address… your hands barely tremble, but enough to slow you down. The ink drags across the paper in a way that irritates you. Everything feels slower, heavier than usual.
Then come the real questions. Reason for the report. Person involved. You pause. Your eyes freeze on that line. Your heartbeat pounds harder in your chest. A dull, persistent noise. The air seems to contract around you, forcing you to stay completely still.
You write: Matthew Reed.
The name feels too light for what it represents. Just seven letters. But the second you write them, something inside you tightens. As if writing his name on that paper brings him closer. Gives him weight again. You linger a few seconds, pen hovering above the next line. Rationally, you know this is the right thing to do. But a part of you still wonders if it’ll make any difference. If they’ll even do anything.You glance at Happy. He’s not looking at you, but he knows. He knows what writing that name costs you. He probably also knows that this form might end up as just another sheet in a pile too high. But you keep writing. Because now, you can’t back down. Minutes stretch like tar in the heat. The waiting is heavy, slow, and every second reminds you that you’re here because someone stalked you, hit you, threatened you. Eventually, a monotone voice breaks the silence:
— "Follow me."
You stand, a bit stiff. You glance at Happy. He doesn’t move but gives a small nod. A silent presence. Unofficial bodyguard. He’ll be there when you come out. You follow the officer down a dull hallway, lined with cluttered desks and flickering fluorescent lights. The smell is a mix of cold coffee and old plastic. The cop says nothing until he leads you into a small office with yellowed walls. He sits across from you with a sigh, like even this basic interaction is already too much. He takes your form, flipping through it with disinterest. His eyes are dull, mechanical.
— "So… Matthew, right?"
You nod.
— "Yeah."
He jots a few notes into his pad without looking up.
— "Tell me exactly what he did to you."
You take a deep breath. And you talk. You start with the calls. Too frequent, too insistent. You explain how he came back after months of silence, how you thought you could move on. You describe the night, the street, the shadow that tore you off your path. You talk about the knife. Matthew’s voice, acidic, suffocating. The ground against your back. The pain in your wrist. The fear. Not just of dying — of reliving what you thought you’d escaped. The officer listens. He takes notes. But his expression doesn’t change. No raised brows, no tension. As if he’s heard worse a hundred times, and your story is just another box to tick. Still, you keep talking. Because you have to. Because Stark looked you in the eye and said he wouldn’t let you drown in this alone. But you’re not sure these people will react at all.
When you finish, your throat is dry, your hands cold, and your heart pounding like your body refuses to accept that this is over — or that it’s not over at all. You watch the cop, hoping, maybe, for a word of sympathy. A clenched jaw. A real reaction. But there’s none.
He slowly sets his pen down, without a sound, and folds his hands on the desk in front of him.
— "Do you have concrete evidence that he resumed harassing you?"
His voice is calm, almost disinterested. Like he’s asking about a parking ticket. You stare at him in disbelief. For a second, you want to laugh. Is this a joke? You just described someone pinning you to the ground with a knife. And all he can say is concrete evidence?
— "I’ve got his calls," you say, your voice rougher than you’d like. "He kept calling. And Stark talked to him. He picked up."
At the mention of the name, the officer raises an eyebrow. A flicker of recognition, maybe, passes through his gaze — but it vanishes quickly. He shrugs it off like even Tony Stark is just another contextual footnote.
— "Written threats? Messages?" he presses.
You squint, breath short. You think of the phone Stark returned. The missed calls. The vibrations that chilled your blood just seeing his name light up again. You think of the alley. The pain. The hand dragging you to the ground. Matthew’s voice like a razor at your throat. The gleam of the knife, the damp pavement, the breath that caught in your lungs. You answer slowly.
— "I’ve got one. But it’s not much. He knows how this works. He leaves nothing behind. He calls, he talks, he… he threatens just enough for you to get the message, but never enough to pin him down."
You hear yourself talking, and suddenly you realize how hollow it sounds in a room like this. You realize that to someone like him, nightmares don’t weigh anything. No legal status. Just boxes to check on a form. And you already see the shift in his eyes. More distant. More doubtful. Like you’re not a victim. Just another guy making things sound worse than they are. He raises his hand to cut you off, his tone still flat, almost robotic.
— "Look. I won’t lie to you. What you’re saying is concerning. But we can’t do much with just phone calls and an old altercation."
You freeze. His detachment chokes you more than silence ever could. You hear the lights buzzing above you, footsteps from another officer in the hall, and your heart pounding hard against your ribs. You clench your teeth.
— "He threatened me with a fucking knife!" you snap, louder than you meant.
Your voice echoes off the office walls. The officer doesn’t flinch. He lets out a long sigh, like he’s heard that line a hundred times.
— "Did he injure you?"
You look at him, stunned. Your hands tremble slightly. Then, in a sharp motion, you pull up your sweater sleeve. Your right hand is still partially wrapped, a leftover brace on your wrist. Then you show your other hand, palm up. The cut, thin but still fresh, marks your skin where the glass dug in. You don’t say a word. You let him look. His gaze drops slowly to your wounds. He observes, but his expression doesn’t change. No flash of outrage. No moment of realization. Just silence. Calculation. As if weighing their "legal value."
— "Do you have a medical certificate?"
Your throat tightens. You clench your fists. He sets down his pen, looking tired.
— "I can write up an incident report. Mention the calls, your statement, the injuries. But for a formal complaint and investigation, I’ll need more than that. Concrete proof. Witnesses, video, recorded threats. Otherwise… it’s your word against his."
You feel your stomach twist. Everything you’ve endured — the nightmares, the panic, the blood, the fear of running into his shadow — reduced to that: "your word against his." You open your mouth, ready to spill everything you’ve held back for weeks — the terror, the loneliness, the constant sense of being stuck in a nightmare. But he stops you. With a look. Cold. Resigned.
— "I’ll be honest with you." His voice is low, almost tired. "If this guy’s smart, he’ll never go far enough for us to arrest him. But he’ll always go just far enough to ruin your life."
You freeze. Not because it’s shocking. No. Because it’s exactly what you feared to hear. And now it’s real. Stated. Cold. Unfiltered. The raw truth. Institutional powerlessness. The admission that you may never truly beat someone like Matthew. Because his violence isn’t always physical. It’s a slow poison. One no one sees until you’re already on the ground. You feel sick. Your stomach contracts. A bitter taste rises in your throat. The cop slides the form toward you, his gaze barely compassionate. Just… tired.
— "Do you still want to file your report?"
You lower your eyes to the page. The paper looks blurry. Your pen trembles in your fingers, a small witness to everything boiling inside you. You inhale slowly. Very slowly. What’s the point? You ask yourself for the hundredth time. But it’s not enough to stop you. Not this time. Because if you don’t sign, you’ve got nothing. Nothing to stand on if that bastard comes after you again. So you sign. Not out of hope. Not out of faith. Out of necessity. Because it’s all you’ve got left.
When you step out of the station, the dim lights and gray walls seem even duller than when you walked in. It feels like the very air has gotten heavier, saturated with the same grim sense of helplessness you just swallowed down. Happy’s waiting, leaning against the car, arms crossed. It only takes a few steps for him to read your face, your shut-down expression, the tension in your jaw. He lifts an eyebrow, not even remotely surprised.
— "I’m guessing that went well."
You shoot him a sharp glare, exhaustion and anger tangled in loaded silence. He gets it. And more importantly, he doesn’t add anything. Not now. You take a deep breath, trying to contain the pressure burning in your gut.
— "Take me back to the Tower."
He nods without arguing and opens the door. No comment. Just a simple gesture. Practical. You slide into the car and close the door a little too hard, like slamming your failure between the metal and your silence. Happy starts the engine without a word, and you leave that goddamn place behind. It was all for nothing. And you already know who’ll be the first to point it out. The city drifts slowly past the window, bathed in the last orange hues of dusk. Streetlamps flicker on one by one, casting pale glows on sidewalks still scattered with people. Strangers walk by, cars pass — everything looks normal. Too normal. Like the world’s just quietly spinning, oblivious to how you feel.
Inside the car, the silence is thick. The kind you don’t break without reason. Happy drives steadily, hands firm on the wheel, eyes fixed straight ahead. He hasn’t said a word since you slammed the door, but you know his mind’s working as hard as yours. He’s tense. Not because of traffic. Not because of you. Because of what you just brought back. You stare ahead, but you don’t really see. The scenery slips past in a blur, distant and dull. Streets, lights, shadows — all just a silent film on a dirty screen. It was all for nothing.
The report. The waiting. The form. That cop and his jaded face. Just enough listening to pretend, not enough will to act. You replay his expression, the vacant stare when he asked if you still wanted to sign — like filing a report was just a cosmetic choice, a tolerated formality no one intends to follow up on. And now you’re on your way back. Empty. With that bitter sense that all you’ve done was make a pointless detour. That Matthew will keep going. That he’ll come back. Again. Your stomach knots, a heavy lump lodged under your ribs. The pressure doesn’t ease. It pulses. It gnaws. The engine hums softly, like a muffled comfort — or a stifled threat. Meanwhile, the city remains calm. Beautiful. Unbothered. Like nothing happened. Like it’s telling you: not my problem.
Then, everything shatters.
A deafening blast breaks the haze — a sharp, brutal, animal sound. The passenger window explodes into a shower of glass that slashes your arms, your cheeks, your neck. Shards scatter in silver bursts across the cabin, like a swarm of icy splinters. You flinch, but too late. The shock knocks the breath from your lungs. Cold night air whips through the car like a lash. Harsh, biting, violent. It sweeps away the artificial warmth inside, leaving a silence drowned in panic. Then you see it.
The weapon.
Black. Heavy. Slow but certain. Like a hand that already knows how the story ends. It slides through the jagged opening, its silhouette crisp against crossing headlights. Its barrel is pointed straight at Happy’s temple. No scream. No word. Happy is frozen. So are you. Your muscles won’t respond. Your body’s on high alert, but no signals are getting through. The world has shrunk to that black, cold, obsessive circle — that piece of metal that could change everything with a twitch. You hear Happy’s breath, shallow. He stays still. Because he knows. He knows this silence. The one before everything breaks.
And in one suspended heartbeat, you understand: this isn’t an accident. This isn’t random. Someone was waiting. Someone wants this to start again. The voice cracks like a whip. No hesitation. No error. It’s filled with rage — raw, uncontrolled, nearly hysterical. This isn’t a veiled threat. It’s a command shouted by someone already committed to doing harm. He’s not here to steal. He’s here to dominate. To break something — or someone. Your heart slams against your chest. A jarring, uneven, brutal drum. Adrenaline jolts you out of your daze, but instead of empowering you, it crushes you, numbs you. Your breath catches in your throat, burning. Stuck. Every fiber of your being frozen between two impulses: run or obey.
Neither wins. You stay paralyzed.
Happy says nothing. He doesn’t even flinch. He knows. He knows one wrong move — even the slightest twitch — and that finger will squeeze. He stays calm, or at least tries. His hands are visible. His eyes locked on the weapon. On the man. On the trigger.
— "You’re gonna lower that gun and think about what you’re doing, man."
His voice is deep, low. A wall between the attacker and you. No aggression, just a reach for reason — buying a second, maybe two. He speaks slowly, like stepping on glass. But the man doesn’t listen.
— "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"
The scream is feral, amplified by the panic flooding your veins. Then — the blow. A dull, sharp, awful thud. The gun slams against Happy’s temple, metal crunching bone with desperate force. The sound echoes through your chest like it was your own skull. Happy grits his teeth. His face contorts, but he doesn’t move. Then he tilts his head. Just enough to look at you. A second. A fraction. And in his eyes, you read everything he can’t say: Run. Save yourself. Don’t be stupid.
But you still don’t move. Because fear has you nailed to your seat. Because your body is betraying your mind. Because one thought loops in your head:
It’s him. It’s Matthew. He looks for a move. But the other is faster. A brutal hand seizes your collar, yanks you with sharp violence. Before your brain can even process it, your body is ripped from the car. Your shoulder slams into the pavement. A blinding flash. A silent scream stuck in your throat. The impact is harsh, dirty. Your head hits the curb — a dull crack followed by instant vertigo. The world tilts, everything blurs. A piercing pain erupts in your arm, like your nerves just short-circuited. You try to move. Try to run. But your body refuses. Then comes the weight. Crushing. A knee drives into your ribs, collapsing your chest, suffocating you. The taste of blood fills your mouth — metallic, sharp. Cold night air rips through you as something icy touches your chin. The barrel. You know it by feel. By weight. By the silent threat it carries. Your throat tightens. You choke. His breath is ragged, uneven. He reeks of rage, sweat, and wild panic. He’s shaking. Not from fear. From tension.
— "You thought you’d get away?!" he spits, voice rasping like a growl.
His bloodshot eyes lock on yours with concentrated, searing hatred. You want to speak. Scream. Beg maybe — you’re not even sure — but no sound comes. All you feel is this goddamn certainty drilling into your skull: this time, he came to finish it.
Matthew.
You don’t need to see his face. Even with the mask, even in the dark, you recognize that voice. That hatred in every syllable, that sick fire burning through each word. Warped by rage. Twisted by the need to crush you.
— "You think he can protect you?!"
He spits the words like venom, each syllable soaked in scorn. His breath is shaky, too close to your face. You feel it — hot, trembling with caged violence. His weight suffocates you. Your lungs can’t expand. Every breath is a struggle. Adrenaline pulses in your skull, fries your nerves, electrifies your muscles. You fight back. Your arms reach for leverage, your legs kick to push him off. But he’s heavier. More grounded. He always was. He always knew how to pin you down. And he proves it again. A hand strikes — quick, dry, brutal. Your cheek explodes in pain, heat flaring across your jaw. Your skull smacks the concrete again. A white flash crosses your vision, followed by queasy blur. The taste of blood returns — bitter.
The barrel. It trails across your skin, like an obscene caress. From forehead to chin. Then it stops. Presses beneath your jaw. Forcing you to look up, to meet his eyes, even masked. You’re exposed. Helpless.
— "You’re coming with me. Nicely."
His voice is calm now. Too calm. Like a predator certain the prey can’t escape. Pressure. A warning. A finger ready to squeeze. The silence around you is chilling. City noise fades — distant, indifferent. Cars pass. People, maybe. But no one sees. No one hears. Or worse — no one stops. The world keeps turning. But you’re frozen. Suspended between two heartbeats. And deep down, you know: one second is all it’ll take. But you’re stuck. Pinned to the ground. Crushed under him. Under his fucking gun. Every second stretches like a blade hovering over your throat. There’s no escape. You know it — in one beat, you obey or he pulls the trigger. And no one can stop it. Not in time. Not here.
The gun doesn’t tremble. It’s steady. Inevitable. Like it’s part of you now. You feel the tiny pulses in his finger resting on the trigger, each one a promised end. Your breath is ragged, reduced to weak spasms. Your throat too dry, chest about to burst. Your heart hammers so loud you hear it in your ears. THUD. THUD. THUD.
And far off, almost unreal — Happy’s voice. A shout. A command. But the words don’t reach you. Everything’s fog. Blur. Matthew yanks you upward, his grip choking your neck. You gasp. You stagger. Your body won’t follow. But he doesn’t care. He drags you like a hollow carcass, a prize already claimed. No mercy. No pause.
Your back slams into a parked car. The impact rips a muffled cry from your throat. Metal shrieks. Your shoulder scrapes against it, tearing your jacket, your skin. The pain stings — sharp, burning. You lose your footing — your leg collapses, your knee hits asphalt — but Matthew doesn’t slow. He holds you upright by force, refusing to let you fall before he’s done. And suddenly — the gunshot. CRACK. A dry, tearing sound that splits the air. A sound that freezes your blood. You don’t know where he aimed. Not even if it was at Happy or the sky. But you hear the screams. The rushed footsteps. People scattering. Eyes turning away.
The city fades. And you stay there. Trapped in a scene no one dares to interrupt. A nightmare too real. No one’s coming to save you.
taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix
if you want to be part of it here
What Remains | Chapter 15 Hidden Strain (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : Exhaustion catches up as you struggle to keep up with Stark’s demanding expectations. Despite Banner and Pepper’s concerns, you push yourself until a critical moment during a meeting where, overwhelmed and lightheaded, you collapse. Stark notices your condition but lets you leave without interference.
word count: 13.7k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
And for the first time since this morning, a faint thread of relief pierces the fog of tension gripping your chest. A fleeting instant of respite — barely noticeable, but real. Bruce Banner’s lab stands in stark contrast to Stark’s frigid office: here, everything breathes quiet precision, controlled calm.
The light is soft, filtered by gentle neon panels, and the walls covered in methodically arranged shelves radiate a kind of reassuring order. The machines don’t hum: they purr, like metal cats focused, efficient. On the screens, lines of code and animated graphs dance in silence, casting brief green and blue glows across the walls. Everything here feels under control.
Except you. You’re an anomaly in this clinical ecosystem. A foreign body. You feel like you’re tainting the room just by breathing too loud. You hardly dare move.
— "Take a seat here" Bruce says calmly, motioning to a slightly inclined exam table, covered in sensors and connected to several monitors.
You freeze for a second, surprised by the simplicity of his tone. No barking order. No sarcasm. Just a calm request. Almost gentle. You step forward hesitantly and climb onto the table with nervous slowness. You don’t lie down. You perch at the edge, hands clenched on your knees. The cold metal surface makes you shiver through your pants.
You’re not used to being taken care of like this. Not without judgment. Not without being made to feel like a burden. Bruce, meanwhile, says nothing. He types on a keyboard a few steps away, not casting you a single worried or suspicious glance. Just quiet focus, confident gestures. He adjusts a few settings, taps a code you don’t understand, then turns toward you. And in his gaze, there’s nothing interrogative. Just sincere attention. And fatigue, too — the kind that comes from someone who’s seen a lot.
— "Alright, let’s start with a general scan" Bruce says, approaching with a sensor in hand. "Just to see how your body’s recovering from everything you’ve put it through."
He says it with a slightly teasing tone, almost amused, no real malice. But it pulls an immediate reaction from you.
—" Put it through?" You arch an eyebrow, your gaze sharp. It’s not like I had much of a choice.
Your voice is dry, more defensive than you meant. A jab, out of reflex. You’ve learned to respond like that — to protect yourself. To take back a bit of control where you’ve lost it. Bruce doesn’t rise to the bait. He doesn’t take offense. He just offers a small, calm smile, almost indulgent, and gently secures the sensor around your bruised wrist. His movements are careful, precise, like he’s tending to a wounded animal.
— "You could try listening to your body a little more often, instead of constantly ignoring it."
The comment lands without pressure, like a simple observation. But it hits home. You sigh, irritated. You turn your gaze toward the soft ceiling lights, as if that could help you forget the burn rising in your throat.
You hate being told what to do. Especially when they’re right. The scanner starts with a quiet clicking. A green light slowly sweeps over your body, from head to toe, back and forth. You feel the gentle warmth of the sensors, the muffled hum of the devices around you. You try to focus on that to drown out the embarrassment knotting your stomach. Bruce stands beside you, eyes fixed on a screen. He mutters to himself, almost like a whisper, but loud enough for you to hear.
— "Your wrist is healing... slowly. The tension you're putting it under isn't helping. He pauses, as if debating whether to add something. You should avoid repeated shocks to it."
You tense further, then mutter with tired irony:
— "Great. So I just need to stop living, right?"
Your voice trembles slightly, just enough to make you angry with yourself. It wasn’t supposed to come out like that. Too real. Too close to how you actually feel. Bruce doesn’t respond immediately. He doesn’t lecture. Doesn’t talk down to you. He simply glances up, like he’s heard this a thousand times before, like he recognizes the defense mechanism for what it is: a dented armor he won’t rip off by force. He turns back to his screen, types a few more commands. A quiet silence settles, broken only by the soft whir of machines, the clicking of interfaces, the scanner’s gentle hum.
But after a few minutes, he pauses. You see him hesitate, fingers hovering above the keyboard, like he’s weighing every word to come. Then, without turning his head, still calm:
— "You’re going to need to take off your shirt."
You immediately tense. All your muscles tighten. Like your body knew before your brain what that simple sentence would trigger.
— "What?"
Your voice cracks. High-pitched. Too fast. Bruce turns his head gently toward you. He picks up on your reaction instantly. He doesn’t push, not right away. His expression stays neutral, but attentive. Not intrusive, not judgmental — just… present.
— "The scan’s more accurate without fabric." He explains softly. "I just want to make sure you don’t have other bruises, inflammations, or old untreated injuries that might cause problems."
You’re already shaking your head before he finishes speaking. The word comes out without thinking, like a survival instinct.
— "No."
Sharp. Final. And too heavy to go unnoticed. A dense silence falls. You avoid his gaze, fingers clenched on the edge of the exam table. The cold metal beneath your palms suddenly unbearable. Bruce doesn’t move. He watches you in silence for a few seconds, brow slightly furrowed, like he’s reading between the lines of your frozen posture. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t force. And maybe that’s worse.
— "Alright." He finally says. His voice is soft. Not resigned. Just… aware. "But you know I’ll still need to run a check on your muscular and nervous system. If you’re hiding injuries, it could skew the results. And if it skews the results… we might miss something important."
You clench your jaw. You know he’s right. But it’s impossible. You can’t. You just can’t. Not now. Not like this. Not here, even if it’s calm, even if it’s Bruce, even if there’s nothing threatening in his tone. Because the very idea of revealing what’s beneath that fabric turns your stomach. The marks. The bruises. The traces of a past that refuses to disappear. You breathe in deeply, eyes fixed on the wall, like anchoring yourself there might keep you from tipping over.
— "I’m fine." You snap, harsher than intended.
The words bite harder than needed. It slips out, like everything else these days. Bruce doesn’t comment. He leans back against his desk, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet patience that seeks neither control nor submission. Just presence.
— "Do you ignore Stark the way you ignore me, or is it a personal strategy to make your life harder?" He finally says, casually.
You grind your teeth.
— "I said I’m fine."
The silence that follows is thick, nearly tangible. Every second hangs heavy between you, like an invisible threat. Bruce doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t push. No confrontation. No judgment. Just that quiet, steady insistence that says everything. Eventually, he tilts his head slightly, as if letting go — on the surface.
— "Alright."
He straightens up, returns to his screen, types a few commands.
— "I’ll stick with a partial scan. But if something’s off, I’ll know."
You swallow hard, your throat suddenly tight. You don’t answer immediately. When you do, your voice is low, nearly detached.
— "Do what you want."
The scan resumes, with a mechanical hum that suddenly feels too loud. You’re tense as a drawn wire. Every part of you screams to get out of there. Your back stiff, your hands clenched on your thighs. Even your breathing turns short, dry. Like your own body is punishing you for pushing back. And Bruce, for all his quiet kindness, for all his measured tone and clear respect for your boundaries… sees it. He says nothing more, but you know he’s watching. Not like a doctor examines a patient, but like someone studying a riddle he refuses to force open. You hate it. This feeling of being seen without having asked for it.
You stay there, frozen, your gaze locked on some undefined spot on the floor, far from everything around you. Far from the clinical walls. Far from the body you refuse to surrender. Far from yourself. And all the while, Bruce keeps working. Without another word. Because he knows. He knows that what you refuse to show… might have nothing to do with fractures or bruises.
— "You know…" Bruce finally says after a long moment of silence, without even turning his head. "I'm not here to hurt you. Just to make sure you don't fall apart in some corner without anyone noticing."
You don’t react. Your eyes remain fixed on the ground, fists still planted on your thighs. And your voice, when it comes out, is dry. Defensive.
— "That’s not going to happen."
— "You sure?" he asks, no edge in his voice, no challenge. Just that calm, steady tone. Too steady. Like he already knows the answer.
And you hate that. The way he talks like he sees through you. Like he knows. It gets under your skin. You don’t want him to know.
— "Yeah."
A lie dressed in one word.
— "Alright, he says simply."
No comment. No insistence. Just the steady sound of his fingers on the keyboard, crisp, precise. You close your eyes for a second. Inhale. Exhale. Try.
Bruce keeps working, focused on the data streaming across his screen. You can’t see his face, but you feel that nothing escapes him. He doesn’t need to look at you to understand what’s wrong. And maybe that’s the worst part. He doesn’t force anything. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just lets the truth rise slowly, on its own. Like an old wound resurfacing.
— "Your stress levels are abnormally high, he comments after a while, almost under his breath, like he’s talking to himself."
— "No shit." you mutter with dry irony. A short, sharp laugh escapes you, with not a trace of humor.
Bruce doesn’t react. He keeps his eyes on the results, rolling across the screen in real time. When he speaks again, his voice is gentler.
— "You really should slow down. Your body’s constantly in overdrive. You’re running on reserves that won’t last. If you keep this up, you won’t need a fight to collapse."
You nod vaguely, not really agreeing.
— "Yeah, well. That’s not happening anytime soon."
He sighs. A real sigh this time — heavy and sincere. Then he slowly stands, turns toward you. His gaze is steady, but direct. Not harsh. Just honest.
— "Listen. I don’t need you to tell me anything. But if you stay in denial, you’re not going to last. Not here, not anywhere. You can’t just keep taking hits and hope it’ll all disappear. It doesn’t work like that."
You look away, your mind already searching for an exit from the conversation.
— "Funny. I keep hearing stuff like that ever since I got here. But strangely, when it’s Stark, no one tells him to slow down."
A small, almost amused smile touches Bruce’s lips.
— "You’d be surprised" he says simply.
You sigh, tired. This isn’t the conversation you want to have. Not now. Not like this.
— "So… are we done?" you ask, a little too fast, a little too loud.
Bruce watches you for a moment, as if still weighing his words. Then he nods slowly.
— "Yeah. We’re done."
You sit up straight without thinking, and a sharp pain in your wrist drags you back to reality. You grit your teeth to keep from wincing, but it’s already too late — Bruce saw. He doesn’t say anything right away. Then, in a neutral tone, but without irony:
— "Take care of yourself."
You don’t answer. You can’t. You simply walk out of the lab, your heart lodged in your throat, your jaw tight, and your mind even more scattered than when you arrived.
Leaving Bruce’s lab, your nerves are shot. You walk fast — too fast — without even knowing exactly where you’re going. The diagnostics, the scans, the sensors… it all clings to you like a label you can’t peel off. You feel like a walking medical file, a subject of observation to be analyzed from every angle. Like your body doesn’t belong to you anymore. Like you’re just a broken tool they’re trying to patch up before it finally gives out.
Every scrutinizing glance, every well-meaning but intrusive attempt to help makes you want to scream. You don’t want help. You just want to be left alone. To breathe. To be. Even though you no longer really know what that means.
When you step back into Stark’s office, the artificial light stings your eyes. He’s there, in his usual spot, seated in front of his suspended screens, immersed in a dance of holographic schematics that he manipulates with precise gestures. As if nothing else existed. As if your pain, your turmoil, your anger were just background noise.
He doesn’t even look up. His voice cuts through the air, perfectly calm, almost bored.
— "Done with your medical tour or should we just install a permanent hospital bed for you?"
The remark hits like a blade — sharp and cold. On another day, you might’ve let it slide, or thrown back something just as biting. Because it’s Stark. Because that’s how he is. Because you’ve grown used to his barbs, his sarcasm like a dull ache you’ve learned to live with. But now… it doesn’t land the same. Something in you, a fragile dam you’ve been holding up for days — maybe weeks — just cracked. Your throat tightens. So do your fists. You feel your heart slam against your chest, heavy, erratic. You don’t even know if you’re angry, sad, or just… done. You freeze for a second in the doorway. Just long enough for him to finally look up at you. You slam your folder onto your desk, the sharp snap of plastic against wood echoing like a thunderclap through the room. Louder than you meant. More revealing, too.
— "Yeah, I’m done. Sorry I’m not a flawless robot that works 24/7. I’ll try not to be a fucking inconvenience next time."
Your voice is dry, cutting. You didn’t even bother to hide the venom. Your eyes stay glued to your screen, though you're not reading a thing. The text blurs into nothing, your jaw clenched, fingers tight around your mouse like you might lose control if you let go. You don’t want to see him. Not now. Not after that. But you feel it. His gaze. That damn habit he has of scanning you like an unresolved equation. Normally, he’d raise an eyebrow, throw a sarcastic remark, or ignore your mood with polished contempt. But this time… Silence. A heavy, unfamiliar silence. The kind of void that comes before a storm.
He’s watching. You feel it. Like he’s trying to understand what just broke. Because something did break, and it’s not just your patience. It’s deeper. A fault line that opened too fast, too violently. And he saw it. You want him to say something. Anything. An insult. A joke. A jab. It would be easier to handle than this waiting, suspended in the air. Eventually, he leans back in his chair, arms crossed, and looks at you with that half-smile that makes you want to smash something. That amused, provocative tone he wields like a finely honed blade:
— "If that’s your idea of tugging on my heartstrings, you’ll have to try harder."
You finally look up at him, eyes dark. No façade left. Just raw exhaustion, buried anger, and the feeling of running in an endless wheel.
— "I’m not trying to tug on anything, Boss. Just trying to understand what the hell you still expect from me. Because honestly, no matter what I do, it’s never enough."
The silence that follows is thick, almost tangible. You can feel it hanging between you like a tightrope about to snap. For a second, you think you see something shift in his eyes. It’s not pity — Stark doesn’t do cheap compassion — but something else. A flicker of analysis, like he’s recalculating your limits, your breaking point, how much more pressure he can apply before you collapse.
Then, as if that internal evaluation didn’t deserve more attention, he lifts an eyebrow and replies in a flat, almost administrative tone:
— "If you’ve still got enough energy to complain, you’re fit to work. Where’s your project at?"
And there it is. Back to business. Like nothing happened. Like your anger, your exhaustion, your need to be heard were just noise. Like you don’t really exist — just another cog in the Stark Industries machine. You clench your teeth. Your stomach knots, your fist curls involuntarily. You want to scream. But what’s the point? You take a long, heavy breath. It burns your throat a bit, like even breathing has become an act of resistance. Then, without another word, you open your files, eyes fixed on the screen.
— "I’m getting back to it, you say, dryly, without looking at him."
Then you hear Stark mutter under his breath a vague “good idea,” barely audible, like he refuses to give you anything more. But you know. You feel it. The exchange got to him. Maybe not enough to change his methods, but enough that he’s watching you a little differently. You, though — you’re not sure how much longer you can keep this up. Every day wears you down a little more. Every comment, every finished task, every silent effort is another weight added to the load already bending your back. You endure. Again. But the pressure’s building, like a leaking tank, drop by drop. And yet, tonight — against all odds — you finish well before the deadline. Not in a rush. Not with trembling hands and bloodshot eyes. No. You’ve learned. To read between the lines, to anticipate moods, to smooth your work just enough to make it “presentable” by Stark’s standards. Not perfect. Never perfect. But good enough to earn a rare recognition: the absence of criticism.
You reread your project one last time, eyes locked on the screen with stubborn focus. A pale reflection of yourself stares back at you from the monitor, exhaustion etched into every line. You tweak an animation here, adjust a motion curve there, double-check transitions one final time. Every move is careful, almost mechanical. You could keep going, refining forever. But you have to stop somewhere. You attach the file, slowly type out an email as neutral as it is efficient:
Project complete, attached. Awaiting feedback. –
You freeze for a few seconds, the blinking cursor taunting you. Are you sure? You take a deep breath. And click “Send.” The silence that follows is oddly unsettling. Like something detached from you with that simple action. You lean back in your chair, shoulders slowly dropping, your back cracking in protest. The Tower is eerily quiet. Too quiet. The low hum of the servers reaches you, steady like a mechanical breath. The clack of your keyboard has stopped, replaced by the distant ding of an elevator rising somewhere in the structure. Beyond the bay windows, the city pulses softly, its lights beating in time with a world that continues without you.
You sit there for a while, caught in that suspended moment. You don’t know if what you feel is pride… or just emptiness. Maybe both. Minutes pass. The silence stretches, broken only by the machines’ hum and the soft ticking of a wall clock you’d never really noticed before. You can feel your heartbeat thudding a little too hard, tense like a wire about to snap. Eventually, Stark looks up from his screen. He opens your email, downloads the file, and plays it without a word. You watch him from the corner of your eye, feigning indifference, but you analyze every twitch of his face like your life depends on it. He says nothing. Doesn’t flinch. His expression is unreadable, focused, almost… clinical.
He watches until the very last second. Then he straightens slightly in his chair and says, in a neutral, almost weary tone:
— "You finished before the deadline. That’s… surprising."
No compliment. Not even a hint of approval in his voice. Just a dry, blunt statement, tossed out like a line of code. You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing just a bit.
— "That’s all I get as feedback? I worked faster than expected and you’re just… surprised?"
Stark slowly turns toward you, a crooked smirk forming — never a good sign.
— "Want a medal too? I said it was surprising, not miraculous."
You exhale deeply, running a tired hand over your face, as if to wipe away your irritation.
— "Of course…"
You don’t even know why you expected anything else. It’s Stark. He’s never been the type to offer easy praise. And you knew that. You always knew. He closes your project file, taps a key on the keyboard, then sinks back into his chair.
— "It’s efficient. Clean. Keep this up and maybe you’ll stop being a dead weight."
You grit your teeth. That’s supposed to be encouragement — in his language. A cold validation wrapped in a jab. You don’t have the energy to respond. Not tonight. You just offer a brief:
— "Fine."
And you get up silently, without a backward glance. You leave the office with a strange mix of weariness and relief. Because deep down, even if you didn’t hear it, even if he’ll never admit it… you know you did something right. As you step out of the office, you stifle a yawn behind your hand, as if trying to keep your body from betraying just how exhausted you are. Each footstep echoes softly in the deserted hallway, the ceiling lights casting a harsh white glow that only enhances the pallor of your reflection in the windows. You rub your eyes automatically, but the fog of fatigue clings stubbornly to your eyelids, your neck, every vertebra in your back. Your legs feel heavier with every step, like each movement is an effort too many. You just want to collapse somewhere, stop pretending — even if just for a moment.
Rounding the corner, your eyes catch on two familiar silhouettes. A little further ahead, in the break room, Bruce leans against a counter, arms crossed, while Pepper listens attentively. Their conversation is quiet, contained, but you catch a few words carried by the stillness. Bruce speaks with his usual calm, gestures measured, voice steady. He’s explaining something, probably medical, judging by the way he punctuates his speech with technical inflections. Pepper remains professionally serious, but there’s a faint crease on her brow, her gaze occasionally drifting toward the hallway. Toward you, maybe. Or maybe not. She nods at intervals, like what she’s hearing confirms already-formed suspicions.
You slow down without meaning to. Reflex. You know you’re probably the subject of that conversation. It’d be naïve to think otherwise. Your condition, your injuries, your behavior… You’ve become a case file. A subject to monitor. A problem to solve. You hesitate for a second, thinking of turning back, but something in their body language holds you there. A gesture, a glance — just quick enough to seem deliberate. You’re not certain they’re talking about you… but you feel that familiar tension. That unpleasant twist in your gut. That intuition that never fails. So you walk forward, hands in your pockets, your steps a bit sluggish. Just enough to look casual. Just enough to hide that you’re on the verge of collapse.
Pepper notices you first. She gives you a quick glance — controlled, almost neutral. Too neutral. Like she’s forcing herself to show nothing. Bruce follows her gaze, meets yours, and pauses for half a second. Not much. Just enough to deepen your unease. They were definitely discussing something important. And it doesn’t take long for you to guess what.
— "What are you two scheming now?" you ask, with a smile that rings hollow — a poorly rehearsed defense mechanism.
Pepper gives a polite, practiced smile — not fooled in the least. Bruce stays true to himself: calm, composed, almost disarmingly so.
— "Just talking," he says simply, his hands still resting on the counter.
You raise an eyebrow, your entire body tense beneath a veil of feigned ease.
— "Talking about what?"
Pepper exchanges a quick glance with Bruce — one of those silent looks that says too much. Then she meets your gaze again, more directly this time.
— "About your condition, actually."
There it is. You sigh, already tired of it before she even elaborates. Your condition. Always your damn condition. Like you’ve become a line on a mission report. Like everything can be reduced to a red box labeled ‘monitor.’
— "Great. So I’m a case study now?" you mutter, more bitter than intended.
Bruce shakes his head calmly, in that almost paternal gesture that grates more than it soothes.
— "Nothing dramatic. Just legitimate concern. You’ve had a rough week, and after our conversation earlier, I thought..."
You cut him off. You don’t want to hear the rest. You already know where it’s going.
— "Thought what? That I should rest? Open up? Go see someone? Seriously, how many of you are lining up to tell me the same thing today?"
Your tone rises a bit, carried by fatigue and frustration. You know you’re being unfair, but you can’t keep it together anymore. Not now. Not after everything. Pepper sighs and folds her arms tighter. More guarded.
— "You can’t blame us for worrying. Especially after what happened. Bruce just noticed your physical state isn’t ideal. And frankly, even you could admit that."
You run a hand through your hair, irritation pulsing at your temples. You feel the heat creeping up your neck.
— "Of course I’m exhausted. Not exactly a revelation."
You barely register your volume. But people nearby have started glancing your way. And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like apologizing. Banner remains impassive, arms still crossed over his lab coat, watching you with that steady calm that only irritates you more.
— "You can push as hard as you want," he says gently, "but your body has limits. Stark might go days without sleep, but you’re not there yet. And if you keep going like this, you probably never will."
You grit your teeth, ready to fire back something sharp. Something like, "So what? I didn’t ask for your concern." But the words freeze in your throat when your vision blurs for a split second. A sudden wave of dizziness — subtle but brutal. Like a deep tremor throwing you off balance. Your hand instinctively presses against the wall. The cold metal helps you steady yourself, but the pounding echo of your heart in your chest betrays the alarm.
It’s nothing. It’ll pass. Just a moment of weakness. But when you lift your head, you catch Pepper’s look. She’s stopped pretending. Her arms are still crossed, but her face has gone still. Not judgmental — just worried. Pure and raw. Bruce doesn’t move. He watches. He assesses. He waits. The silence that settles says more than any comment could. You straighten at once, jaw tight.
— "It’s nothing. I just... haven’t eaten since this morning."
Your voice comes out too fast. Defensive. Like you’re trying to convince yourself as much as them. Pepper gives you a motherly look that’s hard to face.
— "You’re going home," she says simply. "You’re not going back to the office tonight."
— "I still have to—"
— "You’re going," she repeats, firmer now. "We’ve seen enough."
You freeze, caught between shame, anger, and a fatigue so crushing it vibrates in your bones. Banner steps forward slowly, still watching you with that steady gaze.
— "No one’s asking you to be invincible. But if you keep this up, you’ll crash for good. And then, we might not be able to fix it."
For a second, you consider pushing back. Telling them they have no idea what you’re going through. But deep down, you know they’re right. And what hurts most is feeling your body agree before your mind does. You shake your head quickly, mechanically, like you can push the concern away before it settles.
— "It’s nothing. Just a bit of fatigue."
But your voice sounds hollow, even to your own ears. Banner sighs softly, arms crossed, gaze unwavering.
— "Exactly. Which means it’s time to ease off a little."
You look away, fixating on some abstract point on the wall. You don’t want to hear it. Not now. Not again. And yet, a part of you knows he’s right. You feel it in the constant burn of your muscles, the tightness twisting your neck, the persistent sense that you’re right on the edge of collapse.
— "Maybe I need some melatonin, I don’t know… something to help me sleep, maybe."
Pepper and Bruce exchange a subtle glance — one of those silent conversations you hate, because it forces you to face what you refuse to admit: they see more than you want to show. You slump into one of the break room chairs, back curved, elbows resting on your knees. You rub your forehead with your palm, as if you could wipe away the exhaustion with a single gesture. But the fatigue clings to your skin like a second layer you can’t peel off.
— "Melatonin, huh?" Banner says, leaning back against the counter, a slight smile on his lips. "You think it’s just a matter of sleep rhythm?"
You shrug vaguely, the gesture barely perceptible.
— "Can’t hurt, right? If I can stop tossing and turning all night, that’d already be something."
Pepper sets her cup down on the table with a near-maternal gentleness and leans forward, her gaze seeking yours.
— "It’s not just a sleep problem, and you know it."
You squint slightly, your eyes drifting away.
— "Not really in the mood for a psych evaluation, if that’s where this is going."
— "We’re just stating facts," Bruce replies, calm as ever. "You have insomnia, you wake up drenched in sweat, you haven’t recovered in how long now… three, four days? You sleep poorly, don’t eat enough, and overcompensate with work. That’s not nothing."
You nervously fidget with the rim of your coffee cup, the plastic bending under your fingers. The conversation makes you uneasy. Not because it’s aggressive — precisely because it’s not. They’re not yelling. They’re not attacking. They’re worried. And that’s worse.
— "Yeah, well… it’ll pass," you mumble, almost in a sigh, lacking conviction.
— "And if it doesn’t?" Pepper asks, even softer.
You finally look up at her. Her gaze is direct, sincere, not harsh but unflinching. She’s not trying to accuse you. She’s trying to understand. And maybe that’s what hurts most. She doesn’t see you as a burden. She sees you as a kid drowning, clinging to a leaking raft.
— "I’ll deal with it," you say, voice lower now.
— "You’ve been ‘dealing with it’ for way too long," Bruce replies. "And it doesn’t seem to be working."
You don’t answer. You keep tapping the edge of your paper cup, the dry, rhythmic sound echoing like a metronome in the silence. You feel something inside you. Not an explosion. Not a breakdown. Just a weariness so deep it shakes the foundation of everything you’ve built to stay upright. And in that silence, none of you try to deny the obvious.
— "Why do you even care this much?" you finally ask, voice raspy, worn.
It slips out. Not really a question, not really an accusation. Just an admission of exhaustion. A crack. Pepper gives a faint smile — kind, a little sad.
— "Because you work here now. And because we see you every day. We have this habit around here: we don’t let people fall apart without doing something about it."
She doesn’t say it like an obligation or a promise. It’s just a fact. Blunt. Honest. Bruce slowly nods, his gaze still unwavering.
— "You’re not alone here. Even if Stark is… well, Stark… he wouldn’t have offered you the job if he didn’t think you could handle it. But being capable isn’t the same as burning out."
You let out a quiet breath, short, and give a weary, almost cynical smile.
— "Duly noted, Doctor."
Pepper doesn’t respond right away. She just looks at you with that blend of kindness and worry you’re not used to. She knows pushing won’t help. That if you move forward, it’ll be on your own terms.
— "If you want," Banner offers seriously, almost clinically, "I can give you something a bit stronger than melatonin. Nothing heavy. Just… a little nudge so your brain finally agrees to shut down."
You hesitate. Your first reflex would be to refuse, to cling to the shaky autonomy you’re desperately holding onto. But deep down, you’re tired of fighting yourself. So you nod slowly.
— "Yeah… why not."
A barely whispered agreement — but it echoes loudly inside. Pepper rises gently and places a light hand on your shoulder. The gesture is simple, but it carries unexpected weight. An anchor in reality.
— "Take care of yourself, okay? And if you ever need to talk… even if it’s just to complain about Stark, you know where to find me."
You let out a small laugh — tired, but real.
— "I’ll keep that in mind."
She walks away without another word, leaving you in this quiet stillness. Bruce lingers a moment longer. His gaze rests on you like he’s making sure you won’t collapse the second he walks out.
— "I’ll bring it by tonight. In the meantime, try to actually take a break. Even a short one. Even a messy one. You need it, whether you admit it or not."
You give a vague nod, eyelids heavy, throat a little tight.
— "Thanks."
The word slips out before you can stop it. Not flashy, but honest. And Bruce gets it. He just nods back before walking off too. And you stay there. Alone in that warm, silent room, still a little surprised you accepted the help. You’re left alone with your lukewarm coffee and your thoughts. The bitter taste clings to your tongue, but you sip it anyway, more out of habit than need. You don’t have the strength to get up. Not yet. You stay seated, back curved, eyes fixed somewhere between the table and the void, like you could dissolve into that blurry point.
Fatigue is everywhere. In your limbs, your neck, even your eyelids, which you have to force to stay open. It wraps around you like a quiet, inescapable straitjacket. You feel like even your breathing is slower, heavier. And yet, your mind won’t stop. Still running. A cog that refuses to jam. You think of Stark. Of his comments. Of the scan room. Of Bruce. Of Pepper. Of their looks. The kind of stares that stick, even when you turn your head. You’re not used to this. Not used to being seen as anything other than a problem. And even less to people actually caring.
The silence stretches, taut like a wire pulled to the limit. Only the mechanical hums of the Tower nibble at it: the low drone of ventilation, the soft clicks of idle machines, a flickering light barely buzzing… Everything feels suspended. Almost too calm. Like the world is offering you a moment of peace — and you don’t know how to accept it. You close your eyes briefly. Just for a second. But in that second, everything floods back. The assault. The knife. The blood. Mathieu’s eyes. The weight of fear. You snap your eyes open again, heart beating faster. Not a full panic attack — but a jolt. A reminder. You wipe a hand down your face. You need to move. Get out of this room. Force yourself elsewhere. You finally sigh and get up slowly, as if every motion needed permission your body refuses to give. Your muscles ache. Sore, heavy, drained from a day pushed far past your reserves. But, as usual, you ignore the signals. You’re good at that. You never learned how to do anything else.
Your legs carry you almost on autopilot back to your room, faithful to a routine your mind stopped controlling hours ago. When you push the door open, a rush of cool, neutral air greets you. You flip the light on with a sluggish motion, not even thinking.
The room is immaculate. Too immaculate. Nothing out of place, no sign of life. Just clean lines, white walls, functional furniture. A hotel room with no soul, no memory. No book lying around, no photo, no forgotten clothes. Nothing to say you exist here. Nothing to say you exist at all, outside of your work. You stay there a moment, standing like an intruder in your own space. Your eyes drift to the large bay window. The city sprawls beyond, a sea of glass and light pulsing gently under the night sky. It looks so alive from here. So distant. And behind you, there’s that bed. Cold. Immaculate. Too smooth to feel familiar. Too quiet to feel comforting. It waits like a command. Rest. Sleep. Let go. But you know nothing vanishes with sleep. That your brain will keep spinning, even with your eyes shut. Maybe even faster.
You stand still. Halfway between the bed and the window. Caught between wanting to collapse and wanting to flee again. You grab your phone from the nightstand. The cold plastic sticks slightly to your damp palm. The screen lights up in a bluish glare, casting trembling shadows across the white walls. It feels like lightning in a cloudless sky: brutal, silent, almost unreal. You scroll through notifications absentmindedly. Nothing urgent. Nothing serious. Nothing that really needs your attention. Just the world spinning without you. A few spam messages, a software update alert, a weather forecast you don’t even read. The kind of mundane noise that reminds you how much everything goes on without you. Your finger hovers over your contact list. It stops on one name. Mom.
You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over your mother’s name. Over a message never written. A call never made. Should you tell them? Let them know where you are? What’s been happening? That you work at Stark Tower now, that you live in a soulless room in one of the most secure buildings in the world — and that despite that… you still don’t feel safe? You could. They’d probably be surprised. Worried. Maybe proud. Or not. Maybe it wouldn’t change anything. Maybe they’d answer with that same detached tone — the one of people who no longer really know how to talk to their own child. You stare at the screen a moment longer, until it dims. Then you sigh. Your thumb retreats. The screen goes black. Darkness settles back over the room, soft and heavy. Only the city’s glow licks the edges of the furniture. You place the phone down slowly, almost ceremonially, like setting down a weight. But it’s not true. Nothing feels lighter. You remain seated in the dark, hands resting on your thighs, your chest a little too tight. You didn’t say anything. And you know you won’t.
You let yourself fall onto the bed without even bothering to take off your shoes. Your body sinks immediately into the mattress, like it's being swallowed by a warm abyss. You don’t move. You don’t have the energy. Your eyes close on their own, pulled down by a devouring exhaustion.
But sleep doesn’t come right away.
Your body is wrecked, but your mind keeps racing. Blurry images overlap: Stark’s gaze, Banner’s hands, Pepper’s words, Matthew’s knife. Flashes, sounds, fragments with no order spinning endlessly. You want to shut them off, you crave a pause, a real silence… but even here, in this bed, you can’t escape.
You inhale slowly, deeply. The air barely reaches your lungs. It feels like something is pressing down on your chest — an invisible anchor, a tension that won’t release. You stay there, frozen, listening to your own breathing, waiting for your body to let go. And eventually… it does. Sleep takes you. Slowly, heavily. Like you’re sinking into a dark sea. A dull thud echoes in your skull. Thick. Muffled. An irregular pulse, almost foreign, merging with the rhythm of your heart. You float, without realizing it, somewhere between the real and whatever lies beyond. Your eyelids are sealed. Glued shut by the weight of a dream too dense, too deep. You want to open them, but you can’t.
And that’s when you feel it. Something’s off. No sound. No voice. Just… a strange tension. A barely perceptible dissonance, like a single instrument out of tune in a familiar symphony. Your unconscious knows it before you do: you’re not alone. Not really. You’re still drifting between two tides. Somewhere, a dull beat keeps echoing against your temple, like the remnants of a black tide that refuses to recede.
And then, suddenly — your eyes snap open.
The room is shrouded in shadow, bathed in a bluish, icy light filtering through the half-open curtains. The city lights cast shifting shadows across the walls, as if the darkness itself were trying to swallow you again. You lie there, frozen, on your back. Your gaze lost in the impersonal ceiling you still don’t recognize as your own. The air is heavy. Dense. A warm dampness clings to your skin, residue of a restless sleep that left only the trace, not the image. Every muscle feels abnormally heavy, stiff. As if even sleeping had drained you.
A ragged sigh escapes you. Your lips are dry, your throat irritated, like you screamed without realizing. A strange sensation lingers in your gut — not pain, but a dull unease, a low tension. The kind of thing you feel after running in a dream and never managing to escape. Like your mind never truly slept. You pass a hand over your face. Your palm meets the clammy heat of your skin, the fine sweat on your forehead, the damp strands sticking to your neck. Your heart beats slowly, but too loud, like your body is still trying to pull you out of a nightmare you don’t remember, only carry the weight of.
You don’t remember. Not clearly. But you know it wasn’t nothing. You know it left something behind. Maybe a void. Maybe a fear without a name. You turn slowly onto your side, as if moving too fast might drag up whatever your brain is already trying to bury. Your eyes catch the glowing screen of the alarm clock on the nightstand.
5:42AM.
You close your eyes briefly. Too early. Way too early. And yet, your body refuses to dive back in. You stay there, lying in the thick dark of early morning, unable to decide whether to try falling asleep again… or just get up and face another day you never asked for. Your heart is still pounding — dull and fast — as if it hasn’t realized the threat, whatever it was, has already faded. As if it refuses to let go, to come down from high alert. You sit up slowly, the crumpled sheets sliding off your damp skin, the mattress creaking faintly beneath you. A shiver runs through you at the touch of the cold floor — dry, sharp, brutal. You sit at the edge of the bed, hunched forward slightly, elbows on your knees, hands hanging. Your breathing is slow, deliberate, like you're trying to convince your body that everything’s fine, that you’re safe.
But nothing seems willing to ease. There’s that weight, right there, lodged in the middle of your chest. Invisible, but very real. You listen. Nothing.
The silence in the Tower is almost unreal. Too total. Usually, even at this hour, you’d catch faint sounds — machines humming, a vent blowing, an elevator in the distance, soft footsteps in the hall. But now… nothing. Just your breath, a bit too rough, and the faint buzz of your own blood in your temples.
Everything feels frozen.
Like reality itself is holding its breath. Your eyes drift, drawn against your will to the mirror on the wall, half-hidden by shadow. And you see it. You. Sitting there, slumped, back curved, features drawn.
Your reflection stares back with that kind of fatigue you can’t hide anymore. Those dark circles under your eyes go beyond normal lack of sleep. It’s deeper. Like every night without rest has dug a little further into your face. Your skin looks pale, almost gray under the cold light. Your hair is a mess, still sticking to your neck, and your shoulders seem narrower than usual. Frailer. Like the weight you carry has worn you down, shrunk you. And in your eyes… there’s not really anger anymore. Not even fear. Just absence. A quiet, unsettling void. You look away. You don’t want to see yourself like that.
A sigh. Another one. It escapes your lips before you even notice, like a reflex, a brief release of everything you’re holding in. You run a hand through your hair, pushing it back aimlessly, then stand up. Slowly. Too slowly. Every movement is a battle. An arm stretching, a leg unfolding, a spine groaning. Your muscles feel like overused cables, worn by sleepless nights and unrelenting days. You feel like you’re dragging your own weight like an armor that’s far too heavy.
You need a fucking glass of water.
The thought becomes almost vital. Mechanically, you start moving, crossing the room on silent steps. The floor, cold against your bare feet, sends a shiver climbing from your heels to your neck. But you keep going. You have to. Move. Walk. Push your body to follow. You open the door without thinking, without checking the time. Honestly, who else would be awake right now? And if someone is… you don’t care. You head toward the common kitchen, mind still foggy, dulled by leftover sleep and dream residue. Your steps barely echo on the polished floor, swallowed by the Tower’s artificial silence. The hallways are bathed in a bluish twilight, LED strips along the walls casting a cold glow. Not bright enough to dazzle, but enough to see everything — or rather, to make everything feel just a little too sharp, a little too quiet.
Each step feels too loud, each beat of your heart echoes in your rib cage like a dull thud. You feel like you're walking through a sci-fi set — clean and motionless, devoid of life. A perfect place… too perfect. Empty. When you finally reach the kitchen, you don’t waste time. You grab a glass from the nearest shelf. The touch of it against your palm is almost too cold, like it belongs to a world you can’t quite grasp. You turn on the tap, let the water run for a few seconds before filling the glass and drinking in big gulps. The water steals your breath for a second, ice-cold against your dry throat.
It slides down like a relief… temporary. Because despite the coolness, despite the instant comfort, it’s not enough. It never is. The pressure in your chest remains, subtle but present, a reminder that everything’s moving too fast, too hard, and you can’t keep up. You set the glass down, lean forward against the counter, arms extended, palms flat on the cold surface. Your gaze locks onto some fixed point, somewhere between the sink and the buzzing fluorescent light overhead. You’re not thinking about anything specific. Just… staying there. Staying upright. Breathing.
Then a sound — quiet but real — breaks the suspension. Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Not the hurried kind of a panicked employee, nor Rogers’ military cadence. It’s something else. A gait you’d recognize anywhere. You turn your head. And there he is. Stark.
He steps out of the hallway shadows, a casual but tired silhouette, a steaming mug in hand. He’s wearing a simple black T-shirt, wrinkled, and matching sweatpants. Nothing like the usual three-piece suit. This isn’t the brilliant, untouchable Tony Stark of conferences or labs. It’s just him, at this uncertain hour, probably dragged from sleep — if he slept at all. He doesn’t seem surprised to find you there, nor particularly curious. He tosses you a glance in passing, one of those quick, almost indifferent looks — but the kind that sees everything. Then he settles at the table without a word, places his mug down, and begins slowly turning it between his fingers.
You stay motionless, frozen against the counter. You’re not sure if you should say something. If he’s expecting anything. Maybe he’s not.
— "You’re into night wandering now?"
His voice is deeper than usual. Rough, almost hoarse. A tone you’ve never really heard from him before. The kind of voice scraped raw by too many sleepless nights. It hits you harder than it should. You shrug vaguely, setting your empty glass on the counter. The dull thud of it hitting the marble rings out in the too-clean silence of the kitchen.
— "Couldn’t sleep."
He nods. Slowly. Like he expected that answer. Like, somehow, it makes sense.
— "Yeah. It happens."
Silence returns. Not heavy, not light. Just there. A pause between two insomnias. Stark doesn’t look at you. He keeps turning his mug between his fingers, thoughtful. And you stay there, not really sure why you’re still standing at five in the morning, sharing a silence with the loudest man in New York. You watch him from the corner of your eye, without turning your head. He doesn’t have that usual posture, that calculated arrogance he wears like a second skin. No. He’s leaning slightly forward, elbows on the table, eyes lost in the quiet black of his coffee. His fingers tap the mug’s edge absentmindedly, an irregular, almost nervous rhythm. For a brief moment, you think you see a crack. A quieter, more fragile version of Stark. Something tired, maybe a little lonely. It lasts only a heartbeat — but you see it.
You sigh, finally yielding to the tension that’s gripped you since waking. Slowly, you sit across from him. The chair barely creaks under your weight. You fold your arms on the table, spine slouched, like your body no longer wants to pretend it’s strong.
— "You’re not sleeping either?"
He raises an eyebrow, barely glances up at you, then smirks — dry, humorless.
— "You think I’ve got time for that?"
You don’t answer. You don’t smile either. Because beneath the joke, you know he’s only half-kidding. If anyone knows insomnia in its most obsessive form, it’s him. Another silence settles. Not uncomfortable. Just there. Like a breath no one wants to disturb. And then, without thinking, without even listening to yourself, you ask:
— "Does this happen a lot? Sleepless nights."
This time, he lifts his eyes, meets yours for a second. He seems to weigh you, or maybe the weight of the question. Then he shrugs — a small, effortless motion.
— "Yeah."
Nothing more is needed. You understand. You nod, as if that answer’s enough. You grab your glass, take a sip of tepid water — bland, useless — but at least it gives your hands something to do.
— "Me too."
He says nothing. You think you see his lips move like he’s going to respond, but silence reclaims its place before any words come. He just nods slightly, then sips his coffee. And there, in that oversized kitchen, bathed in the bluish glow of LEDs and the first light of dawn, you’re two tired silhouettes facing each other. Two insomniacs kept awake by ghosts in a world that never truly gives them rest. But for once, the silence isn’t a wall. It’s not cold, not sharp. It stretches, fluid, almost soothing — a truce neither of you had to negotiate. Stark keeps spinning his mug slowly, absentmindedly. The coffee barely sways, as if even the liquid understands not to make a sound.
His gaze is fixed on the smooth black surface, but you can tell he’s not somewhere else. On the contrary, he’s thinking — maybe weighing his words. You recognize that jaw tension, the slight furrow of his brows. He’s not drifting. He’s here. With you. And that, coming from him, is rare. Then he looks up at you. And it’s not the gaze of Stark the boss. Nor the sarcastic genius. It’s blurrier, more human. Almost hesitant.
— "At least you didn’t scream this time, right?"
The tone is calm, almost neutral. But you’ve learned to read that calm. It’s not disinterest. He’s checking. He’s worried. In his way. You blink, caught off guard. A subtle shiver runs down your spine without you knowing why.
— "What?"
He sets his mug down with a soft clink, then folds his arms and leans back in the chair. The gesture is casual, but his gaze stays locked on yours.
— "I mean… you didn’t wake up half the floor this time."
You freeze for a second, your brain slow to connect the dots. You frown, trying to push through the fog still clinging to your memory. No specific image surfaces. Just that pressure in your chest on waking, the cold sweat, that sense of emptiness… but no screaming.
Not this time.
— "Last night…?" Your voice comes out lower, almost hoarse. "No, I don’t think so."
Stark raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. He watches you a moment longer, like he’s searching for the crack in your response, the trace of a lie or a forgotten detail.
— "You sure?"
You breathe in slowly, but the air seems stuck halfway. You search again, rummaging through the blurry corners of your mind. The cold light of the city. The empty bed. Your numb body… but nothing more. Just that dull feeling that won’t explain itself.
— "Well… I think so."
And that’s when it hits you. It’s not the nightmare that scares you most. It’s not remembering it. Stark doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, eyes slightly narrowed, like he’s trying to map your state of mind through the micro-movements of your face. You hate the way he scans you, that clinical, precise look that sees past words and through masks. Like he’s searching for a crack in your armor. Like he already knows. You look away, uncomfortable, and shrug in a gesture meant to seem casual, but it rings more like an escape.
— "I mean… I don’t remember a nightmare. Not like last time."
You absentmindedly rub the back of your neck, where tension sits like a knot pulled too tight. You can’t quite put your finger on what’s really bothering you. The abrupt waking? That blurry void between night and morning? That suspicion something happened — and you can’t name it?
— "But now that you mention it… I don’t feel like I really slept either."
Stark nods slowly, fingers tapping mechanically against his mug. His gaze drifts somewhere between the coffee and the void.
— "Yeah. That’s the worst part, sometimes."
He says it quietly, flatly. But you hear the weight in it. You look up at him, surprised by the absence of armor in his tone. It’s not a joke. Not a jab. It’s an admission. Subtle, but real. You sit up a bit, resting your elbows on the table, as if that small movement brings you closer to the truth he’s just brushed against.
— "Speaking from experience?"
A nearly invisible smile flickers across his lips, but it’s hollow. Just there to deflect, like a curtain too thin to hide the open window behind.
— "Let’s say the brain has its own way of warning us we’re spiraling. Even when we refuse to listen."
He takes a sip, unhurried. Like every word he speaks has been measured, sorted, calibrated.
— "Nightmares are one thing. But the real mess is when you can’t even remember if you had one or not."
A faint shiver climbs your spine. Not because of him. Because of what he just stirred. You don’t want to think about it, but you know exactly what he means. That blurry waking. That quiet dread. That heavy heart with no clear cause. That fatigue that never really leaves — even after a full night of sleep.
You stay silent. Because what he just said — it’s exactly that. And you have no idea how to escape it. You press your lips together, lowering your gaze for a moment to your glass of water, eyes fixed on the distorted reflection of light at the bottom.
— "Great," you mutter bitterly. "So I’m breaking down, is that it?"
— "Oh, that’s been happening for a while."
Stark replies immediately, quick and sharp, but his voice is different. Not mocking. Not cutting. Just… honest. Like an old truth he throws out without venom, because lying would be more cruel. You raise an eyebrow, staring at him with a mix of annoyance and weariness.
— "Are you trying to help or just twist the knife?"
He gives a brief, almost mechanical smile, but it fades instantly. His gaze stays fixed on you, unblinking.
— "If I wanted to twist the knife, believe me, you'd feel it."
Silence. Heavier this time. Less comfortable. You feel the unspoken words pile up in the air, like invisible smoke thickening the atmosphere. You toy with the rim of your glass, tracing circles with your fingertip. Your mind keeps looping. This blur, this doubt between sleep and wakefulness, this inability to trust your own nights… it’s like a glitch in the system. Something that follows you everywhere, even here, even now. Eventually, you’re the one who speaks again. Your voice is lower, almost hesitant.
— "What about you?"
Stark raises an eyebrow, intrigued, as if he didn’t expect the question to be turned back on him.
— "Me what?"
— "Did you sleep last night?"
He looks at you for a moment, as if weighing your question, then shrugs with a quiet sigh.
— "I pretended."
You don’t know why, but that makes you smile. A smile without strength, without joy, but genuine. A tired smile.
— "Yeah… I think I did too."
And for a second, something shifts. His gaze, usually closed off and defensive, seems to open just enough to let a spark through. Nothing dramatic. Not a revelation. Just a glimmer. A silent understanding. The kind you don’t learn. The kind you recognize in those who’ve already fallen. No pity. No miracle solution. But a presence. And that’s almost enough. No need to say more. No need to wrap up this strange exchange with Tony. There was nothing to add.
The Tower is already waking when you leave the kitchen, the empty mug still warm in your hand. You set it down in the sink without thinking, then tuck your hands into your pockets, walking slowly. The hallways stir softly around you. Silhouettes pass by — some in lab coats, others in sharp suits or more relaxed attire — engineers, agents, administrative staff. All immersed in their morning routines, in this perfectly oiled choreography that always makes you feel like a background extra in a film that isn’t yours. Some greet you with a nod — professional, polite. Others pass without a glance. And that’s perfectly fine. Today, you’d rather be invisible. You’d rather be forgotten for a bit.
You’re not in the mood for conversation. The night you just came through left a bitter taste in your mouth. A sense of incompletion. You know you slept. That your body, at some point, gave in. But it’s as if part of you stayed awake. On alert. Clinging to an invisible world you can’t quite place. Blurry images float back. Muffled sounds. Shards of something. But nothing clear. Nothing solid enough to name. And maybe that’s the worst part. Not the nightmares. Not the screams. But the forgetting. The blank. The void between memories. You inhale slowly, trying to push away that sensation clinging to your skin. But even the air feels heavier today. As if the Tower itself knows you’re reaching your limits. You pick up your pace — just slightly. Not to run. Not yet.
But to move forward. Because you have to do something. Because staying still too long — that’s when the dizziness creeps back in. The air is cool in the corridors, almost refreshing, but your body still burns with a dull, insidious fatigue. The kind that sticks to your skin, deep in your muscles, where even sleep can’t reach anymore. The coffee was just a placebo. An illusion of clarity that’s already faded, leaving only a bitter aftertaste and a heart too heavy. But you keep going. Again. As always. Because you have to. Because it’s what’s expected.
The meeting’s been scheduled for days. A strategic briefing, important, and you know exactly what Stark expects from you: a precise, clean, flawless progress update. And not just to look good. He wants something concrete. Solid. Visionary. You know you can’t afford to falter. Not now. When you push open the glass doors of the conference room, a light gust of air-conditioning brushes over you, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. Several employees are already seated around the long glass table — focused faces, some buried in tablets, others quietly trading technical remarks. The atmosphere is tense, but professional. On the back wall, a massive screen displays complex, animated schematics: dynamic circuits, streaming algorithms, interface projections… And at the center, the 3D model of the interface you’ve been working on for days. It rotates slowly, revealing each layer, each line, each curve you’ve fine-tuned to the point of obsession.
Your heart beats faster. Not out of fear. Not really. It’s a deeper tension. The desire not to disappoint. The anxiety of not measuring up. You inhale discreetly. Pepper stands near the smartboard, focused, speaking quietly with an engineer you’ve seen in the hallways before — a quiet guy, but with confident hands. She points to specific areas on the screen, her tone calm but firm, as always. Banner is there too, slouched in one of the armchairs at the far end of the table, a tablet in hand, looking relaxed, almost disconnected — but you know it’s a front. He’s paying attention. Always.
And then there’s Stark. Sitting in his chair like he owns the room — which, in a way, he does. One leg crossed casually over the other, phone in one hand, coffee mug in the other. His eyes flit between his screen and the wall display, seemingly distracted… but you know it’s an illusion. He catches everything. Every word, every detail, every hesitation. You approach silently and take a seat beside him. You set down your notebook and tablet, without noise, without comment. His gaze doesn’t shift toward you, but you know he registered your arrival.
The tense silence from the kitchen still lingers between you, like a fog no one dares to disperse. But here, in this bustling room, it's drowned out by the ambient hum of professionalism. Voices gradually rise, numbers are exchanged, diagrams appear. Colleagues present their progress, their projections, their doubts.
And you listen. You observe. Your turn is coming. You listen, focused — or at least, you try. The words reach you, but they slide across the surface of your mind without truly sinking in. Pepper talks about timelines, optimizations, coordination between teams. Words you know, words you’ve mastered. But now, in this moment, they echo in your head as if spoken underwater.
Something’s off.
You can't quite pinpoint it. A flutter. A barely perceptible misalignment. The air seems denser, thicker, like the room has contracted around you without anyone noticing. Your temples pulse gently, a regular, muted beat. You take a deep breath, trying to sweep away the persistent unease. Just fatigue. Nothing more. You slowly rest your elbows on the table, arms crossed in your usual posture. A mechanical gesture, more for protection than comfort. Your eyes try to fix on Pepper, to follow her precise gestures, her finger tracing lines across the interactive screen. You nod, but you’ve only caught fragments.
Then, a movement to your right. Subtle. Just a shift in posture. Stark. He’s set down his cup. He’s looking at you. Not directly, not openly, but enough for you to feel it. Your heart skips a beat. You turn your head slightly toward him — just enough to meet his gaze. He’s watching you. Not with his usual irony. Not with that amused contempt he wields like a blade. No. With the same look he had last night, in the kitchen. The look of a man who sees something you’re trying your hardest to hide.
Stark leans back slightly in his chair, his eyes brushing past you. A blink, a pause in his movement — and already, he looks away. Nothing expressive, nothing overt. Just that micro-movement, that quiet observation, nearly erased… but you saw it. You felt it.
And it’s enough to chill your blood.
Because if he noticed… then it’s not in your head. It’s not just a passing impression. Something is wrong. And now, Stark knows too. But he says nothing. No jab. No sharp remark. Not even a frown. He simply leans forward again, abandoning the phone he’d been spinning between his fingers. He takes over the conversation with a clear voice, sharp and assured like a finely honed blade. You could almost believe he’s reading from an invisible teleprompter.
Every word is precise, every technical term flows naturally from his mouth like he forged them himself. He talks about performance, interface security, energy optimization, and integration protocols. Everything’s there. Calculated. Mastered. Perfect.
You cling on.
You try to follow, to fix your attention on his words, but your concentration falters. The sounds stretch, distort slightly at the edges, like someone’s turned the volume down on the world around you. The hum of the projectors, the breaths of others around the table, the barely perceptible vibrations of the floor beneath your feet — everything becomes too much, or not enough. You discreetly clench your fists on your thighs. You have to hold on. Just a little longer. Just a few more minutes. The words keep coming, mechanical, precise, like a metronome at full speed. They crash into your mind without leaving a clear imprint. Every phrase Stark delivers, every detail on the wall screen becomes a blurred echo in your head. You feel like you’re listening through a pane of glass, or underwater.
You force your eyes to stay locked on the projected diagrams, hoping it will be enough to anchor your awareness. To latch onto something. Anything. But your body doesn’t follow. The pressure in your chest has spread. It’s no longer just discomfort — it’s a mass, hot, oppressive, crushing you slowly from the inside. Your ribs feel too tight to contain your breath. You swallow, once, twice, trying to push down the sensation. In vain.
— “It’s nothing. Just low blood pressure. Nothing serious.”
You adjust your posture, straighter, stiffer. Your arms crossed over your chest give you a sense of control, an illusion of stability. But your fingers tremble slightly. Damp. Numb. You squeeze them to hide the trembling. Your back feels too arched, your lungs too full, and yet you don’t seem to really be breathing. A metallic clink across the room, a chair scraping, and the world around you continues as if nothing's wrong. You squint, trying to force your brain to focus. Banner hasn’t raised his voice, but his tone has changed. Deeper. More concerned. He’s talking to Pepper, leaning slightly toward her, tablet in hand. She nods slowly, face tense, her eyes briefly sliding toward you. Your stomach twists. No need to hear the words to understand. You know what it is. That kind of quiet exchange. That overly focused attention. You know this feeling of being watched — not with judgment, but with that precise mix of worry and caution that you can’t stand.
Heart pounding, you look away and force your gaze back to the screen in a desperate attempt to pretend everything’s fine. You take a deep breath, but it gets stuck halfway, like the air refuses to go all the way in. And when you turn your head slightly again, Banner is watching you. Not directly. Not openly. But enough to let you know: yes, he noticed. He saw. And now, he’s waiting for one thing — for you to break. You inhale, slowly — or try to. The air comes in, but it feels heavier than usual. It doesn’t help. It gets stuck somewhere, right above your heart, like an invisible knot. Your eyes fix on a projected graph on the wall, its shifting code lines, animated curves… You know them by heart. It’s your work. But this morning, they seem blurry. As if your brain refuses to register anything more.
You feel a bead of sweat slide slowly down your temple. You don’t move. Beside you, Stark keeps talking. He delivers his points with perfect mastery, never looking at his notes. He holds the room, as always. No one sees your distress. Except Banner. And Pepper. You know that now. Their glances are rarer, quicker, but they return. At regular intervals, discreet, measured. And it makes you want to disappear under the table even more, to blend into the walls. To not be seen anymore. You grip your hands tighter under the table. They tremble. Just a little. Not enough to be visible. Just enough for you to feel it in every finger joint.
Hold on.
That’s all you can think. No room for collapse. Not here. Not now. Just a few more minutes. The room’s lighting suddenly feels too bright. The fluorescent lights glare a harsh white that makes you squint. A soft ringing starts in your ears, muting the sounds. Even Stark’s voice, usually so distinct, begins to lose clarity. It blurs with other noises, like everything has become either too distant… or too close. You swallow with difficulty.
Your fingers tighten around your pen, but your hand refuses to move. You can’t tell if you’re falling asleep, fainting, or just… losing grip. A shiver runs down your back. Your heart races. Too fast.
You don’t know how long you’ve been like this. Maybe two minutes. Maybe ten. Then, Stark’s voice slices through the haze:
"Can you project the latest version of your interface on the main screen?"
Your head jerks up. Faces turn toward you. The silence that follows is more brutal than all the stares. You blink, short of breath. You didn’t hear half of what he said. You haven’t projected anything. You haven’t even turned on your tablet. Your brain spins. You feel your heart pounding irregularly in your chest, out of sync with the rest of the world. A hum slowly fills your skull, like a dull roar, like an old engine ready to give out. You try to take a deeper breath, but the air slips away. Your gaze drifts, blurry, to the main screen. You vaguely see lines of code, technical visuals… and your name, somewhere in a corner. Everything’s hazy. You blink several times, try to gather your thoughts. A simple task. Just connect your tablet. Just… click.
But your fingers won’t cooperate. They tremble slightly, almost imperceptibly, but enough to betray you if anyone looks closely. You don’t dare turn your head. You don’t dare meet anyone’s gaze. You push, mentally, to return to the room, to claw your way out of this slow, invisible fall. Then you sense movement beside you. Minimal. Stark. No words. No sigh. Just a slight shift. He’s set his screen aside, stopped speaking. And in that microscopic silence that lasts barely a second, you understand he’s noticed. He’s watching you.
You shift position, subtly straightening your back, trying to shake off the dizziness. A movement too sudden — a tingling discomfort shoots up your neck. He hasn’t moved. He’s still sitting, arm lazily resting on the table, but his eyes are on you. Not with his usual smirk. Not with that cynical amusement he often wears. And without anyone else hearing, he murmurs:
— "You still with us?"
His voice is low, measured. Not sarcastic. Not condescending. Just… attentive. And that’s the worst part. You feel a shiver crawl up your spine, like a cold current down your nape. Because you know he’s seen. Not guessed, not assumed. Seen. And Stark… he never lets go once something intrigues him. You look away, hoping simply breaking eye contact will end the silent exchange. But it doesn’t. Everything still feels too slow, too blurry, too distant. Like the world itself is turning in some strange, foggy density that your body can’t adjust to.
The voices in the room become muffled echoes, dulled, like heard through thick glass. You hear your name, maybe. A number. A comment. But nothing clear. Your brain struggles to piece together the sounds, to find coherent meaning. Everything fades, replaced by that pounding in your temples. Faces around you blur. You catch movements — a raised hand, a finger pointing at a screen, a figure leaning forward — but nothing holds your attention. It’s like watching a low-quality video: you see the shapes, but not the detail. And him… he’s still there. Stark. Motionless, but not absent. His gaze stays fixed on you, intensely observant. Not mocking, not annoyed. Just present. Focused. Almost heavy. He’s waiting. For a reaction. A response. Proof you’re still there, still standing. You swallow hard. You feel your pulse thudding in your throat. And you know you can’t run from this. Not now. Not here.
So you force your voice to come out. You want it calm. Steady. Smooth. Even if inside, everything’s falling apart.
— "I’m following."
It comes out rougher than expected, barely more than a whisper. But it’s enough. It’s a line thrown over the void. You hadn’t planned to speak. You didn’t even know you were going to open your mouth. But your body had already decided. It knew before you did. It had been screaming silently for minutes — your racing heart, your blurry vision, the too-dense air. And then that voice inside, the one you usually ignore, finally rose to the surface.
You shift again, trying to hide the growing numbness in your neck and the diffuse heat in your arms — the kind of heat that doesn’t warm, but warns. A hand trembles slightly under the table. Not enough for anyone to notice. But enough for you to feel. And that’s enough. You inhale deeply, but the air comes with difficulty. It sticks in your throat, hesitates to enter. Around you, the meeting goes on. Discussions move forward, voices exchange numbers and estimates with a precise, mechanical rhythm. A rhythm you can no longer follow. Every word becomes background noise, every graphic on the screen a flat blur.
You want to speak, but your throat is dry. Your thoughts overlap, dissolve, blur. And yet, you still feel it. Stark. He’s not speaking anymore. He’s watching you. Not like a boss watches an employee. Not like a mentor watches a student. Like someone who’s seen this kind of unraveling before. This kind of exhaustion. And who knows what it means. He doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t comment. He waits. Maybe he wonders how much longer you’ll last. Maybe he’s waiting for you to decide. So you sit up slowly. Not too fast. You look at the screen in front of you, without really seeing it, and you let the words drop:
— "I think… I need to step out for a moment."
Almost a whisper. A breath between two erratic heartbeats. The words feel foreign, like they’re floating outside of you, barely connected to your will. You expect a jab. A mocking comment. An annoyed sigh. But nothing. Nothing at all. Stark simply nods, slowly, a movement so small it could be missed. But you see it. And you understand. He already knew. He understood long before you did. He says nothing. Doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t ask questions. He lets you go. Not out of indifference. Because he knows. And because, for now, the meeting continues. Others talk. The screen changes. The world keeps turning without you.
You don’t ask any questions. You don’t try to explain yourself.
You don’t want to face their eyes, don’t want to feel the weight of judgment or pity. So you get up. Slowly. Too slowly. Every muscle resists in its own way, every joint sends a silent reminder of the tension you refuse to release. But you don’t tremble. Not yet. You make sure each movement is crisp, controlled. A habit inherited from the days spent hiding your cracks. You give the appearance of someone in control. Even though, inside, everything is threatening to collapse.
Your chair glides softly against the floor. You vaguely hear its creak, distorted by the cottony fog filtering your senses. No one stops you. No voice calls out. Even those who noticed you have already looked away. Maybe they think you’re just heading to the restroom. Maybe they don’t care. Or maybe they prefer to pretend they saw nothing.
You walk forward.
Sounds stretch around you, dulled. Voices resonate but no longer reach you clearly. You can still sense the rhythm of the meeting, but its meaning escapes you. It’s just background noise, a distant hum.
Your hand brushes the table as you pass. A way to make sure you’re still anchored to something. But even that familiar surface feels strange. As if it belongs to a world you’re only observing through glass.
Each step is costly.
The floor is there, but it seems… blurry. Not unstable, not dangerous — just disconnected. As if you’re walking on the memory of a floor rather than the floor itself. And your body, it keeps moving, not from will, but from necessity. Because it must. Because you can’t stay there another second.
You cover the last few meters like a tightrope walker on an overstrained wire. Your steps are straight, but your breath falters. And as you pass by Banner and Pepper, their eyes lift — almost at the same time.
They don’t call your name. They don’t try to stop you. But you feel it: their eyes follow you, tense, worried, alert. It’s not just polite concern. It’s a silent language, a contained urgency. They saw the small tremors in your shoulders, the unusual vacancy in your gaze. They understood.
But you keep walking. You can’t stop now. You won’t collapse here, under their well-meaning stares. You ignore their presence like you would look away from a cracked window you don’t have the strength to fix.
Finally, your hand touches the door handle. A simple gesture. An everyday detail. But this contact, however mundane, becomes an anchor. You hold on to it. You feel the cold metal against your damp palm, the bite of the temperature against your burning skin. And in that contrast, something cracks. You press, and the door opens.
The hallway air hits your face like a freezing wave. Drier, sharper, almost aggressive after the thick warmth of the conference room. You thought it would help. You thought getting out would be enough. But no. Instead of relief, a confused surge rises. A slow, vicious, creeping vertigo. It starts at the base of your neck, spreads to your scalp, spirals down your spine. Your arms grow heavier. Your fingers go numb. You inhale deeply. But the air doesn’t come.
Or rather, it comes — but doesn’t stay. As if it brushes you without ever truly entering. Your lungs remain tense, empty, and your heart hammers erratically in your chest. Your body is panicking quietly. And you, you fight to stay upright. You finally cross the threshold.
One step. Then another.
But the hallway ahead suddenly feels longer. Blurred. As if it’s stretching, dissolving at the edges. You feel like you’re walking through a misprinted image, where outlines tremble and colors fade.
The ground sways slightly beneath your feet. An almost imperceptible oscillation. As if the Tower itself were breathing beneath you — or collapsing. Your body reacts before your mind, a silent alarm you didn’t hear in time.
You stumble. One awkward step. Then another, even more uncertain. Your arms reach for support, but there’s nothing around you. Nothing but air. Empty and blurry. The air feels heavier. Each heartbeat pounds in your head like a hammer blow, offbeat and painful.
You want to speak, maybe call out, say something. But no sound makes it past your throat. Just a short breath, ripped from you with effort.
You fight. You hold on. But there’s nothing. No handle. No wall. No anchor. And then, everything gives way. Your legs buckle as if they were never truly holding you up. Your knee hits the floor with a muffled thud. Then your shoulder. Then the rest of your body. You don’t feel it all — not really — because your consciousness is already slipping.
Your vision explodes.
First in white — violent, blinding. Like a burn. Then darkness gnaws at the edges, swallowing your perception in waves, until only unreal, floating shards of light remain. You hear voices, maybe. Or blood pounding too loudly in your ears. Everything blends. Everything fades.
What Remains | Chapter 14 Shattered Lines (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : Waking up hungover in Stark’s room leads to a tense morning filled with frustration and conflict. Stark’s hot-and-cold behavior—saving a life one moment and dismissing it the next—creates a constant emotional whiplash. Seeking relief through training, a brief conversation with Steve offers some clarity, but Stark’s harsh criticism and withheld validation continue to sting. Attempts to find stability only deepen the frustration, leaving everything unresolved and fragile.
word count: 16.8k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
You wake up with the sensation of a jackhammer pounding relentlessly between your temples.
Each pulse is a detonation. Your throat is raw, dry as if you’d swallowed sand. Your eyelids weigh a ton, stuck together by fatigue and poorly digested alcohol. You’ve got a hangover. Not a mild one. One of those that crushes your skull and reminds you, with a specific kind of sadism, why downing glass after glass of wine is always a fucking bad idea.
You groan as you sit halfway up, a grimace twisting your face when your wrist makes itself known with a sharp, painful throb. And that’s when your brain finally connects. This isn’t your bed. Not your makeshift couch in the Tower. Not even that impersonal room you were assigned.
It’s… something else.
You slowly turn your head, each movement sending nauseating waves through your skull. Morning light filters through a huge bay window, bathing the room in a pale, almost unreal glow. The walls are dressed in subdued tones — grey, metallic — yet the space exudes a strange warmth. A quiet elegance. The kind of understated luxury where every object probably costs more than your last three paychecks combined.
A massive desk sits against the far wall. It’s cluttered with still-flickering holographic projections. Technical plans, animated schematics, a few handwritten notes. And there, right next to it — a jacket casually thrown over a leather chair. A watch left on the edge of a console. Details too personal to belong to a guest room.
Your stomach tightens. You freeze. You’re in Stark’s bedroom.
The realization jolts you awake — clean, brutal, like all your mental alarms just lit up at once.
Your eyes widen, your heart skips a beat, and suddenly the room feels too big, too quiet, too… smooth. You scan the space, searching for something — anything — that could explain why you’re here. Why you ended up in this damn high-tech sanctuary that still smells like new leather and clinical perfection.
— “Fuck, no...”
Your voice is rough, hoarse, almost foreign. You run a shaky hand over your face like you could erase last night by sheer touch. But the fragments return — disordered, acidic. The party. The alcohol. Stark’s lingering gaze. The alley.
Matthew. The knife. The panic. The pain.
You lower your eyes slowly. Your wrist is still carefully wrapped, enveloped in medical gauze that seems almost out of place in a setting like this. But it’s there. Solid. Precise. Ah. Right.
Bit by bit, the memories piece themselves together. Stark catching you, his gestures brusque but precise. His voice, annoyed but not indifferent. The taste of blood in your mouth. The dizziness. And that sentence.
“You can sleep here.”
You — unable to say no. Too tired. Too broken to protest.
— “Shit...”
You exhale the word more than speak it, in a blend of shame and resignation. You don’t know what’s worse: having slept here like a lost child or the fact that Stark didn’t kick you out at dawn with his usual predatory sarcasm. You sit up suddenly, jolted by a nervous surge. Bad idea.
Your skull explodes instantly in a wave of dull pain. You stagger, hands out to avoid falling. Your stomach knots, threatening to empty itself. You close your eyes, inhale slowly, deeply — like you could slow the world’s spin with sheer will. Why did you drink so much last night? You already know the answer. Because you were scared. Because it hurt less. Because for once, you wanted to forget. And now? Now you’re here. Standing in Tony Stark’s bedroom. And him? Where is he?
Your gaze darts to the bed. Impeccable sheets. Not a crease, not a trace. He didn’t sleep here. Not for a second. A cold shiver crawls down your spine. You step forward cautiously, your unsteady gait betraying every protest of your aching body. Your fingers brush the edge of the desk, as if anchoring yourself to something tangible. No sound. No presence. Nothing but silence and the faint beeping of still-active holographic blueprints. A sigh escapes you, long and heavy, as you stretch cautiously. Your back cracks. Your head still pounds. You need coffee. Urgently.
But first… you need to get out of here. Now. Before Stark walks in and this already borderline situation tilts into full-blown awkwardness. You cast one last glance at the room, as if to make sure you haven’t left anything behind. Nothing but your dignity, maybe. You turn the handle slowly, as delicately as possible, heart pounding in your temples. The door opens with a barely audible click. You slip into the hallway, eyes alert, every sense on edge, ready to retreat like a thief caught in the act. No one.
A sigh of relief escapes you, almost involuntarily. Your chest loosens — just a little. You close the door as discreetly as you opened it, holding your breath as if any noise could trigger an alarm. The hallway is bathed in soft light, still tinted with the pinkish hues of morning. Impeccable walls, perfectly polished floors… everything seems to remind you that you don’t belong here. Every step you take feels too loud, too heavy, as if the Tower itself were reminding you of your temporary intruder status. Your skull keeps punishing you for last night’s excess, each pulse echoing painfully through your sinuses.
And your body? It protests every movement. Your wrist throbs in waves, your stomach threatens rebellion at the slightest jolt, and your legs drag like they carry the weight of your shame. You need coffee. Seriously. And a good excuse to disappear.
You walk slowly through the silent hallways, heading toward the communal kitchen you spotted the day before, guided by instinct — or maybe your nose. The air here is fresh, clean, almost too much so. There’s a metallic, precise scent, that clinical smell typical of technologically sterilized places. You’re starting to get used to this atmosphere, to this almost inhuman perfection. And if you’re being honest, it kind of scares you. You reach the corner of the hallway when voices break the silence. You stop dead.
Two familiar voices.
— "…he’s lucky Tony was there, you know."
— "I know. But honestly, this can’t keep going. Something has to be done."
You frown, straining to listen without moving. Pepper. And Happy. You’d recognize that concerned, diplomatic tone anywhere. And Happy’s deep voice, always a bit gruff, more direct. You don’t quite understand what they’re talking about yet. But your heart speeds up. They’re talking about someone. Probably about you. You swallow. You inch forward, just enough to hear — but not enough to be seen. You glance at the glass wall on your left. They’re in the kitchen. Standing, backs to the door. Coffee in hand. Serious expressions.
And you? You hesitate. What now? Walk in like nothing’s happening? Turn back and pretend you were never there? Or stay frozen a little longer, nerves on edge, like their next sentence might decide your future here? The atmosphere seems calm, but there’s a heaviness in the air, like a conversation was paused the second you arrived. You hesitate for a split second on the threshold, heart still pounding too fast. Then you take a deep breath, force your back straight, and step into the room, eyes locked on the coffeemaker. Maybe if you move fast enough, you can grab your coffee without getting interrogated. But of course, that’s too much to ask.
The moment Pepper sees you, she cuts off mid-sentence. Her eyes land on you with surgical precision, probably noting your stiff posture, drawn features, the shadows under your eyes. Her cup remains halfway to her lips. Next to her, Happy sizes you up with a half-smirk, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.
— "You look like hell."
You don’t even bother reacting. You just sigh, grab a clean mug from the cupboard, and search for the coffee.
— "Thanks, Happy. Always a charmer."
You pour the dark liquid in silence, not sparing them a glance. The simple sound of coffee hitting the cup anchors you, grounds you. Pepper stays more composed, but her gaze is much sharper. Uncompromising.
— "Are you okay?" she asks, gently.
It’s not a real question. It’s a test. You can hear it in her voice, in her posture. She already knows. Or at least suspects. You shrug vaguely, lifting the mug to your lips. The warmth of the porcelain in your hands helps keep you steady.
— "I’ve had worse."
— "That’s not exactly comforting," Happy mutters, sipping his coffee. "Considering what we saw last night, ‘worse’ sounds pretty damn alarming."
You clench your jaw and swallow a mouthful of too-hot coffee without flinching. You don’t want to have this conversation. Not now. Not here. And especially not with them.
— "I just drank too much, that’s all."
A flimsy lie. Even you don’t believe it. Pepper shares a silent look with Happy. One of those wordless exchanges full of meaning, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve already been dissected and filed away. But to your surprise, she doesn’t press. She stays quiet. Maybe out of pity. Maybe out of strategy.
You slowly lean against the counter, mug in hand. You force yourself to breathe. To keep your eyes open. You take another sip. This time, it starts to work. Your thoughts settle a little. Your heart slows. And that’s when Stark walks into the kitchen. Impeccable. Of course. Suit clean-cut to perfection, glasses on, tablet in hand. The look of someone who hasn’t slept but still runs at one hundred percent. He spots you immediately. Scans you. A beat. Then he raises an eyebrow without breaking stride.
— "Upright. Breathing. Not bleeding out. Progress."
You’re not sure if it’s sarcasm, provocation, or some strange form of compliment. Maybe all three. You just lift your mug in response, a silent toast to your miserable survival. He steps closer, glancing at your mug, then your face.
— "You slept on my couch. Can you stop snoring next time ?"
You nearly choke on your coffee. Pepper exhales a sigh as long as the week, and Happy chuckles into his mug. You want to sink into the floor. Stark lets you stew in that brief illusion of peace, pretending you can start your day without a hitch. One sip. Then another. The warmth of the coffee soothes your nerves, your heart finally calming… just enough for his voice to cut through, sharp and laced with perfectly measured nonchalance.
— "So… what was the plan last night? Get stabbed in an alley before your trial period's even over?"
Boom. You close your eyes for just a second. You saw it coming. Or at least, you should have.
Happy freezes mid-bite into his croissant, eyebrows raised with incredulity. Pepper lets out an already weary sigh—the kind reserved for unmanageable kids or lost causes. You set your cup down a bit too forcefully on the counter, the sound echoing in the tense silence. You take a slow, measured breath, trying not to react too quickly.
— "I didn't exactly plan on getting attacked, if that's what you're asking."
Stark tilts his head slightly, feigning sympathy.
— "Oh, really? Because from here, it looks like you're actively campaigning for punching bag of the year. And doing pretty well at it."
You grit your teeth. Because it hurts. Because it isn't entirely false. And because you're not even sure if you still have the strength to defend yourself.
— "I handled the situation."
— "Oh yeah?" He raises an eyebrow. "Then I must've imagined dropping my car keys to scrape you off the pavement."
Happy almost chokes with laughter. Pepper crosses her arms, shooting Stark an icy glare.
— "Tony."
He ignores her completely. Of course.
— "You've got a target on your back, and you keep moving forward like it's just... some minor inconvenience. Mind telling me how many more times you plan to get your face smashed in before realizing pride doesn't stop knives?"
And that's the last straw. You pivot toward him, your eyes blazing with anger, exhaustion, and everything else you've held back for days, weeks, maybe even longer.
— "And what exactly do you want?!" you snap, louder than intended.
Your voice cracks through the kitchen, and even Happy, who's used to Tony's outbursts, freezes slightly.
— "What do you want, Stark? Should I get on my knees and thank you? Send you flowers for saving my life?!"
He doesn't flinch. He just leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes locked onto yours, unwavering.
— "I just don't want to find your corpse on the sidewalk. It'd really mess up the office vibe."
You laugh—a short, dry, nervous laugh leaving a bitter taste in your mouth.
— "Of course. It's always about productivity, isn't it, Boss?"
His expression barely shifts. But you sense a slight tension in his jaw. Silence settles. Less arrogant. Less controlled. Pepper finally breaks it, her voice gentle but firm.
— "No one's saying you have to face this alone."
You lower your eyes, feeling your breath falter. You run a hand over your face, as if you could erase all the weight in one motion. But it's still there. The heaviness. The image of Matthew. The ache in your wrist. The fear in your gut.
— "I can handle it." Your voice is rougher, less certain. "Like I've always done."
Stark lets out a small laugh, but there's no mockery this time. Just dry. Bitter.
— "Yeah. And we've all seen how well that's worked out."
The silence that follows is brutal. Dense. And this time, no one laughs. You want to respond, to throw something back—anything—just to not stand there like a humiliated child. But nothing comes. No words find the strength to leave your throat. Pepper gently places a hand on your forearm. A discreet contact, yet grounded, like an anchor in your storm.
— "Why do you refuse to let us help you?"
You don't answer immediately. Because you don't know. Or maybe you do. But you've never wanted to put words to it. You've preferred surviving without thinking. Just moving forward. Not feeling. You clench your fists. Hard. Too hard. Your injured wrist protests, but you don't care.
— "I don't understand…" you finally whisper, voice ragged. "Boss… How can you say stuff like that, as if I'm just… a number, a failed project, a fucking casting mistake."
Your voice shakes. It's not fear. It's frustration. Pure, brutal, and it's rising, roaring like a storm about to break.
— "These last few days, I fought. For real. To prove I wasn't just a parasite, not just some lost kid."
You meet his gaze head-on now. Refusing to look away.
— "I kept quiet. I took the hits. Worked myself nearly to death to show you I had value. That I wasn't a burden."
You breathe heavily, almost gasping. Anger coils in your throat, squeezing your chest.
— "Last night, when you took me back… when you patched me up, I thought 'this is it.' Maybe… you'd finally see me differently."
A laugh escapes you. Dry. Bitter. There's nothing funny about it, and that's obvious.
— "But no. Of course not."
You fix your eyes on his.
— "You're just an asshole."
Pepper flinches. Happy looks up, surprised. Stark doesn't budge. He watches you. Calm on the surface. But you see in his eyes that he's processing, calculating, assessing.
— "And that's exactly why I don't want your help," you continue, your voice harder, steadier. "Because you only see what you want to see. The fragile guy. The nuisance. The collateral damage."
Stark arches an eyebrow, arms crossed, gaze still locked onto you.
— "Oh yeah? I pull you out of some armed lunatic's grip, and that's how you thank me?"
You stare at him. Anger, contempt, exhaustion swirl in your gaze.
— "I never asked you to save me."
And the silence falls again. Dense. Cutting. You breathe heavily. Your heart pounds wildly. Every word you've just spoken has drained you, as if you've spat out everything you've swallowed for weeks. But it's out now. And you're waiting. For it to explode. Or collapse. It might be the hardest sentence you've ever said. Because it's true. You've never asked for his help. Never begged for any outstretched hand. You've never wanted to be some damn rehabilitation project, a broken kid he could test his moral limits on. All you've ever wanted was to be left alone. Quietly. To work, exist, breathe without constantly being reminded you're just a mess that needs fixing. Pepper and Happy exchange a glance—one of those heavy silences where words become useless. The atmosphere is electric. Charged. You laugh. Short. Bitter. An acidic sound scratching your throat as much as your pride.
— "You say I can't manage my life, but since I've been here, I haven't made a single mistake. I've followed everything. Your rules. Your schedules. Your impossible demands. Yet still... I'm just dead weight in your eyes. Always this damn problem you have to contain."
You point at him, your whole body vibrating with restrained anger.
— "You spend your time testing me, pushing me down, waiting for me to collapse like it's inevitable. And then you act surprised because I don't want your help?! You're the one who taught me to handle things alone, Stark! You're the one who conditioned me to shut up and grit my teeth!"
And there's a moment—a single moment—where you see something flash in his eyes. Something more human. Somewhere between shame and regret. But as quickly as it appears, it's gone. The mask returns. Cold. Neutral.
— "You're not wrong."
His answer stops you cold. But he doesn't stop there.
— "The difference is, I knew when to stop messing around."
You open your mouth, ready to explode, but he lifts a hand, and strangely, you halt.
— "If you can't see you've already pushed past all your limits, then yeah, I'll keep putting pressure on you. Because I'd rather have an employee who hates me than find a kid cold and dead in some damn alley."
You stand there. Frozen. Shaken. And what breaks you the most... is knowing he's sincere. You look away, unable to bear that truth thrown at you without filter, without empathy. Just raw. Brutal. Like a slap in a room already overflowing with pain. You leap to your feet.
— "I don't need to hear this."
You grab your coffee cup, but the taste left on your tongue is like ashes. You cross the kitchen with heavy steps, every heartbeat pounding in your temples like a war drum. But just before reaching the door, you stop. You turn back. Your eyes catch Pepper's. Then Happy's. They haven't moved. But they've heard everything.
— "And you... you're okay with this?"
Your voice is dry. Shaky. A reproach disguised as a question—or perhaps the opposite. Pepper lowers her eyes, her fingers tightening around her cup. Happy remains stone-faced, arms crossed, but his features are tighter than usual. He slightly turns his head away. No one answers. You smile—a smile that's anything but. It's a grimace. A crack on the edge of collapse.
— "Of course you're okay with it."
You slowly nod, throat tight.
— "Why did I think for even one second it would be different..."
Stark says nothing. He still watches you. Motionless. He doesn't stop you. Doesn't call you back. Not a word. Not a step. And you don't know what's worse: that he doesn't care, or that he knows exactly what he's doing. You hate him for it. You grit your teeth. You turn on your heel.
— "Forget it."
And you leave, letting the door slam shut behind you—a sharp sound, too close to a farewell to just be an ordinary exit.
Pepper stays frozen for a moment, eyes fixed on the still-quivering door through which you left. The silence left behind is dense, almost tangible. She slowly runs a hand through her hair, pushing back a stray lock behind her ear with a quiet sigh. But she doesn't speak. Not right away. Happy, still leaning against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest. He glances sideways at Stark, brows furrowed, his gaze darkened by an anxiety he no longer bothers to hide.
— "Not gonna lie, boss," he finally says, voice deep and controlled. "That wasn't very elegant."
He's not trying to provoke him. But he's not sparing him either. Stark doesn't reply. He's seated on one of the kitchen stools, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. Between his fingers, a metal spoon turns slowly, still stained with melted sugar. A repetitive gesture, almost absent. He stares at the object as if it might hold an answer—or at least a distraction.
— "Did you hear what he called me?" he finally mutters, without looking up. "Me, an asshole."
He lifts his head towards Happy, a half-smile stretching his lips. Sarcastic, bitter. A well-practiced facade.
— "Funny, I never would've guessed."
He lets out a small, dry laugh, but no one laughs with him. Pepper slowly approaches, heels clicking softly on the floor. She gently sets down her cup, then leans against the countertop, arms crossed.
— "You know he wasn't entirely wrong," she calmly says, her gaze fixed on Stark's. "You provoked him. Again."
— "I brought him back in one piece. Even gave him a private room. Should I throw in a stuffed animal and chocolates on the pillow too?" he retorts sharply, tone harsher than intended.
— "That kid showed up bleeding in front of the tower. He was shaking. He had marks around his throat, Tony," she replies instantly, her voice steady but icy with intensity. "And he apologized. He apologized, as if he'd put you in danger."
Stark looks away. The spoon stops turning. He sets it down on the table with a sharp clink.
— "He thinks he can handle everything alone," he mutters. "And you think we should cradle him."
— "No," Pepper corrects sharply. "I think he needs us to stop treating him like a problem. Stop telling him he's a burden or a project to fix."
Happy, silent until now, slowly shakes his head.
— "He's not built for the kind of pressure you're putting on him. Not yet."
Stark doesn't reply. His fingers interlock, his elbows return to rest on the table. He remains frozen, clearly lost in thought. Pepper fixes him a moment longer, then softly exhales, as if the air in her lungs had become too heavy.
— "He called you an asshole," she murmurs. "And you know what's bothering me? That you didn't even try to defend yourself."
Stark doesn't react. He stares vaguely at the wall, and in his eyes, despite the facade, you can see something rare. Doubt. He raises an eyebrow, a sarcastic glint in his gaze, as if to brush aside the gravity of the discussion.
— "Didn't know you'd become his shrink, Pep."
— "I'm not his shrink," she immediately replies, sharp yet calm. "But I'm not blind either."
She straightens up, arms crossed, and stares at Tony with an expression that's made billionaires, senators, and Avengers alike yield.
— "You've pushed him to the edge since he got here. I understand wanting to test his limits, wanting him to prove himself, but this... wasn't a test. It was a demolition."
Stark chuckles, dryly, humorlessly.
— "Since when do you dictate my methods?"
She stands her ground, unflinching.
— "No one's asking you to be his nanny. But have you ever thought about seeing him as a person, just once? Not a burden, not an investment, not a test. Just a human being who's drowning."
Silence falls. Stark doesn't respond immediately. He sighs deeply, setting down the spoon with deliberate slowness. His gaze drifts momentarily toward the closed door.
— "I'm doing what's necessary," he finally says, sounding like a rehearsed defense.
Happy rolls his eyes, irritated.
— "Damn, Tony."
Pepper turns away, leaving without another word. Happy follows, leaving Stark alone, staring at his half-empty cup, replaying a trembling voice screaming, "I never asked you to save me."
And for the first time in a long while... he's not sure if he's right.
You slam the door behind you, the sound reverberating through the room like a thunderclap. Your bedroom—impersonal, too clean, too quiet—suddenly feels suffocating. Your footsteps echo on the immaculate floor, but you stagger. Your breathing is ragged, irregular, and your hands are still trembling from the mixture of rage, humiliation, and the fatigue clinging to your bones.
You collapse onto the bed without even taking off your shoes. Head in your hands, you try to push back the storm raging in your chest. But it's pointless. The turmoil doesn't fade. It loops relentlessly, like a scratched record. Your thoughts derail. You want to scream, break everything, or just disappear under the covers and never have to face this fucking world again.
Then they return.
The memories.
The images.
The nightmares.
Insidious. Unstoppable.
Yesterday's dream hits you head-on, like an uppercut to the gut. This nightmare that isn't really a nightmare anymore. It's too precise, too vivid. The shadows encircle you again. Chilling laughter rises in the dark, twisted, cruel. You feel the fear rising, panic gripping your throat. You see his eyes again—Stark's eyes—frozen, cold, distant. And you, on your knees, unable to move as the blade sinks into your stomach like slow punishment. The burning of the metal, warm blood flowing, pain engulfing everything. And his gaze, again. Indifferent. Unshakeable.
You sit upright abruptly, panting. Your eyes scan the room as if expecting to find a ghost. You're covered in sweat, sheets stuck to your skin. Your heart pounds too hard in your chest. A trembling hand slides over your face. Fuck. Why does it haunt you so much? Why does he haunt you so much? You stand, pacing the room like a caged lion. Air seems scarce, the space shrinking. You open a window, letting the cold bite your skin, hoping it anchors you a little. You clench your teeth, gaze lost among New York’s towers.
Why is he like this?
How can he, in one single night, become the only barrier between you and death… then, come morning, trample you as if you were nothing? Why this constant swing between shield and weapon? Between an outstretched hand and verbal punches?
Last night, he could have left you there. Let you die in that alley. He had a thousand reasons to do it. He wouldn't have even had to justify it. But he came. He found you. He pulled you out. He cleaned your wounds, treated your wrist, put a blanket over you. And this morning… this morning he stripped you raw with his words. You run a hand through your hair nervously. Does he want you to thank him? Beg him? Be his official punching bag?
He understands nothing. Or maybe he understands too much. And that's the problem. You sit down again, elbows on your knees, gaze empty. You don't know if you hate him anymore. Or if you just want him… to stop being that damn mirror reflecting everything you run from. Everything you are. You lower your head, exhausted. You just wanted him to see. To see that you're doing your best. That you're not a hopeless case. Just a lost guy trying to stay on your feet.
But maybe that too was asking too much.
This morning, he shattered everything. With a few words. With that icy tone, that biting irony he uses as a weapon. His coldness, his pragmatism. As if nothing from last night mattered. As if the attack, the blood, the shock were merely minor inconveniences in his overbooked billionaire schedule. As if saving your life had just been another chore. A logistical hiccup. Nothing more. He handed you a blanket last night. Let you sleep in his room. Looked at you with that strange, almost… human intensity. As if there was a moment—just one—when he saw you differently. Where you were more than a project, more than a damaged kid lost in his sterile hallways. You thought, for a moment, that it mattered.
But this morning, he put you back in your place. Brutally. Coldly. Without hesitation. In his eyes, you're just that: an employee on probation, a sensitive file, a problem better contained before it infects the rest of the team. He didn't say those words. He didn't need to. It was all in his speech. His actions. The silence between two barbs. The barely hidden contempt behind every disguised piece of advice. You feel anger pulsing through your veins. You clench your fist so tight your knuckles whiten, your jaw locked tight. Why are you still here? Why do you keep waking up in this tower where every look reminds you that you don't belong? That your time is limited?
But you know why. You know it too well. Because if you leave now, he wins.
They win. All of them. Those who said you wouldn't last. That you'd give up. That you're too fragile, too broken, too unstable to accomplish anything. And you refuse. You refuse to let them be right. You refuse to let him be right. You stand abruptly. Your muscles scream at you to stop, but you ignore them. You pace, anger eating away at you like slow acid. You pass by the mirror, catch a glimpse of your reflection, and quickly look away. You don't want to see yourself as you are now—defeated, messy, vulnerable.
The memories rise again, like poisoned bubbles.
Matthew. His face returns uninvited, that twisted smile, that venomous voice. He played with your nerves too. He also swung between closeness and contempt, between fake tenderness and pure cruelty. But Stark isn't Matthew. He isn't violent. Not directly. He doesn't demean you with insults or blows. He doesn't hold you through fear. He's worse. Because he gives you the illusion… that he might be different. He lets you glimpse a crack. A weakness. A human part, almost compassionate. And then he closes the door. He locks the access. He becomes that untouchable, unreachable, insensitive figure again. And you stand here, wondering if you're imagining these moments. If you're clinging to ghosts. If he ever truly saw something in you, or if it was just a strategy. A game.
And that's what's destroying you. Not his criticism. Not his demands. Not even his barbs. No. What hurts most is that "almost." That half-look. That aborted attention. The possibility that for one moment, just one, you mattered a little. You let yourself fall back onto the bed, eyes raised toward the ceiling, lungs burning. Your heart pounds too hard, your head spins. You need silence, but nothing inside you goes quiet.
You feel like a dam that's about to break. And him... he always presses exactly where it cracks. And you wonder: how much longer can you take this before you finally sink?
You grab a cushion and violently throw it against the wall. It bounces off weakly before falling pathetically to the floor. It doesn't help. It doesn't ease the anger or the burning in your chest. You want to scream, to smash something. To feel your muscles tense for something other than fear or shame.
Frustration strangles you, drains you, consumes you from within like an invisible fire. You hurt everywhere. Not just your wrist, not just your stomach, but everywhere that can’t be seen. Where Stark's words dig in, where Matthew’s memories cling. The air is heavy in the room, as if the walls themselves are pressing down on your shoulders. You feel like if you stay here another minute, you'll explode. The walls are too white, too clean. The bed is too smooth. This isn't your home, and it never will be.
Each thought crashes into the next inside your head. Stark. His sharp gaze this morning. His condescending tone. That fucking smirk as if he had already predicted everything, understood everything. Then Matthew. Always there. Even in his absence, he's the one guiding your nightmares, dictating your reflexes, stealing your sleep. You thought you'd escaped him, yet he still holds you.
And amidst all this, there’s you.
Living in a fucking futuristic Tower, with high-tech security systems, surrounded by heroes, working on projects anyone would dream of having. Yet, despite it all, you feel like you're walking on a tightrope, ready to fall at any moment. Like you never really left that alley. Like you're still on the ground, a knife against your throat, with no one to hear you scream. You sit up abruptly. You don't think. You have no plan, no destination. You just need to move. To get out. To silence the chaos in your head with exhaustion. You stride across the room, put on your shoes without even tying them. Your heart is beating too fast, your breathing is uneven. You open the door to your room with a little too much force, the handle slamming against the wall. You close it behind you without stopping.
Your footsteps echo through the silent halls of Stark Tower. Too silent. You don't want to run into anyone. Not Pepper. Not Happy. And especially not him. You descend the stairs, ignoring the elevator. Each step is a shock. A blow. A rejection. A thought you crush under your heel as if to silence it. You move forward. Just to keep moving. Because staying still means suffocating. You don't know where you're going. You don't care. You just want to run until your legs give out. Eventually, you push open the door to a vast, silent space. The training room. Clinical. Ultra-modern. Everything is immaculate, everything in its place. Walls covered in mirrors, state-of-the-art equipment, spotless mats. The place smells of sweat, metal, and discipline. Everything you are not.
You stand frozen in the middle, your heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. You could use anything here: machines, weights, combat simulators. But you don't care. You don't want to think. You don't want to "work on your cardio" or "channel your energy." You want to hit something. Your eyes land on the punching bag hanging in a corner, solitary, almost provocative. You approach slowly, as if preparing to face an opponent. You don't even take the time to put on gloves. You want to feel the impact in your knuckles, you want that pain. The one you control.
The first punch is weak. Uncertain. Almost ridiculous. You inhale sharply, jaw clenched, then strike again, harder. The leather gives under your fist with a sharp sound. Not enough. Not yet.
You punch again. Again. And again. Each hit echoes something: one of Stark's words, Matthew's gaze, a humiliation, fear, sleepless nights. Your arms move on their own, your breath becomes shorter, more ragged. Sweat beads on your temple. You hit without technique, without rhythm, fueled only by this consuming rage, this hatred of yourself, your powerlessness, their silence.
You punch until your wrist reminds you to stop.
A wave of pain forces a harsh, brutal groan from you. You tense, teeth gritted. Your arm remains suspended, trembling, unable to follow through. Your wrist, that traitor, that fucking reminder that even your anger has limits. You cling to the bag, panting, muscles burning. You stay there, hanging onto the leather like a lifeline. You want to cry, to scream, to disappear into this perfect void where nothing hurts. But you stay.
You remain half-collapsed, short of breath, arms limp, eyes shining. And all you can think is: "I can't even punch properly. Even that, I screw up."
You stay hanging onto the bag, panting, your hand gripping the strap, your fist still aching. Sweat runs down your temple, cold despite your body's heat. Your heart races, not from effort, but from everything you hold inside. And that's when you hear it. A slight squeak of shoes on the floor, almost imperceptible. A sound you might have ignored if your body weren't so tense, so alert. You spin around sharply, nerves on edge.
Someone is there.
Steve Rogers. Standing a few meters away, arms crossed, posture straight, perfectly calm amidst your storm. He doesn't say anything right away. He observes you. His expression is neutral, but there's that familiar glint in his eyes—that damn silent understanding you can't stand anymore. You don't want to be understood. You just want to be left alone. He steps closer slowly, as if knowing any sudden movement could set you off. He places his hands on his hips, looks at the bag, then at your wrist, then back at you.
— "Are you planning to keep this up until you completely break your wrist?"
His voice is calm. Too calm. A calm that brutally contrasts with the storm still raging in your chest. You look away, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. You could leave now, turn on your heels, dodge the exchange. But you know he won't let you slip away that easily. He doesn't have that reputation. You inhale, still on edge.
— "Why do you even care?" you snap, not looking up, your voice harsh. Not to attack him. Just to create distance. A wall.
But Steve doesn't flinch. He just slightly tilts his head, his blue eyes scanning you with that almost clinical calm. He doesn't step back. He doesn't get offended. He's just… there. Stable. Grounded.
— "Because you're hitting that bag like your life depends on it." He pauses. "And judging by the look on your face, I'm guessing this has nothing to do with training."
You swallow hard. The silence that follows is heavy. Not hostile. Just... true. Too true. You cling to the punching bag like a lifeline, the leather slippery beneath your sweaty palm. You don't want to talk. You don't want to explain. You don't have the words. Or the energy. But he's there. And he waits. Not like someone pressuring you. Like someone who's already been to that place where everything overflows. Who knows sometimes, there's nothing to say. Just to hold on. And maybe that's what throws you off the most. You look away, jaw clenched. You're not sure you can take another conversation. Steve stays right there, impassive, like a quiet shadow in your storm. He gives you space, silence, without demanding anything. Then, in a calm voice, without pressure:
— "Do you want me to leave you alone?"
You don't answer immediately. Part of you screams "yes" with all the violence of a wounded animal. But another... quieter, buried deeper, isn't so sure. Maybe that's what you've always needed. Not someone to save you. But someone who doesn't leave. Even when you do everything to push them away. You inhale slowly, with difficulty. Your breath is still short, jagged, as if your body refuses to cooperate. Your fists are burning, your wrist throbs with every pulse. But none of that hurts as much as what's beating inside.
You look Steve in the eye, jaw tight.
— "You really want to know what's eating me?"
He doesn't say anything. He just tilts his head slightly. He waits. You run a hand over your face, your palm damp, your throat dry.
— "Since I started working here, it's always the same shit. He pushes me, tests me, waits for me to break. And me, like an idiot, I dive in headfirst. Because I keep telling myself that if I hold on, if I do everything right, then maybe he'll end up seeing me differently. Not as a problem. Not as a burden. Just as... someone."
You pause for a second, your throat tight.
— "But no. To him, I'm just a project. A variable in his schedule. A calculated risk. A work in progress."
You punch the bag, not hard, just enough to hurt.
— "And the worst part is that I stay."
You feel your breath quicken again. Shame. Anger.
— "I stay because I have nowhere else to go. Because out there, there are only guys like Matthew. People who look at me like I'm nothing, like I was born to be broken. So I cling to this Tower, this job, this fucking routine, because it's the only thing that still gives me shape. An illusion of control."
You lower your eyes, your face tense, your heart pounding in your chest like a crooked drum.
— "But at what cost, damn it?"
Steve stays there, still calm. Arms crossed, gaze direct. He hasn't flinched at a single one of your words.
— "You think Stark sees you as an experiment? Maybe he doesn't even know yet what you mean to him."
You groan, almost exasperated. You're so done with half-measures.
— "So what? Does that excuse how he treats me like I'm replaceable?"
— "No," Steve replies without hesitation. "It excuses nothing. But you're not replaceable. And you should start believing that."
You stare at him, brows furrowed, suspicion still etched in your expression.
— "And you think Stark will ever admit that? That I’m worth more than that, in his eyes?"
Silence. Steve takes a moment to think, to choose his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer.
— "I think Stark still struggles to admit what he feels about himself. So when it comes to others... it takes time."
You lower your head, your stomach twisted.
— "Great. So I have to wait ten years for him to accept that I exist beyond hourly productivity?"
Steve offers a faint smile. Tired. Clear-sighted.
— "Or you could stop waiting for his approval. And just be you."
You freeze. His words hit like a dull blow. Not because they hurt. But because they’re true. Brutally simple. You swallow hard, rage mingling with the emptiness.
— "And if I fail?"
Steve doesn’t smile anymore. He looks you in the eyes, with that disarming honesty.
— "Then you fail. And you get back up. That’s all."
You don’t know what to say. You’ve never known what to say to that kind of truth. But for the first time in days, your breathing slows. So does your heart. There is a silence in this room now that doesn’t weigh you down. A silence that rests. Maybe that’s all you needed to hear. Maybe all you really needed... was for someone to stay.
On Stark's end, he remained silent after you left, arms crossed, frozen like a statue in the now too-empty kitchen. But this silence is anything but peaceful. It grates, pulses, pounds from within. His fingers drum nervously on the counter, in rhythm with an irritation he refuses to name. He stares at the spot where you were, as if you might reappear there, as if the words spilled just minutes ago could somehow rewind themselves.
The exchange left him tense. Not because of the volume of your voice, nor your sudden exit. But because of that question. That damn phrase that hit him full force.
— “And you... you're okay with this?”
He wanted to shrug it off at first, convince himself it was just something blurted out in anger. That it wasn't worth dwelling on. But it dug its claws into his mind and refused to let go.
Did he go too far? No. Of course not.
He said what needed to be said. What you needed to hear. No sugarcoating, no gloves. Just the truth — raw, pragmatic. He’s not here to coddle a lost kid. He’s here to build, to push forward, to get the best out of the goddamn chaos. But... something’s off. Something resists.
He retreated to his office as usual, tossing out a loud “no one disturb me” as the door shut behind him. He pretended to dive into his work — into calculations, holographic projections. He opened ten different files. None of them went past a blank screen. His gaze stayed fixed on a vague, undefined spot, eyes unfocused. He didn’t read. Didn’t analyze. Didn’t produce a thing. He missed a call from Rhodey. That never happens. Or only when his head’s too far from playing the arrogant genius. Happy swung by, tossed him a simple question: everything okay?
— “Always. Why wouldn’t it be?” he grunted, not even turning around.
But it wasn’t a real answer. Even Happy felt it. Because no, everything isn’t okay. Not this morning. And Tony hates that. He hates that crawling feeling that something slipped through his fingers. That something got to him more than he’s ready to admit. It’s not the first time someone’s called him an asshole. But this morning? It felt different. Because for once, he’s not entirely sure they’re wrong. He’s used to building walls. High ones. Solid. Nearly impenetrable. Barriers made of sarcasm, reinforced with pragmatism, polished over the years to keep people at just the right distance. Not too close. Not close enough to hurt. Not close enough to see.
But you…
You have this exact, brutal, instinctive way of striking where it cracks. Where the armor splits. And he hates that. Hates that raw lucidity in your eyes, that barely-contained rage that reminds him too much of himself. A younger version. More lost. Before the suits, before the billions, before the deaths. He’s been yelled at before. Insulted. Challenged. He’s used to it. He takes the hits, fires back, wins. Always. But with you... it’s different. It’s not a clash of egos, not a duel of equal arrogance. It’s personal. And it stings.
So he does what he knows best: he compartmentalizes. Boxes it up tight, slaps a “not my problem” label on it. He tells himself you’re just a messed-up kid. That you’ve taken too much, suffered too much, and it’s normal you’re blowing up. He remembers your file, your past, your broken wrist, the violence in your nightmares. He tells himself he can’t carry that too. That you’re an employee. Period. End of story.
And yet… His eyes drift to his phone.
One message. What would it take? Three seconds? Less. A snarky: Done being dramatic yet? or Try not to ruin the training room mat, it costs more than your entire room. One of those stupid things he throws out just to fill the silence, just to keep from feeling. But his fingers don’t move. Not yet. Because he knows — the second he hits send, it means he heard you. That it got to him. And maybe even... that he feels guilty.
And that — Tony Stark still doesn’t know how to handle.
You let out one last breath—hoarse, almost painful. Your fist still trembles, red and numb, after hammering the punching bag until exhaustion. Each blow dragged out a little more anger, a little more poison. Now, only fatigue remains. Raw. Heavy. Absolute.
Your muscles burn. Your back is drenched. Your throat is dry as if you'd swallowed ashes. You feel your heartbeat slowly calming down, but your entire body still vibrates with adrenaline. Steve hasn’t moved. He stayed a few meters away, arms crossed, his posture calm yet ready to intervene. But he let you go. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t judge, didn’t treat you like a child. Just... watched. Attentive. Present. When you finally collapse against the nearest wall, your legs barely able to hold you up, your gaze drifts into emptiness. You feel drained, scattered in pieces across this cold and silent room. You’re no longer angry. But you’re not better either.
— "Feels good, huh?" Steve says, gently breaking the silence.
You nod slowly, unable to say anything more. Yeah. It feels good. Not a lasting good. Not a healing one. But a good that stops you from imploding. Just for now.
— "You got it all out—at least physically," he goes on. "But in your head, it’s still a battlefield, right?"
You let out a tired sigh and shrug. You could say yes. You could tell him everything. But you’ve got no energy left. And honestly... what difference would it make?
— "It’s complicated."
Steve doesn’t look surprised. He gives you a small smile—the kind you give someone who’s fooling no one, not even themselves. You sit up a bit, look for a towel, and wipe your face roughly. Sweat trickles down your back, sticking your clothes to your skin. You grab your water bottle like a survival instinct and take small sips without a word. The water’s lukewarm, bland, but it’ll do.
— "You don’t have to fix everything today," Steve says again, his voice steady, almost gentle. "But you don’t have to carry it alone either."
You look away. He says it like it’s simple. Like you had a choice. Like you still knew how to trust. But you don’t answer. Not right away. Because a tiny part of you... wants to believe him. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s soft, breathable. A rare kind of silence that doesn’t need to be filled. You stay there a few more seconds, catching your breath, letting your heart slow down, your mind settle. Then you slowly stand, your body still sore, and grab your hoodie left earlier on the bench.
— "Thanks, Cap," you murmur as you pull on the still-warm fabric.
— "Steve," he corrects immediately, with that quiet calm that defines him.
You turn your head toward him, surprised. He looks at you without a smile, but his gaze is sincere. Open.
— "Call me Steve."
You freeze for a second, like the word won’t come out. Then you nod slightly, a faint smile forming despite yourself.
— "Okay… Thanks, Steve."
He gives a small nod in response, and that simple gesture is enough to lift a bit of the weight you’ve been carrying all day. He didn’t offer a miracle solution. But he listened. And that, already, is a lot. You gather your things in silence, leaving the training room with slow steps. Your shoulders are heavy, your muscles protest, your wrist throbs with a familiar ache. And yet, something in you feels... less tense. Less raw. The hallways of the Tower are quiet at this hour. The soft lighting gives the walls a gentle, almost muted glow. The steel and glass, usually so cold, seem almost welcoming. You breathe in deeply. You wouldn’t say you’re okay. You don’t believe in that kind of miracle. But at least, for the first time today... you don’t feel alone. And maybe that’s a start.
Then, as you reach the floor of your room, your steps slow down despite yourself. You walk past his office. The door is ajar—just enough to let a thin line of light slice through the hallway darkness. You could keep going. Pretend you didn’t see anything. Ignore that detail you never miss: he always leaves his door slightly open when something’s on his mind. But you stop. Your gaze slips through the opening, drawn in despite yourself. Stark is there, seated at his desk, his face bathed in the blue glow of his screens. He hasn’t noticed you yet. His fingers move nervously across a projected interface, but his expression is tense, less confident than usual. A worried crease marks his forehead; his gaze doesn’t truly focus on what’s in front of him. He’s not working. He’s brooding.
You hesitate, your hand hovering over your bag strap. After this morning’s blow-up, the last thing you want is to see him again. You could just walk away. Leave him in his tower of steel and solitude, true to form.
But... another part of you—the one you kind of hate—keeps you rooted. The part that remembers he patched you up. That he put his hands into your pain, even if he bit back with words afterward. The part that remembers that fleeting look the day before, one that was neither scornful nor indifferent. And as if that single thought were enough to trigger something, he suddenly looks up. Your eyes meet in silence. The moment is brief, but charged. He stares at you, unspeaking, brows slightly furrowed. His eyes move from your tired face to your tense posture, then stop on your hands. Your scraped knuckles, your wrist wrapped in a worn bandage.
A bitter line forms at the corner of his mouth. No smile. No mockery. Just his voice, dry but less sharp than it could’ve been:
— "Survived your existential crisis, or do I still need to monitor you remotely?"
His attempt at irony falls a bit flat. It’s not really a joke, nor an attack. More like another way of not saying what he really means. You grit your teeth.
— "Just heading back."
You could’ve ignored him. You could’ve lied. But you choose truth—raw, stripped down. He doesn’t deserve more than that… or maybe you just don’t have the energy to pretend anymore. He raises an eyebrow, slowly crosses his arms, his eyes still fixed on your bandages. He doesn’t comment, but you see his jaw tighten for a fraction of a second. Something’s bothering him. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s himself. Silence falls again. Denser. Heavier than it should be. And you stay there, frozen in the doorway. Caught between running away and the absurd need to understand what he’s really thinking. He doesn’t speak, but you notice the movement—his fingers tapping nervously on the edge of his desk. That tic betrays the inner agitation his perfectly composed face won’t show. You know that kind of mask. You’ve worn one for years.
— "Spent the day with Rogers, huh?" he asks, the tone almost casual, but not quite enough to hide the genuine curiosity behind the question.
You cross your arms, offer a dry smirk.
— "Yeah."
You pause, like testing his reaction.
— "He was nicer than you, if you want to know."
A flicker of a smirk flashes across his lips. Not quite a smile. More of an inward scoff, like he expected that jab.
— "Figures. He likes playing the mentor. Boy scout and all."
He doesn’t add anything else, but his gaze changes. It weighs heavier. More direct. Like he’s trying to decipher what you’re still hiding — or what Steve might have uncovered. Then he lifts his chin slightly, suddenly more serious.
— "Tomorrow, you’re working."
No hesitation. No room for doubt. Just a fact, stated with the certainty of someone who calls the shots. You nod without protest. Of course you’re working. It’s not like you have the luxury of refusing.
— "Good night, boss."
You turn away, ready to end the conversation, to walk away before he irritates you again… but his voice catches you, calmer, quieter.
— "Put some ice on your hands."
You stop dead. It’s not the content of the sentence that freezes you. It’s the tone. Still neutral, still distant—but there’s something else under it. A tiny tremor in his voice, like concern disguised as instruction. You don’t reply. You don’t need to.
You stretch as you enter the break room, arms overhead, your muscles still numb but surprisingly relaxed. A strange sensation runs down your spine, like a body rediscovering itself after days of constant tension. You slept well. For once. No nightmares, no jerking awake in the middle of the night, no cold sweat clinging to the sheets. Just deep sleep. Almost peaceful. And now, this odd heaviness in your limbs, not from exhaustion, but from rest. You can hardly believe it.
Morning light filters through the blinds, soft, warm on the back of your neck as you move toward the coffee machine. You spot Pepper Potts sitting at a table near the big window. She’s holding a cup between her perfectly manicured fingers, her eyes on her phone. When she looks up and sees you, she gives you a smile — professional, but sincere.
— "Oh. You look better than usual."
You raise an eyebrow, smirking as you pour yourself a coffee.
— "Thanks... I think?"
The espresso machine hisses once more before falling silent, and you sit across from her, your hands wrapped around the steaming mug. The warmth of the ceramic grounds you. The silence that follows isn’t heavy. Just calm. Filled with the quiet steps of a few employees who pass through, exchanging a quick word before moving on. The smell of coffee floats in the air, familiar, comforting. You glance out the window. The sky is clear for once. One of those mornings when the city seems to hold its breath. And you, too. You don’t know how long this calm will last, but you savor it. Because in this tower, where any second can descend into chaos, a moment like this feels like a luxury.
Pepper looks up from her phone, her expression soft but focused. There’s a sincere curiosity in her eyes, not invasive, just enough to let you know she’s present — really present.
— "Getting used to the Tower a little better?" she asks, setting her cup down, chin tilted thoughtfully.
You shrug, your eyes lost in the steam rising from your mug.
— "I guess. But you know I’m only here by default. I didn’t have anywhere else to go."
A silence. Just long enough for you to wonder if she’s going to reply. But she nods slowly, like your words resonate with something she understands all too well.
— "You know… Stark doesn’t let just anyone live under his roof," she says softly — part reminder, part warning.
You let out a dry laugh, leaning further into your chair.
— "And yet, he treats me like I’m a calculation error."
She raises an eyebrow, intrigued, but doesn’t interrupt. She waits. Like she knows there’s more. And she’s right.
— "One day he’s almost... human. He gives advice, looks at me like I actually exist. The next, he talks to me like I’m a failed prototype ready for the trash."
Pepper gives a faint smile — the kind you make when you hear something painfully familiar.
— "You just summed up Tony Stark in one sentence."
You stare at her, brow furrowed.
— "Not exactly comforting."
She chuckles softly, a quiet but sincere laugh. Then she sips her coffee, her tone turning more serious.
— "Listen… Tony’s complicated. He plays by his own rules. He pushes people to the edge. He watches. He tests. He waits to see who holds."
You squint, irritated.
— "So I’m just another guinea pig? Another experiment in his little social lab?"
You set your cup down a little too hard, the porcelain hitting the wood with a sharp note that slices through the room’s calm. Pepper watches you for a moment, not cutting you off. Then she shakes her head slowly.
— "I don’t think that’s it. Tony’s more... instinctive than that. If he didn’t want you here, trust me, he would’ve already found a way to get rid of you."
You scoff, arms crossed.
— "Yeah. He keeps people around as long as they’re useful. And once they’re not, he cuts them loose. He could’ve let me die the other night in that alley. That would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it?"
The silence that follows is heavier. More real. You notice Pepper lower her gaze to her cup. She spins it slowly between her fingers, like she’s searching for the right words.
— "I think you underestimate just how closely Tony watches everything..." she says at last, her voice softer, laced with meaning.
You roll your eyes, ready to fire back — but something stops you.
Movement at the doorway. You turn your head. And there, leaning against the doorframe, coffee cup in hand and eyes fixed on the two of you — Stark. He hasn’t come in yet. Just stands there, in the threshold, familiar silhouette far too casual, cup in hand, gaze locked on you. But you see it. You feel it. He’s heard everything. His expression is hard to read. Not quite mocking, not quite indifferent. There’s a carefully neutral stance to him, like he refuses to show that your words slipped past the armor. Pepper turns slightly toward him. She gets it too. She knows him well enough to see just how much he’s listening behind that distant air. He pretends to scroll his phone, like that’s somehow more important than your conversation. But nobody’s fooled. Especially not you. Finally, he looks up, aims at you with surgical precision, and drops a line in a mock-light tone:
— "All done with your little morning therapy session? Or do we need to lay you down and cue the violins?"
The line is sharp, almost theatrical in its nonchalance. You clench your teeth, your body tensing despite yourself. You could let it slide. But not today.
— "Oh, sorry. Forgot you’re a mind reader, Boss. Already know what I’m feeling, huh?"
You watch him tuck his phone into his inner jacket pocket without breaking eye contact. His face stays impassive, but his eyes… they flash with something too deliberate to be meaningless.
— "I just know you take up a lot of space… for someone who claims he wants to stay invisible."
Boom.
Direct hit. Right to the chest. Like he pinpointed the exact crack and pressed without hesitation. Pepper sighs, her frustration finally surfacing.
— "Tony..."
But he doesn’t respond. Doesn’t even look at her. He stays locked on you, like he’s testing your threshold. Again. You could explode. Scream. Throw everything back at him. The rage is boiling just beneath the surface, ready to spill. But instead, you just laugh — bitter, sharp, joyless.
— "Yeah. That’s exactly what I said. One day, you save my life. The next, you stomp me like a bug."
You rise slowly, never looking away. You grab your coffee cup — now lukewarm — and head for the door. As you pass him, your shoulder brushes his. Not violently. But enough for him to feel what you’re still holding back.
— "I’m going to work. Since that’s all you care about anyway."
You don’t stop. You don’t look back. You don’t want to know if he’s still watching. And this time, he says nothing. No comeback. No sarcasm. Nothing. Pepper stays seated, watching you go with an expression you can’t quite define. Empathy? Sadness? You don’t know. You don’t want to know. You walk out, the automatic doors closing behind you with a soft hiss.
You move with precision. Controlled. Too controlled. Every mouse click, every keystroke feels like a silent outlet. You don't allow anything else to exist. No break room. No Stark. No acidic line still ringing in your head. You bury yourself in your screen like your salvation depends on it. The familiar interface of your project opens in a blue glow. And instantly, your mind dives into it. It’s your bubble. Your fortress. The only place where you still have control.
You adjust an animation curve, refine a camera movement, realign textures you left hanging yesterday. Your gaze is sharp, your hand gliding across the graphic tablet with the instinct of a craftsman. You soften a harsh light, fix a transition that jarred the eye. Every detail demands your attention, pulls you in, tears you from yourself. The ambient noises blur. The world narrows to pixels, pivot points, layered compositions. You blink less often, your breathing evens out, as if your body remembers what it feels like to be useful. To build, rather than repair.
The anger is still there, of course. It flows in your veins, fueling your determination. But it no longer overflows. It channels. You turn it into brutal, almost obsessive concentration. You work like your life depends on it. And maybe it does. Maybe it's the only thing holding you together. Time slips by unnoticed. An hour. Maybe two. You’re not sure. You’re elsewhere, merged into your screen, into your world of shapes and motion. And in that narrow space between two keyframes, you find a semblance of peace. Fragile. But real.
You don’t want to think about Stark. You just want to prove — to yourself, to him, to this fucking universe — that you're not here by accident. That you deserve your place.
But something refuses to disappear. An emptiness in the air. A silence too heavy to ignore. Stark still hasn’t come back.
You shouldn’t be thinking about it. You should stay focused on your project, keep drowning your anger in the work. But this absence — this unusual absence — eats at you. Usually, he’s here. Always here. Tossing sharp remarks, barking orders like throwing knives, hovering behind your shoulder without ever truly addressing you with a word that sounds like care.
And now? Nothing. No comments. No sighs of contempt. Just this silence, pulsing like a missed beat in a well-oiled routine. Why does it bother you so much? You breathe harder and try to convince yourself: it doesn’t matter.
But a part of you, the part you hate most, clings to that detail like a frayed thread. That conversation with Pepper, the words you let slip... you’re not stupid. You saw him, there, in the doorway. He heard. And he stayed there, without intervening, without a retort. You click back into your project, trying to regain focus, but the screen seems blurry. Your stylus trembles slightly in your hand. Not with anger this time. More… a confused form of nervousness.
Then suddenly, the door opens. Abruptly.
The sharp click of the handle yanks you from your concentration. You jump — just a bit — but enough to make your stylus skid. A clumsy line cuts through your animation, breaking the fluidity you’d just managed to restore. You inhale through your nose, tense, and look up.
He’s there.
Stark walks in, familiar silhouette, confident stride — but something’s off. He doesn’t look around. He doesn’t throw you a remark, not even a sarcastic jab. He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. He crosses the room as if he’s not really there, grabs his coffee left on the corner of his desk — you know it’s cold, he knows it’s cold — but he takes it anyway. He holds it like an automaton, eyes still averted.
And in that silence, there’s a different tension. Not the kind from a fight. More like... a storm that refuses to break.
You notice it immediately. This isn’t his usual expression, not that flicker of defiance or calculated contempt he wears like a second skin. No. What’s on his face now is something else. A neutrality so precise, so methodical, it becomes suspicious. Too controlled. Too calm. Like he's struggling not to let anything show.
And that, you recognize. It’s not indifference. It’s control.
Stark didn’t come back from that break room in his usual state. He’s... too quiet. Too still. And deep down, you know that isn’t nothing. You open your mouth. The urge to throw a comment, provoke something, break this latent tension... it’s strong. But you hold back. You don’t have the strength. And maybe also because a part of you, however small, knows he was affected. That something in that conversation with Pepper and Happy hit harder than expected.
So you lower your eyes.
You pick up your stylus and return to your project, like nothing happened, like your throat isn’t tight and your thoughts aren’t spinning. But the silence has changed. It’s denser, heavier. It wraps around you, almost crushes you. No words. No movement. Just you, your breathing, and Stark’s finger tapping lightly against his cup.
You force yourself to move forward. You adjust the final curves. Refine a texture that still seemed too dull. Rework the transition between two shots for the fourth time. Your gestures are precise, automatic. You proceed like a tightrope walker over a void. Don’t fail. Don’t shake. Don’t speak.
Then finally, you look up at the animation. The render is smooth. The colors are balanced. The motion, coherent. There’s nothing more to add.
A quiet sigh escapes you.
You straighten slightly, shake your numb wrist. The hours you spent drained you. But you know you did good work. Maybe the only thing you still control today. You click “Send.”
Your project goes straight to Stark’s inbox. You don’t need to tell him it’s ready. He’ll see it. He already knows. What you don’t know is whether he’ll respond. You lean slowly back into your chair, arms crossed. Your eyes stay fixed on him — just from the corner, barely, as if you don’t want to give him your full attention but can’t help it.
Stark hasn’t moved an inch. Still that impassive posture, bent over his screen, looking focused. His gaze doesn’t shift, his face stays closed, almost carved in marble. No furrowed brow, no blink betraying any reaction.
You wonder if he saw your email. Or if he opened it, then closed it without a word, just to let you stew. That would be his style, right? The king of calculated silence. Of passive-aggressive provocation. He doesn’t need to yell to throw you off — he just has to be there, ignoring you like you don’t exist, and it’s enough to send the pressure skyrocketing. You finally look away, annoyed at yourself. What are you waiting for, exactly? Validation? A satisfied smirk? You know that’s not going to happen. Not here. Not with him. And yet, you keep hoping for it, like a fool.
Your fingers tap nervously on the edge of your desk. Every second of silence stretches your frustration thinner. You hate this uncertainty, this vagueness. You’d almost prefer he throw a sharp remark your way, a clean “you could’ve done better,” something to answer, something to push against. But he keeps typing, unbothered. Like your work — like you — don’t exist. And somehow, that’s worse than anything.
Each second stretches like over-chewed gum. You shift in your seat, sway side to side, pretend to check your notes, tweak a detail, reorganize a folder. But really, your mind is locked on a single point: Stark. And that damn email. You start to doubt. Maybe you should’ve waited. Polished that last sequence a bit more. Rechecked the lighting. The smoothness of the camera move at the end. Does it look amateur? Will it seem sloppy to him? Will he humiliate you again like last time?
Then, a sound. Barely anything. A crisp click, a subtle window shift. You don’t dare look up, but you know he’s opened it. You feel it. The rhythm of his movements shifts. He’s not typing anymore. His fingers — the same ones drumming anxiously earlier — now glide along the armrest of his chair. Slow. Mechanical. Focused.
He’s watching. Reading. Analyzing. You could almost tell when he reaches the final shot, the loop you spent all night perfecting. The silence becomes nearly physical, a weight suspended between you. And still nothing. Not a word. Not a sound. Not even a sigh. He’s there, looking at your work, and he says nothing. And you sit there, frozen, heart in your throat, with one nagging question looping in your head: is that a good sign… or the worst kind of warning?
You stay still, muscles tense. The waiting is unbearable. He's thinking — that's obvious. Or maybe he's just making you stew. And knowing Stark, both are probably true. Finally, you clear your throat, just loud enough to break the acidic silence.
— "So, is it good or…?"
Another silence. No immediate reaction. You wonder if he's ignoring you or mentally crafting his next punchline. Then, without looking at you:
— "It's… acceptable."
You raise an eyebrow, caught somewhere between consternation and irritation.
— "Acceptable? Seriously?"
Stark finally looks up at you, vaguely amused, his eyes gleaming with a sharp glint.
— "What? You want me to congratulate you? Hand you a diploma with a golden ribbon and a little note of encouragement?"
You let out a sigh and sink back into your chair.
— "No, I don’t know. Just… a bit less vague feedback would be nice."
He swivels his screen toward you, his finger tapping a specific part of the animation.
— "See this? Here, the transition works. It’s dynamic, it breathes well. And here, you worked the lighting. It’s clean. But…"
He stops, his finger sliding slightly toward another zone.
— "Here, it's shaky. The effect’s too abrupt. You were trying to make it look cool, but it's sloppy. And this texture... it floats. It doesn’t anchor, it slides on top instead of integrating. You've got the eye, right? So why'd you let that slip?"
You squint. Yeah, now that he points it out, it’s obvious. Maybe you saw it before, but let it go from sheer exhaustion, from just wanting to finish.
— "Okay… yeah. I see what you mean."
You say it reluctantly, but you know he’s right. Stark nods, almost satisfied.
— "Well, at least you're not deaf or completely stubborn. Fix that, and maybe we can talk about progress without blushing."
You roll your eyes.
— "You could say it’s good. Just once. I promise I won’t burst with joy."
He gives you a half-smile — that kind of smirk that only he can pull off, half-mocking, half-complicit.
— "You’ve made it this far without compliments. No reason I should start wrecking your armor now."
You don’t say anything. But deep down, a part of you carefully files away that “you’ve made progress.” It’s not a medal… but coming from him, it’s close. An annoyed sigh escapes you despite yourself, but you can’t deny what stirs beneath the surface. Something quiet. A stifled warmth in your chest. Pride, maybe. Even if you’re not ready to admit it. Because Stark doesn’t hand out compliments. Not really. He doesn’t do “bravo” or pats on the back. He criticizes, he tests, he points out what’s wrong. And the fact that he took the time to analyze your work without torching it? That he acknowledged progress — even in his backwards way? That’s huge. That’s rare. And it gets to you more than you want to admit.
You nod, simply.
— "I’ll fix it."
He watches you for another second, then looks away, already diving back into his notes, like that settles it.
— "Good. And quick. I’ve got better things to do."
Classic. Balance restored. You retrieve your file, transfer it back into your workspace, and pick up your stylus. The silence that follows doesn’t have the same texture as before. It’s less tense. Less loaded. It no longer floats like a threat hanging over your head. It’s just there, simply, like a budding habit. A strange routine between two bruised people who, despite themselves, are starting to understand they function better in each other’s chaos.
You don’t smile. Not really. But your wrist is a little less tight. Your chest a little less heavy.
The office door opens gently, without noise, just enough not to disturb the fragile balance of silence. Pepper enters with that discreet elegance that instantly makes her feel like she belongs, as if every room she walks into partly belongs to her. She’s holding two cups of coffee, steam still curling from the lids, and her gaze sweeps the room instantly. Clinical. Precise. She reads the scene like a report, noticing what most would miss: slightly less tense shoulders, the absence of clenched jaws, a faint trace of calm hanging in the air.
— "Thought a little boost wouldn’t hurt" she says in a neutral tone, almost too gentle not to mean something.
She approaches and sets one coffee on Stark’s desk without another word. He doesn’t even look up, but a slight nod — imperceptible to the untrained eye — signals he noticed her.
The other cup remains in her hand. She turns to you but doesn’t offer it right away. No. Pepper Potts never does anything automatically. She studies you, reads between the lines of your silence, your posture, the nervous motion of your fingers on your desk’s edge. As if she’s waiting for a sign from you, a word, a hint. Something that will confirm what she already suspects: that the calm in the room isn’t entirely natural, but not entirely fake either. Then, slowly, she steps forward and places the second coffee beside your hand.
— "You earned it" she says simply.
A heartbeat passes. You don’t know exactly why, but it gets to you. Because she could’ve said it differently. Because she doesn’t impose it — she offers it. And because after this chaotic morning, hearing someone admit, even halfway, that you deserve something… it means more than you want to admit. You don’t say anything. But you take the coffee. And this time, it tastes a little less bitter. The tension from this morning really has faded — or at least, it’s buried beneath a layer of false calm. As if you’ve signed a silent truce, each in your place, each in your bubble, but with this tight thread between you — this invisible string, heavy with everything unsaid.
Stark grabs his coffee with a mechanical gesture, without glancing at you. He takes a sip, his expression unchanged, then lets himself drop back against his chair with lazy ease. The attitude is relaxed, almost careless, but you can read between the lines. You know his mind is still racing. Pepper hasn’t said another word yet, standing between you like a dividing line no one dares cross. Then, with a casually mocking tone, Stark finally breaks the silence:
— "If you came to check whether we killed each other, sorry to disappoint, Potts. He’s still in one piece."
You look up at him without responding right away. The tone is light, but the subtext is clear: it could’ve gone differently. It almost did. It still might. Pepper raises an eyebrow, unamused. She crosses her arms, cup still in hand, and her gaze moves from him to you, like she’s checking this isn’t just another calm before the storm.
— "I prefer days where nobody ends up bleeding, she says simply, her tone as sharp as it is soft."
Stark smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. And you, you stare into your cup, its lukewarm contents between your fingers, wondering how long this kind of balance can last before everything shatters again. You feel Pepper’s gaze on you — precise, attentive. She studies you like a fragile compass, trying to see whether the needle still points to the storm or if calm has truly returned.
— "That’s already progress, she comments, leaning lightly against the edge of the desk, arms crossed. You made it through a morning without threatening or ignoring each other? I’m impressed."
You give a joyless smirk, eyes locked on your screen, the cursor blinking on your project’s final line. You try to play the irony card, but you haven’t quite pieced your morning back together.
— "He said my work was "acceptable." That’s almost a compliment, right?"
To your right, Stark doesn’t flinch. He stays hunched over his desk, absorbed, like every pixel on his screen holds a vital truth. Then he vaguely shrugs, takes another sip of now-tepid coffee.
— "Don’t get used to it, he mutters flatly."
Pepper softly rolls her eyes, but her attention is still on you. Not on him. You. Because she’s worried. Because she wants to know if something truly got fixed, or if it’s just tape over a crack.
— "And you? You okay?"
You take a second. Just one. Enough time to weigh what you might say, what you might hide. You fiddle with the edge of the cardboard cup between your fingers, the warm paper crinkling under the pressure.
— "Yeah… I mean… Better than this morning."
You don’t look at her, but you hear her breathe, softly, almost relieved. She doesn’t reply, but you can tell she’s taken note. That she’s recording everything — your posture, your tone, your evasive eyes.
She exchanges a brief look with Stark. He, as always, pretends not to see a thing, diving back into his lines of code or schematics like they hold the solution to all the world’s tension.
Then she lets out a discreet sigh, straightens, and smooths the fabric of her blazer with that calm elegance that follows her everywhere.
— "Right. I’ll leave you two to it. Try not to kill each other by tonight."
— "No promises, Stark mutters, still not looking up."
You let out a faint laugh through your nose, despite yourself. It’s not peace, maybe… but it’s a truce. A moment suspended in the usual cold war. Pepper flashes a smile — a real one, this time — and walks out with the soft click of heels on the immaculate floor, leaving you alone again. Alone in this office that, little by little, is starting to feel more like a minefield… or a training ground.
— "So, Boss… are you finally going to apologize, or should I just go fuck myself right now? I definitely noticed your silence earlier."
You don’t look at him right away, your eyes locked on your screen like your project might spare you from the inevitable. But you feel his gaze lift. Slowly. That kind of look that could slice a conversation in half with a single word… or reignite it into a blaze.
Stark sets his mug down with measured calm, almost too slow to be genuine. He crosses his arms, expression frozen in that icy neutrality he’s mastered.
— "Apologize? For what exactly?"
His tone is calm. But behind that polished façade, you recognize the irony, the barely disguised provocation. The test. As always. You roll your eyes, sinking into your chair with an exasperated sigh.
— "I don’t know… Maybe for blowing up at me over breakfast like I was some clerical error, for undoing everything like last night meant nothing, or just to make it clear that I could work day and night and it would never be good enough for you."
He raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair, still looking perfectly impassive.
— "Ah. So now you expect apologies. Interesting."
He lets a silence settle. Not an empty silence — a calculated one. The kind that slowly builds pressure, just to see how you’ll react.
— "You did your job. It was solid. I acknowledged it. That should be enough, right?"
You laugh — dry, bitter, almost hollow. You shake your head slowly.
— "No. Not when the rest of the time you talk to me like I’m some parasite wandering your hallways. Not when every interaction feels like a fucking endurance test."
You put down your stylus, your hands trembling from a mix of anger and exhaustion.
— "If you had the slightest decency, you'd acknowledge you were unfair. That sometimes, you throw your words around like blades without giving a damn what they cut.
You finally dare to look him in the eye. And you almost regret it. Because what you see there isn’t aggression. It’s worse: it’s calculation. He’s looking at you like a complex problem he hasn’t solved yet. Not quite."
He stays silent. And this silence isn’t forgetfulness. It’s a choice. You feel your chest tighten. And still, you stay, waiting for something you’re not even sure you want to hear. Recognition. A word. A crack in his damn mask. And Stark… He’s thinking. For the first time in a while, he doesn’t immediately fire back. He absorbs your words. Maybe because he knows they’re true. Maybe because, for once, he has nothing to defuse them.
Then he exhales. Long. Maybe sincere. His hand runs through his hair with that nervous gesture he does sometimes when he loses the thread or is about to say something he’d rather avoid.
— "Fine."
You frown, wary. It’s rare to see him give any ground, even the smallest bit.
— "Fine what?"
He taps his fingers distractedly on the desk, eyes lowered, then finally looks up at you.
— "Fine, maybe I was… a bit harsh this morning."
You blink. You expected denial, deflection, a perfectly timed jab. But not this. Well — if you can even call it this. You stare at him, your expression wavering between disbelief and cynical amusement.
— "That’s all I get?"
Stark shrugs, already retreating behind his usual nonchalance.
— "That’s already not bad. What did you want, a hug and a card that says “sorry for being a professional asshole”?"
You let out a dry laugh, not truly amused.
— "I don’t know… a word that sounds more like an apology than a clinical analysis of your emotional dysfunction would’ve been nice."
— "Too bad. I left my empathy manual in the car. Probably collecting dust somewhere between sarcasm and self-loathing."
He picks up his coffee and swivels his chair slightly, signaling the end of the exchange. Back to routine. Back to silence.
You sit there, watching him refocus on his screen like nothing happened. And you feel this strange mix inside you: lingering frustration, but also a small, barely-there hint of relief. Because even if it was half-admitted, even if it was disguised under three layers of irony… he heard you. He heard you. And he responded. The silence that follows is less cutting than before. There’s still a wall between you, but it’s not reinforced concrete anymore. Maybe just glass. Cold. Brittle. But transparent. You lean back into your chair, eyes drifting to your screen, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.
— "I guess it’s better than nothing, you murmur more to yourself than to him."
And for the first time in a while, it doesn’t sound like resignation. More like a beginning. A fragile clearing. But real.
You stand up in one swift motion, your chair screeching against the floor with a sharp noise that slices through the quiet. But you don’t care. Not now.
In a few strides, you cross the room and plant your hands flat on Stark’s desk. He doesn’t react immediately. Keeps staring at his screen like your presence is just background noise to ignore. You clench your jaw. It’s even worse than if he’d fired a snarky comment.
— "I don’t get your reaction yesterday, Boss."
Your voice is calm — too calm. Each word lands like a blade: sharp, taut, precise. You look him straight in the eye, but he’s slow to return the gaze. When he finally does, it’s with that distant expression you know too well. No cracks. No regret. Just that icy neutrality that always turns your stomach.
— "The night before, you were… I don’t know, almost human with me. And the next day, you tell me you almost regret protecting me. Like I’m some fucking burden. A managerial error. I want answers."
Stark exhales audibly and settles into his chair, arms crossed. His gaze sizes you up like a badly written equation.
— "Answers? What do you want? A dramatic confession? A little emotional PowerPoint? I didn’t hire you to meet your need for affection, kid. This is a job. Not group therapy."
You feel your heart hammering against your ribs. The rage rises, acidic. Your grip tightens on the edge of his desk until your knuckles pale.
— "You’ve been treating me like a child under constant watch while pushing me to the brink every chance you get! I’m done with your double standards. Explain to me why one day you’re picking me up out of an alley and the next you’re looking at me like I’m trash someone forgot to take out!"
Your voice shakes. Not with fear. With anger. That dull ache that’s been churning in your gut for days. You refuse to back down this time. You want a fucking answer. Stark clicks his tongue, annoyed. He slowly uncrosses his arms, leans forward, and plants his elbows on the desk. His gaze sharpens. Colder. Harder.
— "You want the truth? Fine. The truth is, you’re my employee. And I don’t like seeing my employees get their faces smashed in on the street. Because it’s a hassle. It’s messy. It draws attention. That’s why I stepped in."
You freeze. Your legs nearly buckle beneath you. His words drive into your chest like nails. Brutal. Unflinching. You blink, hoping—foolishly—he’ll soften. That he’ll swerve. That he’ll backpedal. But he stays put. Solid. Cold. Untouchable.
— "That’s your justification? Seriously?"
Your voice drops. Wounded. A taut whisper between two silences.
He shrugs, implacable.
— "It’s the only one that matters to you, isn’t it?"
And in his eyes, you don’t know if you see cruelty… or some twisted form of defense. Like he hides behind this version of himself so he doesn’t have to say something else. Something real. Something fragile. But you don’t have the strength to decipher anymore. Not now.
You laugh. A short, dry, lifeless sound. A laugh born of nerves, nearly strangled in your throat.
— "Of course. Because everything’s that simple with you, right?"
Stark doesn’t reply immediately. He just stares, and in that look, there’s a flicker. A crack. Something he’s trying to hide. Hesitation? Guilt? You’re not sure. But it’s there. For a second. Before he slams the door shut again.
— "You done with your performance, or do you want to keep whining?"
The sentence hits harder than it should. Because it’s cheap. Hurtful. And terribly expected. Your jaw tightens, blood pounding in your temples. Your fists clench despite yourself, but you refuse to give him that satisfaction. Not this time.
— "Seriously? After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve proved… that’s all you have to say?"
Your tone is sharp, controlled, but every word costs you. Because you’re not yelling. You’re standing there, tall, and that’s a thousand times harder than screaming. Stark meets your gaze. Frozen, almost sculptural.
— "All you’ve proved is that you can survive, he finally says. Congrats. But surviving isn’t enough."
You’re about to fire back, but he continues, relentless:
— "You’re here because you’re good at your job. That’s it. If you want it to continue, you better get back to work. Not go chasing answers you’re never going to get."
The silence that follows is deafening. You stand there, shoulders tight, breath shallow. You could scream at him. You could blow everything up, toss your badge at his face and tell him to shove it. But you know it wouldn’t change a thing.
Because Stark is like this. Because he’ll never let you reach him. So you back away. Slowly. One step. Then two.
— "Fine. Got it."
Your voice shakes, but it’s ice-cold. As sharp as his.
— "Thanks for your honesty, Boss."
You turn, heart in your throat, and leave the office without waiting for his response. You don’t slam the door. You don’t yell. You walk away, lungs full of silence, fists clenched like angry heartbeats. And you know: you just crossed a line.
You're alone in the break room, the lukewarm mug resting between your hands, caught halfway between needing warmth and wanting to throw it against the wall. Beyond the bay window, New York stretches into the distance — loud, alive, indifferent. Hundreds of people rushing through their lives while you sit there, frozen in this too-silent room, unable to detach from what just happened. Stark’s words loop in your head, drilling into your temples. “You’re here because you work well.” “What do you want, a presentation of what’s going on in my head?” And worst of all, that damn “It’s the only justification that matters to you.” You may have walked out of his office feigning pride, but a dull, familiar rage followed you here. The kind of rage lodged in the back of your throat when tears are forbidden.
You inhale slowly, deeply, as if air might dissolve the bitterness stuck in your throat. The coffee tastes bland. Too cold. Too bitter. Just like the morning. Then, a voice — soft, yet present — cuts through the silence.
— “You look a little… lost.”
You flinch slightly and turn your head. Bruce Banner. Calm, steady, almost ghostlike in the doorway. He doesn’t approach, doesn’t impose. He doesn’t give you a moralizing look or wrap you in syrupy pity. He’s just… there. You nod slowly, unable to lie.
— “Is it that obvious?”
Bruce gives a small smile. Not mocking, just sincere.
— “You’re sitting alone, staring at your coffee like it’s going to reveal the meaning of life, and breathing like someone trying not to implode. So… let’s say I’ve seen subtler.”
You exhale — a real sigh. The kind that releases some pressure.
— “I had a talk with Stark. Well… one of those things people call a conversation but feels more like a passive-aggressive monologue. Deluxe edition.”
Bruce approaches slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break a fragile bubble. He pours himself a cup too, then sits across from you.
— “Fair warning — I’m not here to play shrink,” he says, blowing on his coffee. “But I’m a good listener.”
You look at him for a moment. He expects nothing. Just your choice. And for the first time in hours, maybe even days, you feel like you could talk without needing to defend yourself. And that, already, is a relief. Bruce doesn’t rush you. He takes his time settling in, like he knows that every rushed gesture could crack the wall you’ve been trying to hold up. He sits down slowly, brews his tea with near ceremonial calm, and lets the silence settle between you — not heavy, but necessary. As if offering you space to truly breathe. You take a sip of your lukewarm coffee without looking at him. Yet you feel his presence. Steady. Peaceful. He doesn’t poke at your wounds. He just waits for you to be ready.
Then, after a moment, he breaks the silence, still in an even tone:
— “You know, I saw your medical file.”
Your fingers immediately tighten around your mug. Your gaze hardens. You straighten slightly, defensive. Instantly.
— “Fantastic.”
The word snaps out, sharp. A humorless laugh follows close behind, bitter, sliding from your lips like a blade.
— “Is it handed out to the whole team? Or did Stark decide it’d be easier if everyone just knew I’m a walking mess of fractures and bruises?”
Bruce doesn’t flinch. He blows gently on his tea, takes a small sip, then shakes his head.
— “No. That’s not how it works around here. But… I’m one of the people in charge of internal medical follow-ups. Stark didn’t say anything. It was Pepper who wanted to make sure someone was keeping an eye on you. Just in case.”
You open your mouth to reply, but he raises a hand, gently stopping you.
— “And… you’re still recovering.”
There’s no judgment in his voice. Just truth. A reality you’ve been trying to push away for days. You don’t want to be "recovering." You want everything to move fast, the pain to disappear, your body to keep up, your mind to obey. But it doesn’t work like that. You lower your eyes to your coffee, unable to respond. Because that phrase, said in the quiet of this break room, hurts more than any of Stark’s sarcasm. You’re still recovering. You narrow your eyes slightly, gaze returning to Bruce. You know exactly what he’s getting at. Of course he noticed. Since the fracture, you haven’t done anything serious. No regular follow-up. No rehab. Just work, more work, and the habit of clenching your teeth until pain fades into background noise.
— “Have you had a full check-up since the accident?”
You press your lips together, your thumb nervously rubbing the rim of the cup. The coffee’s warmth is fading, like your desire to keep pretending. You could lie, say you followed everything to the letter. But Bruce… Bruce isn’t someone you can fool. He’s calm. Grounded. But you know he’s already figured you out. The guy is literally one of the smartest minds on the planet. And a former patient of himself, if his past is any indication. You sigh, eyes dropping to the dark liquid you haven’t even really drunk.
— “I haven’t had time.”
Bruce raises an eyebrow slowly, with that quiet patience that makes you feel like a teenager caught red-handed. His voice stays soft, but with a hint of firmness.
— “You mean you didn’t make time.”
He sets his mug on the table, both hands flat, like he’s laying out the terms of a silent contract.
— “Look, I’m not going to force you. But we’re in a place where people train for combat, work on prototypes that could blow up with the slightest mistake, and send terabytes of data in three seconds. If your wrist gives out during a crunch… it’s not just you who’ll be at risk.”
You don’t respond. You know he’s right. You’ve known it for a while. But then he adds, with a looser tone, more… human:
— “I’m not Stark. I don’t expect you to be a machine.”
You look up at him, surprised by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He doesn’t stare you down, but there’s a kind of respect in his gaze. As if your pain isn’t a shameful weakness — just a reality he’s willing to acknowledge. You hold his gaze, caught off guard. You didn’t expect this kind of care. Not from him. Not right now. He’s seen you. Not just physically — but deeper. He saw the tension in your movements, the fire you feed by constantly trying to prove yourself. And that look he gives you, steady and nonjudgmental, shakes you more than you want to admit.
— “You want to give me a diagnosis now, is that it?”
Your tone snaps, sharper than intended. Defensive. But Bruce doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull back. He studies you with that same disarming calm — the kind of calm someone develops after learning to tame tempests far worse than yours.
— “If you’re okay with it, yeah.”
He crosses his arms — no pressure, no threat. Just a stable presence in a world that sways.
— “I just want to make sure your fracture hasn’t worsened with everything you keep pushing through… despite my best medical judgment.”
You glance down briefly, unable to withstand that solid calm while you tremble inside. A laugh escapes — one of those dry, hollow ones.
— “If only that were the only thing breaking right now…”
Your voice fades near the end, like even the words carry too much weight.
Bruce doesn’t comment. He nods, slowly, like he accepts your pain without turning it into a spectacle. No pity. No grand speech. Just someone who hears you. And maybe that’s rarer than anything else. Bruce watches you for a moment in silence, calm yet penetrating. He doesn’t rush you. He just waits — like he’s giving you space to choose whether to breathe… or keep collapsing quietly.
— “You could start by allowing yourself to breathe.”
You let out a small laugh, a bitter smile tugging at your lips.
— “Yeah. Except every time I breathe, someone’s there to remind me I don’t get to let go.”
You name no one, but your gaze drifts toward the window. No need to clarify.
— “Stark, huh?” Bruce asks plainly, voice soft but precise, slicing through the unsaid.
You stay silent, jaw tight. Then slowly, you shrug, like it doesn’t matter.
— “Does it change anything?”
Bruce sighs, sitting up slightly. He takes one last sip of his tea, then stands, calmly setting the cup on the counter and nodding slightly toward the exit.
— “Come with me. I’ll take a look at your wrist. And if you need to talk about anything else… I’m not Stark. I know how to listen.”
You freeze a moment, hesitant. A voice in your head screams this is a bad idea. That asking for help means exposing a weakness, means offering a target. You think of Stark, of Matthew, of all the others — those who turned your vulnerability into a weapon.
But Bruce isn’t any of them. He doesn’t insist. Doesn’t push. He’s just offering a way out. A step back to move forward. And against all odds, you stand. Because this morning took too much. Because your wrist throbs with every move. Because maybe — just maybe — you’re tired of pretending you don’t need help. So, after a few seconds of silence, you nod.
What Remains | Chapter 13 Cracks and Comfort (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : After a rough night, Stark gives you the day off, but unease lingers. Peter convinces you to attend an Avengers party, where you start to feel welcome for the first time. As the night ends, you’re attacked by Matthew outside, but manage to escape and run straight to Stark. Stark confronts Matthew, forcing him to retreat with a chilling warning. Back at the Tower, Stark tends to your injuries with gruff concern. Too exhausted to return to your room, you crash on Stark’s couch, still shaken from the night’s events.
word count: 13.8k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Morning filters softly through the large windows of Stark Tower, bathing the break room in a pale, early light. The first subtle vibrations of the building awakening begin to hum beneath your feet a quiet sign that the day is resuming its usual rhythm. You slowly emerge from sleep, your body numb from the uncomfortable position you ended up falling asleep in. The blanket slips slightly from your shoulders as you move. You open your eyes with difficulty, still trapped in a residual fatigue that weighs on your muscles. A familiar scent brushes your nose: coffee.
You lift your head slightly and catch sight of Stark, standing near a small machine on the counter. He’s pouring black coffee into a mug, dressed in a gray t-shirt and relaxed sweatpants. He looks far from his usual image of a billionaire genius in an impeccable suit. His hair is tousled, his features drawn from a night that was probably too short. He doesn’t look at you immediately. Just the soft clinking of a spoon against porcelain, then silence, broken only by the faint purr of the coffee machine. You stay still for a moment, uncertain. You don’t really know what to do. Get up? Pretend you’re still asleep for a few more seconds? Apologize for finishing your night here, like a luxury squatter forgotten in a corner of the tower? But Stark eventually turns his head, his gaze briefly landing on you.
— "You snored," he says simply, without sarcasm, almost absent-mindedly.
A heartbeat. You don’t know how to interpret it. A light tease? A way of saying “I knew you were there”? You don’t know how to reply, so you give a vague nod, trying to piece your thoughts back together. He hands you a cup without a word. The aroma is rich, almost comforting. The mug is heavy and warm in your hands.
— "You should eat something too. Heroes without breakfast end up having nervous breakdowns by noon. Trust the expert," he adds, tapping his forehead with his finger.
You think you catch a fleeting smile on his lips, barely sketched. But he’s already moved back toward a screen glowing on the counter, his expression once again serious. You lower your eyes to your cup. Your fingers tremble slightly. The calm is there, on the surface. But inside, you can feel something still ready to explode.
— "Today, rest. No work. Do whatever you want, but I don’t want to see you in front of a screen ripping your nerves apart."
You lift your eyes to him, surprised. He’s not joking. He has that look that says I know what I’m doing, and that slightly raised eyebrow — a silent dare against any will you might have to argue. You could insist. Say you want to work, that it helps you forget. You could pretend that productivity grounds you, that you’ve got it under control. But you can still feel the echo of the nightmare in your skull, the memory of pain in your dreams, and the dull fatigue in your limbs weighing like lead. You sigh. Long. Then you nod, without fighting.
— "Okay… and you, you’re working anyway, I guess?"
A faint smirk tugs at his lips. He takes a sip of coffee, as if already savoring his answer.
— "You ever seen a day when I don’t work?"
You can’t help but let out a soft laugh, half into your mug. Fair point. He finishes his coffee in a few gulps, sets the mug down on the counter with the precision of a gesture repeated a thousand times.
— "Enjoy your day. Do what you need to do. Just… don’t get yourself into trouble, I’ve got enough on my plate already."
And he turns on his heels without ceremony, disappearing down the hall at a relaxed pace. No glance back. You stay there for a moment, frozen, alone with your still-hot coffee and an entire day ahead of you. A strange luxury. A slightly terrifying void. You inhale slowly, deeply, as if you had to relearn how to inhabit your own body. You stare for a while at the steam rising from your cup, as if it might offer you an answer. It dances in blurred spirals, fraying into the morning light, then disappears. You wonder what you could do with this day off. Maybe seriously look for an apartment. Finally take that time, confront that vertigo. Or just… breathe. Let go for once. Allow yourself to have no expectations.
You finish your coffee in silence. The warmth of the liquid grounds you a little more in the present, chases away what’s left of the nightmare. You get up, place your mug in the sink with a soft clink, then grab a light jacket. Before leaving Stark Tower, you force yourself to follow the protocol. One of Stark’s rules. You notify him quickly by message. Straightforward. Formal.
No immediate reply. Then, a few minutes later, just a simple:
— "Noted."
You pass briefly by his floor, just enough to catch his gaze through a half-open door. He gives you a nearly absent nod, eyes never leaving his screen. Good. You don’t want to talk. Don’t want to explain. You slip your badge into your pocket, inhale deeply, and walk out of the Tower. New York awaits. Gray, noisy, suffocating. Alive.
Outside, the air is crisp, infused with that pale golden light only dawn knows how to weave between buildings. The city wakes slowly, still half-asleep. Horns are timid, footsteps on the sidewalks discreet, almost respectful of the ambient silence. You walk aimlessly, hands in your pockets, breath visible with each exhale. For the first time in a long while, there's no one to answer to, no eyes watching you. No screen. No pressure. Just the murmur of the city and your thoughts stretching at their own pace.
A strange sensation, almost vertiginous: the feeling of being allowed to exist without justification. Your steps take you to a small park, a quiet corner you’d noticed weeks ago but never dared to stop at. Today, you let yourself sink into it like falling into a bed long abandoned. The grass, still damp, glistens under the morning light. A few joggers pass silently, a couple laughs softly on a bench at the far end of the path. Rushed office workers cut through the park, coffee in hand, badge around their necks. You observe them from afar — this ordinary routine you’ve almost forgotten.
And your mind starts to wander. You think of your old class, the skipped lectures, the abandoned projects. Of Eliott. Of the place you never really found there. Was it really a good idea to let it all go? To give up the little stability you had? Stark Industries is a unique opportunity. A dream, even, for some. But for you… it was never supposed to happen. You never dreamed of greatness. You just wanted to understand where you were going. To find a space of your own. You lower your eyes, looking at your hands. Your wrist still stiff in the brace. Your breath, a little calmer. And that dull, persistent question:
Are you rebuilding yourself… or just disappearing in a different way?
But just as you start to relax, an image crashes into your mind. Like a freezing wave tearing you away from the moment’s softness. The nightmare. The flash of metal, the blood, Stark’s eyes on you — empty, clinical, cutting you open without flinching. Your breath catches. The peaceful moment in the park wavers, becomes unreal. You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms, as if the pain could push the image away.
He was different last night. Too… human. Too close. That tired look, that silence, his almost kind words. It unsettled you more than you care to admit. There’s a dissonance your brain can’t resolve. Two overlapping Starks: the unyielding mentor, and the man who gave you a break. The untouchable genius, and the silent shadow of your dream. A sigh escapes your lips. You close your eyes, tense. It was just a dream. Nothing more. But fear doesn’t know the difference. And the unease planted just beneath your skin refuses to dissolve.
Your phone vibrates in your pocket, yanking you back to reality. You flinch slightly before pulling it out.
Peter. You stare at the screen for a second, then answer.
— "Hey, I was starting to wonder if you were still alive."
His voice is light, laced with humor, but you can instantly hear the real worry underneath.
— "Yeah, yeah, I’m here."
A brief silence. Then:
— "You gonna tell me what happened yesterday? Why you ran off like that?"
You take a deep breath, guilt flaring up again. You regret it. He deserves better than your silence.
— "Look… I’m sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have reacted that way. I know you’re just trying to help."
Peter doesn’t answer right away. You hear a muffled sigh on the other end.
— "I just want you to be safe, man. I know you don’t want to press charges, but… you do realize that asshole’s still harassing you, right?"
You lower your gaze to the ground, staring into the cracks in the pavement. You don’t want to talk about it. Don’t want to think about it. And yet, it’s always there. He continues, more gently this time:
— "Are you at least getting any sleep? Because… honestly, you look like a zombie."
A laugh escapes you — more nervous than amused.
— "I slept. Sort of. In front of Stark. On a chair. That count?"
Peter’s silence stretches for a second, like he’s processing that.
— "Wait… in front of Stark? You slept in Stark Tower, like… with him in the same room?" You hear the mix of disbelief and irony in his voice. And despite everything, it makes you smile a little.
— "Forget it. It was a long night."
The park, bathed in soft, tentative light, seems to suspend time. A fragile haven, far from the cold walls of the Tower and the shadows still clinging to you. You place your phone gently on your leg, like pushing the world away for just a moment. But Peter’s voice returns, calmer now, almost tender:
— "By the way, made any progress on finding an apartment? Or are you still crashing with Tony Stark, king of insomniacs?"
His tone is playfully light, but you catch the concern beneath the joke. You inhale deeply, the cool morning air brushing your skin. You wish you had a real answer. Any answer at all.
— "Look, Peter… I’m not in the right headspace for that. Not now. I just need a break. To take a step back."
Silence. Not heavy. More… understanding. As if he gets it without trying to fill the void. The conversation drifts to lighter topics — a movie he watched, a story from campus, a professor who made a fool of himself. You listen, or try to. But your mind drifts, carried elsewhere. Your eyes follow a jogger, then a child chasing pigeons. You nod now and then, laugh automatically. But deep down, you’re already gone. You wish you were in that world — the one of passersby, of laughter and unthreatened routine. But there’s always that background noise. That dull tension accompanying you, like a parasitic breath at the nape of your neck.
— "Hey, are you even listening to me?"
Peter’s voice sharpens, breaking the light fog wrapping around your mind. You jolt slightly, sit up straighter, caught off guard.
— "Sorry. I was somewhere else."
Peter sighs, the sound crackling through the speaker.
— "Yeah, I noticed. Still overthinking everything, huh?"
You don’t answer right away. Your gaze stays fixed on the horizon, where the city begins to stir more intensely. Of course you’re overthinking. How could you not? About this job, about Stark, about the nightmare still clinging to your mind like toxic mist. About how you never feel like you can set your bags down anywhere without the ground giving way beneath you.
— "Listen," Peter continues, lighter now. "There’s a party tonight. Something nice. It could do you some good."
You sigh, already tired by the idea.
— "Peter, I’m not sure I’m up for people."
— "It’s not just any party," he insists, a playful edge in his voice. "It’s at the Avengers’ place."
You freeze, jaw tightening.
— "What?"
He laughs, a soft, muffled laugh, clearly proud of the effect.
— "You heard me. A little private event. There’ll be people, but not just anyone. Stark will be there too."
Your stomach knots instantly. Being in a relaxed setting with Stark, after that nightmare where his hands were drenched in blood? Where his voice cut through your mind like a frozen blade? The idea churns your gut. And now you’re supposed to… pretend it’s all fine? Have a drink with him? Maybe laugh?
— "I don’t know, Peter… I’ve got work tomorrow."
— "So what? You think Stark won’t be there tomorrow morning, all fresh like a robot after the party? You think he holds back? You need to breathe, man. Just one evening. To exist without being in survival mode."
You lower your eyes to your jacket zipper, fiddling with it nervously. You want to say no. Really. But part of you… hesitates.
— "Anyway," you murmur, "I don’t even feel like I belong on the team. Since I got here, all I’ve done is bring trouble."
Peter is quiet for a second. Then, softer:
— "You’re not bringing trouble. You’re just trying to survive a storm that’s not even yours. And honestly? That’s already a lot."
— "So," Peter adds, a bit more upbeat, "you coming or not?"
You take a deep breath. A party with the Avengers. With Stark. With all those people living at a pace you still don’t understand. You don’t know if it’s a good idea. But maybe… it could help.
— "... Ok."
On the other end, Peter lets out a muffled cheer of victory.
— "Yes! I’ll come pick you up tonight. Get ready to have fun — even if I have to force you to smile with terrible jokes."
You smile faintly despite yourself, a quiet twitch of your lips. But a shadow still lingers in the corner of your mind. The unease, dull and stubborn. Because no party, no matter how bright, can erase what you still carry deep in your gut. After hanging up with Peter, you stay there a moment, phone still in hand, fingers tight around the cold plastic. You stare at the blank screen, as if the pixels could offer a way out. As if you could still take it back, pretend you misheard. But no. You said yes. And Peter’s coming to get you tonight. No turning back.
You breathe deeply, but the air struggles to reach the bottom of your lungs. A strange sensation clings to your skin — some sort of electric tension, halfway between nervous excitement and creeping anxiety. You try to shake it by walking slowly, hands in your pockets, letting your steps guide you back to Stark Tower. The walk back unfolds in a deceptive calm. The city is fully awake now, but you barely register it. The ambient noise reaches you as if through glass.
The air is sharp, a bit too cold for your thin jacket, but the sting helps ground you. You try to cling to the feeling of wind on your face, the rhythm of your steps, the concrete under your soles. But your mind won’t cooperate. It replays the nightmare on loop. Stark’s bloodied hands. His hollow stare. And alongside it, Peter’s voice. His muffled joy when you accepted. His laughter. His concern. You pass a shop window, and a blurred reflection catches your eye. You look like a ghost. Sunken eyes, hunched shoulders, clenched jaw. You look away.
You push the front door open and cross the lobby with slow steps. The interior is immaculate. Smooth walls, clean lines, a discreet scent of polished wood and premium coffee.
Everything is silent, precise, controlled. The opposite of the turmoil you carry inside. As you go up, you pass Stark’s office. The door is slightly ajar. You steal a glance inside. He’s there, standing in front of his screens, focused like the world depends on a number on his dashboard. Phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, fingers tapping a tactile keyboard, brows furrowed. Even in flip-flops and a wrinkled t-shirt, he radiates that impossible-to-ignore energy. A blend of total control and constant tension. You stop for half a second. You wonder if he saw you. But no. He doesn’t lift his head.
Not even a glance. Perfect. You don’t feel like talking. Don’t feel like justifying yourself. Don’t want to explain that tonight, you’re going to see his colleagues in a more intimate setting, even though you still have nightmares where he watches you die without a word. You walk past, his silhouette still lingering in the corner of your mind, even after turning at the end of the hallway. When you reach your room, you close the door softly behind you. Silence wraps around you immediately, dense and a little heavy. You drop your jacket over the back of a chair and collapse onto the bed without even removing your shoes. Your still-sore arm protests slightly under your weight. You ignore it.
Your eyes settle on the ceiling — white, featureless, like the rest of the room. Everything is so clean here, so well organized. Too much, maybe. You haven’t left any marks yet, no mess, no trace of you. You stare at that ceiling for a long time, without really thinking. Or rather, yes: you think about everything at once. About Stark, about Peter, about Matthew, about tonight’s party. About that lingering feeling of being a displaced body in a world that never planned a place for you.
You sit up slowly and place your feet on the floor. Your shoes make a soft thud on the smooth parquet. You head to the adjoining bathroom and turn on the light. Your reflection in the mirror sends back an image you don’t like looking at. Dark circles, a too-pale complexion, messy hair. You frown slightly, as if you could erase the exhaustion by focusing hard enough. But it’s still there, etched in every feature. You open a drawer and let cold water run into your hands, splashing it onto your face. That alone helps a little. As if you could convince yourself that you’re in control — at least for today.
Your gaze drops to your wrist, still in the brace. You still don’t know what to say if someone asks about it. You don’t want to lie. But you want even less to tell the truth. You lean against the sink for a few seconds, both hands gripping the porcelain edge. You could just not go. Tell Peter you changed your mind. That you’re not ready. But deep down, you know that would be retreating. And you’ve already done that too many times. So you square your shoulders. You still don’t know what to wear. Don’t even know if there’s a dress code — if you’re supposed to dress up, go simple, or if anything will do. But you’re going. Because staying here, alone, replaying everything in your head, would be worse.
You open the wardrobe and rummage through the clothes Peter brought you. Nothing that screams "Avengers party," but at least something that looks a bit more presentable than your eternal hoodie. You finally settle on a well-cut black t-shirt and a simple jacket — plain, almost accidentally elegant.
In front of the mirror, you adjust the collar of the t-shirt, not really knowing why. Your reflection stares back at you, and there’s something off in what you see. Like you’ve slipped into someone else’s skin. Someone more confident. Stronger. Someone you’re not yet, but who you try to become — just for tonight. You take a deep breath. A tired sigh follows. Tonight, you’ll have to play a role. Pretend. Pretend to be at ease, to be sociable, to belong in a world that isn’t yours. You grab your phone and quickly type a message to Peter:
"I hope you realize I deserve a medal for the effort I’m making here."
You hesitate, then add an emoji — which you delete right away. Too light. You send it like that. Blunt, honest. Peter will understand. His reply comes almost instantly:
"Relax, you’ll survive."
You let out a breath — half a chuckle, half exasperated — and slowly let yourself fall back onto the bed. The mattress barely reacts, as if it too were too tired to move. Eyes on the ceiling, you let the weight of the evening settle slowly on your chest. It starts with tension in your neck, then drips downward, like an ill-fitting suit of armor you’re forced to wear. You close your eyes. A desperate attempt to quiet the anxiety, to silence the internal noise telling you you don’t belong there, that you’ll just be another body in a room too bright, too full of people who all fit. You allow yourself a few hours of respite. A fragile truce, barely touched. You want to believe that a little sleep will help you endure what comes next.
But when sleep comes, it’s blurry. Vague dreams attack you — faceless people, endless hallways, words echoing without meaning. You sink and rise, again and again, like your own body refuses to let you go entirely. The shrill sound of the alarm eventually rips you violently from that in-between. You open your eyes with a start, heart pounding too hard, too fast. It takes a moment to remember where you are, which world you’re waking up in. You sit slowly on the edge of the bed, a tired hand rubbing your face, already marked by fatigue.
Your gaze falls again on the outfit you prepared. The t-shirt, the jacket — this slightly smoother version of yourself lying there, like a promise you’re not sure you can keep. That outfit won’t change who you are. It won’t erase you. It won’t heal you. And it won’t convince anyone that you deserve to be there. But you get up anyway. Because at this point, turning back would be worse than going forward. The hallway, when you step into it, greets you with a near-surgical silence. Your footsteps echo softly against the smooth, cold floor, each one reminding you that you’re alone.
You glance quickly toward Stark’s office. The door is ajar. Empty.
He’s probably already there. At the party. Surrounded by brilliant, loud people — people comfortable in their own skin. And you? You weren’t even invited by him. It wasn’t his idea. He didn’t think of you. He never does. A sting of bitterness tightens in your throat. You’ve gotten used to his demands, his harshness, but sometimes… sometimes, the indifference hurts more than the criticism. You frown slightly, but you don’t stop. You keep walking. Mechanically. Because giving up now would mean surrendering to that voice inside that says you don’t deserve anything good.
You reach the elevator, press the button, and catch your reflection in the metal doors. You don’t look like a hero. Not even like someone who belongs there. You just look like you — with extra dark circles. The doors open. You go down. Stark Tower’s lobby is as majestic as ever — vast and impersonal, bathed in artificial light that warms nothing. And then, you see him.
Peter. He’s right there, just outside the glass doors, leaning against the wall, absorbed in his phone. The glow of the screen lights up his face, and you wonder if he’s as nervous as you are. You take a deep breath. One last push. You step outside. He looks up just as you approach. A smirk appears on his lips — teasing, but not mean.
— "Not bad. You’re almost presentable."
You roll your eyes.
— "Shut up."
He laughs genuinely, then gives you a light pat on the shoulder — a gesture that reassures you more than you’d like to admit.
— "Come on, let’s go before you change your mind."
You cast one last glance behind you, toward the tower. Toward that impersonal room you’d rather be hiding in. Then you close the door behind you and follow Peter into the night.
You politely decline with a slight shake of your head, murmuring a nearly inaudible "no thanks," while Peter, perfectly at ease, grabs the glass with a knowing wink. You take a moment to observe the space.
The room is immense, sumptuous, lit by the diffuse glow of several crystal chandeliers suspended like frozen galaxies above you. Every detail oozes wealth and staging: plush carpets underfoot, walls lined with dark wood polished to a mirror shine, and that discreet jazz music that drifts through muffled conversations like an almost-too-perfect soundtrack. The guests form small clusters evenly scattered across the room, like placed by an invisible architect. Well-dressed people, relaxed, with confident gestures. They exchange quiet laughter, knowing glances, comments about things you can’t quite hear, but that sound important. Names you sometimes recognize in passing. Faces you’ve seen in the media. Brilliant people. In their element.
And you, in the middle of it all. You feel instantly out of place. Your carefully chosen clothes now seem too plain. Your shoulders tense, and despite yourself, you try to breathe more quietly, to blend in with the atmosphere. The ambient elegance slips over your skin like an invisible pressure — soft but insistent. Your eyes fall on the central buffet. A festival of refined dishes: seafood bites, desserts plated like artworks, bright-colored sweets arranged on silver trays. But you’re not hungry. Not even curious to try any of it.
You’re here. Physically. But you feel miles away.
Scanning the room, your gaze gradually locks onto familiar faces. There aren’t many, but enough to heighten your discomfort. Natasha Romanoff leans nonchalantly against a wall, away from the buzz, a glass of amber whiskey between her fingers. She watches the crowd with a calm, almost predatory eye — as if nothing escapes her. And probably, nothing does. Further away, you spot Thor, radiating his usual presence, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that still doesn’t mask the raw power he naturally exudes. He laughs with Sam Wilson and Rhodey, the three of them lost in animated, relaxed conversation. Laughter, raised voices, clear camaraderie. Steve Rogers stands slightly apart, exchanging a few words with Bruce Banner. Rogers radiates irreproachable composure, a solemn kind of calm in his posture. Next to him, Banner seems ill at ease, fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve like he’d rather be in a quiet lab than in the middle of this polite, noisy crowd.
And then… there’s him. Stark.
He’s on the far side of the room, deep in conversation with Pepper Potts. Perfectly tailored black suit, tie loosened with practiced precision. He holds a half-empty glass in one hand, the other arm draped casually over the back of a chair. He talks, he smiles — that sideways smile that seems to be part of him, that mask of elegant irony he wears everywhere. You’re not sure what exactly draws attention to him — his aura, his wealth, his intellect, his arrogance, or simply… him. But it’s undeniable: he’s the anchor of the room. Wherever he stands, eyes follow. And before you even realize it, you’re staring too long. He sees you. His gaze catches yours. A split second. Maybe less.
His expression doesn’t show anything obvious, but you sense the subtle shift. Not quite surprise. More a quiet "well, look who’s here." One eyebrow lifts, almost imperceptibly, as he shares a brief glance with Pepper. She follows his eyes, spots you, and gives a soft nod, like acknowledging your presence. Then Stark’s eyes are back on you. And the moment stretches — not long enough for others to notice, but just enough to make your heartbeat stumble. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. He simply observes you with that almost clinical intensity he sometimes carries. Like he’s measuring something. Probably you. It feels like he’s scanning you, trying to figure out why you’re here, what you’re hiding, or maybe… what you’re worth. You can’t tell if it’s a kind assessment or silent judgment. Probably both.
Instinctively, you offer a faint smile — timid, awkward, barely a twitch of your lips. You don’t even know why you do it. Maybe to diffuse the tension. Or just out of reflex. Stark doesn’t look away. Not immediately. And his wordless stare weighs heavier than any conversation. Beside you, Peter doesn’t notice the tension in your eyes or the lump forming in your throat. He nudges you lightly, a teasing grin on his lips.
— “Relax, man. It’s just a party. Have some fun.”
You nod mechanically, but every part of you screams the opposite. Your heart pounds in your chest with a force that has nothing to do with excitement. All around, the voices are hushed, the smiles polite, every gesture perfectly measured. Every detail feels carefully staged, like even the conversations were choreographed ahead of time. And you, in the midst of it all, feel blurry. Like a sketch pasted into a master’s painting. You inhale quietly, hoping to ease the rising vertigo. Maybe you don’t belong here. But you’re here. And if this night gives you even the smallest chance to understand the world you’ve stepped into, then you’ll have to take it. You pull your jacket closer, try to straighten your posture. Relax. Be present. Don’t let this damn impostor syndrome swallow you whole. You let Peter guide you deeper into the room, into the current of conversations, smiles, and fleeting glances. Tonight, you’ll have to play along. Just enough to be overlooked. Just enough to be seen.
He leads you through the crowd toward a small group chatting near a buffet. You immediately recognize Sam Wilson and James Rhodes, immersed in what seems to be an animated conversation punctuated by muffled laughter and expressive gestures.
— “Gentlemen, meet my friend!” Peter announces with contagious enthusiasm, like he’s introducing you to old buddies rather than two prominent Avengers. He turns to you with a knowing wink. “He works with us now. Time to drag him out of his cave.”
Sam extends a hand without hesitation, a bright smile lighting up his face. His energy is direct, disarming.
— “So, you’re the new recruit? Peter already sold your soul. Congrats, you survived Stark. That’s a win on its own.”
You shake his hand, slightly surprised by the warmth of his welcome. His grip is firm, his eyes sincere.
— “Yeah… well, I’m still trying to figure out the rules.”
— “The rules?” Sam laughs. “Man, there aren’t any. Or if there are, Stark rewrites them every morning.”
Rhodey watches you for a moment, a subtle smirk tugging at his lips — more reserved but no less kind.
— “So, impressed by the party? First time at a Stark Industries red carpet kind of crowd?”
You shrug lightly, unsure how to phrase your discomfort without sounding completely lost.
— “Let’s just say it’s not exactly my natural habitat.”
Sam nods with a conspiratorial smile.
— “Don’t worry. At first, I felt like I’d dropped into a Gossip Girl episode too. But give it two drinks and a few absurd conversations, and you realize even the big shots talk nonsense sometimes.”
You chuckle softly, despite yourself. There’s something in his tone — honest, relaxed — that puts you at ease. You feel your tension loosen a little, like you can finally breathe. The conversation drifts into stories from past missions. Sam tells of a botched landing in a Venetian fountain. Rhodey shares how he accidentally blew up Stark’s espresso machine trying to reprogram the cappuccino dispenser. Later, an elegant figure slips through the crowd with disconcerting ease. Natasha Romanoff joins the group, a glass of whiskey in hand, her heels barely brushing the floor. She stops beside Peter, casts a quick glance at each of you, then locks her clear eyes on yours. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips.
— “So, you’re the one working with Stark now?” she says, her voice soft but laced with an undertone you can’t immediately decode. She takes a sip from her glass before adding, with faux sympathy, “Good luck.”
You hesitate. Is it a jab? A veiled warning? Or just her particular brand of sharp humor? Still, the amused glint in her eyes tells you she’s not entirely serious — or at least, not entirely cruel.
— “Duly noted,” you reply, mimicking exaggerated gravity, a small smirk tugging at your lips.
She tilts her head, almost in approval, then raises her glass in your direction before slipping back into the crowd with smooth, silent steps, blending again into the familiar shadows. You watch her for a second, vaguely fascinated. The evening flows on. The hum of conversation rises gently, mingling with the soft notes of jazz playing in the background. The clinking of glasses, bursts of laughter — everything feels surreal, like you’re drifting through a bubble that’s both too bright and too smooth. But gradually, the atmosphere feels less stifling. Peter, always by your side like a reassuring guide, pulls you from group to group with the ease of someone perfectly comfortable here. He introduces you without pressure, naturally, sometimes letting the conversation happen on its own.
You meet Clint — laid-back and affable; Bruce — a bit reserved but curious about your work; even Carol Danvers, just passing through, offers you a brief but respectful smile. And despite yourself, you realize something: they’re not as untouchable as you’d imagined. Peter, clearly energized by the vibe, suddenly lights up at the sound of a booming laugh near the bar. He straightens up, shoots you a knowing look, and claps your shoulder before you can object.
— “Come on! Time to have some fun!”
You half-protest, but let yourself be dragged along, both curious and slightly anxious about what "fun" means in Peter’s world. As you approach, you see a small crowd gathered around a bar turned makeshift stage. The mood is relaxed, electric, almost contagious. In the center, Sam Wilson stands with a drink in hand and a wide grin. He shakes a jar filled with crumpled slips of paper. The mix of alcohol, energy, and carefree air has apparently sparked an improvised dare game.
— “All right, all right… who’s next?” Sam calls out with the flair of a talk-show host. “Come on, someone pull a challenge!”
— “Allow me the honor!” booms a familiar, theatrical voice.
Thor, towering and triumphant, steps forward with ceremonial confidence. He plunges a hand into the jar, clearly thrilled by this strange Midgardian ritual. He pulls out a tiny slip of paper between two fingers, unfolds it with the gravity of a diplomatic accord, and reads aloud, squinting:
— “‘Whoever draws must improvise an inspiring speech… on a ridiculous topic.’” He bursts out laughing. “What trickery is this? Very well, mortals, prepare to be enlightened by the wisdom of Asgard!”
Laughter erupts all around. Even Peter struggles to stay upright. Thor raises his hand as if about to recite a sacred oath, his glass lifted in offering.
— “Tonight, I shall speak… of the great and terrible battle between socks… and the washing machine!”
The laughter is instant, almost deafening. Yet Thor presses on unphased. He speaks with absurd passion of brave socks disappearing without a trace, of wash cycles he compares to war-torn battlefields, of washer drums as portals to other realms. He laments the sacrifice of orphaned socks, those who must face the dark drawer alone, forever separated from their lost halves.
— “And yet… they persist! Heroic! Solitary! BUT WORTHY!”
The room is in tears from laughter. You can’t help but smile — even laugh, softly. Just a little. Because in that absurd moment, surrounded by superheroes playing a silly game, everything feels strangely… normal. You finally let the mood pull you in, a genuine laugh escaping you unexpectedly, surprised to hear it come from your own throat. It’s real, simple, not forced. A tiny moment of forgetfulness in a night you thought would be impossible just hours ago. Peter, beside you, throws you a sideways glance, eyes gleaming.
— “See? Feels good, doesn’t it?”
You nod slowly, taking a sip from your glass. He’s right. You didn’t think you’d laugh that much tonight. You didn’t even think you’d feel like you belonged… even just for a moment. But that illusion of ease doesn’t last. Sam claps his hands like a seasoned emcee:
— “Come on, let’s keep it going! Next up!”
Before you can slip away unnoticed, Peter points at your drink like he’s exposing a crime.
— “My buddy here’s ready! He looks calm, but he’s got a fire inside!”
You stare at him, stunned. Your face screams “you’re dead,” but it’s too late. The attention is already on you — amused glances, stifled laughs, even a few ironic claps. Sam hands you the jar with a big grin.
— “Courage, rookie. Rules are rules.”
You grab the jar with a resigned sigh, feeling your heartbeat spike. Your fingers search for the least humiliating scrap — as if that exists. As you pull out a small wrinkled paper, you already feel eyes on you. Natasha and Steve, seated a bit farther off, watch calmly. Natasha sips her whiskey, eyebrow arched with amusement. Steve offers a reassuring, almost fatherly smile. You slowly unfold the paper. And instantly regret it.
— “Dance for thirty seconds to a song of your choice, alone, in the center of the room.”
You freeze, the slip trembling in your hand. Your eyes widen in panic.
— “Oh no… Absolutely not.”
Sam snaps his fingers theatrically, laughing.
— “Too late, it’s written — jar law!”
Peter offers his phone with a grin that makes it clear he’s enjoying this way more than he should.
— “Come on, pick a song. This is your moment.”
You glare at him.
— “I’m going to kill you.”
— “Tragic ending, but first… dance.”
You turn your head. Every gaze is on you — amused, teasing, playful — but never cruel. Rhodey watches with a spark of curiosity. Natasha crosses her arms, smirking. Steve gives a little encouraging nod. And in the back of the room, Stark watches too — one eyebrow raised, an expression that’s almost… entertained. You let out a long, suffering sigh and scroll quickly through the song options. You pick one at random — no point delaying the inevitable. The first beat blasts through the speakers: an upbeat pop song, way too energetic for how you feel. A mix of laughter and cheers erupts immediately.
— “Come on, show us what you’ve got!” Sam calls.
You step slowly into the center of the room, your heart racing. Heat floods your face, and you feel every stare like an invisible spotlight. You raise your arms, take a clumsy step, then another — and eventually surrender, as best you can, to the music. It’s thirty seconds of pure chaos: flailing arms, hesitant footwork, grimaces between half-hearted attempts at rhythm. You raise your hands in mock victory, spin in an overly dramatic twirl that sends Thor into a booming laugh.
— “This mortal has the soul of a warrior! Bring him nectar!” he bellows, clapping loudly.
Peter’s doubled over, tears in his eyes. Natasha chuckles into her glass. Even Stark — is that a real smile? — seems genuinely amused. When the music finally ends, you bow with exaggerated flair, then collapse back into your seat, breathless, face blazing, but a smile pulling at your lips despite everything.
— “You’re all assholes,” you mutter, grabbing your drink.
Peter nudges you with a smug grin.
— “Maybe. But admit it — you had fun.”
You shrug, pretending to be unimpressed. But the truth is, for the first time in a long while, you feel… light. Lit from inside by a genuine laugh. Like, for just a moment, the universe forgot to crush you. But part of you already knows: that weightless feeling won’t last.
You feel your body begin to release, as if the weight you’ve been dragging around for weeks is finally starting to loosen its grip. A little alcohol — just enough to numb the constant vigilance. Your laughter becomes freer, your voice less hesitant. You surprise yourself by firing back at Sam’s jabs, throwing a joke at Rhodey about his temperamental armor. Even Thor, who drags you into a loud toast with overflowing enthusiasm, makes you forget your nerves — though his fist on your shoulder nearly makes you spill your drink. Peter watches you with a calm, sincere smile, like he can finally breathe easier seeing you let go. He slips a hand behind your back and invites you to join a small group near the bar, where a game has started: everyone shares an embarrassing story. Laughter is already in full swing by the time you sit down.
You hesitate, but the mood sweeps you along. You share a story from university — a presentation where your mic turned on too early, broadcasting a less-than-flattering private comment about your professor. Laughter around you, kind teasing. It’s not much, but it’s enough. Sam sparks a round of uncontrollable laughter recounting a mission where his wing jammed during takeoff and launched him headfirst into a tree. Even Steve nearly spits out his whiskey.
The drinks keep flowing. You’re not quite sure where your last cocktail went, but the warmth in your chest proves it did its job. Your thoughts are blurrier, your movements looser. You feel… alive. And, more than anything, you feel present. Not like a parasite. Not like a stranger parachuted into a world that isn’t yours. Not like a lost kid. Tonight, just for tonight, you feel like part of something. A human group — loud, imperfect, but welcoming. These people you once saw as unreachable figures are here, with you, around a table, joking about their failures and toasting their embarrassing moments.
It’s not just a job anymore. Not just a roof over your head or a line on a resume. It’s a moment of normalcy. Of human warmth. Of regained lightness. But everything ends eventually. Like the last sparks of a firework drifting down, the night begins to wind down. Conversations slow, laughter fades. Glasses empty. The jazzy music gives way to something softer, almost melancholy. Natasha vanishes without a sound, sharing a final knowing glance across the room. Steve shakes a few hands, upright like a captain leaving the bridge, while Bruce slips away with the air of someone relieved to escape the crowd. Thor? Gone in a thunderous exit, promising a legendary drinking contest "as soon as Midgard can keep up."
Only a few scattered groups remain, the atmosphere floating in a shared, gentle fatigue. Peter, still at your side, taps your shoulder softly. His voice is calmer now, but still tinged with his usual warmth.
— "I’m heading out, man. You coming with me?"
You glance down at your glass, still half full, the golden liquid catching the room’s last soft glimmers. You don’t really want to leave. Not yet. Not just yet. You shake your head slowly.
— "Nah, don’t worry. I’ll finish this and head back after."
Peter studies you for a moment, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
— "Don’t overdo it, okay?"
A vague smile stretches your lips, but it rings a bit hollow.
— "Promise."
He lingers a second too long, like he wants to say something more… then thinks better of it. He gives your shoulder a brief squeeze, offers a gentle smile, and turns to leave the room. You watch him go — a familiar silhouette in a world that still doesn’t quite feel like yours. Then you fold back into your drink, silence slowly settling around you. And that insidious feeling begins to creep back in at the edges of your awareness: loneliness, despite the crowd. The return of empty echoes under the golden lights. The night’s energy has faded, leaving only faint music and the hushed murmurs of lingering guests — like the remnants of a fading dream. You spin your glass slowly between your fingers, hypnotized by the reflections dancing in the dim light.
It’s always like this, isn’t it? A high, a fleeting warmth, the illusion of belonging… then the void. As if you were only ever invited on a trial basis into this moment — and the time’s come to give it back.
— "If you plan on finishing yourself off here, at least try not to puke on my floor."
The sarcastic voice slices through the quiet like a well-honed blade. You turn slightly. Stark. Casually leaning against the bar, a glass of amber liquor in hand, watching you with a mix of irony and quiet curiosity. You manage a tired smile.
— "Just trying to enjoy the night to the end."
— "Yeah, I noticed," he replies, taking a seat beside you. He lifts his glass in a half-toast, half-judgmental gesture. "You took the concept of open bar very literally. Well done."
You shrug, eyes still on your drink.
— "Might as well get something out of it."
He watches you in silence for a second or two. No quip this time — just that sharp, almost too-aware stare. Then he glances around at the now-dimmed room. He sets his glass down on the bar with a soft sigh.
— "Alright. That’s enough celebration. Get up. I’m driving you back."
You frown, surprised by the mix of authority and barely hidden concern in his tone.
— "I can get home on my own."
Stark raises an eyebrow, like he’s just heard a terrible joke.
— "Oh yeah? And what’s your plan? Stumble through New York in the middle of the night with that blood-alcohol level? Limp your way back to the Tower with a still-healing wrist?"
You have nothing to counter that. Your silence is enough. He downs his drink in one go, then stands, grabbing his jacket from the back of a nearby chair.
— "Let’s go. Before I change my mind and leave you to sleep on the sidewalk. FYI, Manhattan concrete isn’t as welcoming as that Tower couch."
You sigh but eventually stand. He’s probably not wrong. And despite the harsh tone, he’s here. Not obligated, not exactly warm — but here. And that alone chips away at the loneliness. You chuckle softly, the kind of laugh a little too relaxed to be genuine, but enough to mask the slow ache of exhaustion pulling you down. Head heavy, temples throbbing, you follow Stark through the glass doors of the building, your steps slightly unsteady. Outside, the night air hits you hard — sharp, almost icy after the room’s cozy warmth. You take a deep breath, trying to clear the lingering haze of alcohol.
But something tightens in your neck. A pinch, a chill. Like you’re being watched. You slow down. Your eyes scan the street, empty sidewalks, flickering lamplight. Nothing. No unusual movement, no distinct sound. And yet the feeling clings to your skin, cold and invasive. A fog crawling down your spine. Stark, a few paces ahead, stops. He turns, brow furrowed slightly.
— "You look spaced out."
His tone is neutral, but his gaze is sharp.
— "Still drunk or is something wrong?"
You hesitate. Your eyes drift once more to the shadows. Everything seems normal. Too normal.
— "No… it’s nothing," you murmur. "Just a weird feeling."
He studies you for a second, like he’s deciding whether to worry or mock. Then he looks away and picks up the pace. No comment. No push. You follow, heart beating a bit faster than it should. The alcohol’s still there, but less dizzying now. It’s blended with a sense of alertness — like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with.
The silence between you is strange. Not awkward, not relaxed. Just… suspended. You reach the car — a dark sedan parked along the curb where the streetlights glint off its sleek frame. Stark unlocks it with a smooth motion and slips into the driver’s seat without a word. You stand outside for a second, slightly swaying, hand on the passenger door handle.
— "You sure you’re okay to drive? ‘Cause with what you’ve had—"
He slowly raises an eyebrow, his face half-lit by the orange street glow. In his eyes, a flicker of irony.
— "If I couldn’t hold my liquor, do you really think I’d still be alive after all these years?" he shoots back, slightly amused.
— "That’s not an answer. That’s a suicide flex."
— "It’s a fact. And FYI, the car’s AI. I drive because I’m old-fashioned, not because I have to."
You glance behind you again, mind still haunted by that eerie feeling of being watched. No suspicious headlights. No figures. But something still feels wrong. A hunch. A tension no drink can explain. Stark seems to sense it, even if he says nothing. After a moment, he breaks the silence in a lower tone.
— "If there’s a problem, you say so. I don’t like surprises when it comes to my employees’ safety."
You turn to him. Take a slow breath. Hesitate.
— "I just… had the feeling someone was watching us. Nothing concrete. Just a gut thing."
He doesn’t respond right away, but you see his jaw tighten slightly.
— "You tell me if it happens again." He punctuates the sentence with a sharp click of his tongue, a bit provocative, before opening the door with deliberate slowness. You’re just about to do the same, hand on the handle—
But you don’t see what’s coming. It all happens too fast. Your back slams against the ground, a cold splash soaking the back of your neck as you hit the pavement. The impact is sharp, unforgiving. And your wrist — already injured, still fragile — takes part of the fall. A blinding bolt of pain shoots up your arm, sharp and searing.
A raw, guttural scream tears from your throat. Uncontrolled. Tears spring instantly, blurring your vision as your body curls in on itself. You want to protect your arm, you want to breathe, but nothing obeys. Your breath crashes into panic.
You try to roll onto your side, to move your wrist away from any pressure, but a shadow looms above you. Massive. Suffocating.
Matthew. Your blood runs cold.
He’s there, kneeling beside you like a predator savoring his win. His face twisted in a cruel, unhinged smile. His eyes pierce you — black with restrained hatred, pupils blown wide with adrenaline. He breathes fast, heavy. You smell the hot mix of sweat and metal on his breath.
— "Look at you…" he murmurs, his voice hissing just above your ear. "You thought you could escape me? Seriously? What did you think? That Stark would save you every time? That you were out of reach?"
You want to respond, scream, fight back, but your body is frozen — drowned between pain and fear. You try to push away, crawling back on your elbows, each movement ripping a cry from your fractured wrist. Then he pulls something from his pocket. Slim. Shiny. Sharp.
Metal catches the orange glow of a streetlamp, revealing without question the shape of a knife. Your heart stops. Air leaves your lungs. Your whole body tenses, bracing.
— "You humiliated me," he hisses, bringing the blade near your face. "You turned your back on me. You think I’m just going to let that slide? You think you have the right to leave me? To talk?"
You try to retreat, back scraping the ground, but he’s faster. He slams his foot onto your chest with brutal precision, pinning you to the concrete. You grunt under the pressure, ribs compressed, breath ripped away. His weight crushes you, keeps you down. You struggle weakly, but the pain in your wrist is unbearable. A sharp pulse climbs to your shoulder, and your vision wavers. Then comes the fear. Pure. Total. It floods you, consumes you. You’re nothing but a vulnerable body under the blade of a man who’s already hurt you too much. Matthew raises the knife slowly. And you know. This time, he means it.
— "I’m done playing," he whispers, still in that calm, poisonous tone, like a caress dipped in venom.
He brings the blade to your face. The cold metal grazes your cheek in an almost affectionate gesture — but there’s no tenderness. It’s a ritual of domination. He’s savoring this. Humiliating you. And in his eyes, there’s nothing human.
— "You’ve had your fun. You fucked everything up. Now it’s time to pay."
You tremble. Your breath is shallow, uneven. Your throat is tight, your heart pounding so hard it might burst. Your body is on full alert — but paralyzed. You search for an out, an idea, a hand, a miracle. Your eyes dart toward the street, but it feels miles away. The alley is narrow, choking, like a trap. Adrenaline, vertigo, fear, alcohol — all of it swirls in your mind like a raging storm. You want to move, scream, run, but you’re tangled in the net of a predator who doesn’t just want to hurt you anymore — he wants to break you. Your good hand gropes blindly at the ground, sliding across dirt, dust, a soaked piece of cardboard… then something sharp. You don’t think. You grab a broken shard of glass — formless, useless, but it’s there. And it cuts. Your palm splits instantly, clean and deep. But pain isn’t a luxury you can afford.
Matthew chuckles quietly.
— "You should see your face…" he whispers, leaning in closer. "Pathetic."
His breath reeks of rage. The blade rises. You have no choice. In a desperate lunge, you hurl the shard straight at his face. It whistles through the air and slashes across his cheek. He yelps and recoils, hand flying to his face.
It’s enough.
You roll to the side, every movement a scream, ignoring your wrist’s furious protests, the burn in your palm, the weakness in your legs. You scramble to your feet, breathing in ragged gasps, muscles on fire. You stagger, barely standing. And you run.
You run without looking back, without thinking, without anything but survival driving your steps. Your heart hammers like a war drum, feet skidding over wet asphalt, vision narrowing.
— "Get back here, you little shit!"
Matthew’s voice chases you, and then his footsteps — fast, furious. He’s close. He won’t stop. But neither will you. You dash toward the light. Toward the only hope. Toward the main road. Toward Stark. You burst from the alley like a hunted animal, gasping, staggering, limbs screaming from pain and exhaustion. Your feet slap the slick pavement, your throat burns, and your legs threaten to give out. Harsh streetlights blind you as you hit the sidewalk. And there — Stark.
He’s stopped, keys still in hand, car door ajar. He turns at the sound of your footsteps, and his eyes lock on you. He sees everything, instantly: your bloodless face, twisted wrist, bleeding hand, the fear in your eyes. He gets it.
— "Shit…" he mutters, voice lower, graver than usual.
He steps toward you — just once — and he’s already between you and the alley. And then Matthew explodes into the street behind you, feral and raging, knife still gleaming. His figure is tight, arm raised. His clothes are rumpled, his face red with fury. He barely slows at the sight of Stark. But his eyes widen. Not fear — fury at being stopped. Stark doesn’t flinch. He plants himself firmly, gaze drilling into your attacker. No suit, no weapons — just presence. His expression is stripped of all humor. He’s cold. Dangerous.
— "Back off," he says simply, voice sharp and hard.
Matthew laughs — a cracked, near-hysterical sound.
— "You think you scare me?! You don’t know what this little fuck did to me!"
He steps forward, knife still in hand.
— "I’m done with your shit!" he spits, eyes wild, nerves on the edge.
You stay frozen. Your hand shakes, blood dripping between your fingers. Every throb in your wrist is a spike of pain. You should run, flee again… but this time, you don’t. Because Stark is there. Because you can’t run forever. You grit your teeth, heart racing, and finally meet Matthew’s eyes. This nightmare ends now — or it explodes.
And Stark doesn’t budge.
He stands calm. Implacable. No fear. No hesitation. Just that cold professional edge that always comes before something breaks. He steps forward, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the blade, then on Matthew. The latter shivers despite himself — ego masking it with a shaky laugh.
— "Let me be clear," Stark says, voice low, almost gentle — but glacial. A razor under silk. "You’ve got three seconds to walk away before I put a hole in your chest."
He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t shake. He doesn’t need to.
Matthew laughs again, but it’s hollow, cracked. His grip tightens on the knife, knuckles white. You see the hesitation. His anger scrambles for a crack in Stark’s calm.
— "You think you scare me, Stark? Because you’re rich and have toys, you think you’re above everyone? That you can throw your cape over anyone and fix it all?"
Stark doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. The silence is crushing, heavier than any threat. A pressure that bends the air around you. He turns slightly to glance at you — just enough to see your state. Your legs tremble. Face pale. Shirt rumpled, bloodstained. The cut on your cheek still bleeding, bright and thin. And your hand — red to the wrist where the glass sliced earlier. He sees it all. He logs every detail. And something shifts in his eyes. You’re no longer a variable. Not just a broken employee he tolerates. You’re injured. You’re hunted. You’re under his protection.
And someone just crossed a line. His gaze returns to Matthew. Every trace of mercy is gone.
— "You made a big mistake," Stark murmurs.
He raises his hand, palm up. A metallic click. Streetlight glints off a piece of metal snapping into place from his sleeve. Just a sliver of armor — enough. Enough for Matthew’s expression to change. He steps back. Just slightly. Doubt begins to crack his mask. His knife still raised, but hands trembling.
— "You’re going to calm down now," Stark says, voice lower, darker. "Or I swear I’ll send you home in pieces."
You don’t move. Don’t breathe. Your ears ring. Everything hangs in the balance.
— "I don’t care what you think of me," Stark says eventually. He lifts an eyebrow, almost bored — but the gleam in his eye is razor-sharp. "But what you’re going to do is put down that knife, back up… and disappear before I decide I’ve been patient enough tonight."
Matthew grits his teeth. His jaw twitches under the pressure. His crazed eyes flicker between you and Stark. His body shakes — rage, shame, maybe a hint of fear. He knows. Even in his madness, he knows he’s pushed the wrong person at the worst time. But he can’t help but spit one last venomous truth.
— "You think you can protect him?" he growls, eyes locked on your trembling form. "You think he’s not just going to fuck everything up again? He’s a fucking mistake on legs."
You freeze. The words hit like ice. Your breath stalls. Your whole body begs to respond, to fight. But you have no strength left. Not in your legs, your fists, your chest. It’s like those words flattened the last of your resolve. But Stark doesn’t let it slide. Not this time. He glances toward you — sees the crack in your expression. Then turns back to Matthew. And now, there’s nothing soft in his eyes. Only a storm.
— "I don’t think you understand the situation," he says, voice slow and cold. "Whatever he is or isn’t, it’s none of your business anymore. You had your chance. You burned it. So now… it’s over."
Matthew barks a bitter laugh. Short. Crooked. But now there’s a tremble. A crack in his voice. He sees the edge. The end. He’s threatened the wrong man. At the wrong time. He looks at you one last time. And his eyes — black, hateful — stab through you from a distance.
Then, slowly, reluctantly, he steps back. Then another. His tight grip loosens. The knife disappears into his jacket with a sharp motion. He still shakes — from rage, from adrenaline — but he knows. The game’s over. For tonight.
— "This isn’t over," he spits, pointing a trembling finger at you. His voice rasps like he’s choking on coals. "You think it ends ‘cause some rich guy stands in the way? You have no idea what’s coming."
Stark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He is the wall.
— "If I see you near him again," he says, quieter than ever — and twice as deadly, "it’ll be the last time you raise your hand to anyone. Anyone."
Matthew spits on the ground. Furious. Defeated. But he turns. His steps are heavy, fast, boiling with swallowed fury. He vanishes into the night, swallowed by New York like a bad dream fading — for now. Silence crashes down. Heavy. Dense. You can hear your own breathing — fast, broken. You’re cold now. Not from the air. But from the crash. The sudden, brutal emptiness. You stay still, half-collapsed. And Stark, unmoving at your side, finally mutters, mostly to himself:
— "Gosh."
You freeze for a moment, suspended out of time, unable to fully grasp what just happened. Your legs nearly give out beneath you, and your breathing is short, erratic. Your heart hammers in your chest like a war drum, still caught in the echo of fear. Your hands are shaking violently, especially the left one — the injured one — where blood seeps in thin streams between your clenched fingers. Adrenaline burns in your veins, a freezing fire that refuses to fade.
Beside you, Stark slowly turns his head, his eyes scanning you — from the wound on your temple down to your swollen wrist. His gaze is sharp, technical, as if mentally scanning your body. He doesn’t speak for a few seconds. Then finally:
— “Are you okay?” he asks, in a tone oddly neutral, almost professional.
You nod faintly. Mechanically. But it’s a lie. An obvious one. Nothing is okay. Your stomach is twisted, your thoughts in shambles, and you’re on the verge of collapsing. Stark sees it. Of course he does. He sighs deeply, weary. Not at you, but at the whole situation — at the fact that someone like Matthew was able to get close. He runs a hand over his face, briefly rubbing his eyes like he’s just woken from a nightmare. Then, wordlessly, he looks down at his right palm. A soft beep sounds as he deactivates the tiny module built into the glove on his wrist — a small circular gadget, part of a defensive mechanism, ready to deploy had he needed to act.
With practiced precision, he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket.
— “Get in the car,” he says simply. No irony, no provocation. Just a direct order. Firm. Final. “We’re going back.”
You don’t even try to argue. You don’t have the strength. Your legs barely hold you up, but you drag yourself to the passenger door and slip inside clumsily, body heavy, mind heavier.
Inside, it’s warm, silent. A bubble that clashes brutally with the tension of the alley. Before the door closes, your eyes drift back toward where you came from. The alley is empty now. No sign of Matthew. Nothing, except the invisible echo of his shadow in your mind. He’s gone back to the dark, but you know he’s not far. You still feel him. His voice. His breath. The blade. That look in his eyes. The door closes with a muted thud. You stare at the dashboard in silence, heart still pounding too hard, fingers numb with blood and fear. Stark gets into the driver’s seat without a word and starts the engine.
The silence in the car is thick, almost tangible. Every vibration from the engine, every blink of the turn signal, echoes too loudly in a world suddenly too quiet. You slump in your seat, breathing shallow, face turned to the window. The city flashes by: streetlights, neon signs, blurred silhouettes of late-night pedestrians. Reflections from the recent rain slide down the glass like the world itself is melting under the pressure. Now that the immediate danger is gone, your body starts to scream. Every blow returns as a dull echo: your back bruised from the fall, your wrist burning, your palm torn open by glass. Every vibration of the car makes you grit your teeth.
Next to you, Stark drives one-handed, the other resting on his knee. His jaw is clenched, his features tenser than usual. He doesn’t speak. Not at first. But you can feel it building. Eventually, his voice cuts through the cabin.
— “Why’d you answer that damn call?”
No sarcasm. No jabs. Just a blunt question, sharp, but almost tired. He’s not accusing you. He’s trying to understand. You don’t answer right away. Your throat is dry, tight. You’re still staring out the window, your reflection blurry, ghostlike. A different version of you — the one who almost died tonight.
— “I just wanted it to stop,” you murmur.
Your voice is weak, barely audible. But Stark hears. He flinches. His fingers tap nervously on the steering wheel, an erratic rhythm of restrained anger. His jaw clenches tighter, his eyes narrowing slightly.
— “And you thought that by answering a psycho like that, he’d just… what? Disappear? Thank you for picking up and walk away?”
There’s no mockery in his tone. Just confusion. Maybe even a hint of concern, poorly disguised. You shrug slowly, painfully.
— “I didn’t know what else to do,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “I was tired. I couldn’t take it anymore. He was stalking me in my head as much as in real life…”
Your fingers clench on the fabric of your pants. You still feel the blade on your skin. His foot pressing on your chest. The voice in your head calling you ‘a mistake.’
— “I wanted to know if it was real. Or just… an empty threat.”
A silence follows. Heavy. Stark doesn’t respond right away, but you can tell he’s listening. Finally, he exhales deeply and shakes his head slowly.
— “If you ever do something that stupid again,” he says quietly, “I’m firing you. Not because you disobeyed. Because I’m not going to the morgue to ID you.”
You finally turn your head toward him. He doesn’t look at you, eyes locked on the road. But he’s serious. You hear it in his voice, feel it in the tension in his shoulders, in the silence that follows. You breathe in deep, trying to stabilize your breath. The leather seat beneath your fingers is smooth, cool, almost soothing. It’s the only tangible thing left to hold onto so you don’t completely fall apart.
— “Thanks.”
Your voice is barely a whisper. A murmur that hangs in the cabin, quickly absorbed by the low hum of the engine. Stark glances briefly at you. He doesn’t answer, but you see his fingers tighten slightly on the wheel before he looks back to the road. A red light forces him to stop, and in the tense silence that follows, he lets out a sigh.
— “Listen, kid…”
His voice is deeper, less steady. Like he’s searching for the right words — or at least the least terrible ones.
— “I’m not gonna pretend I get everything you’ve been through. But one thing I do know — you’ve got a talent for attracting shit.”
You give a humorless smile, barely curving your lips.
— “Yeah. I’ve noticed.”
He ignores the sarcasm, or chooses to. His gaze stays straight ahead, the light turning green without him noticing right away. He drives off smoothly.
— “You survived that guy once. Then again. Now it’s gotta be the last time. You get me?”
You nod slowly. You get it, yeah. But you also know Matthew won’t disappear. Not like that. Not quietly. His shadow already clings to your thoughts like a parasite. A heavy silence settles, punctuated by the soft click of the turn signal and the muffled noises of a city falling asleep.
— “You’re pressing charges.”
You close your eyes. Tension immediately coils in your chest.
— “It won’t change anything. He’ll just—”
— “I don’t give a damn what you think.”
He cuts you off, sharp, and this time he glances at you, his eyes burning.
— “That guy just attacked you in a damn alley. With a knife. He followed you. He already fractured your wrist and now he’s left you with trauma that’s gonna last. He knows where you are. That means it’s going to happen again. And believe me, I don’t have time to spend every night scraping you off the sidewalk.”
You grit your teeth. You know he’s right. But you hate the thought of being a victim again, of showing up once more in front of cops who’ll shrug because “it’s word against word,” or “the guy vanished.” You look down at your bandaged palm, at the red marks around your wrist — swollen, bruised. You want it to stop. But it’s hard to believe the system will protect you.
— “If I go to the cops… it won’t change anything.”
Stark doesn’t reply immediately. He stays quiet, eyes fixed on the night road stretching ahead. Then he lets out a dry, joyless laugh.
— “Maybe you’re right.”
He shrugs slightly — a gesture almost casual, but you feel it’s not as detached as he wants to appear.
— “But I’m not the cops.”
You turn your head toward him, surprised. He doesn’t look at you. He keeps driving like what he just said was nothing. Like it was just a passing comment. But you know him a little now. And you hear what his words really mean. It was a promise. Not a threat. Not a warning. A cold, quiet promise: if justice won’t act — I will. You don’t know if that thought comforts you… or chills you to the bone.
The imposing silhouette of Stark Tower rises on the horizon, bathed in the artificial glow of the city. As you get closer, the tension only thickens. No more words between you, no jabs, no sarcasm. Just silence… and everything it carries. Nothing will erase what happened in that alley. Not tonight, maybe never. You know it. And you know he knows it too. When the car slides into the underground parking garage, the headlights sweep across concrete walls in a pale ballet. Stark maneuvers without a sound, like he’s done this a thousand times. Then the engine cuts, and the cabin falls into an almost suffocating weight.
Your body is a knot of pain and fatigue, your wrist pulsing with unbearable heat. Your breath is shallow, your vision blurs on and off. The adrenaline wears off, leaving behind nausea, dull panic, and the unstoppable trembling of your limbs.
— “Don’t move.”
His voice slices through the air like a command disguised as advice. He slams his door shut, and in less than two seconds, yours swings open with a firm motion. He leans in, his face set, features tense with restrained frustration.
— “You able to walk or do I need to carry you like some damsel in distress?”
You shoot him a dark glare. You could snap back, but you don’t even have the strength to be sarcastic. So you get out — slowly, each movement like a slap. Your legs barely hold, and your injured arm dangles awkwardly, supported by your other hand. But you move forward. Because you have to. He doesn’t say another word as you cross the parking garage. Just his straight, rigid silhouette leading the way. The elevator waits, doors wide open like a maw ready to swallow you. You step inside without a word. The doors close with a soft hiss. The silence between you is thick, as if even the air has stopped moving.
Stark stands beside you, arms crossed. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you. But his eyes are locked somewhere ahead, on a point you can’t see. And you know, without him saying it, that he’s replaying the scene in his head. The actions. The choices. Your call. Your scream. The knife. And you also know that if he’s not yelling at you right now, it’s because he’s holding himself back. The elevator rises smoothly, almost silently, but every second feels suspended in invisible tension. You stare at a spot on the floor, not daring to meet his eyes. The harsh ceiling light makes you feel exposed, vulnerable, like the space was designed to trap you in your shame. You search desperately for something to say to break the unbearable silence.
— “Did everyone make it back from the party?” you mumble, without much conviction.
He doesn’t even turn his head toward you.
— “Yeah.” A pause. “You’re the last one back. And you picked the worst possible way to do it.”
His voice is calm, but it stings. Not from anger. From disappointment. And that’s somehow worse. You lower your gaze, unable to offer even a weak excuse. You know he’s right. Every word hits like a bell ringing inside your chest. When the doors finally open onto the private floor, Stark doesn’t waste a second. He doesn’t look toward the offices, or your room, or even at you. He strides forward, fast, precise, mechanical.
— “Follow me.”
He throws it over his shoulder without turning around, pushing the door to his own suite with a sharp gesture. It’s unusual. You’ve never set foot in this space, and you weren’t even sure he’d ever let you. But you obey. Because tonight, you don’t have the strength to question anything. Because part of you knows he didn’t bring you here by accident. You freeze for a second on the threshold, hesitant to cross that invisible line.
It’s the first time you’ve entered his personal space. And immediately, you feel like you shouldn’t be there. Not because it’s forbidden — but because the place exudes a rare intimacy, almost unsettling coming from Stark. Unlike the sterile, impersonal hallways of the tower, this room is alive. The lights are dim, bathed in a warm amber tone that gives the walls a soft, almost calming glow. The furniture is minimal but refined: a sleek black leather couch, metal shelves embedded in the walls, a few frames hanging here and there, their meaning blurred. A half-empty whiskey glass sits on a coffee table, abandoned like an unfinished thought. A leather jacket is tossed over a chair with calculated nonchalance, and in one corner, holographic plans float lazily in the air — as if they’d been left mid-thought, paused in motion. You spot fragments of armor, maybe a new piece, maybe something else. You don’t dare get close.
— “Sit.”
He gestures toward his bed with a quick motion, not looking at you. But the idea of sitting there, in such an intimate space, makes you uncomfortable. Instinctively, you take a step back and choose instead an armchair near a lamp. It’s wide, comfortable, but your body is too battered to really relax.
— “I’ll get something to patch you up before you pass out from the pain,” he adds, heading to the adjoining bathroom.
You let out a short, nervous laugh — more to break the tension than out of any real amusement.
— “I’m not made of glass.”
He doesn’t bother turning back.
— “No. You’re just suicidal.”
His voice snaps like a verdict. He disappears into the bathroom, leaving you alone in a world that isn’t yours, but where you’ve somehow found refuge. You sigh, shoulders heavy as lead, sinking into the chair like your body is trying to disappear into the fabric. Your eyes drift to the large bay window, vast and silent, that opens onto the city sprawling below. New York glows like a separate universe, a distant world you observe from behind glass, without really belonging to it. The lights flicker in the dark, blurry through fatigue and the memories of the knife, the blood, the escape. You breathe in slowly, searching for some anchor in the calm, luminous view. But the pain keeps returning in waves. Your wrist throbs like a second heart. Your palm still bleeds lightly, sticky and raw. And your cheek… your cheek burns.
The bathroom door opens, pulling you from your thoughts. Stark reappears, a first-aid kit in hand. He approaches without a word, drags a small table toward him, and opens the kit with mechanical efficiency. He settles in front of you, his expression unreadable. Without asking, he grabs your injured wrist — the one you’ve overused since the fracture.
— “How much pointless strain have you put on this hand since we gave you a brace?” he asks, starting to unroll the bandage.
— “Not that much…” you mumble, avoiding his gaze.
His eyes flick up to you, sharp as a blade. He doesn’t say a word, but his look alone tells you he thinks you’re the worst liar of the evening.
— “I’m going to readjust this. It’s going to hurt.”
You don’t even have time to speak before he tightens the bandage with precision. And the pain slices through you. Sharp, brutal, searing. A gasp escapes you, uncontrolled.
— “Shit, Stark… go easy…”
He barely raises an eyebrow, focused on his task.
— “You turned down a real doctor, kid. I’m just a billionaire with a mechanical engineering degree. I’m doing what I can to keep your arm attached to your body.”
You look away, jaw clenched. His voice has the usual dryness, but there’s something else. A fatigue in his tone. A tension in his hands. Not anger — not really. A kind of worried frustration. Concern hidden behind sarcasm. He finishes securing the brace and slowly lets go of your arm. You inhale deeply, like surfacing after too long underwater. But he doesn’t put the kit away.
— “Show me the other one.”
— “What?”
— “Your hand. The one that’s bleeding.”
You hesitate, but he gently grabs your wrist before you can object. He turns your palm into the light, examining the cut. It’s deep, bloody, but not too serious. You wince as he begins to clean it.
— “You could try not slicing yourself open every time you want to be heroic.”
— “I wasn’t exactly thinking—”
— “That, I believe.”
He disinfects the wound carefully. The antiseptic stings like hell, and you tense involuntarily. He applies a bandage, wrapping it a bit tighter than needed — like a subtle punishment. And then, he leans toward your face.
— “Don’t move.”
You look up at him, surprised. He’s closer now, holding a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic. With a surprisingly delicate touch — too delicate, coming from him — he dabs gently at the cut on your cheek. You smell the sharp scent of alcohol, feel the cold of the cotton, his gloved hand brushing your skin.
— “Is it going to leave a mark?” you whisper.
He gives you a blank look.
— “If it does, tell people you fought a bear. Sounds cooler.”
A nervous smirk tugs at your lips, but it fades quickly. The atmosphere is strange. Quiet. Uncomfortably intimate. He tosses the bloodied pads into a small bin, closes the kit, then takes a step back.
— “There. You’re patched up.”
You stare at your bandaged hands, your body still buzzing with pain and too many emotions to sort through.
— “Thanks…”
The word slips out softly, hanging in the air between you like a confession. Stark doesn’t reply. He just places the kit on a shelf, not looking back.
— “You should sleep.”
His voice cuts the silence — calm, but not overly warm. You nod slowly, reluctantly.
— “Yeah… I’ll go.”
But you stay. Anchored in the chair, like your body refuses to move. Your muscles are heavy, stiff, numb from fatigue and pain, but that’s not what paralyzes you. Stark watches you for a moment, still, like he’s reading you without needing to ask anything. Then he exhales, tired.
— “You’re scared to go back to your room, aren’t you?”
You lower your gaze, turn your head away.
— “That’s not it.” You lie without even trying well. “I just don’t want to think about all that right now.”
He doesn’t challenge your dodge. Not directly. But his eyes stay on you. He finally gestures toward the couch near the wall, draped with a neatly folded blanket.
— “Then crash here. If you’re too lazy to drag yourself to your room.”
You glance up at him, caught off guard.
— “You’re not afraid I’ll take advantage of your fancy cashmere mattress?”
A faintly ironic smile touches his face.
— “Trust me, kid. You’re not important enough for that to worry me.”
You huff a short laugh, shaken by exhaustion.
— “Charming.”
But you don’t argue. You get up slowly, your body protesting every movement, and approach the couch. The seat is firm but welcoming. Just lying down sends a wave of relief down your spine. The fabric is cool against your cheek, the soft lighting soothes your eyes. You hear Stark moving away, his footsteps steady across the floor, then the clink of ice in a glass. He’s returned to his desk, like nothing happened. Like the night didn’t almost become a nightmare. But you still feel the metallic taste of fear in your mouth. Matthew’s breath in your ear. The snap of your wrist being set. And Stark’s voice, right after.
You inhale slowly, deeply. The city stretches beyond the bay window. Lights flicker gently, like a heartbeat in the night. Your eyelids grow heavy, your body lets go — finally. And despite the pain, despite the open wounds — physical and otherwise — you close your eyes.
What Remains | Chapter 12 Under the Surface (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : After Stark discovers threatening messages from Matthew, he confronts you about keeping secrets and insists on imposing strict safety measures. This irritates you, yet brings an uneasy comfort. Matthew’s continued threats intensify your anxiety, causing vivid nightmares. Unable to cope alone, you reluctantly spend the night near Stark, who reveals a subtle but genuine concern beneath his tough exterior.
word count: 16.5k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Stark stares at the screen, outwardly impassive. But beneath the surface, something shifts — a barely noticeable tightening of his jaw, a cold glint flickering through his gaze. The phone has stopped vibrating, yet the silence that follows is even louder. The message still burns on the screen: brutal, explicit, cowardly.
"Next time I see you I’ll kill you. Faggot."
He doesn't flinch. He doesn't frown. That's not his style. But his shoulders tense slightly, like a spring just locked into place along his spine. Slowly, he picks up the phone, turns it in his fingers, observing each residual vibration like an echo of something he doesn't want to admit: this involves him.
It shouldn't. You're just an employee, a lost kid, not his problem. But it does. His gaze darkens further as he analyzes the message like a technical report, like a vicious line of code injected into a vulnerable system. This isn’t just an insult. It’s a targeted attack. Humiliating. A threat made in a silence he never authorized.
He sets the phone down slowly on the counter, screen up, but his fingers keep tapping — fast, syncopated, almost frantic. His eyes drift toward the hallway that leads to your room. He knows you're still asleep, or pretending to be. He knows, most of all, that you haven’t told him anything. And that infuriates him. Not because you're hiding something. But because you still think you have to handle this alone. He takes another sip of coffee, not really tasting the bitter liquid on his tongue. His head tilts back slightly, as if trying to suppress a deeper impulse. The need to act. To crush the problem with the cold brutality he reserves for critical situations.
He should’ve guessed. The bruises. The averted gaze. The long silences. This isn’t just a resentful ex-roommate. It’s not a dispute over a month’s rent. It’s a hold. A spiral of hate. Of twisted power. And this message, this single fragment of text, is proof that it still haunts you. Even here. Even under his roof. And something in him, something buried deep, refuses that idea. Not in his house. Not in his tower. Not under his responsibility. Stark puts his cup down, not gently this time. It hits the counter with a sharp sound that echoes through the quiet of early morning. He hasn’t decided what to do yet. But one thing’s certain: this has crossed a line. And he won’t stand by.
A soft sound of footsteps in the hallway makes him look up. His eyes land on you as you enter the kitchen, still sluggish from sleep. Your hair is a mess, eyelids heavy, and you rub your face with the palm of your hand, as if you could erase the remnants of the night. You shuffle slowly toward the coffee machine, not even noticing him at first. Your only goal: a scalding coffee.
But he beats you to it, his voice cutting through the air like a sharpened blade.
— "You forgot something, kid."
You look up, still groggy, until you see what he's pushing toward you on the counter. Your phone. Placed upright. Too upright. He’s not looking at the screen anymore, but he doesn’t need to. You freeze. Your eyes flick from the device to Stark, then back again. And you understand. Instantly. Your stomach knots, like it’s been punched from inside. Your fingers hesitate. You murmur, your throat tight:
— "You read it?"
He raises an eyebrow with no visible emotion, then lifts his cup to his lips.
— "Let’s say he tried really hard to get my attention."
A hot wave of shame floods your cheeks. Your breath catches. You snatch the phone quickly, locking it without even glancing at the messages. As if turning it off could erase what he saw. What he knows now. Your back stiffens. Your shoulders tense. And you feel his gaze on you, precise, clinical. He catches everything. The slight tremor in your fingers. The way you keep your head down. The urge to flee written in your posture. He says nothing at first. But his silence is far from empty. He dissects.
Then his voice cuts in, sharper. Not louder — just… more precise.
— "Were you going to tell me? Or was I supposed to figure it out myself, that your ex-roommate wants you dead with homophobic death threats?"
Every word is a scalpel. You freeze. Still holding your empty cup with trembling hands. The question hangs in the air like a bullet he fired without mercy, but without hate either. Just a raw demand. A reminder that, here, silence is not an option. You clench your jaw. Hard. Too hard. Your teeth almost grind. A violent, messy wave of emotions rises: anger at being exposed, humiliation from having been seen… and a strange, unexpected relief at no longer having to hide that part of you. Part of you screams in shame — the other finally exhales, even if it hurts. You swallow, your throat dry. And when you speak, your voice comes out lower than intended. Bitter, too.
— "Didn’t think you cared about my mess."
Silence. Then the sharp sound of his cup slamming a bit too harshly on the counter makes you jump. It echoes like a reprimand.
— "That’s what you thought you understood."
His voice is low, without flourish, but it strikes like a raw truth. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. His words carry the weight of a fact, not a judgment. You don’t dare look up. Your heart pounds too fast, hammering against your ribs like a broken drum. You're behind on your own emotions, as if everything’s going too fast to grasp what you're really feeling. Torn between the urge to walk away and the visceral need to stay right there. Just there. Within reach of someone who saw. Who knows. And didn’t run.
But you cling to what’s left: denial, irony, walls.
— "Don’t worry, Boss. I’ve got it handled."
It’s said without conviction, just loud enough to be heard. You want it to sound confident, independent, proud. But it rings hollow. False. Stark stares. You feel his eyes on you, heavy, piercing. Then a sharp sigh cuts through the air, followed by a dry comment:
— "Yeah. I can tell."
No need for more. The implication is obvious. “Handling it,” in your case, means running, enduring, denying. And he reads that off your face like a technical schematic. You look away, grab a cup, and pour your coffee in silence. The warm aroma fills the air, sweet and bitter all at once. You try to anchor yourself to that smell, to the mundanity of the act. As if focusing on the hot liquid pouring into porcelain could chase off the anxiety crawling in your chest. With a quick motion, you put your phone on silent, as if that could cut off the outside world. Cut off him. But the weight of the words read, of the looks exchanged, of what’s been revealed… it lingers. Hanging between you. Present. Inevitable.
— "He can’t beat the crap out of me anymore anyway, since I’m stuck here," you blurt out with a nervous laugh — the kind that isn’t funny. A reflex. A pathetic shield against the discomfort twisting your guts. Irony is all you’ve got left to keep from breaking.
Stark doesn’t respond right away. He watches you, for a long time. His expression is hard to read — not anger, not compassion. Just… a silent, glacial intensity. Then he looks back at his cup. Takes a long sip, slow, deliberate, as if buying himself a few seconds not to react too quickly. Not to say something he might regret. But when he sets his cup down, the sharp sound makes you flinch slightly. And then, his eyes lock on yours, sharp as a blade.
— "That’s your plan?" His voice is low, tense. Not loud. But full of something that twists. "Stick your head in the sand and hope he gets bored?"
You sigh loudly, exasperated, and cross your arms over your chest like a defense reflex.
— "What do you want from me, Stark? For me to break down, cry, and beg you to help? Would that make it easier for you, huh? A nice little tragic scene to confirm I’m a hopeless case."
You see him raise an eyebrow, unsurprised. He leans slowly against the counter, arms crossed. His posture is calm, but his gaze is sharp.
— "I want my employee to be able to work without a psycho circling around him like a vulture." He tilts his head, his tone hardening slightly. "And more than that, I don’t want some kid acting like it’s normal to be stomped on."
You clench your fists, tight. Nails digging into your palms. A shiver of adrenaline runs through you — shame and rage combined.
— "Easy for you to say, huh? When your name’s Tony Stark, and you’ve got power, money, people to clean up every mess before it reaches your fancy shoes… Me, I’ve got nothing. Not even a damn apartment to call mine."
Your voice shakes toward the end. Not out of weakness — out of saturation. Disgust. And you know it shows. Stark looks at you. Doesn’t answer right away. He lets the silence settle, heavy, deliberate. Then exhales slowly, like he’s admitting a truth he didn’t want to say.
— "Yeah. You’re right. You’ve got nothing."
A beat.
— "But you still have enough not to let yourself be crushed like garbage. So start there. Stop playing the martyr. And admit you need help."
His words don’t sting. They land. Hard, yes, but not contemptuous. And that… that’s worse. Because he’s not wrong. And you know it. But you can’t. Not yet. Not like this. You lower your eyes. Your hands tremble slightly around the cup, and you pretend to cling to it like an anchor. He’s right. And that makes you want to hate him even more. Just a little. But deep down, what you hate most… is recognizing yourself in his words.
You take a sip of your coffee, fingers tense around the cup, gaze averted. You do everything to avoid Stark’s eyes, as if meeting them might shatter what little you’re holding together. The air has grown heavy, dense, almost sticky. The room is silent, but not in a soothing way. It’s the silence of a battlefield just after the first shots — frozen, tense, ready to erupt again. You hate this feeling. Being exposed. Being at the center of a confrontation you didn’t ask for, didn’t want. Like your life, or what’s left of it, has become a case study. Like your trauma is now a logistical issue.
Your eyes drift to the wall clock. Minutes are ticking by. You should be working already. And that’s for the best. Work, at least, gives you structure, rules, armor. In front of your screen, you know what to do. Here, in this kitchen, facing him… you’re lost. You set your cup down too quickly, the sharp sound slicing through the silence like an excuse. Your movements are automatic, too precise to be natural. You straighten up.
— "I should get ready."
Your voice is neutral. Almost flat. The kind of tone used to shut things down, to draw a clear line between yourself and what just happened. You peel away from the counter slowly, as if each movement must convince you it’s just another day. Nothing special. Just a slightly tense morning. You repeat to yourself that Stark knows nothing about you. Nothing essential. He knows about Matthew, sure, but that doesn’t change anything. He doesn’t know the sleepless nights, the invisible marks, the fear that clenches your gut at the sound of footsteps. To him, you’re an employee. A name on a contract. And that’s fine.
You turn away. Your steps are calm, controlled. But inside, everything tightens. You feel his gaze on you. You feel it follow you, pierce your back without a word. He doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t call after you. And somehow, that’s almost worse than if he had. Maybe he understood. Or maybe he doesn’t care. And maybe, in the end, that’s what you wanted. Maybe. As you walk down the hall to the office, you grip your phone like a hot stone. It’s still buzzing — brief, regular tremors, nervous, like a heartbeat beating too fast. But you don’t look. You don’t want to see the messages. You don’t want to see his name. You don’t want to see anything.
Not now. Not here.
You tell yourself it’ll be fine. That you just need to focus. Work. Sink into the mechanical routine of lines, pixels, files to compile. It’s the only thing left keeping you from falling apart
When you walk into the office, the air is heavy. Not with open tension — no. More like that invisible density that still lingers, a residue from the previous exchange. As if the words traded in the kitchen had clung to your skin, still seeping through your clothes, your pores. Stark is already at his station, perfectly still, his face leaning over his screens. Focused. Cold. Impenetrable. He doesn’t even look up when you arrive.
Perfect.
You settle in silently at your own desk. Your movements are sharp, precise. The quiet tapping of your fingers on the keyboard blends with the muffled hum of Stark’s machines and the ventilation system in the background. It's a ballet of silence and controlled noise. You don't look at him. You don't want to meet his eyes. Not after what he saw. Not after what he knows. You just want to disappear into your work. And hope that, for a few hours at least, it'll be enough to hold you together.
Silence settles — dense and sharp. A laboratory silence, precise, almost sterile. Only the steady clicking of your keyboards and the soft humming of machines disturb it. It’s a comforting rhythm. Mechanical. A background noise you can drown in.
You cling to that. To repetition. To motion. Your fingers dance faster over the keys, more fluid now despite the persistent pain in your wrist. It throbs, steady, like a dull beat between keystrokes. But you push it aside. You don’t want him to see. You don’t want him to know.
Focus. No distractions. It’s your only way out. And then, without warning, his voice slices the air, clean as a scalpel.
— "Have you always been the type to handle everything on your own?"
You freeze. Just for a second. Your fingers pause on the keys, suspended. Your mind races, at first thinking you imagined it. But no. He said it. And his tone... it’s calm. Neutral. Not mocking. Not icy. But there’s something underneath. An intention. A veiled curiosity. You slowly resume typing, as if ignoring the question could erase the discomfort it triggers.
— "Why are you asking that?" You keep your voice even. Too even.
You don’t need to see him to know he’s raising an eyebrow. You can almost hear it — that silent tick of judgment he’s mastered so well.
— "Just an observation." He lets a tiny pause settle. "You don’t seem like the kind of person who asks for help."
A breath escapes you. Not a laugh. A sigh through your teeth. Half-nervous, half-exhausted.
— "Because it’s not always useful." The reply comes out sharper than intended.
He stays quiet. But you feel it. He’s looking at you. Dissecting your words, trying to read between the lines. His silence is more intrusive than any question. And then, softly, almost as if thinking aloud:
— "You know, it’s not about whether it’s useful or not. It’s about recognizing when you’re at the edge. And when you need a hand."
You clench your teeth. Your fingers type harder, faster. The rhythm becomes aggressive, like you could strike hard enough to drown out his words.
— "I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?" It’s a challenge. A defense. A stubborn pride dressed as resilience.
A brief laugh escapes him. Not mocking. Just... bitter.
— "Yeah. And look where that got you." He lists each word like a clinical inventory. "A fractured wrist. A psycho tailing you. And a career barely holding together. Great plan."
You stay silent. But your jaw tightens. Your eyes burn — not from tears, but from rage held in. Because he’s not wrong. And he knows it. And so do you. You straighten up slightly, each word from Stark landing like a splinter in your chest. He hit the mark — again — and it stings. You could respond. Throw it back at him, say you never had the luxury of waiting for someone to reach out. That you were raised to grit your teeth and keep going, no matter the cost.
But you hold back. Because that’s what he wants, right? An outburst. A breakdown. Something he can file away under “too fragile for the job.” So you stay calm. At least... on the surface.
— "I’m doing what I can with what I’ve got."
The words snap out. Drier than you intended. Sharper. Like a badly drawn blade. Silence settles again, thick, full of the things left unsaid. He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t press. Doesn’t push. He knows. He feels. That this is a boundary. That you’re at the edge. So he just sighs. Long, drawn out. A sigh that says everything: annoyance, fatigue, resignation. Then, without lifting his eyes from the screen:
— "Well, you’d better do better. Because I didn’t hire someone who’d collapse in the first week."
His words are cold. But there’s no venom. Just a rule. A reminder of the unspoken contract between you. You close your eyes briefly, inhale deeply. Your ribs rise, tense. You swallow the lump in your throat — the anger, the shame, the exhaustion. All of it. And you exhale, barely above a whisper:
— "Understood, Boss."
No thank you. No glance. Just that. But something in your voice has changed. Not submission. Not fear. A battered scrap of pride that refuses to fully break. You go back to work without waiting, eyes fixed on the screen, but the weight of the conversation clings to you like a soaked coat you can’t take off. His words keep echoing in your head, heavier than you care to admit. He thinks he’s pushing you for your own good, but he has no idea how deep each sentence cuts. All your life, you’ve taken hit after hit.
Your eyes drop, distracted. They flick briefly to your sleeves. Beneath the fabric, the scars, the burns. Twisted, old, invisible to anyone who doesn’t want to see. Memories etched into your skin, into muscle memory. Silent reminders of a past you bury daily under normal gestures and rehearsed smiles. A shiver runs up your spine. You close your eyes for a second and exhale slowly, as if to drive the image away. Not now. You clench your fists. Just tight enough to feel the pressure, not enough to hurt yourself. Then you reopen your eyes and return to your project. It’s all you’ve got. All you can still control.
And strangely, it works. Hours slip by. Your focus sharpens. Your hands move with certainty. Decisions come quickly. You make progress. No setbacks. No distractions. A routine starts to form. Not comfort — just a better grip. A fragile balance, but a real one. For the first time in a long while, you finish a project ahead of time. Early. It’s nothing, and at the same time... it’s huge. A breath of satisfaction swells in you. Small, quiet, but real. You review the details one last time. Just to be sure. And you press “send.”
The click sounds like release. You sink back into your chair, spine curved, arms slack on the armrests. Your wrist throbs, but the pain has become a familiar companion. A constant presence you’ve stopped resisting. It’s part of the background now, like the harsh light or Stark’s occasional glance from behind. Without waiting for a reply or comment, you get up in a measured movement and head to the coffee machine, as if that simple ritual could anchor you to something real. You need another coffee. Not to stay awake — just to keep your hands busy, fill the void.
The silence still reigns in the room, broken only by the faint clicking of machines and keyboards. Stark remains at his post, absorbed in his screen. You guess he hasn’t opened your email yet, but it won’t be long. The smell of coffee begins to fill the space, warm, almost comforting. A gentle heat against the cold tone of your exchanges. You reach for a clean mug, take it by the edge, place it under the spout. The dark liquid flows slowly, forming a mirrored surface that ripples with each tiny vibration of the machine. You lose yourself in the motion for a moment.
A pause. A parenthesis in the day. A fragment of silence no one’s trying to fill yet.
Behind you, the faint scrape of a chair. A barely audible shift. Stark has moved. You imagine his eyes scanning his screen, his hand clicking to open the file. You hear the soft sigh he lets out — barely a flutter of sound. Your stomach tightens before you can stop it.
He’s reading.
You don’t turn around. You keep your eyes on your mug, as if the coffee suddenly matters more than anything else in the room. You feel him switch into analysis mode — not as a boss, but as an engineer, a creator. He’s examining every detail, every choice you made, every compromise you dared. You know this kind of silence: it’s not the silence of a distracted man. It’s the silence of judgment.
You close your eyes a second, breath shallow. And you wait. You take a sip of coffee, fingers clenched a bit too tightly around the warm mug. Part of you braces already — for the sharp comment, the killer line that will remind you it’s never enough. Another part hopes, illogically, that he won’t have anything to criticize. Just this once. But nothing comes. Not right away. A silence longer than usual settles in, almost oppressive. You hear him clicking, scrolling, rerunning a render, rechecking the file from another angle. Every second feels like an eternity. The waiting is worse than any reprimand.
Finally, his voice breaks the air.
— "Hm… Not bad."
You freeze, eyebrows slightly furrowed. The tone is neutral. No sarcasm. No theatrical sigh. Just a blunt observation, almost detached. Your gaze drifts toward him, half out of instinct. He doesn’t look at you. He keeps examining, as if a comment like that meant nothing at all. But you feel the nuance. And it’s not nothing. Then, of course, the follow-up drops — because nothing ever stays simple with him.
— "It’s not perfect. Some of the transitions still lack fluidity, and the lighting in scene 3 doesn’t match the source in the previous shot. But…" He pauses, clicking his tongue lightly against his palate. "…you worked more efficiently today."
You say nothing. Your brain was bracing for a sharp command, a full restructure, a sarcastic comment to swallow sideways. Not this. Not this modest recognition, hidden in a technical observation. He closes the file with a quick motion, then throws you a brief glance — just for the length of a heartbeat.
— "Let’s see if you can keep that pace. I’ll send you something else. More complicated. You still have a lot to prove."
You nod without a word, barely suppressing a smile. You bring your mug to your lips to mask the slight ease in your features. He’ll never say outright that he’s satisfied. That’s not his style. But this is enough. For now. While you wait for your next assignment, you sit at your desk, spine a little stiff. Your eyes drift almost involuntarily toward your phone screen. Notifications are still flashing — persistent, aggressive.
You know you shouldn’t look. But you do anyway. You unlock the screen. Matthew’s words appear immediately. Insulting. Disgusting. Intimate. Your chest tightens. It’s like an invisible punch, an acidic sting that reminds you exactly who you are, where you stand, and why it hurts so damn much. Each word is a splinter you thought you’d pulled out. But no. They’re still there. Still lodged deep. Still burning. You take a long breath, your fingers trembling slightly above the keyboard. And then, in a nearly desperate surge, you type:
Go to hell.
Sent. The message vanishes into the void, with no expectation of a reply. Just… for you. As if, for once, you could take a breath again. You place the phone face-down on the desk and try not to think about it. Not to imagine how he’ll respond. Or when. Or what it’ll say. The silence in the office is only broken by the methodical clicking of your keyboard. A reassuring sound. Almost mechanical.
Across the room, Stark is still absorbed in his screen, focused, brow slightly furrowed. But you feel his awareness sweep the space, pause on you for a second. He’s seen it. He caught something. Your tension. Your breath hitching. He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. But you know he’s noted the shift. You see him straighten slightly in his chair, his gaze flicking briefly your way. Then, as if trying to mask his interest with perfectly controlled nonchalance, he mutters:
— "You’re lucky, kid. I’ve got nothing to throw at you right now."
His tone is almost light, a little more flexible than usual. A barely veiled attempt to ease the atmosphere. But you’re not fooled. He’s watching. Assessing. Waiting for a crack in your mask, just one slip. You nod vaguely, keeping silent. No need to reply. He already thinks he knows what’s going through your head. And then, before you can say anything, the office door swings open without warning, cutting through the fragile balance.
— "Hope I’m not interrupting some top-secret mission!" Peter’s familiar, cheerful voice slices the air, making you jump slightly in your chair.
He strides in like a gust of lightness, a wide grin on his face, a gym bag slung over one shoulder and a smaller one in his hand. Without missing a beat, he tosses the lighter bag to you — you catch it mid-air, a little off guard.
— "Brought the rest of your stuff. Figured it’d save you some time."
You mumble a distracted
— "Thanks," your eyes flicking briefly toward Stark. He hasn’t looked up from his screen, but you know he’s registering every move, every word — as always. Peter, true to himself, leans casually on the back of a chair, still smiling.
— "So, you settling into the job? How’s it going? Haven’t blown up a computer yet, I hope?"
You roll your eyes, but a faint smile tugs at your lips.
— "All good."
Peter chuckles and turns to Stark with his usual boldness:
— "So, Boss? Is your protégé actually doing well or just pretending?"
Stark, arms crossed, finally looks up. He studies you both with that skeptical, half-amused expression he’s perfected.
— "He’s improving. Slowly. But at least he knows how to hold a mouse."
Peter bursts out laughing. "Hey, that’s basically a compliment!" He nudges your arm playfully. And for a brief moment, the air feels lighter. You let your shoulders drop. You almost feel normal.
But of course, it doesn’t last.
— "By the way, were you able to go get the rest of your stuff from…" He stops short, catching your alarmed glance and the subtle wave of your hand telling him to shut up.
Too late. Stark’s brow lifts with mechanical precision. His gaze sharpens instantly.
— "From who?"
Peter nearly pales, his grin frozen — the classic expression of someone who just stepped squarely on a landmine. He slowly turns to you with a look that screams, "Please tell me I didn’t screw this up…"
You swallow, heart sinking into your stomach.
— "Nothing important," you try, voice neutral. You take a breath to steady it. "It’s handled."
Stark crosses his arms, leans back in his chair with that posture both detached and razor-focused. He tilts his head slightly, and his expression takes on that condescending edge you hate — the one that makes you feel like a kid caught sneaking out.
— "Oh? Interesting. Because last I heard, that situation wasn’t exactly handled."
Beside you, Peter is growing more and more uncomfortable. He raises his hands like he’s trying to calm an explosion before it happens.
— "Yeah, no, it’s… really nothing. I just wanted to know if it was done, that’s all."
You clench your fists. Heat rises in your throat. You want to bolt from the room, from that stare, from this tension. But instead, you stand your ground, like posture alone could make your words solid.
— "It’s done."
Your tone is sharper than intended. Peter freezes for a beat, surprised. Even he wasn’t expecting that. But Stark… Stark doesn’t flinch. He keeps his eyes on you, weighing, dissecting. Then he raises an eyebrow, slowly, with that infuriating ease that makes you want to toss your coffee on his desk.
— "Good. So I guess if it’s ‘handled,’ you haven’t received any more messages from our dear roommate lately?"
A cold spike runs down your spine. He knows. Of course he knows. And he won’t let go until you stop pretending everything’s fine. Your jaw tightens, and that familiar weight lands on your chest — heavy, suffocating, like a stone stitched beneath your ribs. Your gaze flicks, almost against your will, toward your phone lying on the desk. Black screen. Silent… but you feel it vibrating even when it doesn’t move. A constant reminder that nothing is really over. Stark catches the motion. His eyes follow yours, and in that one silent exchange, you know it’s over. He’s got it. He already knew. He just let you dig your own grave until there was nowhere left to stand.
A heavy silence falls over the room, almost tangible. Peter squirms beside you like he’s searching for a hole to disappear into. You stay frozen. Stark sighs long and deep, rubbing his temples with his fingertips, clearly at the end of his rope.
— "Fuck…" he mutters, more to himself than to either of you.
You can’t tell if it’s anger or worry — or some mix of both. But that word hits harder than any shout. Peter throws you a worried glance, like he wants to grab your hand and pull you away from all this. But he knows. Like you do. That it’s too late. This conversation is happening, whether you want it or not.
Stark speaks again, firmer, colder now. The irony is gone.
— "Then let me rephrase."
His eyes lock onto yours.
— "Are we going to have another incident involving that guy in the next few days? Because if so, I’d rather be warned."
Your heart beats louder. Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first. You force yourself to answer, even if you barely believe what you’re saying.
— "No. He… he’ll give up eventually."
A short, bitter laugh slips from Stark’s lips. Dry. Humorless.
— "Right. Because everyone knows guys obsessed with control and domination give up easily."
He doesn’t blink. He waits. He wants you to push back, deny it, tell him it’s not that serious, that you’re sure it’ll be fine. But you have nothing. Nothing that holds up. So you say nothing. And maybe that’s the loudest thing of all. You look away, throat tight, unable to hold his gaze any longer. The air suddenly feels thicker, saturated with a silence that says everything you can’t. Stark sighs again, but this time, his voice softens slightly — like a blade reluctantly sheathed.
— "You still don’t get it’s not your job to deal with this, kid?"
You swallow hard, stomach knotted. No matter how much you want to stay in control, everything’s slipping. You don’t want his help. You don’t want his clinical gaze on your chaos. You don’t want him involved. But deep down, you know the more he talks, the more involved he already is. You stand without replying, grab the bag Peter brought. The fabric is slightly damp, still cold from outside. You grip it like a shield and take a step toward your room.
— "I don’t have time to play babysitter," Stark adds sharply, slicing the air with the words. "But if that guy comes back to mess with you again, I’ll handle it myself. And trust me, it won’t be with sweet words."
You freeze. One second. Two. Your gaze drifts back to him, almost involuntarily. His eyes are hard. Metallic. Cold. Calculating. But beneath the surface, you sense something else. A brutal, unwavering resolve. This isn’t a promise. It’s a warning. A decision already made. He’s not asking for permission. He’s stating facts.You swallow and simply nod. No point in arguing. Message received. Without another word, you grab Peter’s arm — maybe a little too tightly — and pull him with you toward the kitchen. You need air. Movement. A place without judgment held in a breath.
Once out of Stark's line of sight, you drop your bag onto a chair and lean heavily against the counter. Your hand trembles slightly as you run it over your face, as if you could wipe away the tension embedded there. Peter watches you in silence, arms crossed, his usual smile gone. He has that look — the one he saves for serious moments, rare but unflinching.
— "You okay?" he asks, voice low.
You let out a sharp breath without looking up.
— "He needs to stop getting involved in my life."
Peter raises an eyebrow.
— "Do you hear yourself?" He tilts his head slightly. "Stark's right, man. That asshole is ruining your life, and you’re still pretending it’ll just fix itself."
Your jaw tightens. Anger flares — at him, and at yourself.
— "You think I haven’t tried? You think I want some psycho on my back, threatening me, humiliating me whenever he gets the chance?"
Peter doesn’t reply. He just looks at you, straight in the eye. And that silence is worse than any accusation.
— "You don’t need that anymore," he finally says, softer this time. "You have a real chance to rebuild here. Take it."
You glance down at your hands. Clenched fists. Knuckles pale. Part of you knows he’s right. That things are different here. You’ve got a roof over your head, a real job, people who… actually see you. But another part of you refuses. Refuses to give in. Refuses to admit that Stark, with his authoritarian tone and cold truths, might be right about anything. You’ve always survived alone. And you’re scared you won’t know how to do it any other way. Peter sighs, clearly trying to ease the mood.
— "Well, I hope you’re at least gonna enjoy your new room. Because trust me, it’s a hundred times better than mine."
A faint smile breaks across your face. Fleeting, but sincere.
— "Yeah... we’ll see."
You take a deep breath, open the fridge, and grab a bottle of water. Your movements are slow, heavy, like every action has to be measured. As you leave the kitchen, Stark’s words still echo in your head, insidious. If he comes back… I’ll handle it myself. Would he really? And if he did… how far would he go?
Peter follows you silently to the bedroom. He glances around, visibly impressed. The space is large, bright, with a panoramic view of the city rooftops. Everything is sleek, modern. Too clean. Too quiet. It feels like no one really lives here yet. You open the bag he brought and start unpacking clothes. There’s a strange solemnity in the gesture. As if you’re trying to settle into a life that doesn’t quite feel like yours.
— "Don’t know if you heard," you murmur, voice low, "but he came back and beat the shit out of me yesterday."
You pause, gently rubbing your wrist beneath the brace. The pain is still there — dull, constant.
— "My wrist’s killing me. I don’t think I can go back to get the rest. Not that there’s much left anyway… just some furniture. But I’ve got what matters."
Peter frowns, and for once, doesn’t try to hide his concern.
— "Wait…" he says, voice tightening. "He hit you again?"
You look away, shrugging like it’s nothing.
— "What does it change?" You take a sip of water. "He can’t touch me now. I’m here."
Silence falls. Peter stays still for a moment, arms crossed. His gaze drifts toward the nightstand. Your phone vibrates softly. A chill runs through you. He reads the name on the screen. His face hardens instantly.
— "He’s still texting you?"
You frown and reach toward your phone on the nightstand, but Peter is quicker. He grabs it and reads aloud before you can stop him:
— "Wanna tell me to fuck off? Sure. After I kill you and watch you bleed out. Slut."
The world stops. The silence that follows is so dense it feels like sound. Your stomach twists like you’ve been punched. Peter stays frozen, eyes glued to the screen, fingers clenched.
— "This guy’s a fucking psycho," he says, voice deep, almost hoarse. "Is he following you or something? How does he know you’re here?"
Your heart slams against your ribs. Anxiety spreads through your throat like a slow, cold poison. The idea that he might know — that he could be here, somewhere — paralyzes you.
— "He’s just pissed I cut him off," you murmur, not even convincing yourself. Your words fall flat.
Peter stares at you, more worried than ever.
— "Dude, you need to go to the cops. Seriously. This isn’t jealousy anymore, this is a death threat."
You clutch the phone like it could somehow protect you, even though it’s the very source of danger.
— "Yeah… maybe," you whisper. But your voice is hollow.
Peter studies you for a moment. Then, without warning, he takes the phone and starts dialing.
— "What the hell are you doing?!" you shout, voice cracking as you lunge for him.
— "Calling the cops. Enough is enough. This lunatic needs to be stopped."
Panic surges — sharp, suffocating.
— "No! Give it back, Peter."
He gently but firmly pushes you back, eyes hard and resolute.
— "Listen to me. You can’t just ignore this. He’s not gonna stop. It’s going to get worse. And next time, it might not be a text. It might be you, bleeding in some alley."
Your throat closes. Your legs tremble. The weight of the last few days — weeks — crashes down on you like concrete.
— "And what do you think they’ll do, huh?" you snap, voice breaking with a mix of rage and fear. "You think they’ll show up and arrest him because of a fucking text? Last time I talked to a cop, they looked at me like I was a kid overreacting to a bad joke. They said they couldn’t do anything without concrete proof. So what, I should wait for him to stab me so they’ll finally give a damn?!"
Peter stands speechless, breath caught. His expression crumbles slowly. You feel like you’re about to explode. Your hands shake. Your chest aches.
— "Fuck," you mutter. You snatch the phone from his hands — rougher than you meant to.
— "Let me handle it."
Silence crashes down. Peter stays frozen, eyes shining with helpless worry. He opens his mouth to argue — but he doesn’t get the chance. Because right then, a deep, sharp voice cuts through the air like a blade.
— "Am I interrupting something?"
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Your breath catches. Stark’s voice is razor-sharp, colder than usual, and when he steps into the room, it’s like the temperature drops ten degrees. He stands there in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes dark and piercing. He looks from Peter to you, saying nothing more, yet everything is already clear — in the tightness of his jaw, the storm in his eyes. Peter takes a step back, uneasy. You remain frozen, phone clutched in your trembling hand.
— "You gonna explain this mess, or do I have to guess?" Stark snaps, his tone clipped and glacial.
You lower your eyes. Your heart beats like a trapped animal. Panic rises — that old familiar companion. The instinct to run, to protect what little remains yours. But Stark won’t look away. Not this time. And you know it. You lift your head, muscles taut, throat tight.
— "It’s fine, Stark. I don’t need more people on my back right now. Just leave us alone."
Peter whips his head toward you, furious. Patience gone.
— "Are you kidding me?!" he snaps. He steps forward, and before you can react, he yanks the phone from your hands. Again. The betrayal knocks the breath out of you.
— "Peter, stop! Seriously!"
— "No."
His voice cracks like a whip. He shakes his head, then, under your horrified gaze, holds the screen out to Stark, arm firm like he’s presenting evidence to a judge.
— "Look at this. Tell me if it’s something he can ignore."
— "Peter, fuck!"
You try to grab the phone back, but Stark catches it first — quick and precise. He reads. Silence falls. You watch his face. His expression hardens with every word. His jaw clenches. His nostrils flare. He stands still for a moment, phone in one hand, the other in a tight fist. Then slowly, he lifts his eyes to yours. And there’s no sarcasm there now. No irritation. Just cold fury. A calculated threat. He takes a step toward you. You instinctively back up. It’s not fear. Not exactly. It’s instinct. Because his gaze isn’t reassuring. There’s no compassion in his eyes. Nothing fatherly. Just something icy, sharp, surgical — like he’s about to dissect a problem piece by piece.
— "What was the plan, exactly?" His voice cuts through the air. "Wait until he followed through on his threat before doing something?"
Your back tenses. Your throat closes. Your fists clench, breath ragged.
— "It’s my problem."
He stays silent a moment. Then exhales sharply, annoyed — like he’s talking to a stubborn child who refuses to learn the most obvious lesson. A bitter laugh escapes him, more animal than human.
— "Fuck. I knew you were stubborn, but you’re giving me a damn migraine."
He holds out the phone. You snatch it back without breaking eye contact. Your fingers tremble. He definitely sees it. He sees everything. Stark places his hands on his hips, like he’s weighing his words before delivering the final blow.
— "Listen closely, kid."
His voice drops, lower, steady. But that kind of calm is dangerous. It belongs to a man who won’t tolerate disobedience or bullshit.
— "I’ll be clear. If that guy sets foot in your life again — even once — you come to me. Direct. No ‘I got it,’ no dodging, no lame excuses. Got it?"
You drop your eyes. You can’t hold his gaze anymore. He’s too direct. Too… involved. And something inside you panics at that idea — that it’s no longer just your problem.
— "Answer."
His voice is sharper now. You nod slowly, unable to speak. It’s all you can manage. Beside you, Peter straightens, still tense. Arms crossed, he shakes his head.
— "You can hate him if you want," he says, voice calm but firm. "But he’s right."
You drag a trembling hand over your face, exhausted. Everything’s slipping through your fingers. Even the pain, the anger — none of it feels like it belongs to you anymore. They’re dissecting what you’ve hidden for months. Laying their eyes on things you never show.
— "I didn’t ask for any of this..." you murmur. More to yourself than to them. A sentence you’ve carried like a chain for too long.
But Stark doesn’t care. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. He stands firm, a silent reminder that this conversation is far from over. And something in his posture... scares you more than Matthew ever could. Because Stark isn’t the type to let go. Not when he’s decided to act. Stark fixes you with a cold, unyielding stare. Arms crossed, his eyes flick between you and Peter like he’s measuring your awareness — or your recklessness. He inhales deeply, then shakes his head, annoyed. Not the kind of frustration that fades. No — the kind that signals a firm, final decision.
— "Clearly, you have no concept of danger. So we’re setting rules."
His voice is sharp, precise, cold. An invisible weight drops onto your chest. Breathing becomes difficult.
— "What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended. You frown, already on the defensive, bracing for impact, ready to push back.
But he gives you no opening.
— "From now on, I get your schedule. Every movement, every damn outing, you notify me. You don’t leave the tower without telling someone — Potts, Happy, or me." His tone is rigid, absolute. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command.
You freeze, lips parted. You blink, as if you misheard.
— "You’re serious?"
He nods without hesitation.
— "I don’t have time to chase down some reckless kid, so if I’ve gotta stop you from getting yourself killed — yeah. I’m dead serious."
Anger flares hot in your face. Your jaw locks, fists clenched. And deep down, that old familiar rage — the one that comes from always being scrutinized, judged, controlled. Peter stays quiet. He glances nervously between you and Stark, like he’s waiting for the explosion.
You spit out, bitter:
— "Why not slap a GPS tracker on me while you’re at it? Chip me like a fucking dog? Seriously, Stark, I didn’t ask for this!"
You realize your voice is shaking. Not just from anger. From exhaustion. From humiliation. From the raw feeling of being stripped bare. He raises an eyebrow, barely.
— "Don’t tempt me."
You rub your face, trying to keep control. Your nerves are frayed.
— "This is ridiculous. Feels like a prison."
Stark steps forward. Just one step. But his stare slices through you. Harder. Sharper. Not as angry as earlier — but far more resolute.
— "Oh, sorry for trying to prevent your psycho ex-roommate from turning your face into a pulp. Or from us having to scrape you off the pavement." He pauses, his voice dropping colder. "But hey, I’m open. Got a better idea? Want me to wait for the 911 call? A photo of you bleeding out in some alley?"
You lower your eyes, breathing uneven. Not because he’s right — but because you don’t know how to prove you’re not just a damn liability. And yet, something inside you, despite everything, takes in his words. Like a warning. Or maybe… a brutal promise. You clench your teeth, unable to answer. You want to scream, to break something, to run. But you don’t. You stand there, nailed in place by the brutal truth of his words. Because yeah… he’s right. And that’s what enrages you the most. It feels like you’re losing another piece of freedom. Inch by inch. Rule by rule. Stark doesn’t let up. He pulls a small black badge from his pocket — engraved with the discreet Stark Industries logo. He spins it between his fingers, eyes never leaving you.
— "This is a priority access badge. If anything happens, any security agent in this tower will find you and intervene in under two minutes. You keep it on you. At all times."
He holds it out. You stare, arms crossed, refusing to take it. The badge glints under the artificial light — small, discreet… and unbearably heavy.
— "You’re putting a leash on me," you mutter.
Stark shrugs, unmoved. He stays still, almost bored.
— "Call it whatever you want. I call it avoiding a potential disaster."
Peter sighs, clearly exhausted by the standoff. He steps closer and places a hand on your shoulder — light but steady.
— "Dude… he’s just trying to help."
You close your eyes a second, breath short. Help. The word almost makes you sick. Not because it’s a lie, but because it reminds you how little control you have left. Because every time someone “helps,” they take another piece of your pride.
— "That’s the problem," you whisper, bitter.
You finally reach out, reluctantly, and snatch the badge without looking at it — like it might burn your fingers. You stuff it into your pocket. Your gaze stays glued to the floor. Heavy. Dirty. Your stomach knots. You feel like you just lost a battle you never meant to fight.
Stark watches you a moment longer. You feel his gaze — weighing, calculating. Then he sighs.
— "Alright. Now that’s settled… get back to work."
You nod. Just that. Not a word. Your throat’s too tight for anything else. You leave the room, shoulders low, heart blazing, and bitterness lodged in your mouth.
This tower is supposed to be a refuge. A secured sanctuary — silent, protected. But today… it feels more like a gilded cage. Silent, yes. Too much so. Secured to the point of suffocation. You walk back to your desk, your steps echoing softly against the immaculate floor. With each stride, the weight in your chest seems to grow heavier. Your wrist still throbs — a dull, persistent pain — but at least it reminds you that you're still here. Still alive. Nothing compared to the burning of the badge in your pocket. That damn badge. You feel it against your hip, like a humiliating symbol of everything you no longer control. An invisible leash. Proof that even here, even in safety, you're not free. You sit down slowly, fingers tightening around the arms of your chair. You inhale deeply, trying to swallow the anger stuck in your throat.
Why does this upset you so much?
Stark isn’t wrong. He sees things logically. Coldly. Strategically. The badge, the protocol, the damn surveillance… it's supposed to protect you. You know that. But it’s not the protection that makes your blood boil. It’s the control. You’ve spent years being told what to do, how to act, how to survive. Bending your back in silence. Swallowing hits, insults, silence. And now that you finally feel like you're breaking out of that spiral, Stark shows up with his orders and unilateral decisions. Like you’re incapable of thinking for yourself. You clench your fists. Pain shoots up your arm instantly, sharp and acute. You grit your teeth to stifle the groan. You lean toward your keyboard. The screen lights up with a low hum.
Just… work. Lose yourself in pixels, in curves, in renders. Drown your mind in something you can control. Something logical. Predictable. Maybe it’ll help. Maybe with some silence and focus, you’ll quiet everything else. Maybe.
But it’s easier said than done. Your mind is a wreckage field. Every thought crashes into the next like shards of poorly swept glass. You try to focus, your fingers typing mechanically. A few lines of code, a texture adjustment, a lighting layer repositioned — but nothing sticks. Your attention keeps slipping, disintegrating before it can latch onto anything. Behind you, Stark sits at his desk, seemingly absorbed in his own data. But you feel it. That tension in the air, that constant presence. He’s watching. Maybe not directly, but enough to keep your back taut with every sound.
A bitter, dry laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
— “You really like to control everything around you, don’t you?”
Stark doesn’t respond right away. He keeps typing, eyes fixed on his screen. Then, in a perfectly neutral, almost detached tone:
— “I like to avoid preventable disasters.”
You press your lips together, a sarcastic smirk briefly twisting your mouth.
— “Right.”
The silence that follows is electric. You restart a simulation, but all you see is a sequence of empty movements. Your fingers move, your eyes follow, but everything feels hollow. A simple set piece. An effort to keep the mask intact.
Beneath your skin, frustration simmers. It eats at you, looking for a way out. You feel trapped. By Matthew. By Stark. By this tower. By yourself. With a sudden gesture, you push your chair back slightly and stand.
— “I’m taking a break.”
Stark doesn’t even look up. But his voice cuts clean.
— “Ten minutes. No more.”
His words hit harder than they should. You bite your tongue to avoid snapping back, your jaw clenched so tightly it aches. You turn on your heel without a word, leaving the office with a brisk stride, fists clenched until your knuckles go white. You don’t know where you’re going. You just want… out. Distance. To feel some control again, even if it’s an illusion. To breathe without feeling like you’re expected to break or perform. Just… be elsewhere. You head for the elevator, footsteps sharp and agitated against the pristine hallway floor. The tower’s air conditioning, usually neutral, now feels oppressive, almost hostile. Too pure. Too quiet. Every step, every squeak of your soles feels amplified, like the space itself is judging your need to flee.
When the doors open, you rush inside, jabbing the ground floor button like it might get you out faster. Your thoughts collide in a storm of anger, humiliation, and frustration. You need air. You need out. Even if it’s just ten minutes. Just enough to catch your breath. As the elevator doors open into the main lobby, a familiar voice rises behind you.
— “Where are you going?”
You freeze. You turn your head and meet Pepper Potts’ sharp gaze. She descends a flight of stairs with confident steps, a file tucked under one arm, flawless suit, hair pulled back — untouchable, as always. Except her eyes betray something else: quiet concern, and a kind of authority she only draws when she knows something is off.
You force a tight smile.
— “Just getting some air. I need to… clear my head.”
She stops a few feet from you, studying you in silence. Her gaze drops to your hands — probably still trembling slightly — then slowly returns to your face. She doesn’t speak for several seconds. Then:
— “Did you tell Stark?”
A sigh slips out. Sharp. Irritated.
— “It’s just a break, Pepper. Ten minutes. No more.”
She narrows her eyes, not fooled. She hesitates, clearly torn between her professional instincts and something more personal. Finally, she nods slowly, lowering her voice a notch.
— “Alright. But don’t go far. And keep your badge on you.”
You nod quickly. You don’t want to argue. Don’t want to explain. She knows. She senses it. And you’re not in the mood to convince her otherwise. You push through the glass doors of the tower, and the outside air hits you like a slap — but a welcome one. It’s fresh, slightly damp, with that typical early-morning city smell — asphalt, metal, something faintly electric in the air. The contrast is brutal, but it’s exactly what you need. You stop at the edge of the sidewalk, close your eyes for a moment, and take a deep breath. It feels good. Really good.
You run a hand over your face, trying to ease the tension in your features. You try to calm your too-rapid heart, your thoughts that spiral in loops. You can’t afford to lose it now. Not after everything. Not now that things are finally beginning to align — or at least, no longer collapsing under your feet. But even here, outside, beneath a sky that’s almost too clear, Stark’s shadow still follows you. You sit on the cold steps of the Tower, elbows resting on your knees, eyes lost in New York’s visual chaos. Taxis honk in the distance, pedestrians rush past without seeing you, absorbed in their own absurd race — and you’re just there. Still. With the badge in your pocket burning against your thigh like a fresh scar.
The sun is soft on your skin, but you find no comfort in it. Too bright for what’s inside you. Too calm, almost indecent. You inhale slowly. Your wrist throbs again, a dull pulse, a faithful reminder of what you fled. Or rather… what followed you. Stark’s and Peter’s voices loop in your head like echoes you can’t silence.
"You’ve got to take this chance."
"You come to me. No excuses."
"This psycho needs to be stopped."
You clench your jaw. Your chest is heavy, crushed under an invisible weight, like something in you is about to snap. You fled one hell only to land in another. Not one of fists this time, but of control. Of rules. Of unspoken expectations you never asked for. Stark doesn’t hit you, no. But he has chains of his own. And he places them on you without even asking. Everyone seems convinced you can’t manage on your own. And maybe they’re right. Maybe. But damn it… did you ever get the chance to learn how to do it differently? You lower your eyes to your hands. One’s bandaged, the other trembles slightly, clenched without your realizing. You try to calm down. To breathe deeply. To believe — just for a moment — that you can still have control over something. But everything feels blurry. Like even the city refuses to let you find your footing.
A sigh escapes you. You wipe a hand across your face, as if you could scrub off the thoughts clinging to your skin. You have to stop looping inside your head. It leads nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. But your phone vibrates in your pocket. It’s not a notification. Not a message. A call. A cold shiver climbs your spine, like your body understood before your mind. You slowly pull out the phone, your fingers curling around it like it’s a live grenade.
And there, on the screen: Matthew.
The name hits you. Brutal. Violent. Like a punch to the gut. Your heart slams against your ribs — erratic, painful. The urge to hang up is immediate, nearly primal. But you don’t move. You stay frozen, thumb hovering over the screen like one wrong move will set off the explosion.
You hate him. You fear him. And still, you stay there. The phone keeps vibrating, merciless. Your breath grows short. You’re so tired. Tired of running. Tired of feeling like a puppet to his words, his moods, his rage. So in a surge of defiance that already feels like a mistake… you answer. His breath is the first thing you hear. Slow. Deep. Controlled. Like he’s savoring the wait. Like he wants you to hear him breathe, to feel his presence deep in your bones. Then his voice rises. Soft. Calm. Terrifyingly polite.
— "Ah, finally. I was starting to think you forgot who you owed. Ignoring me, huh? You really think you can hide forever?"
Every syllable slices into you like a blade. Your stomach knots. His voice… that voice you thought you’d left behind… pierces through you like a frozen needle. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. So you clench your jaw — hard enough to feel it crack. He continues, with that toxic slowness, that too-smooth tone that could only be rehearsed:
— "I see you’ve changed. Little suit, new address… Stark Industries, no less. Playing with the big boys now."
A pause. Then he speaks again, lower. More venomous.
— "You really think someone like Stark gives a shit about you? You think he’s gonna lift a finger for a messed-up kid with a garbage past and eyes like a beaten dog?"
You close your eyes, try to breathe deep. Don’t react. Don’t give him what he wants. But every word yanks you back. To that cramped studio. To paper-thin walls. To whispered threats in the dark. To blows that left only the marks you knew how to hide.
Your voice is hoarse, strangled.
— "What do you want, Matthew?"
And then he laughs. Not a real laugh. A stifled, snakelike chuckle. The kind that slithers around your spine like a nightmare.
— "What do I want?" A pause. "Nothing. Just… reminding you. That even up there in your pretty tower, you’re never far from me. You can change your location. But you’re still dragging the same chains. The same scars. You think I don’t know you?"
You sit up, suddenly alert.
— "I know when you work. I know when you go out. I even know when you’re alone. You think your little security guards will be there every damn second? You think Stark has time to watch your pathetic little carcass?"
You’re almost choking. The air thickens around you. A bead of sweat rolls down your temple. Your vision blurs, but you don’t dare blink. Your heart is pounding too hard, too fast.
He sees you. He’s following you. He’s here, somewhere.
You want to scream. To challenge him. To threaten him. To throw it in his face that you're no longer the one he broke, that you won't bow down anymore. But you stay frozen, mute, pinned to the ground by his voice. He falls silent for a moment. Then, in a cold whisper:
— "See you very soon."
A sharp click. Silence. You remain there, the phone still pressed to your ear, breath caught, the world collapsing beneath your feet. Not a sound. Just emptiness... and his shadow, everywhere.
The silence that follows is even more violent than his voice. You lower the phone slowly, your fingers clenched so tight your joints crack. The screen goes dark, but his words still echo, carved into your skin like burns. He knows. He knows where you are, what you're doing. He's watching you. A weight crashes down on your chest. You feel like you're suffocating, like the very air is poisoned by his presence. Everything around you blurs, the noise of the city recedes, drowned in the dull buzz pulsing through your temples.
You stay there, frozen on the steps, unable to move. Your empty gaze drifts somewhere between the tower's glass façade and the sidewalk below. Every second feels like an eternity, and yet time slips through your fingers. You don't know how long you've been sitting there. A minute? Ten? Thirty? Then suddenly, a flash of lucidity. A sharp thought. Stark. The break. Ten minutes, no more. Your stomach contracts brutally. You've gone past the limit. By a lot.
A cold shiver crawls down your spine. Shit.
You jump to your feet, heart pounding in your chest. Your legs tremble slightly beneath you, but you force yourself forward. You shove your phone into your pocket like it might bite. You stayed out too long. Went too far. What if someone comes looking for you? What if he's already here, somewhere, watching you? You glance around quickly, scanning the passersby, the faces, the shadows. Your eyes land on a man standing still near a lamppost. He's looking your way. Or maybe not. Hard to say. You don't wait to find out. Your steps quicken on their own, rushed, erratic. You need to get back. Now.
Taking a deep breath, you try to shove the panic beneath a layer of normalcy. As if you could exhale away Matthew’s words, the threats, the poison in your throat. As if nothing happened. You push through the glass doors of Stark Tower. The sterilized coolness inside slams into you, a harsh contrast to the living, almost comforting air outside. In here, everything is colder. Sharper. Controlled. Your footsteps echo on the immaculate floor, the sound gliding like a slap with every stride. You try to keep your head high, but your body betrays you: your shoulders are tense, arms too rigid, breath too short. Nausea bubbles at the base of your throat.
The elevator is already there, perfectly punctual. The doors open with a discreet whoosh, almost mocking.
Inside, the silence is absolute. You lift your eyes, catching your reflection in the brushed metal walls. Pale face, drawn. Dark circles like claw marks under your eyes. Your features seem sharper, harsher. You barely recognize yourself. Instinctively, you run a hand through your hair to regain some composure. It’s useless. You look like someone on the verge of breaking, and you know it.
Do you want them to see that? For Stark to see that?
You force yourself to breathe slower. You feel like an actor stepping onto a stage. You have to stand tall. You have to forget. Just for a few hours. The doors open to the office floor, and reality hits you like a freight train. Nothing’s changed. The dull hum of the air conditioning, the clicking of keyboards, the soft murmur of a world turning without you. You walk forward slowly, measured steps, as if entering a cage. Your fingers tremble slightly around the strap of your bag, but you keep your head down, focused on your breathing.
Back to work. Rehearse calm. Forget. You’re not outside anymore. You’re in the tower. Under control. When you push the office door open, Stark is already there. Standing in front of one of his holographic screens, arms crossed, focused on a stream of data dancing in blue light. He doesn’t turn his head, but you know he heard you come in. And more than that — you know he noted the time.
— "You took your time."
His voice lands like a diagnosis. No anger. Just that sharp neutrality that makes every word heavier. You clench your jaw, lower your head slightly, and head to your station without looking at him.
— "Sorry. I lost track of time."
He doesn’t answer right away. You feel his gaze slide toward you without movement. A heat crawls up your neck, as if your very body knows it’s being analyzed. Then, with a quick gesture, he swipes the holograms away. Finally, he turns to face you.
— "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
You freeze, breath caught for a split second. Your heart slams against your ribs. He saw. He sees too much. But you just shrug, feigning indifference.
— "Just tired."
Stark says nothing. He keeps staring, his gaze piercing right through you like a blade. He seems to measure every micro-movement, as if he could, alone, peel the lie from your skin. Then he exhales, sharp, and pivots back to his station.
— "Pick up where you left off. I want a first render by the end of the day. No excuses."
— "Yes, Boss."
You sit, back straight, hands already on the keyboard. Your screen lights up, but your eyes don’t register it for a few seconds. The office silence is too precise. Every heartbeat feels like a dissonant drum in your chest.
"You think I don’t know you yet?"
Matthew’s acidic voice loops in your head. You force yourself to breathe slower. To focus. Work. It’s all you have left. If you lose yourself in it, maybe the rest will fade. So you lose yourself in the work. You dive into the code, into textures to refine, frame-by-frame movement adjustments. You cling to every detail like a life raft. The interface blurs sometimes, but your fingers never slow. You force your mind to think only of this. Of logic. Of structure. Of light on a 3D frame, not the darkness crawling through your thoughts. You have to forget. You need it.
But you still feel it. Stark’s gaze. Silent. Discreet. But present. He’s there, somewhere behind you, waiting. You know it. Waiting for you to crack, to tell him what happened outside. He knows something’s wrong. He saw your face. And even if he says nothing, his silence says too much. Sitting at your screen, you force yourself to breathe slowly. To keep a neutral façade. To remain the quiet, efficient employee he thinks he’s shaping. But part of you is elsewhere. Far away. The call. Matthew’s voice. His icy breath, his words like blades.
"You can change places, but not your story."
He always had that gift. Saying just enough. Just enough to get in your head and stay there. He knew how to trap you without tying you down, to cage you without locks. That’s his strength. He never needed to be there physically to keep his grip on you. And he’s done it again. Here, even in this tower, even under Stark’s implicit protection, he finds a way. He holds you with fear, with shame, with the memory of choking hands, wounding words, paralyzing stares. You grit your teeth. Hard. No. Not this time. He won’t win. Not here. Not now. You fix a keyframe error. Recheck the renders. Your stylus traces more confidently over the tablet. He won’t get your voice. Not your energy. Not what he’s still trying to steal from you.
You sit straighter, spine taut, jaw locked. Even if your heart races too fast, even if your hands tremble now and then, you hold on. You’re still here. And you’re working. Time blurs. It dissolves into keyboard clicks, correction loops, recalibrated shadows, renders you review and re-review in silent obsession. You stop thinking. You push forward. The adrenaline of the task keeps you upright like an invisible IV. You endure. Because you have to. The deadline ticks in your mind like a silent alarm, reminding you there’s no room for error. Not today.
And finally, after hours spent drained of everything but this, you finish. You tweak the last details, check for typos, glitches, shadows too sharp. One last check. Another. And then, with a hand slightly unsteady, you hit “Send.” Your heart slows, but your body tenses. You straighten slowly, like gravity just doubled. Fatigue crashes down like concrete. Your back aches, your wrist pulls, your breathing uneven and seeking rhythm. Across the room, Stark hasn’t moved. He opens your render, watches in silence. His face is shut, focused, unreadable. Each second he spends analyzing your work is another minute your stomach tightens.
You track every flicker of his eyes, every shift of his hand on the touchpad. Nothing leaks. Nothing shows if he approves or not. Then finally, he nods. A simple nod. Light. Calculated. He doesn’t look at you yet. But his voice eventually breaks the silence, dry, factual, as always:
— "It’s better." That’s it.
You nod back. No desire to draw more from it. Those two words, “it’s better,” still echo, but you refuse to cling to them. Not now. Not after all this. You inhale deeply, like pulling yourself out of the chair. Every muscle complains, every movement stiff, like your body itself begs you to stop. Your wrist throbs, your back tight, and in your chest, fatigue carves out a cold void. You grab your bag mechanically, without even checking if you forgot anything. You leave the office, mind foggy, nerves frayed. You only want one thing: your room. A closed door. Silence. Away from eyes, away from rules, away from Stark. But turning into the hallway, you see him.
Peter.
Leaning against a wall near the elevator, messenger bag over one shoulder. He was clearly talking to Pepper — her gaze is distant but serious. His, however, is locked on you. Frozen. Worried. The second your eyes meet, he opens his mouth… but nothing comes out. He hesitates. He wants to talk — it’s obvious. You read it in his eyes, in the tension in his shoulders, in that half-step toward you.
But you have nothing left to give. No smile. No comfort. Not even a reply. You look away, like his existence passes right through you. You walk right past him, footsteps soft but heavy, and you feel him tense. Maybe hurt. Maybe just tired too. You don’t turn back. You keep moving.
You reach your door, hand trembling on the handle. You enter, close it quietly behind you — no slam, no words. Just the sound of the lock sliding into place. And then silence.
A true silence.
Not the one imposed in an office. The kind you seek, the kind you beg for. The one where, finally, you can collapse. You let yourself fall onto the bed like someone drowning clings to a plank — but even here, there's no reprieve. The mattress takes your weight without protest, but your body remains tense, clenched, as if it doesn’t yet understand it can finally let go. Your gaze drifts toward the ceiling. Empty. Numb.
Your wrist pulses with a dull, throbbing ache, that constant reminder that even the silence here isn't total. That your body, like your mind, gives you no rest. You close your eyes for a few seconds, hoping for some release. Nothing. Your jaw is still tight. Your breathing still too short. You should feel relief. You should. You finished your work. Stark threw a "it's better" at you — which, coming from him, borders on miraculous. But this victory tastes like metal and anxiety. Like winning a battle… in a war that never ends.
Because Matthew is still here. Not physically, no. But in your head. In your gut. In your phone. In the very idea that you might exist freely. And you, despite all the effort, despite that badge in your pocket and this damn tower around you… still feel trapped. As if every floor of this place is just a shinier, cleaner cell. But a cell nonetheless.
Exhaustion starts weighing on your eyelids, but sleep remains distant. Too distant. Your mind circles, feverish. Matthew’s call still rings like a cracked bell. His words, his breath, that mocking laugh that froze your blood. You see his name on the screen again. You see your own finger, hesitant, still pressing.
You inhale slowly, deeply. You try to chase away his shadow. But he's there. Even here. Even in this bed. Even in this room at the heart of the most secure tower in the city. He follows you. Like a parasite. Like a festering wound never truly healed. You turn your head on the pillow. You fix a vague point on the wall. You don’t want to cry. You don’t want to give in. So you stay there. Waiting for the emptiness to take over. Hoping that sleep, at some point, will crash into you. You could try to ignore it. Do as usual. Swallow the fear down your throat, hide it under a layer of fatigue. But tonight, your body refuses to cooperate. It vibrates with a dull tension. Your heart beats irregularly, fast, too fast. Your hands are clammy. And your stomach, knotted like a clenched fist, gives you no peace.
The pillow under your head offers no comfort. It feels hard, suffocating, as if even sleep no longer wants you. The dim lighting in the room feels too bright in some spots, too absent in others. Every detail becomes a weight. Then a thought brushes past you. Weak, almost ridiculous. You turn your head toward your phone. You grab it, the screen lights up and blinds you in the dark. Your fingers hesitate. You open Matthew’s contact settings. Your thumb hovers over the Block this number option. It would be so easy.
One move. One small move. And he couldn’t reach you like that anymore. Not through words. Not through his threats, seeping like poison into your mind. But… would it really change anything? Would it stop him? Does blocking a number erase years of fear? Of humiliation? Of control? You don’t press it. You exit the screen, your stomach tightening further. And instead, almost automatically, almost without thinking, you open your chat with Peter. You stare at the thread for a few seconds. The last messages are blurry, mundane, reassuring.
Then you slowly type:
"You home? Sorry about earlier."
Simple. Light. But heavy enough to carry what you can’t say aloud: that you regret closing the door, running from his gaze. You place the phone beside you, the screen fading gently. You lie there, eyes open in the dark, staring at a ceiling you can’t even see. Your mind replays the day in loops. The anger. The fear. Stark’s voice. Peter’s expression. The messages. The call. That badge in your pocket, a constant reminder that you can no longer go it alone. Tomorrow will be another day. Another step. Another fight. And even if you won’t admit it, a small part of you begins to wonder if Stark is right. Maybe this surveillance... this imposed safety net... was necessary.
You close your eyes. And finally, sleep drags you under. But it brings no peace.
Only fragments of images. Faces. Muffled screams. Walls closing in. And that voice. Always that voice, the one you can't silence. You're in a room with no light. The kind of darkness that devours everything, even thought. The air is icy, but your back is burning. Cold sweat beads at your neck. A horrific smell lingers — burnt metal, scorched flesh, and mold. It turns your stomach. You try to breathe, but each inhale tears at your lungs. Your legs refuse to move. They feel cemented to the ground, heavy, numb. The floor itself feels alive, sticky beneath your bare feet, like it’s trying to swallow you. Then you hear footsteps. Slow. Rhythmic. Methodical. Heels striking the concrete. A figure steps into view, pulled from the shadows like a monster long overdue.
Matthew.
His face is twisted into a hateful sneer, his eyes gleam with a sickly light. He’s no longer human. Just a mouth bleeding venomous words.
— "Look at you..." he hisses. "Still pathetic."
Before you can respond, his foot slams into your chest.
You fall back, a sharp crack echoing — maybe your sternum. Or your breath. You try to scream, but no sound comes. He stomps you again. Once. Twice. Each blow rings in your skull like a hammer. You want to fight back, raise your arms, push him away… but your body is an empty shell. You're nothing but pain. Then you're not alone. Something… no, someone approaches. Taller. Broader. Almost unreal. A massive figure emerges slowly from the darkness. Its face is blurred, like hidden behind a veil of smoke, but its presence chills you to the bone.
Its voice is a deep vibration, guttural. It crushes you with its tone alone.
— "You really think you can escape this? You think you’re worth it?"
You tremble. You want to retreat, melt into the wall, disappear. But the shadow grabs you. It's everywhere. It wraps around your wrists, your ankles, your throat. You're pinned. The hit comes without warning. A burst of pain crashes through your face. Your teeth snap. Something cracks in your jaw. You taste blood.
And then the flames. They erupt from the floor, red, ravenous, hungry. They curl around you like searing snakes. They lick your skin, bite your flesh. The smell of burning returns — stronger, realer. You scream.
Matthew laughs. He laughs until he’s bent over. A jagged, insane, almost childlike laugh. He watches your body writhe like one watches fireworks. And the other figure… it doesn’t stop you from burning. It pushes you in deeper. Voices rise all around. Whispers. Laughter. Accusations.
— "You should never have been born."
— "You ruin everything."
— "You’re dead weight."
— "Even he can’t save you."
Then, in a flash of white light… Stark. He appears like a mirage, suddenly, without logic. His suit is perfect. His face perfectly lit, frozen in a steely expression. No compassion. Just the cold contempt of a man who’s judged… and decided.
— "You think you’re worth anything?" he says calmly, arms crossed. "Look at you. You’re trash. Just another failure."
He steps closer. And as he draws a sleek, gleaming, surgical blade… you realize he’s not here to save you. He’s here to finish the job. The blade drops in a perfect whistle. And in the instant the pain becomes unbearable…
You scream.
The sensation is ice-cold. Cutting. A cold metal slowly burrows into your flesh, carving a blazing path through your face from the inside. You feel your skin split, your bone tremble under the impact. You taste blood.
And that laugh… that sinister, condescending laugh echoes all around. It doesn't just mock your pain — it encourages it. It admires it. Then, suddenly, everything collapses. You fall. Space rips beneath your feet, the ground vanishes, light disappears. There’s nothing left. Just a scream.
Yours. You wake up screaming.
— "GET OFF ME!"
Your voice shatters the room’s silence, violent and raw. Your breath comes short and frantic, like you just surfaced from drowning. You’re soaked in sweat, the sheets clinging to your back and chest like a second, soaked skin. You bolt upright, your heart hammering like it’s about to explode. Your wrist screams in pain from the tension, radiating a dull throb, but you ignore it. Your first instinct is to bring your hands to your face. You touch frantically — cheeks, nose, jaw. You search for cuts, burns, the blade. But there’s nothing. Just your wet, cold skin, intact. You freeze there, paralyzed. It was just a nightmare. But the anxiety is real. The air around you is thick, unbreathable. Every breath hurts. You feel like you’re suffocating in your own room. So you get up in a rush, legs shaky, unsteady. You push the sheets away like they might trap you another second.
You leave the room without turning on the light. No need — your steps already know the way. As if your body anticipated this. As if it’s running from something your mind hasn’t processed yet. You move quickly, almost stumbling, and push open the bathroom door. It slams too loud in the night’s silence. You brace against the sink, arms tense, back hunched. The mirror reflects a version of yourself you don’t want to see. You can’t face your reflection. Not yet.
So you turn on the tap. Cold water flows, clear, indifferent. You soak your hands, let them numb under the stream before splashing your face. Again. And again. As if trying to extinguish something inside you. As if trying to convince yourself you’re awake. That you’re safe. But even here, even in the tower, in this impersonal bathroom, something of the nightmare remains. Something refuses to leave.
You turn on the light, and the harsh glow hits you like a slap. Your eyelids flutter, blinded, as the cold white swallows you whole. The bathroom feels too sterile, too sharp, too real after the fever dream of hell. You raise your eyes to the mirror, and your reflection stares back — pale, drawn, wide-eyed like someone who barely escaped drowning. You scan your cheek, your forehead, your neck. Nothing. Not a drop of blood, not a scar. Only the cold sweat glistening under the artificial light. And still, your brain doesn’t believe it. You still feel the blade tracing your skin, that acute pain, precise and unforgettable. You press two fingers against your cheek, right where it slid in your dream, and even though the skin is smooth beneath your touch, you could swear you feel the burn. A phantom sensation. A mental scar.
You inhale, but the air feels thick, viscous, nearly unbreathable. Your hands grip the sink’s edge, and you stay there, frozen, fighting the tremors coursing through your body without your consent. You wish you could tell yourself it was just a bad dream, that your mind is exhausted, sending warning signs. But that would be a lie. It’s not just a nightmare. It’s a reminder. An echo. A disguised memory. Even awake, you haven’t left the pain. It’s still there, crouching under your skin, in your muscles, in your unsteady breath. And the anxiety crushing your chest refuses to leave.
You stay there for a moment, trapped in that too-white, too-empty, too-neat bathroom. Then, unable to face your own reflection a second longer, you turn around. You open the door and leave your room in silence, bare feet on the cold floor of the Tower’s halls. You don’t know where you’re going. You just move forward, with the feeling that if you stay locked up a second more, you’ll implode. The metal beneath your feet is cold, but almost soothing. The Tower’s air conditioning feels lighter here, more breathable. You keep walking, shoulders tense, heart still too loud, hoping some more steps will carry you away from this suffocating night.
Stark Tower is strangely quiet at this hour. A nearly sacred silence drapes the corridors, broken only by the soft hum of the ventilation system. The ceiling lights are off, leaving only a few dim lamps that cast long shadows over the flawlessly polished floor. Every step you take seems to vanish into the carpet, but your heart — it beats too fast, too hard, as if each pulse echoes against the glass and steel walls.
You walk slowly, guided by a diffuse glow slipping from a half-open door at the end of the hallway. The break room. A warm orange halo licks at the floor, flickering softly. As you approach, you hear the faint clink of ice against glass.
You push the door open without a sound. Inside, Stark is slouched on a dark leather couch, one leg crossed over the other, a glass of whiskey in hand. His gaze is lost somewhere in the amber reflections of the liquor, as if the answers to his questions were hiding in its depths. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even seem surprised to see you. He barely lifts his eyes, those sharp irises landing on you with a brief flicker before he looks away again.
— "Another shitty night?" he asks, voice neutral, almost detached.
His voice is rougher than usual, dragging slightly, as though carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. There’s no mockery. No judgment. Just a blunt, direct observation that leaves little room for escape. You don’t answer right away. You could tell him you just dreamt he cut you open with surgical precision, that his cold face watched you die in the flames. But it feels too absurd. Too disturbing. So instead, you simply shrug — a tired, almost childlike gesture — and avert your eyes. You cross the room and let yourself collapse into the chair across from him, heavy, as if your body’s done carrying what it holds.
Silence stretches, taut as a wire between you. He takes a sip of his drink, the sharp clink of crystal echoing in the room. Then slowly, he turns his head back toward you. He studies you. Too long. Barely blinking. He dissects you with his gaze, like he’s trying to read between the lines of your silence.
— "You gonna talk or should we play 20 questions?"
You close your eyes for just a second, trying to calm the breath that still comes too short, too shaky. Part of you wants to speak. To scream. The other is paralyzed, buried in shame and fear and that creeping certainty that words won’t change anything. The truth burns your lips, but you can’t spit it out. It’s stuck — between your tight throat and your clenched fists.
— "Just a nightmare. It'll pass."
Your voice is low, almost a whisper. You immediately regret calling it just. As if what you just relived isn’t still poisoning you from the inside. Your hands tremble slightly on the armrests, and you run your fingers through hair still damp with sweat, searching for something solid. For calm that won’t come.
— "You screamed loud enough to wake half the floor. That wasn’t just a nightmare."
Stark’s voice cuts through the quiet like a whip. Not harsh for the sake of it, but slicing clean through your attempt to downplay. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t even raise his voice. He just drags you back to the brutal, bare truth. The one you’ve been avoiding. You swallow hard, eyes fixed on some vague point on the coffee table. You want to answer. To offer an excuse. A polite lie. But all you manage to say is a quiet:
— "I… I’d rather not talk about it."
Stark nods. Slowly. His gaze never leaves yours, and there’s something strange in his eyes — almost clinical. Like he’s trying to see through bone.
— "Sure," he says finally. "Do as you want."
He pauses, takes another sip. The silence that follows is anything but peaceful. It’s heavy, loaded, stretched to the point of snapping.
— "But if you’re planning to keep functioning by stacking trauma on trauma without doing anything, one day it’ll explode. And believe me, it won’t be pretty."
You let out a bitter, hollow laugh — more a sigh than anything else. Your lips twitch into a smile that holds no joy.
— "Thanks for the therapy, Freud."
Stark smirks too, barely. Just the corner of his mouth lifting automatically. But his eyes don’t smile. They stay locked on you, serious, too perceptive. It’s not a jab. Not a threat. It’s a fact. A warning. Silence returns, heavier than before. You lower your gaze to the floor, hands wrapping around your own neck. Anxiety pulses under your skin, dull and persistent. You glance toward the door — the thought of returning to your room cuts through you like a chill. That bed, those sheets sticky with sweat, the idea of that nightmare replaying... No. Not yet. Not now.
You don’t say anything, but you don’t move either. And Stark, without pushing, without judging, sets his half-empty glass down on the table. His gaze finally leaves yours.
— "You can stay if you want. Wasn’t planning on sleeping anyway."
He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He doesn’t ask anything. He just gives you space. A quiet truce. You lower your eyes, hands resting on your knees, searching for a reply you don’t really have. Part of you wants to say yes. To accept, no resistance. Just to avoid that room that still reeks of fear and cold sweat. But you know staying won’t fix anything. It’ll only delay the inevitable.
— "I just… don’t want to go back to my room," you finally mutter, voice low, rough, barely more than a breath.
Stark doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you, dark eyes scanning you like a scanner. No judgment. Just that way he has of analyzing, of trying to decipher what you’re not saying. What’s gutting you. What still rips sleep from your grasp. Then, in one smooth motion, he stands and grabs the whiskey bottle from the table. He spins it slowly between his fingers, the amber catching the dim light. He doesn’t speak. He’s just there. Standing — solid, quiet — in this room that suddenly feels too big and too calm.
You stay curled in the chair, shoulders taut like cables ready to snap. Your knees pull up almost instinctively. You hug them close, folded into yourself like you’re bracing against something invisible. You stare at the wall of windows overlooking New York — immense, too alive, too far away. The lit skyscrapers, the taxi neon signs, the headlights flickering through the night — it all seems to float, unreal, like a dream you’re not part of.
But you’re not seeing the city. You’re seeing your reflection. And what you read in it hits harder than you expected. That pale, drawn face. Those eyes, heavy with shadows, like they've aged years in just a few days. You hate looking like that. You inhale deep, but the air doesn’t reach. It doesn’t make it to your lungs. The phantom sensation of the blade across your cheek is still there, sharp and real, as if the nightmare hasn’t let go. You could swear you still feel the fire licking your skin. The stench of burned flesh.
A shiver runs down your spine. Behind you, Stark’s back in his seat. He hasn’t said a word. He just poured another bit of whiskey and rolls the glass between his fingers. The amber light catches in his eyes. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. But he’s there. And he hasn’t left. That might be what gets to you the most. He could’ve forced the issue. Could’ve made you talk, confront what’s clawing at you. But he didn’t. He seems to get that tonight, words won’t help. So he just… lets you breathe. Lets you exist, without pressure. The silence between you stretches like heavy fog, thick and intangible. Then, Stark breaks it — calm, almost tired:
— "You’ve got the day off tomorrow. Use it to clear your head. And try to sleep… wherever that ends up being."
You nod. Barely. The idea of a free day doesn’t comfort you. If anything, it unsettles you more. The thought of being alone in your room again sends another chill through your spine. That place — safe on the surface — has turned into a stage for nightmares and memories that cling like wet cloth. Here, in this dimly lit room, in imperfect silence, you feel… less threatened. Not safe, but less alone. Your eyes drift briefly to Stark, then fall to your wrist. The brace is still there, wrapped around pain you tried to forget — pain that returns like clockwork when your mind slows down. You lower your voice, every word catching on your breath.
— "I don’t feel like I can face it again."
It’s not just your room. It’s the shadows in it. The memories. The echo of your scream still hanging in the air. The feeling that the blade from the dream still lingers, waiting. Your voice breaks at the end — fragile, carried on threads of exhaustion and shame. It’s not like you to ask to stay. Even less to admit it like this. And yet… you don’t move. You can’t pretend anymore. Stark sets his glass down slowly, methodically, like he’s giving you time to reach the edge of your discomfort. Then finally, he turns toward you. His gaze is harder to read than ever — not cold, not compassionate. Just focused, present, like he’s weighing exactly what you just confessed.
— "You afraid it’ll happen again?" he asks eventually. No filter, no sugarcoating.
The question makes you flinch. It’s simple. Too direct. And you can’t lie. Not this time. You shrug weakly, unable to deny it. Of course it will. These nightmares have always been there, waiting. They never really leave. They come back like clockwork. A nightly curse you know by heart, even if each time they tear away another piece of you.
— "This gonna be a habit now?" Stark mutters, arms crossed, brow raised.
You slowly turn toward him, your eyes dark with fatigue and bitterness. This isn’t a joke. Not tonight. You don’t answer, but your face says everything. He seems to get it. His sarcastic look barely flickers, but you catch the shift in his eyes. A tiny recalibration, as if he’s reassessing his words on the fly — realizing you’re closer to the edge tonight than usual.
— "Not gonna tuck you in, if that’s what you’re wondering," he says.
— "Wasn’t asking."
Your voice is dry, but not harsh. Just drained. He sighs — half-exasperated, half-resigned. He stands, crosses the room to a chair and grabs a blanket draped over the arm. Tosses it your way, no ceremony. You catch it mid-air, caught off guard.
— "If you’re gonna camp out here, might as well not freeze to death."
You don’t reply, but your eyes linger a moment too long on him. The gesture is blunt, but the intention is there. And somehow, despite your pride, you see it. You fold the blanket around yourself, settling more deeply into the chair. Your body, still twitching in faint aftershocks, begins to yield under the weight of exhaustion. Your breathing is uneven but starts to calm, lulled by the stillness of the room and Stark’s quiet presence. He says nothing else. He sits again, glass in hand, eyes fixed on some blurry point beyond the room. You wonder, briefly, how many nights he spends here too, alone with his thoughts, wrestling his own ghosts without ever showing it.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he mutters:
— "Try to sleep."
He doesn’t look at you, but this time, you don’t need more. You nod faintly, and your eyelids fall despite yourself. The chair isn’t comfortable. The floor is too quiet. And yet… for the first time in days, you feel yourself slipping toward sleep that doesn’t scare you as much. Because tonight, you’re not alone facing the dark.
What Remains | Chapter 11 Learning to Hold (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : After a violent encounter, Stark confronts you with harsh truths and stricter rules—but offers you a place in the Tower. Between sleepless nights, rising tension, and one explosive argument, you push back and keep working. To your surprise, Stark starts to notice. The tone shifts. Just slightly. Maybe everything is about to change ?
word count: 12k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
The elevator seems endless. The mechanical hum, though faint, grows into an oppressive drone in your ears. The metal walls reflect your wrecked face—pale, hollowed out, stained with dried blood at the corner of your mouth. Your eyes, reddened by tears and pain, reflect back a stranger’s image, almost unreal. The shadow of the shock is still there, embedded in your frozen features, as if your body still refuses to believe what just happened.
You have no desire to face Stark. A soft click signals the doors opening. You flinch despite yourself. The office opens before you like a silent stage. Everything is too bright, too vast. And there he is.
Tony Stark. Sitting behind his desk, perfectly still. Back straight, arms crossed, expression unreadable. His gaze slices into you immediately, sharp as a blade. He doesn’t look worried. Not even surprised. He looks… exasperated. Like you’ve just interrupted something important. Like you’re, once again, another problem to fix.
— “Sit down.”
His voice cracks through the air, cold and dry, devoid of any warmth or compassion. You obey, almost reluctantly, your body still trembling. The leather chair groans under your weight, and your wrist screams in protest at the slightest movement. A brutal jolt shoots through you as you accidentally rest your arm against the armrest.
You swallow a groan. You won’t show him you’re in pain. Not yet. Stark inhales deeply, eyes fixed on you. His hands slowly rest on the desk, fingers flat, as if he’s trying to contain himself. He leans forward slightly, just enough to make you feel the full pressure of his presence.
— “You want to explain to me why, less than forty-eight hours after starting here, you walk into my office with your face in pieces?”
You lick your lips, searching for an answer that won’t come. Your brain is spinning. Nothing you could say seems good enough. Nothing sounds right.
— “It’s nothing, I just—”
— “Oh, spare me the bullshit.” His voice cracks again, sharp and brutal, like a door slammed in your face. “I don’t have time for personal drama. You want to work here or get beat up in the street? Because if it’s the second option, I need to know now.”
You clench your teeth. He doesn’t understand. He can’t understand.
— “It’s not like I asked for this…”
— “And yet, you managed to stir up shit pretty damn fast.”
He taps his fingers nervously against the desk. Tap-tap-tap. His knuckles whiten under the pressure. His irritation is palpable, almost physical. You can feel it vibrating in the air like an electric charge.
— “You think this is how we work here?”
You lower your eyes, unable to hold his gaze. Shame twists your guts. But more than that, it’s anger that burns. Not at him. At yourself. At your weakness. Your silence. Your failure to run from this sooner.
— “I can handle it,” you murmur, not even believing yourself.
Stark scoffs. A short, dry sound. No warmth.
— “Oh yeah?” He straightens slowly, arms still crossed, commanding the room like a general. “Because right now, kid, you look like the opposite of in control.”
Behind you, you sense Pepper’s presence. Straight as a blade, arms crossed. She says nothing, but her silence is heavy. A silence of warning. Of judgment. Maybe even disappointment.
— “Listen carefully,” Stark says again, lower now, but harder. “I took you on for your skills. Not to drag your mess into my house.”
His eyes lock onto yours. He doesn’t flinch. He’s not trying to soften the blow. He wants you to understand. To take it. To react.
— “You’ve got a golden chance, and you’re blowing it.”
Bile rises in your throat. Your stomach churns. You want to respond, to scream, but your body betrays you. All you can do is clench your fists, until your brace trembles around your wrist.
— “So you’ve got two choices.”
Stark finally stands. With a brisk movement, he plants his palms on the desk. He towers over you, physically, morally, like a mountain ready to fall.
— “Get your shit together. Or get out.”
The silence that follows is terrifying. Not empty silence—a silence that screams. A heavy silence that crushes your chest. You stare at him, frozen, heart pounding like a war drum. You’ve never been this scared. Not of him. Scared of losing the one thing that’s given you a reason to stay standing. Your lips tremble. And suddenly, emotion floods you, like a wave breaking without warning.
— “You don’t get it… You think I chose to be harassed by that guy?!”
Your voice trembles, broken by rage, fear, humiliation. Stark sighs. A real sigh—tired, frustrated. He rubs his face, visibly at the end of his rope.
— “So what does that change, huh?!” His voice lashes out again, harder, sharper. “Doesn’t matter how it happened. What matters is you’re in this shit, and it’s affecting your work. And that’s non-negotiable.”
Your eyes sting. Everything in you screams—injustice, exhaustion, loneliness. Your throat tightens with the effort not to break.
— “I’m doing the best I can… I…”
— “And it’s not enough.”
Stark doesn’t waver. He hasn’t even raised his voice. But every word falls like a blade. Then he steps back, leans against the desk again, arms crossed. His stance changes. He’s not attacking anymore. He’s observing. Concluding.
— “So here’s what we’re going to do.”
He pauses. The silence turns cold again. Clinical. You hold your breath.
— “First rule: you work here, your environment needs to be stable. No distractions. No personal crap screwing with your output.”
He points at you. His gaze is icy, but not cruel. Just uncompromising.
— “Second rule: since you’ve got a knack for drawing trouble, you’ll stay here. That room I told you about is still available. And trust me, I don’t have time to deal with an employee getting wrecked at the door every morning.”
You stay frozen. A strange mix of humiliation and relief rises in you. It’s help. A hand extended. But you hate it, that hand. Because you need it.
— “And last rule…”
He locks eyes with you, and this time, his look is darker. Almost dangerous.
— “If I see one more mark from that psycho on you… I’ll deal with it myself.” He leans in slightly, and his voice drops to a glacial whisper. “And believe me, you don’t want to see how I deal with problems.”
Stark sighs one last time, long and deep, then shakes his head like trying to push away a lingering thought. He leans against the desk, drained, almost disgusted.
— “Now get out of my office.”
No thank you. No good luck. Just that. Cold. Sharp. Like a verdict. You rise slowly, short of breath. Every movement is a negotiation with pain, especially your bruised shoulder and your wrist, still trapped in that brace that now feels too tight. You don’t look at him as you leave. You couldn’t hold his gaze one more second.
The door slides shut with an almost imperceptible hiss. The elevator is already there, as if waiting. You step in, followed by Pepper, who remains silent, professional, impeccable. The ride happens under a heavy tension. Not a word. When the doors open again, it’s onto another world.
A pristine hallway greets you, elegantly minimalist. The walls are smooth, pearl-white, punctuated by soft light panels that cast a gentle, almost soothing glow. The air feels different—cooler, cleaner, with a faint scent of ozone and fresh linen. Everything is calm here. Out of time. As if this wing of the tower were a sanctuary designed to forget the chaos of the outside world.
Pepper walks ahead, composed, confident. Her heels echo faintly against the polished floor, each step rhythmic, controlled. You follow, a little behind, your back hunched under the weight of your bag. The strap cuts into your shoulder, and each step sends a wave of pain down your injured arm. You grit your teeth, refusing to complain.
Your gaze scans the walls absently. A few abstract art pieces, floating in borderless frames, play with the light. Now and then, a built-in screen displays discreet info: weather, security, schedules. Everything is silent, harmonious. Too perfect to be real. Pepper finally stops in front of a door with a sleek design, no visible handle. She brushes the panel next to the frame—one smooth, precise gesture. The door slides open soundlessly, revealing the interior.
— “This is it.”
You hesitate a moment at the threshold, frozen. A room. Your room. Here. In the Stark Tower. You expected something austere. Cold, impersonal. Almost prison-like. A bare room with a metal bed and a buzzing light. But instead, the space before you is wide, bright, silently elegant. The room is tastefully furnished, near-clinical in its perfection. A large window takes up an entire wall, overlooking the city below, lit like an inverted sky. The bed is big, pristine, made with almost military precision. The sheets are taut, smooth—offering a comfort you never asked for.
A sleek desk with fluid lines sits near the glass. A cutting-edge screen rests there, asleep, like it’s waiting for you. Further off, a built-in closet blends into the wall, discreet, and a sliding door reveals an attached bathroom, just as understated and impeccable. Everything’s here. Everything’s perfect. And yet, the place feels cold. Not temperature-wise—everything’s at the perfect setting, like the rest. No, it’s the silence, the absolute neutrality tinting the walls. The absence of history. The lack of you.
You step in slowly. Your soles sink gently into the plush carpet. Your gaze scans the room but doesn’t latch onto anything. It’s not home. It never was. And it never will be.
— “Well…” says a voice behind you, half-mocking. You turn halfway. Happy’s there, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, a smirk on his face.
— “Some people get lucky. Usually takes five years of working here to get a room in the Tower.”
You force a smile. One of those fake ones you learn to use to reassure people. It costs you.
— “Or just be a permanent magnet for trouble, apparently.”
Happy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t reply. His look turns more attentive, more serious. Like he’s weighing your words. Pepper still watches you. Her face is calm, but her eyes hold a restrained tension. A controlled concern.
— “Stark doesn’t do this out of charity,” she says at last, her voice returning to something sharper. More official. “He wants you efficient. So consider this place an extension of your office.”
You nod silently. It’s clear. This isn’t a refuge. It’s a tool. Not a gift. An investment.
Happy claps his hands, a sound light but sharp in the overly silent air.
— “Well then… I’ll let you settle in, young prodigy.”
He gives you one last look, a sly smile, almost complicit, before disappearing down the hallway. Pepper lingers one second longer. Her gaze rests on you. Then, gently, her voice softens, almost maternal:
— “Try to get some sleep.”
Then she walks away too. You nod, but she knows perfectly well you won’t. She leaves you alone, and the door closes softly behind her.
Silence falls immediately, heavy, complete, almost deafening after the voices, the looks, the orders. You drop your bag at the foot of the bed. It lands with a dull thud, like a weight finally let go. You sit heavily on the mattress. It sinks beneath you with a strange softness, almost unsettling. Too soft. Too clean. Too far from everything you’ve known these past years.
A bed too perfect for a body too damaged.
Your wrist throbs violently, every pulse a cruel reminder. You slowly remove the brace, clumsy, trembling. The skin beneath is red, swollen from tension, marbled with bruises spreading steadily. Every motion sends a dull burn up your arm. You hold in a painful breath. You know tomorrow will be worse. But you lack the energy, the luxury to think about that now.
You let yourself fall back, slowly, until you’re lying on this too-vast bed, like a calm but foreign sea. Arms spread, legs loosely stretched. You stare at the flawless ceiling. White. Empty. Your thoughts spiral, incoherent. Images layer—Stark’s gaze, Pepper’s voice, Matthew’s blows, the hallway light, the sound of blood in your ears. Everything is blurry. Everything is too much. And still, you can’t detach.
Your eyelids are heavy, but sleep won’t come. Not really. Just this dizziness, this total exhaustion without rest. And always this feeling, persistent, that this place is just a pause. A temporary illusion before it all starts again. Before it all collapses again. But for tonight…
You stay. For tonight, that’s enough. You turn and turn beneath the sheets, the fabric too smooth, too foreign against your skin. Sleep doesn’t come. Your body is tense like a bowstring, your mind saturated with looping thoughts. But exhaustion is stronger. It slowly wins, dragging you into a sticky torpor.
And you sink. A dull sound. Metallic. It echoes from far off like a ripple in a cave. Then another. Closer.
Clang. Clang.
The air is icy. Cold. Damp. It clings to your skin like a soaked sheet. A smell of rust and mold hits your throat, making you gag. You try to move, but your limbs are numb, anesthetized. When you open your eyes, everything is blurry, gray, drowned in dirty fog. The floor beneath you is cold, rough, a concrete slab stained with something dark and sticky. A single flickering neon overhead casts distorted shadows. And in that unstable light, a silhouette emerges.
Matthew.
He's standing there, a few steps away, blurry and yet unmistakable. His smile stretches slowly—too slowly—distorted, twisted. A smile that has nothing human in it. His shadow stretches endlessly toward you, enveloping you like a blanket of tar. You want to step back. Flee. But your feet are glued to the floor, sealed by some invisible force. Your arms are heavy. Your muscles won’t respond. He laughs.
A hollow, metallic laugh that echoes off the walls, off your skull, off your ribcage. It’s not human. It’s a sound that corrodes, that eats away.
— "Look at you…"
His voice cracks like a whip. It seems to come from everywhere at once—above, behind you, inside you.
— "You always thought you could get away, huh? That you were someone important?"
With a sudden move, he grabs you by the collar. His fingers are ice-cold, inhuman, like rusted iron. You feel your feet leave the ground, your body hurled backward. But there’s no wall. Just... impact. Brutal. Invisible. And pain. Your wrist screams. A burst of fire under the skin. You gasp. And then, another silhouette. Behind him. Taller. Sharper.
Stark. Standing. Impeccable. His posture is straight, motionless, eyes fixed on you. No anger. No pity. Just that look. Engineer’s gaze. Evaluator’s gaze. Like he’s examining a defective machine. Like he’s calculating how long before you break.
— "An investment that yields nothing… is worthless."
His voice is calm. Cold. Impeccably logical. You want to scream, but your throat is empty. No voice comes out. Just a short, panicked breath. You struggle. Uselessly.
— "I thought I saw potential," he continues, arms crossed. "Turns out I was wrong."
Behind you, Matthew bursts into laughter. Again. Again. Every laugh is a blow. His hands grab your arm, your injured wrist, with inhuman strength. He squeezes. You feel the bones twist. Crack. The pain is searing. You scream. But nothing. Stark steps closer. His face doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He crouches to your level. His hand reaches for your already crushed wrist… and he grabs it. And he squeezes. The pain becomes light. Blinding. Red and white. Like your whole body is exploding from within. Your vision warps. You hear a dull noise. A crack. A scream. Maybe yours. Maybe not. And then—nothing.
You jolt awake. Your breathing is ragged, uncontrollable. Each inhale stabs your chest, each exhale is a brutal effort. Your ribs heave violently, like you’re trying to escape an invisible drowning. The room is dark, but city lights filter through the tall window. They cast trembling, unstable shadows across the ceiling—specters floating above you.
Your wrist throbs violently. It pulses with your panic, as if it’s going to burst. You clutch it instinctively, without thinking. But it’s not the physical pain choking you. It’s the nightmare. Still here. Still alive. You’re not safe. Not here. Not anywhere. You wipe your face with a trembling hand, leaving behind a damp trail. Your skin burns. Your temples pound. You try to slow your heart’s furious rhythm, to anchor yourself to reality—but everything stays blurry. The line between dream and memory is too thin, too porous. Everything bleeds together.
A sigh escapes you. Fragile. Broken. The night is going to be long. You can’t stay here. Not lying down. Not still. The air thickens. Each breath is harder than the last. The room is too vast. Too perfect. A set piece with no place for you. You slowly push the blanket aside, your movements stiff, numb, and you stand up. Your bare feet touch the cold floor. You shiver. Every step feels like disturbing a fragile balance. The hallway is dimly lit, bathed in soft, artificial light, almost unreal. Yet the darkness clinging to the corners feels alive. It stretches along the walls, seeps into the angles, threatening.
Darkness has never been comforting for you. Every shadow reminds you of something. Every nook feels ready to spit back a memory you’ve spent a lifetime burying. And without warning, one of them resurfaces. Another room. Much smaller. Oppressive. The walls are bare, damp. The air suffocating, thick like ash. The metallic stench of dried blood and fear clings to your nostrils.
Screams. Yours. Muffled in a corner, against filthy tile. The burn. You remember the pain. It returns, brutal, implacable. The sting of heat on skin, the panic rising, gnawing, imploding inside you. And that voice. Cold. Clinical.
— "That’ll teach you to disobey."
You stagger. No. No. You don’t want to relive that. Not now. Not here. You shake your head hard, like you can fling the memory away. But it’s embedded. Welded to your bones. It pulses with your wrist, with your heart. Anxiety crushes your throat. A vice. Your breath becomes a whimper. Your legs want to run, but they don’t know where.
You need air. You need out. Now.
And that’s when you run into him.
Still there, in his dimly lit office, like he never sleeps. Like the concept of rest is alien to him. Seated, slightly hunched over his screens, his face bathed in bluish, almost spectral light. He seems to be thinking of a thousand things at once. And yet, as soon as you cross the threshold, he looks up.
A blink. His gaze locks on you. Neutral at first. Then a flicker of annoyance hardens his features.
— "What are you doing up at this hour?"
His voice slices through the silence like a knife. Dry. Empty of warmth. Empty of anything, really. No trace of compassion. No concerned inflection. You freeze, caught like a thief mid-flight. Your breath still shaky, your throat tight with emotion. You must look like a ghost escaped from a nightmare.
You grit your teeth. You don’t want to answer. Don’t want to show how shattered you are. But you finally mutter, low and hoarse:
— "Couldn’t sleep."
He raises an eyebrow. His gaze scans you, methodical. He sees everything. Your tense face. Your contracted shoulders. Your hand still clutching your wrist, as if you could stop the damn pulse from betraying you. He catches it all—you’re sure of it. But he says nothing. He’s not the empathetic type.
— "You better be fit tomorrow. I didn’t hire dead weight."
And that’s the last straw. Something breaks. Not outwardly. Inside. A tiny fracture—irreversible. You feel something snap within you. A lock. A dam. A rupture. Everything you’ve been holding in—the pain, the fear, the shame, the contempt—bursts. In one second. In one sentence.
— "Dead weight?!"
Your voice echoes in the room, louder than you thought. It trembles—yes. But not from fear. From rage. Old rage. Buried. Compressed for too long.
— "That’s all I am to you, huh? A damn investment? A project to be optimized? Something to push until it breaks and toss out when it’s no longer productive?"
Stark straightens slowly behind his desk, as if he didn’t expect that. That volume. That intensity. His gaze sharpens. His tone cuts.
— "Watch what you say."
But it’s too late. The words pour out unfiltered. Burning. Tearing.
— "No! What do you want me to be?! A damn robot that works without flinching? Smiles while being crushed? Congrats—that’s exactly what everyone expects of me! You, Matthew, the others, even before him! No one wants me unless I’m an object! A fucking object to use, break, and toss like trash!"
Your voice breaks at the end. You feel it. Your fists are clenched so tight your nails dig into your palms. Your whole body shakes. Your breath is ragged, uneven—every inhale a fight not to collapse right there, right now. Stark stares at you. A long beat. His gaze unreadable. No anger. No mockery. Nothing.
Then he says:
— "You done with your little dramatic speech?"
A slap. Cold. Predictable. Devastating. You laugh. An empty laugh. Bitter. A laugh with nothing left alive in it.
— "Of course… Of course you don’t care."
You turn on your heel, heart blazing, lungs in ashes. You just want to get away. Lock yourself in. Disappear. But your vision blurs. Tears rise. Too fast. Too strong. You don’t hold them back. You don’t have the strength anymore.
— "Go to hell, Stark."
You don’t look back. You feel his gaze follow you. Sharp. Cold. But he says nothing. You walk down the hallway like a sleepwalker. And when the door to your room closes behind you, softly, so softly… it’s like a lid sealing a chamber of pain.
And you collapse.
Morning comes far too quickly. Or maybe it never really left. You don’t feel like you slept—just… disappeared for a moment into an unpleasant stupor. Not rest. Not refuge. A blur. A heavy void. Your body is sluggish, weighed down by thick fatigue. Your muscles are tight, like you spent the whole night fighting something—or yourself. An invisible resistance clings to every movement. Your wrist immediately throbs. A dull, persistent pain. Like a signature left by yesterday. By Matthew. By Stark. By everything you failed to contain.
You open your eyes with difficulty. Your eyelids are dry, swollen. You blink several times, the soft light filtering through the curtains hitting you full force. Too soft, too clean for what you feel inside. The room is silent. Too silent.
Impeccable. Untouched. Nothing has moved. As if your meltdown the night before never happened. As if the room refuses to acknowledge you. Every piece of furniture, every object is in its place, perfectly ordered. And you, in the middle, are the only thing that doesn’t belong. You feel foreign here. Again. Always. Like a stowaway in a world too polished. The sense of not belonging clings to your skin. It’s there, stubborn, like a second layer of flesh.
And somewhere inside you, a small voice whispers:
Where have you ever truly belonged, anyway?
You finally get up carefully, pushing the sheets away with the tips of your fingers as if they might hurt you. Your movements are slow, your limbs still numb from the night. A grimace escapes you despite yourself when pain suddenly radiates from your wrist. You look down. The brace is still there, but it no longer hides much. The bruises, already visible yesterday, have darkened. Shades of deep blue and dark red draw lines on your skin. A living memory of what you were left with. A sigh escapes your lips. You’ve known worse. True. But that’s not supposed to be a consolation.
The bathroom becomes a temporary refuge. A sterile cocoon where everything is too white, too quiet, but doesn’t judge you. The cold water on your face gives you the illusion of awakening. It stings a little. Maybe that’s what it means to be alive. You look up at the mirror. And immediately regret it. Your features are drawn, undone. Pale complexion, dark circles like invisible bruises. Tired eyes that no longer want to meet yours. You look away. Your reflection has nothing to offer you this morning. Nothing you don’t already know.
You get dressed without really thinking. An oversized hoodie, long enough to hide the brace and everything it implies. Your gestures are automatic, mechanical. Like a ritual armor before war. And then… you finally decide. You approach the door. You place your hand on the handle. A brief moment of hesitation. Then you leave the room.
The halls of Stark Tower are much livelier than yesterday.
A precise ballet of tailored suits, polished shoes clicking on spotless floors, rapid whispers exchanged in passing. Everything feels calibrated, paced, efficient. Everyone here knows where they’re going, why, and how fast. The world spins faster in this tower. You blend into the scenery as best you can. Not quite invisible, not truly integrated either. Some glances land on you—brief, curious, sometimes puzzled. As if your existence raises a question with no answer. Others don’t even notice you, too absorbed in their own trajectories.
It’s a violent contrast with what you’re used to. Where you were invisible, here you disrupt the balance. Even passive, you exist too much. In front of the cafeteria, you spot Pepper. Impeccable, as always. She’s leaning against the counter, a coffee cup in hand, seemingly relaxed. Her gaze slides over you without lingering. A simple sweep. But a sweep that sees everything.
She doesn’t speak right away. She observes. Evaluates. Then she lets out:
— “You don’t look any better than yesterday.”
Her tone is neutral, but there’s a sharp undertone in her words. A concern hidden under discipline. You vaguely shrug, as if you could brush off the fatigue with a simple gesture.
— “I’ll be fine.”
A banal lie. A survival reflex. She narrows her eyes slightly, her face expressionless, but her gaze grows more piercing.
— “I hope so. Stark doesn’t tolerate weakness.”
You nearly laugh. A bitter, dry laugh that gets stuck in your throat. As if you needed the reminder. You just nod, without replying. The conversation is over. Or maybe it never really began. You grab a coffee. The cup is lukewarm, the liquid bitter. A taste that fits the mood. And you head to the office. With every step, apprehension builds, dull and insistent. It settles in your chest like a weight, slowing your stride. You don’t know how Stark will react today. Whether he’ll ignore your clash. Whether he’ll push you further. Whether he’ll test you again. And you’ll have to take it. Again.
When you enter his office, he’s already there.
Seated at his usual station, back straight, eyes fixed on a series of glowing screens. His fingers type with controlled, surgical speed. Not a glance. Not a word. Not even a sign that he’s noticed you. The air is dense. Charged with static and unspoken things. No greeting. No comment about your tired face or the wrist still hidden under your sleeve. Nothing. Just this icy, professional silence. Deliberately impersonal. You stand there for a few seconds, unsure. The unpleasant feeling of being a ghost in a room that has no place for you. Then his voice snaps, bluntly. Dry as an order.
— “You planning to stand there or get to work?”
Not even a glance. Just that voice, sharp, like a reprimand. You swallow your pride. Your annoyance. Your exhaustion. Everything. You grit your teeth, lower your eyes, and slowly walk to the workstation he assigned you. Each step echoes like a threat in the too-quiet space. You sit down without a word, your wrist protesting silently as you plug in your gear, open the first files of the day. No open confrontation. Not this morning. But the tension is there.
Silence falls immediately. A dense silence, almost threatening, broken only by the crisp, steady clack of your keyboard. Each keystroke echoes in the room, paced like a nervous metronome. Your fingers fly over the touchpad, precise, quick. You switch from shortcut to shortcut without hesitation, executing each command like a perfectly tuned machine. At regular intervals, your left hand releases the keyboard to grab the stylus beside it, which you wield with near-surgical focus. You redraw curves, refine contours, adjust lights with wrist movements, millimeter by millimeter.
Every gesture is controlled, every decision quick but deliberate. You allow no hesitation. You’re under pressure. Tremendously. But you refuse to fail. Not today.
There’s no more room for Stark to look down on you. No more bowing or fading under his scornful remarks. You want to make him eat his words, one by one. Show him you’re not a mistake, not a casting error. That you can measure up. The air is heavy, almost electric. You hear him breathe behind you, very faintly—sometimes through his nose, sometimes holding his breath like he’s thinking at high voltage. He says nothing. But you feel his presence. And worse: his gaze.
You don’t see him, but you know. At times, he lifts his eyes from his screens and watches you. He analyzes. Assesses. He’s waiting for the misstep. The flaw. The moment when you’ll falter, when your body or mind gives in. But not this time. Not as long as you have breath to give. Hours pass without you lifting your head. The world around you fades. Your field of vision narrows to your screen, the familiar interface, the layers stacking one over the other. Textures take shape slowly under your fingers, colors balance out, animations sharpen. It’s slow work, meticulous, but fluid.
Your eyelids are heavy. Your shoulders stiff, aching. Your wrist begs you to slow down, stabs you with regular pulses like needle pricks. You ignore it. You can’t stop. Not until it’s perfect. Not until you’re flawless. Your breathing is measured, precise. Each inhale controlled like a military maneuver. But beneath the apparent calm, the rage is there—lurking, burning. You’ve been here three days. Three days of holding on, gritting your teeth, bending to every demand without ever breaking. Three days of refusing to give him the slightest excuse to humiliate you. The smallest opportunity to label you once and for all as dead weight.
The silence holds, heavy, almost sacred. It’s only broken by the regular hammering of your keystrokes, the brushing of your stylus, the light humming of machines. And then, suddenly, a more distinct sound—the slight scrape of Stark’s chair pulling back. A brief movement. He glances at your screen, quick, almost furtive. His gaze brushes over your work without a word. But in that fraction of a second, you think you see a hint of surprise. Minimal. Fleeting. Ephemeral. And instantly erased by his usual indifference. He turns back to his screens, as if nothing had happened.
You clench your teeth. You don’t need his encouragement. You’re not waiting for compliments. But that simple look gives you a fraction of breath back, a spark, something that drives you to keep going without faltering. You press on. Line after line, layer after layer, your project takes shape, refined down to the tiniest detail. Your shoulders burn, your wrist sends clearer and clearer distress signals, but you ignore them. You’re past fatigue. You’re elsewhere. In a space between rage, obsession, and the will to survive.
After a long moment, you straighten slightly. Your heart beats faster. This is it. You can’t take the silence anymore. You need to know. You need to hear something, even if it’s to be torn down. You want feedback, a reaction. You quickly save your work, then, in a fluid gesture, you cast your screen to sync with Stark’s. No trembling. No hesitation. You go for it.
— "Boss, can I get some feedback for now?"
Your voice is clear despite the exhaustion. Slightly tense, but steady. You watch him from the corner of your eye. He looks up at the screen, his sharp gaze scanning the elements like a scanner in action. He says nothing right away. Not a word, not a grimace. But everything in him—in his posture, in the stillness of his face—screams that he’s analyzing. The moment stretches. Your breath catches. You wait for his verdict, ready to take it, to start over, to fix it. But most of all, ready to prove you belong here.
Stark says nothing immediately. He stares at the shared screen with silent concentration, chin slightly raised, his gaze chillingly focused. His eyes glide over every layer, every transition, every graphic detail like he’s hunting for a flaw, a pixel too much, the proof that you’re still an amateur. He taps his index finger against the desk—his little nervous tic when he’s deep in thought. An irregular rhythm, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you feel the weight of his judgment.
— "Huh." Just a breath, barely audible. But it makes you flinch. Your back tenses, your heart quickens slightly. You wait for more, jaw clenched. Your breath is on hold, suspended on his verdict.
— "It’s… less catastrophic than I expected." His tone is flat, almost detached, but you catch something else in his eyes. A quick flash. A form of silent recognition, even if he’ll never admit it directly. He’s surprised, maybe even impressed by your progress and how fast you’ve adapted. But he won’t show it. Not really.
— "You’ve made progress." He tilts his head, blinks slowly. "I guess if you keep this up, you might be an acceptable employee… in three or four years." The hint of irony is there—subtle but sharp, planted like a splinter in the sentence. His own way of saying you’re not completely useless. A disguised compliment, wrapped in provocation.
You don’t react. No need. You simply nod, quietly, without another word. You know it’ll never be enough. That the finish line, with him, always moves a little farther with each step. And yet, despite everything, a part of you reaches for that thin semblance of recognition. The tension between you hasn’t disappeared. Yesterday’s shadow is still there, hanging over you like a blade. But for today, you held on. You proved something. And deep down, that’s enough. For now.
You rise from your chair, slowly stretching your shoulders, a dull stiffness running from your shoulder blades up to your neck. Every muscle protests, like your whole body is waking up from a painful standby mode. Your wrist still throbs, a steady, insistent beat, but you ignore it. It’s part of the scenery now. Background noise in a saturated room.
The tension in this room has become suffocating. The air feels heavier here than anywhere else, like every second spent here clings to your skin. You need to get out. To step away. To take a breath that doesn’t reek of control, pressure, the constant sidelong gaze of Stark.
— "I’m taking my break."
You say it in a neutral tone, deliberately flat. No defiance, no request for permission. You don’t seek his gaze. You already know what you’d find there: that usual mix of judgment, calculation, permanent evaluation. You don’t want it—not now. So you turn and head for the door, without waiting for a response.
The doors glide shut behind you with a soft hiss, closing with almost elegant discretion. And for the first time in hours, you breathe again. A real breath. Slow. Deep.
You’re not hungry. You don’t even want coffee. You’re not sure what you’re looking for—maybe just a sliver of silence, a few minutes away from him, from his looming presence, from the suffocating tension that’s been building since you arrived. Just a break. A breath. A moment to remember you’re not just some monitored cog. As you walk down the hallway, your steps slow, almost mechanical. That’s when you run into Pepper and Happy. They’re speaking in low voices, coffees in hand, leaning against the glass wall that overlooks the lobby. The second they spot you, the conversation dies naturally. They exchange a glance—quick, but clear enough to show they expected to see you like this. Like they’d already pictured the exhaustion written across your face, the slump of your posture.
— "You don’t look so good, kid," Happy says, squinting, tone direct but not mocking. Just a bit too accurate.
Pepper follows up immediately, more measured.
— "Everything alright?"
Her voice is calm, composed, but her gaze betrays a concern she’s trying to contain. She observes you with that silent acuity she masters so well—the kind that misses nothing, even when pretending not to insist. You vaguely shrug, in a tired, worn-out gesture. Like none of this matters. Like it doesn’t deserve more of an explanation.
— "I’m fine. Just taking a break." That’s all you manage to say. All you’re willing to give them.
You’re not in the mood to talk, and they can feel it. There’s something closed off in your tone, in your body. A shell already too worn thin. Happy lowers his eyes for a second, as if respecting the message. Pepper, she keeps her gaze on you a bit longer. Not pressing. Just… present. She says nothing, but you know that if she pushed, you’d shut down even more. So she doesn’t. She respects the silence. And in a way, that helps.
Then, before the moment fades completely, a voice rises behind you. Sharp. Laced with that biting irony you’ve come to recognize from the very first syllable.
— "Hope your break won’t last as long as your excuses, or we’ll need to renegotiate your contract."
You freeze for half a second. No need to turn around. You’d recognize that tone anywhere. That blend of polished sarcasm and calculated provocation. He’s there, somewhere behind you, probably wearing that smug half-smile—the one he uses when he wants to test how far he can push. When he wants to probe the limits. See if you bite.
But not this time. You keep your face blank, your shoulders relaxed. No tension. You just breathe evenly, like his words slide right off you. You don’t feel like playing that game today. You’re too tired. Too clear-headed.
— "I’ll be on time, Boss."
Your voice is steady. Flat. Not aggressive. Not submissive either. Just factual. No visible emotion. No irony. No excuse. Nothing he can latch onto. You feel his gaze on you. Just for a moment. As if he’s waiting. A furrowed brow. A jab. A reaction. Something. But you don’t move. You give him silence. And that—you know—is what he hates the most.
Finally, you catch a faint breath. Maybe a smile. Almost imperceptible. He shakes his head, turns on his heel, and walks away, his calm steps echoing in the hallway. Pepper and Happy exchange a brief glance, wordless. But you can tell they understood. That they saw the scene for what it was: another test. You let out a quiet breath, like the air had been stuck in your lungs. Then you keep walking, hands in your pockets, thoughts dimmed. If you really want to survive here, you’ll have to stick to it: don’t bite the bait. Don’t feed him. And above all, keep a cool head. Always.
The doors to Stark’s office close behind him with a metallic sigh, leaving a tension hanging in the air. Happy takes a sip of his coffee like it’s nothing, but the arch of his brow betrays a certain curiosity. He watches Stark the way you’d watch an unpredictable animal in its cage. Pepper, on the other hand, doesn’t move. Arms crossed, lips pressed tight, her gaze locked on Stark with surgical precision. She gauges. She waits. And after a few seconds, her voice slices through the silence—dry, but measured.
— “You could try being a little more... forgiving.”
She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to. Just one raised eyebrow and the way she pronounces the word, like a polite indictment. Stark, still standing, turns slightly on his heel. He doesn’t answer right away. He looks at her. A mix of amusement, fatigue, and irritation in his eyes. Like he’s had this conversation a thousand times before.
— “Forgiving?” He lets the word roll off his tongue with pointed irony, then shrugs lightly. “This isn’t summer camp, Pepper.”
He takes a few steps, grabs a tablet left on the edge of a desk, glances at it distractedly while continuing.
— “If I wanted someone to pick up crumbs behind me, I’d have hired a docile intern. Not a kid with a busted wrist, a hair-trigger temper, and more trauma than a war vet.”
His tone is neutral, almost clinical. No mockery, no cruelty. Just a blunt, casual assessment, like he’s stating raw data. Happy winces a bit but says nothing. Pepper doesn’t flinch an inch. Her gaze doesn’t waver. She heard the excuse. But she’s not convinced. Happy shakes his head with fatigue, then sets his cup down on a dark wooden sideboard whose surface barely reflects the ambient light. He looks at Stark with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and resignation.
— “I think what she means is—you’re pushing him to the edge.”
Stark raises an eyebrow, a vaguely mocking expression on his face. He shrugs, like dismissing the idea before it’s even finished.
— “Or pushing him to excel.” He speaks in a calm, almost detached tone. “He’s holding on—and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. He wants to prove he belongs here? Fine. Let him work. But if he thinks I’m going to hold his hand and tell him he’s doing a good job every five minutes, he can forget it.”
He says it like it’s a golden rule, an immutable law. Like the world only moves forward through pain and raw effort. Pepper lets out a long sigh, irritated but unsurprised. She folds her arms more tightly, jaw slightly clenched. Her gaze meets Stark’s head-on, no hesitation.
— “Tony... he’s been here what, three days? And in three days, he’s slept in an impersonal room with no welcome. He fractured his wrist, got assaulted right outside your tower, and despite all that, he shows up every morning and works under pressure that even your best engineers would struggle with.”
Stark doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t try to deny it, or defend himself. He simply nods, takes his coffee cup, and drinks like nothing happened.
— “And yet, he’s still here.”
Happy grunts, folding his arms too, brows furrowed. His tone is drier, more direct.
— “Do you ever actually listen, or did you just decide being a genius is enough?”
The silence that follows is brief, but heavy. Stark doesn’t reply immediately. Pepper keeps watching him, alert. She knows that beneath his cynical dodges, something’s turning. Something he won’t say—but he hears it. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it. Stark rolls his eyes, a sigh of exasperation escaping almost involuntarily.
— “I listen. And what I hear is that you want me to handle him with kid gloves. But that won’t work.” His voice is firm, sharp—like he’s setting a rule in stone. He puts down his coffee a bit too harshly, the cup clacking against the desk, and turns fully toward them, more engaged, more tense.
— “That kid...” He pauses, like weighing his words—or still refusing to give too much away. “He’s talented. Not just capable. Not just a little gifted. He’s sharp, fast, he’s got an eye that catches things even my engineers miss. He sees differently. That’s rare.”
But his tone quickly hardens again, like he’s pulling back.
— “But he’s also incredibly stubborn, impulsive, and apparently addicted to bad decisions. His record is a minefield. It’s what drives him, yeah—but it’s also what’s going to blow up in his face if he keeps rushing in without thinking.”
Pepper gently shakes her head, arms still folded. She doesn’t raise her voice. She never does when it counts.
— “Maybe a little support wouldn’t hurt him.”
Stark spreads his arms slightly, a dry smile curling at the edge of his lips.
— “If he wants support, he can see a therapist. Here, we expect results. And so far, he’s delivering.” He says it like an undeniable fact—but his eyes flick briefly toward the door, where the silence left by your exit still lingers.
Happy sighs, then folds his arms again, his tired gaze landing on Stark.
— “Why don’t you just admit you’ve got a soft spot for broken kids who refuse to quit?”
Stark doesn’t answer right away. He keeps his eyes fixed on that closed door, his mind clearly elsewhere, far ahead, where the scenarios play out in advance.
— “That kid’s a ticking time bomb,” he finally says, more softly, almost to himself. “The question is whether he’ll blow himself up... or learn how to control the blast.”
Pepper and Happy exchange a brief look, full of resignation. They know Stark won’t change his ways. Not really. But they also know that, in his own twisted way, he’s already decided to keep an eye on you. And even if he won’t admit it—they know it all too well.
You close the door to your room behind you and lean against it immediately, letting out a long breath. The air in the room feels denser, calmer, far from Stark’s piercing stares, tense silences, and razor-edged remarks. Here, at least, no one’s waiting to catch you slipping. For a few minutes, you can just be… you.
You take out your phone, your movements slow, hesitant. The screen lights up in the dim light. You scroll through your contacts with your thumb, not really knowing what you’re looking for. Your finger stops on a familiar name. Peter. He’s sent you several messages over the past few days. You’ve read them without replying. Not out of rejection. Just… out of fatigue. Maybe shame. You hesitate a second longer. Then you press the call icon.
He picks up after a few rings. His voice bursts through right away, a perfectly balanced mix of sarcasm and genuine concern.
— “Well, you’re still alive?”
You sigh and let yourself fall onto the bed. The mattress barely absorbs the weight of your exhaustion.
— “Yeah… barely. Stark’s unbearable.”
Peter laughs softly. A short laugh, like a bubble of air underwater.
— “No kidding? I warned you. That guy’s a pain. A genius, yeah. But a real pain.”
You run your good hand over your face slowly, as if you could wipe away the exhaustion.
— “It’s worse than I imagined. He talks like I’m… just an investment. Not a person. A project to monetize.”
Silence. You hear him breathing on the other end. He’s searching for the right words. He knows what he’s talking about.
— “He’s like that with everyone, you know. He treated me like a kid at first too. Like I was just a walking upgrade. But… he’s got a twisted logic. He tests you.”
— “Tests or pushes you to the edge?” Your voice is more bitter than you meant it to be. “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.”
— “Because you need to talk,” he replies without hesitation, more serious now. “And because I know you. It pisses you off, but you’re still there. Which means part of you wants to prove him wrong.”
You don’t answer. Silence settles, heavy. He’s right. And it annoys you to admit it.
— “You holding up?” he asks more softly, almost in a whisper.
You press your lips together, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
— “I don’t know.”
He doesn’t say anything right away. Then he continues, lighter, but with an underlying kindness that does you good.
— “Listen, I’ll stop by later. I’ll bring the rest of your stuff. Might help to have a piece of home over there.”
You close your eyes, touched despite yourself.
— “Thanks, Peter.”
— “No problem, idiot. Just try not to explode before I get there, alright?”
A small smile comes to you, despite the fatigue. A real one, even if it’s faint. You hang up without another word. The screen goes dark, leaving you alone with your thoughts. You lie there a while, sprawled on this too-big bed, staring into the void. Maybe Peter’s right. Maybe you’re trying to prove something to Stark. Even if you won’t admit it to yourself.
When your break is over, you take a deep breath and leave your room. The hallway feels longer than before. Colder too, or maybe it’s just your breath struggling to warm the last of your energy. You try to gather your thoughts as you approach Stark’s office. The calm has returned on the surface, but underneath, there’s still that dull weight, that heaviness you carry like a second skin. When you step into the room, Stark is already there. Leaning over his screens, focused, his fingers tapping rhythmically, precisely. He doesn’t look up, but you know he felt you come in. He notices everything, even what he pretends to ignore.
— “Had a nice little break?” he finally says, blunt as ever, still absorbed in his interface.
You clench your jaw briefly. It’s a jab, not a question. But you keep your tone calm, deliberately flat.
— “Yeah, I’m good. Ready to get back to it.”
He finally looks up. His gaze is sharp, incisive. He scans you the way you’d inspect a machine before rebooting it. He says nothing at first, but you can tell he’s looking—for a crack, a tension, a sign of weakness.
— “Good. We’ve got work to do.”
You nod without a word, head to your station, ready to start again. But before you can sit down, his voice cuts through the air. Sharper, more direct.
— “You planning on making a scene every morning, or have you decided to actually work now?”
You freeze. Your fingers tighten around the back of the chair for a second. He’s testing. Again. Pulling the string to see how far it’ll stretch without snapping. You could respond. Snap something back. But what’s the point? You just sit down, slow, controlled movements. You wake up your screen without a word.
— “I’m here to work, Boss.”
A short silence follows. Then, from the corner of your eye, you see the corner of his lips lift slightly. A subtle smirk, discreet, almost satisfied.
— “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
The tension doesn’t vanish. It just changes shape. Less explosive, more buried. Like a pressure between equals, a silent tug-of-war where each waits to see if the other will bend. And you—you fully intend to hold your ground...
— “You hanging in there?”
You take a deep breath before answering.
— “Trying.”
It’s honest. Vague, but honest. You’re not even sure you believe it yourself, but you want her to hear that you’re not giving up. She opens her mouth, probably to add something—maybe advice, maybe encouragement—but a familiar voice cuts in before she can.
— “Oh, he’s hanging in there, alright.” The voice drags, mocking. “He’s even starting to improve. Might have to pop some champagne.”
Stark just appeared at the corner of the hallway, a coffee in hand, already looking at you. His tone is still sarcastic, but it no longer carries that cutting coldness. It’s more… half-teasing, half-exasperated. Like he’s accepted you’re still here, and that, against all odds, it doesn’t annoy him as much as he claims. You don’t react. Not this time. Not to his disguised jabs or the faux-casual tone he uses when he wants to keep the upper hand. You just exhale a simple “Good evening,” low but perfectly audible, without even trying to meet his gaze. Then you turn and walk away, leaving behind Pepper, Happy… and Stark, still planted in his role of insufferable genius.
You can feel their eyes on you for a moment, but you don’t look back. As you reach your room, a strange sensation passes through you. It’s light, almost imperceptible, but real—like a different rhythm in your steps, a way your shoulders are no longer quite as tense as they were that morning. Something changed today. It’s not spectacular. Not even obvious. But you felt it.
It’s not a victory. It’s not a clear turning point. Just progress. A first step crossed. A tension that no longer crushes you completely. Maybe Stark doesn’t see you as an equal yet. Maybe he never will. But he looks at you differently now. With less disdain, more expectation. And that, somehow, is enough to keep you going.
Maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to find your place here. Not as an intruder. But as someone who deserves to be here. And that feeling… it’s worth every jab in the world.
Later that night, unable to sleep, you make your way to the kitchen. The apartment is draped in semi-darkness, lit only by the soft lights built into the walls, casting a discreet bluish glow. The air is cool, silent, almost soothing. Your stomach growls faintly, but it’s not really hunger that pulls you out of bed—it’s mostly the need to keep your mind busy, to escape the void that sleep refuses to fill.
You open a cupboard at random, looking for something to snack on. Nothing too convincing until your fingers fall on a forgotten packet in the corner. That’s when you hear footsteps—quiet, but firm—behind you.
You straighten slightly, and when you turn around, you see him walk in.
— "Oh, evening, Boss."
Stark steps across the threshold like he’s always been there. He’s holding a glass of water, relaxed, not at all surprised to run into you at this hour.
— "You raiding my cupboards now?" he asks, his voice drawling, mocking. "Is this how you’re planning to pay me back for the room?"
You roll your eyes without flinching, closing the cupboard door.
— "Just trying to find something to eat. Didn’t really get a chance to sit down today."
He leans back against the counter, looking more relaxed than usual. He takes a sip of water, then casts you a sidelong glance.
— "You know if you’re too wiped to work tomorrow, I’ll break you, right?"
A crooked smile escapes you despite yourself. You finally dig out a cereal bar hidden in a drawer and hold it up like a trophy.
— "Promise I’ll be functional. I’ve survived worse."
Stark seems to hesitate for a second, his eyes fixed on the glass he slowly sets down on the counter. His expression turns more serious, but doesn’t lose that typical detachment.
— "Hm. Good. Because I’m not slowing the pace tomorrow."
You nod, biting into the cereal bar with controlled calm. He wants to keep the pressure on? Perfect. You expected nothing less.
— "Wouldn’t have expected anything else."
A silence settles. Not heavy. Just that kind of unstable balance you learn to live with. In this kitchen bathed in cold light, at an hour when the world is asleep, you and he share a moment that’s nothing grand, but somehow, it feels good. A silence settles. It isn’t heavy, but it carries the weight of late hours—the kind of quiet where everything seems suspended, floating. You feel his gaze on you, still there, slightly insistent. Not hostile, not even curious—just observant. Like he’s trying to figure out why you’re still awake, what exactly is turning in your head.
You could tell him. That you haven’t really slept in days. That your body’s drained but your mind never stops. That every minute of quiet throws you back at the things you’re trying to forget. But what’s the point? It’s not the kind of confession that fits well here. Not with him. And then, without warning, his voice cuts softly through the silence.
— "You could’ve been a bit more grateful for the compliment earlier."
You frown, caught off guard.
— "You call that a compliment?"
He shrugs, his usual half-smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
— "Yeah. You should learn to recognize them when they come from me. They’re rare, you know."
You shake your head, a quiet laugh escaping you.
— "I’ll try to remember that, then."
He picks up his glass, straightens a little, ready to leave the kitchen. But instead of walking away immediately, he throws one last glance over his shoulder. This time, his tone is softer, almost tired.
— "Get some sleep, kid. Tomorrow won’t be any easier."
And without waiting for a response, he disappears down the hallway, his steps swallowed by the silence of the night. You remain there, leaning against the counter, the cereal bar forgotten between your fingers. A faint warmth lingers in the room. Nothing spectacular. Just another exchange—but one of those that leave a mark. Stark, with all his harshness and sarcasm, is starting to show… something human. And you, for the first time in a long while, think maybe you’re not just passing through here. Maybe you can be useful.
You head toward your room, steps slow, a quiet sigh slipping from your lips. Your body is heavy, every joint marked by the tension of the day, but it’s your mind, more than anything, that feels saturated. Numb. Worn out from all the thoughts stacked on top of each other—doubts, effort, glances to decipher.
You push the door open, step into the dimly lit space, and drop onto the bed without ceremony. The cool sheets glide against your skin. You close your eyes for a moment, just enough to feel the weight of everything you carry begin to dissolve, slowly. The thoughts keep spinning in your head—lazy but persistent. Fragments of conversations, exchanged glances, restrained gestures. But you don’t try to push them away. You let them drift, fade slowly as your breathing slows. Eyes half-closed, you let yourself sink into this quiet torpor. Not quite rest. But a lull. And in that muffled silence, a single thought surfaces. Clear. Solid. Tomorrow, you’ll have to hold on again.
And you will.
Morning settles slowly over Stark Tower, like a quiet breath gliding across the cold windows. The first golden light of day pours through the towering glass panes, reflecting off metal surfaces and sleek walls. The atmosphere is calm, almost unreal, carried only by the distant echoes of a city waking up.
True to his relentless rhythm, Stark is already awake. He moves down the hallway barefoot, a mug in hand, rubbing his face absently—still marked by a night too short—or by no sleep at all, as usual. Reaching the kitchen, he pours himself a black coffee. Bitter. No sugar. No compromise. He leans against the counter, eyes lost for a moment in the ambient stillness. The kind of pause he rarely grants himself. Just the void, and the burning taste of caffeine.
A faint vibration breaks this fragile calm. A low, persistent hum. He frowns slightly, looking for the source. His gaze lands on an object left near the sink: a phone. Not his. Yours. Your phone, carelessly left there the night before. He’s about to ignore it—it’s his policy. But the device vibrates again, longer this time. The screen lights up briefly. A series of notifications pop up. No password needed to see the previews.
And that’s enough. Stark glances down, almost absentmindedly—but the message that appears cuts through his thoughts instantly.
"Next time I see you I’ll kill you. Faggot."
A cold tension fills the kitchen. His gaze hardens instantly. The usual irony drains from his features like a tide receding. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the screen, unmoving. A heavy silence crashes down around him. Brutal. Sharp. The kind of silence that always comes before something else.
What Remains | Chapter 10 Rest for the Weary (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : Exhausted after a restless night, you struggle to face the day ahead. Between the uncertainty of finding a place to live, the pressure at Stark Industries, and memories you'd rather forget, every step forward feels heavier. But just as you're trying to keep it together, shadows from the past resurface, threatening to bring everything crashing down
word count: 10.3k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Morning rips you from a fragile sleep, little more than a string of micro-naps interrupted by nightmares and jolting awakenings. You open your eyes with difficulty, your eyelids heavy, stuck in a fatigue that clings to your skin like a damp blanket. Your back protests against the couch—too narrow, too stiff—and every muscle seems to voice its own discontent.
A familiar weight crushes your chest. It's there, like every morning: that invisible, silent shroud that keeps you from fully breathing. You ignore it—or maybe you’re getting used to it—and you slowly sit up, your movements stiff, cautious, as if the slightest shift could shatter what little balance you have left.
A warm scent lingers in the air: coffee. Black, strong, almost burnt—but strangely comforting. You inhale deeply, letting that bitter aroma fill your nose like a tangible reminder that the world keeps turning, even if you’re no longer sure which way to go.
Peter is already awake, sitting at the table, eyes glued to his phone. He’s wearing an oversized t-shirt, his hair still tousled. He looks up when he hears the soft sound of your steps against the wooden floor.
"You look like hell, man," he says with a half-smile.
The tone aims for lightness, but his gaze lingers on yours a little too long. He’s trying not to look worried, but it’s no use. You can tell. And he knows you can.
You rub a hand over your face, slowly pressing against your eyelids. Your wrist, wrapped in its brace, sends a dull jolt of pain—a brutal, undeniable reminder of the day before. You wince in spite of yourself.
"Yeah… I didn’t sleep great."
Peter gets up without a word, grabs a mug, and hands it to you. You accept it carefully, your fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. That simple contact, that mundane detail, gently pulls you back toward something almost normal. You drop into a chair, still too dazed to think about what’s next. For now, you breathe. That’s already something.
A silence settles, soft and dense at once, broken only by the distant hum of cars below, like a muffled echo of the city waking up without you. Peter stays seated, eyes still fixed on his phone, but his fingers barely move. He’s pretending to scroll, to be busy. You know him well enough to see the hesitation in his gestures.
Then, in a detached tone, like he’s talking about the weather:
— "You planning to look for an apartment today?"
The question hits you head-on, even though you expected it. You don’t answer right away. Your eyes drift into the steam of your coffee, as if you might find a hidden answer there, somewhere between two flickers of light.
Reality crashes back into your ribs. You have to leave. You have to find a place to live. You have to rebuild something. But where do you start? With what? You have neither time, nor money, nor energy.
— "I don’t know yet," you mutter, your voice low and worn.
Peter raises an eyebrow, still watching you.
— "That’s not really an option, you know."
You shrug. Of course you know. But it’s like your brain refuses to take the next step. Every decision feels like a mountain, every action a fight against yourself. And you haven’t won yet. Peter watches you a moment longer, then just takes a sip of coffee, thoughtful. Eventually, he places his phone in front of you, screen lit.
— "Here. I checked quickly this morning. There are a few shared places not too expensive around here."
You take it with the tips of your fingers, as if the device might burn you. Your thumb slides across the listings. Rents that make your head spin, photos of cracked walls, rooms barely bigger than a closet. Too expensive. Too small. Too far. Too much.
You close your eyes for a second. You inhale deeply, until your lungs sting. You can’t stay here forever. And you can’t go back there.
— "Thanks, Pete," you murmur.
He gives your shoulder a light pat, a gesture both discreet and full of presence.
— "You’ll get through this, don’t worry. But first, survive today."
You nod slowly, your gaze still hazy, your thoughts tangled like a thread you no longer know how to unravel. One thing at a time. One hour at a time. That’s all you can manage for now.
Today, another day awaits. And Stark won’t wait for you.
You gently close Peter’s apartment door behind you, letting the scent of coffee and the soft warmth of the living room fade behind your back. In your stomach, the morning's cup still floats, warm and comforting, like a meager shield against the rest of the world.
The outside air is sharp, almost stinging. The cold seeps through the fibers of your clothes, but it wakes you up a little more with every step. One more day. Another one to get through. To endure.
The streets are still quiet at this hour. Store signs light up one after another, as if the city were slowly shaking off its slumber. You walk without rushing, but without slowing either. It’s your only moment of suspension, between two obligations. Between collapse and effort. You cling to the sounds around you, hoping they’ll anchor you. The distant hum of engines, the rustle of coats being adjusted, the click of heels on asphalt. Even your own breath seems louder than usual.
Then, a vibration in your pocket makes you stop cold. You take out your phone. A glance, almost without thinking. And then your heart skips a beat.
Stark.
The message appears, dry and unequivocal, like a scalpel’s strike.
“Make sure you’re in working condition today. No delays.”
No greeting. No polite phrasing. Just that order, crisp. Like a reminder that your place here isn’t secured yet. That the slightest mistake could set you back. You stare at the screen for a moment, unmoving. Your reflection barely shows in it, distorted by the morning light. You put the phone away without replying. Messages like this don’t expect an answer. They expect results.
A rough, involuntary sigh escapes you. The pressure, until now tucked away in a corner of your chest, settles back in like a heavy weight. You reread the message a second time, Stark’s sharp words imprinting themselves in your mind like a military command. No delays. No weakness. No excuses. You shove your phone back into your pocket, faster than necessary, as if to push away what it represents. And yet, you start walking faster, almost without realizing it. Your pace stiffens, your gaze lifts, fixed straight ahead.
Fatigue still clings to your skin. Your wrist reminds you of its presence with every movement, every swing. A dull, persistent pain, like a nail driven too deep to ignore. But you don’t slow down. Because, against all odds, another feeling is taking root in the pit of your stomach.
Determination.
You’re not sure where it comes from exactly. Maybe from Stark’s way of always pushing you to the edge, just to see whether you’ll fall or jump. Maybe from that look he gave you the other day—not admiring, but not dismissive either. A look that said, “Show me what you’ve got.”
Or maybe it’s just reality crushing you: you don’t have the luxury of running anymore. No more time to wait for things to get better. This has to work. You have to work. You need a future. A project that belongs to you. A meaning. So you keep walking. Even if your body protests, even if your heart beats too fast, even if the pain pulses in your wrist like a cruel reminder of your limits.
You’re going to make it. You have to.
The walk to Stark Tower feels shorter today. Or maybe your mind, too focused on what awaits, simply erased the streets, the passersby, the noise. Your thoughts loop around Stark’s message, like an oppressive metronome. When you finally lift your head, the building’s towering windows loom over you, carving the sky into sharp reflections. The Tower rises before you like a fortress of glass and steel. Unshakable. Gleaming. Inaccessible.
A shiver runs down your spine, quickly muffled by a long breath. You inhale, hold it for a second. Then straighten up, roll your shoulders, slide your hands into your pockets, half-hiding your bandage like one would conceal a weakness in the shadow of a suit. You step through the automatic doors. The air inside is cooler, almost clinical. The scent of metal, of coffee, of silent hustle. Everything is calm but tense, like an engine purring, ready to accelerate at any moment.
A new day begins. And this time, you know you can’t afford to falter. The glass doors of Stark Tower close behind you with a soft hiss, sealing you off from the outside tumult. New York’s roar fades to a muffled whisper, replaced by the controlled silence of a sanitized world. The hall’s air conditioning brushes your skin with a gentle slap, drawing an involuntary shiver. Everything here is cold light, clean lines, silent efficiency. Even the employees’ heels echo with discipline.
You breathe deeply, automatically adjusting your bag’s strap over your shoulder. Your wrist protests at once, a sharp twinge climbing to your shoulder blade. You grit your teeth. Not now. You head toward the elevators, focused on your steps, trying to mask the discomfort in every movement. You reach out to press the button when a sharp, familiar voice cuts through the space behind you.
— "You planning to tell me you’re fine someday, or are we just going to keep playing this game?"
You freeze for a second. Then slowly turn, heart beating a little faster in your chest. Pepper Potts. Impeccable as always, arms crossed, gaze precise like a blade. No smile. Just that quiet clarity she’s always had, like she’s reading straight through you.
You force a smile. Tight, awkward.
— “I’m fine.”
She raises an eyebrow. You already know what she’s thinking.
— "You sure? Because you’re walking like someone wrecked you."
You look away, lips tight.
— “I just didn’t sleep well.”
Her gaze slides toward your wrist, and you know she’s seen it. The bandage, the tension in your shoulders, your arm held close to your side like something fragile.
— "Did you see a doctor, at least?"
You nod.
— “Yeah. Yesterday. With you.”
She’s still staring, not quite reassured.
— "And are you following their instructions? Because judging by the way you’re standing, I doubt it."
You inhale, force a quiet laugh.
— “I’m being careful. Don’t worry.”
A sigh escapes her lips. Not angry—just the soft weariness of someone who’s seen this too many times: misplaced pride, the drive to do well at the cost of oneself.
— "All right," she says finally. Then adds, a bit more gently, “But if you want to avoid ending up in pieces by the end of the week… take care of yourself.”
You give a half-smile, this time more genuine. Even if the fear in your gut doesn’t ease.
— “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The elevator opens with a soft metallic chime. You step in right away, like staying too long in the lobby might crack the mask you’ve forced back on.
Pepper stays still a moment longer, arms crossed, gaze anchored to you. There’s something in her eyes… not pity, no. Just a calm worry. Like she’s silently weighing how long you can stand without breaking.
You avoid her gaze. The doors close.
The elevator’s confined space wraps you in an almost clinical silence. Just you, the gleaming walls, and the discreet hum of machinery carrying you floor after floor. You let your head rest lightly against the wall, eyelids half-closed. A moment of reprieve. A try at breathing. You inhale slowly. And that’s when your phone vibrates. A chill runs down your spine instantly. You freeze. As if the object in your pocket had suddenly turned burning hot. You pull it out reluctantly, already tense, stomach clenched with sharp apprehension.
The screen lights up.
Matthew.
Your heart skips. Like vertigo. Just a name. A name capable of swallowing an entire day in a second. You stay still. The screen keeps vibrating, piercing you like a needle driven into your throat. You already know what you’ll feel if you answer: that sensation of shrinking again, trapped by a voice you know too well. Half-hearted apologies. Veiled reproaches. The slow poison of his words.
Your thumb hovers. Brushes the screen. Then, without hesitation, you cut the call. Not this time. Not here. Not now. You put the phone back into your pocket with a sharp gesture. A cold tension settles in your jaw. You breathe deeper, chasing the unease.
As if the universe had waited for that exact moment to open a path, the elevator doors slide open with perfect smoothness. You raise your head.
In front of you, the hallway leading to Stark’s office stretches out like a straight line with no escape. Glass wall to your left, smooth walls to your right. Your steps will echo. So will your decisions. You adjust your bag strap. Grit your teeth. And move forward.
The doors to Stark’s office slide open with a discreet hiss, almost ceremonial. The air inside is cool, controlled. The kind of temperature calibrated to maximize concentration. Everything here radiates control.
Morning light filters through the immense bay windows, outlining Stark’s silhouette in a near-dramatic backlight. New York’s pale but endless sky stretches beyond the glass, a constant reminder of the world waiting outside. The scent of coffee hangs in the air—rich, strong, almost aggressive—mixed with the colder, clinical smell of metal and electronic components.
You cross the threshold. Behind his minimalist desk, Stark is already immersed in a ballet of floating holograms, blue and shifting. Formulas, 3D renders, lines of code, animated diagrams. He manipulates them with a simple hand gesture, as if playing the piano with reality. He doesn’t look at you right away. You could be a piece of furniture that got moved yesterday.
Then, without turning his gaze:
— "You’re on time. That’s a good start."
The tone is neutral, precise. But there’s that faint, barely concealed irony—a signature in his voice. You don’t answer. You could. You could throw a dry remark, or make a joke to mask your exhaustion. But you prefer to remain silent, to give nothing. You simply approach calmly, your steps measured, your wrist protesting with every swing of your arm.
You feel the pain. You feel Stark’s gaze—fleeting but sharp—slide toward your bandage like a scalpel. But he doesn’t comment. Not yet. You remain standing, upright, despite the fatigue twisting through your shoulder. Part of you hopes your calm hides the storm you’re carrying inside. The holograms freeze with a snap of his fingers.
Finally, Stark lifts his eyes to you. His gaze hits like a sharpened blade. A quick scan of your silhouette, clinical, emotionless. He lingers just a moment too long on your bandaged wrist, and you feel a silent evaluation taking place behind his pupils. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Not yet.
He leans back slightly in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest, chin barely lifted. Appears relaxed, but every muscle betrays constant vigilance.
— "So?" His voice is dry, direct. "You got one hand still working?"
You expected it. The remark fits the tone. Ironic, but not gratuitous. A provocation disguised as a joke. You nod, trying to appear calm, but tension tightens your neck, your jaw clenches.
— "It’ll do. I can work."
He stares at you a second longer, as if waiting for the smallest sign of weakness to pounce. Then he sighs, raises a hand, and taps his touchscreen without even glancing at it. A blue flash crosses the room. A series of holograms animates before you, suspended in the air with an unsettling fluidity. The space gently lights up, as if the air itself vibrates with data.
— "Good. Because you don’t have time to slack off."
The holograms stabilize, revealing a dense set of technical elements: a futuristic display interface, interactive modules, slowly rotating 3D schematics. You step closer, both fascinated and intimidated, observing the complex structure without daring to linger too long.
— "This morning, you’re working on this." His voice strikes like a mission order. "Update the holographic display prototype. Smooth, responsive, dynamic animation. And most importantly, real-time adaptability."
He pivots slightly in his chair, his gaze now locked on yours.
— "If that interface lags even two seconds, it’s trash. And so are you."
Your heart jumps. Three hours. Not four, not a full morning. Three hours. You swallow, subtly. The pressure is immediate, like an invisible hand pressing on your neck.
— "That a problem?"
You could search for words, ask for details, negotiate time. But you know it would be pointless.
You shake your head.
— "No, Boss."
A brief, almost invisible smile crosses his lips. No warmth—just cold satisfaction. He swivels again and points to a workstation near his, a screen already lit, blinking softly like an invitation—or an ultimatum.
— "Then stop wasting my time. And get to work."
You inhale slowly, adjust your bag strap, and approach the workstation. The chair is ergonomic, the screen immersive, framed by a tactile surface that responds to your approach with cascading lines of code. You sit. The bandage on your wrist pulls with every movement. You grit your teeth. You can’t afford to hesitate.
It’s time to prove you’re worth it.
You settle into your station, breath slightly held, as if the faintest sigh might betray your nerves. Your eyes scan the digital environment sprawling before you. The interfaces recognize your access, awaken to your presence, and ignite in an orderly explosion of floating windows. No room for hesitation.
Within seconds, you dive back into the software you explored the day before. The commands return with startling clarity. Your fingers find their place on the tactile zones, graze shortcuts, summon rendering modules like familiar incantations. The holographic screens respond instantly, illuminating your face in bluish reflections, projecting lines of code, latency parameters, shifting anchor points.
The pain is there, of course. A dull throb pulsing through your wrist with every move. You feel tension climbing your arm like a blade beneath the skin. But you push it aside. You don’t let it take over. Not now. Every click, every slide of a cursor, every voice command is a measured effort. Your body fights, but your mind is relentless. You modify layers, correct interpolation values, tighten timings with near-surgical precision.
You’re not just making the interface work. You want to make it shine. Bit by bit, you see the results of your adjustments. The delays fade, the animations gain smoothness. Where the image once struggled to follow interaction, it now begins to anticipate movement. The visuals breathe easier. And you feel, deep within, that rare spark: the one of creation taking shape under pressure.
And despite it all—the pressure, the pain, the exhaustion—something strangely exhilarating rises inside you. It hurts. It’s draining. But it’s alive.
You're all in. Completely immersed. The world around you no longer exists: there’s only the screens, the blue light on your skin, the lines of code chaining together like heartbeats. Your mind is in overdrive, even forgetting the pain in your wrist… until a brutal sound shatters everything.
The sharp buzz of your phone on the table.
You jump violently, like a gun just went off next to your ear. A cold shiver cuts through you, stealing your breath. You don’t even need to check. You already know. Your eyes drop, slowly, almost reluctantly. And the name appears, merciless, at the center of the glowing screen.
Matthew.
Your stomach clenches, bile rising to your throat. A mix of anger and disgust floods you, stronger than anything else. That single name is enough to reignite the pain, to reopen the wound you’ve barely managed to keep shut. Without thinking, you cut the call with a harsh swipe. Brutal. As if you could slam the door in his face that way. As if he might finally understand you never want to hear his voice again. But you’re not alone.
— "Problem?"
Stark’s voice slices through the air—dry, direct. He hadn’t said a word until now, but of course, he heard. He misses nothing. You slowly lift your eyes to him. His gaze is already on you, sharp as a scalpel. He doesn’t need words to make his point: he’s watching, analyzing, waiting. You inhale, trying to soften the tension gripping your jaw. You don’t want to show weakness. Not in front of him.
— "No. Nothing important."
You hear yourself speak, but your voice sounds too flat, too rushed. Stark doesn’t seem entirely convinced—he raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment further. He turns back to his screens, like nothing happened. Or almost. You take no risks: you silence your phone and bury it deep in your pocket, as if it burned your fingers.
No more distractions. No more poison.
You breathe deeply, chasing the bitter taste lingering in your mouth, and dive back into your work. The pressure hasn’t eased. It’s grown tighter, now rumbling in your chest. But you refuse to let that shadow slow you down. Not today. You need to work. No matter what’s trying to pull you back. That name, that memory, that pain. You lock them away in a room at the back of your mind and slam the door. You dive back in, body and soul, into your task.
The technical obstacles pile up. Layer conflicts, stubborn scripts, interaction effects that won’t behave. But unlike yesterday, you don’t let panic in. You identify, you correct. Your movements are more assured, more fluid. Your shortcuts execute almost by instinct. Every passing minute is revenge on the day before.
Yesterday taught you pain. Today, you apply discipline. The animations align, refine. Transitions glide from one point to the next with an elegance you didn’t think you were capable of in this state. The display gains sharpness. You adjust one parameter, then another, testing in real time. Response delay drops. Three hundredths of a second shaved off. It’s not much—but in this world, it’s everything.
Then your wrist betrays you. A dry, sharp pulse shoots up your arm. It coils around your elbow, your shoulder. You’re forced to stop. You discreetly rub the area, teeth clenched. You breathe slowly, deeply, as if sheer willpower could numb the pain. And you feel it—that gaze. He’s lifted his eyes from his screen. He says nothing. Not a word. But you feel his attention pressing on you like another weight on your already tense back. He’s studying you, analyzing your behavior with clinical detachment. You know what he’s looking for: the moment you break.
But you won’t. You straighten up. You resume. You bite into the effort like you want to challenge him. No complaint leaves your lips. Just micro-breaks, timed, discreet, calculated to keep going without worsening the injury. You still feel his eyes on you, at irregular intervals. He doesn’t speak. He takes notes. He watches. And it pushes you to work harder. The minutes accelerate, as if time itself wants to test your limit. The deadline looms. But this time, you’re ready. This time, you’re in control. You work with method. Clarity. Every change is meant to improve fluidity, every element rethought with adaptability in mind. You’re doing more than executing: you’re thinking. You’re invested.
You want to prove something. That you’re not just some lost kid picked up on a whim. That you’re not dead weight. That you belong here. Your eyes lock onto the screen, focused on the last details. There are still glitches: some stiff transitions, latency so slight it would escape anyone else… but not here. Not in this environment. Not under this gaze. You tweak a parameter, step back, click, test again. You watch the interface respond, your brain racing. You review every line, every animation, like your life depends on it. Because in a way, it does.
Then you sense movement. A figure shifts at the edge of your vision. He’s stood up. He finally leaves his chair, abandoning his floating holograms to position himself a few steps behind you. You don’t look at him, but you feel his shadow settle over your shoulder.
A silence takes hold. Dense. Charged with an almost electric tension. You feel his gaze on your screen before he even speaks. He doesn’t need words to apply pressure. His judgment hangs in the air, sharp as a scalpel.
— "Are you thinking it through… or planning to finish sometime before the end of the century?"
His voice cuts the silence like a blade. Ironic. Sharp. Almost gratuitous. You know what he’s doing. He’s pushing where it hurts, testing, provoking. To see if you hold, if you break, if you bite back. You inhale quietly, swallow your tension. No room for pride. You click. One last test. The interface reacts instantly. You double-check the transition curves. Then, without hesitation, you hit Send. The screen flashes. A notification confirms the submission. You take a deep breath, more to calm your heart than to breathe.
— "It’s done, Boss."
Your voice is steady. Calm. Controlled. You sit up slowly, careful to hide the tremor in your arm, to mask the pain pulsing in your wrist. Every movement is calculated. You refuse to appear weak.
Stark, arms crossed, leans lightly against his desk. He watches you, silent. His gaze lingers on your face, then drifts down to your arm, where the bandage peeks from your sleeve. He pivots, returns to his station. His fingers glide across his touchscreen with mechanical ease. Holograms spring to life around him, projecting your work into the room.
You watch him analyze. His eyes barely blink. He tests, scrolls, interacts with the interface like he’s trying to force a bug. To catch you slipping. But the animation holds. You stay standing, tense, breath shallow, waiting for a verdict.
He says nothing for a long moment, then…
Silence stretches, heavy as lead. You remain still, upright, almost rigid, watching for the slightest reaction. Stark keeps his eyes on the hologram, unreadable. Then finally, he nods slowly.
— "Good."
One word. Just one. But from him, it carries more weight than any compliment. He didn’t toss a jab, didn’t give a snide remark. You don’t know if that’s a good sign, but it almost feels… encouraging. Almost.
But just then, your phone vibrates in your pocket, once, then twice. A tiny sound, nearly muffled, but in this hushed room, it rings out like a gunshot. Stark looks up at you. His expression, neutral at first, darkens slightly. The tension spikes instantly. You pull out your phone, already knowing what you’ll see.
Matthew.
The name alone flips your stomach. You don’t think. You end the call immediately. And this time, you switch to silent without even looking up. No more distractions. You won’t let that presence haunt you here too.
— "Sorry, Boss. Go on. It won’t happen again."
Your voice is calm, but a little too tense. Too stiff. You feel like you’re walking a tightrope. Stark stares at you a second longer. His gaze is sharper than usual, heavier too. A mix of restrained irritation and unspoken questions. He doesn’t ask. But it’s not for lack of interest.
— "I hope not."
His voice is low, firm, like the edge of a scalpel. Not a threat. A promise of consequences. You nod, almost imperceptibly, and swallow your nerves. The atmosphere has thickened. Like every breath now has to be earned. He finally returns his focus to your work. The holograms bloom around him again in a choreography of cold light. His fingers move slowly across the interface, testing responses, zooming into details, pushing each transition to its limit.
He says nothing. But you know exactly what that silence means. He’s dissecting your work. Looking for what you overlooked. Searching for where you rushed, where you cheated, where you relied on luck.
You remain there, standing, arms crossed behind your back, like a student waiting for the verdict of their strictest professor. Your eyes go from his face to the hologram, trying to read every micro-expression. A furrowed brow? A smirk? Nothing escapes him, and you still don’t know if you did well.
He stops for a moment. Replays a sequence. The same one, twice. You feel your heart pick up pace. You want to ask him what he thinks. You want to break this silence. But you know it would be a mistake. So you say nothing. You hold it in. And you wait. You don’t even look up at Stark anymore. You already feel his judgment—but what you want him to see in the end is your determination.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just a tiny frown, nearly imperceptible—but enough to make you tense up instantly. A twitch in his gaze, a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Something displeases him, and you know it before he even opens his mouth.
— “It’s clean,” he finally says, his tone more neutral than you expected. “Better than last time.”
You hold your breath. But you can already hear what’s coming next. He pauses. Then, inevitably:
— “But…”
You grit your teeth. Always a but. And this is where everything hinges. He zooms precisely on a microscopic portion of the animation. His finger glides through the air with mechanical smoothness until he isolates a sequence barely a second long.
— "There." He taps at the air, pointing to a transition. “See that? That lag in the interface response. It’s subtle. Too subtle for most people.”
You squint. At first, you see nothing. Then, as you keep staring, it becomes obvious. A slight stutter, almost imperceptible. A beat too long, a microsecond of latency. He’s right. Of course he’s right.
— “This kind of detail,” he continues, still calm but incisive, “is what separates a decent prototype from a system we can actually use in the field. Do you want your work to be ‘acceptable’ or ‘indispensable’?”
The question doesn’t expect an answer. It’s not really a question. It’s a warning. A direction. You nod slowly. You take the remark without flinching. You don’t take it badly—because he’s not trying to belittle you. He wants to see if you can level up. And you fully intend to.
— “Fix it. One more hour, no more.”
His voice is sharp, curt. The ultimatum is clear, but it comes with an implicit trust. He knows you can do it. And that trust, however subtle, is worth more than any compliment. You return to your station without a word. You reopen the sequence, your eyes already locked on the flaw to fix. Your wrist protests with a sharp throb, but you ignore it.
You can do this. You will do this. Because this time, you don’t just want it to be good. You want it to shine. But just as your fingers touch the keyboard, Stark’s voice slices through the room, smooth, poised, almost casual.
— “Who’s Matthew?”
Your breath catches. Instantly. Like a punch to the ribs. You freeze. The words take forever to rise, stuck somewhere between panic and anger. You know it’s not a real question. Not coming from him. It’s a disguised blade, a test, an emotional radar.
You lift your eyes to him. Stark hasn’t moved. He’s still facing his screens, his back slightly leaned forward, seemingly detached. But you know he’s watching you from the corner of his eye, analyzing every micro-reaction, every shift in your voice. You swallow your tension, force your face to stay neutral. Your voice comes out more steady than you expected:
— “No one important.”
He doesn’t respond. Doesn’t correct you. But he doesn’t look away immediately either. He holds the silence. Just long enough for you to know he doesn’t buy it. That he already understands. That he heard more than what you said.
Then, without a word, he turns back to his work, as if the question had never been asked. As if he’d left a door open… that you chose to close. But you know. You feel it. That conversation isn’t over. Not for him. Your gaze drops back to the screen, but it no longer holds your attention. The numbers, the timelines, the glowing curves scroll by without really registering. Your mind is elsewhere. Stuck.
Matthew.
Why does he keep calling? You know why. He wants something. Again. A transfer. A favor. Some form of control. Like always. Your jaw tightens. Your good hand clenches on the table, your bandaged fingers brushing the edge of the metal desk. You pull your hand back immediately. He hasn’t let you go. Not really. And even here, even now, he still finds a way to reach you. But you refuse to let him follow you this far.
The thought loops in your head like a scratched record you can’t stop. Your apartment. Or rather, the absence of a real roof. That no-place between two worlds where you survive instead of live. You can’t stay at Peter’s forever—even if he hasn’t said it, you feel it. It’s a temporary fix, a bandage on a much deeper hemorrhage.
You need to find housing. Fast.
But how? With a fractured wrist, a bank account as empty as your fridge was yesterday, and a job at Stark Industries you only just landed, with no contract, no guarantee. I can’t afford to ask Stark for an advance. Especially not on day two. Everything’s hanging by a thread, and it already feels like it’s about to snap.
Your throat tightens. Your heart pounds against your ribs, erratic, violent. Your fingers, tense on the table edge, tremble imperceptibly. The screen blurs before you. The lines of code, the animations—they all become abstract, unreadable. A blur of pixels, as if your brain suddenly refuses to cooperate. You blink, several times, to no effect. Cold sweat beads at your nape.
You try to refocus. To get back on track. But your breath quickens, uneven, chopped. The air feels thin. Anxiety creeps in, insidious, unstoppable. Then a movement to your left. Subtle, but enough to yank you back to reality.
Stark. He’s lifted his eyes from his screen. And he’s watching you. His stare is hard. Sharp as a blade. He doesn’t need words. Everything is in the way he measures you. He saw you slip. He saw you fall apart, even if you didn’t move. A dry click of the tongue breaks the silence.
— “Seriously?” His voice cracks like a whip. “I give you an hour to fix a minor detail and you’re already daydreaming? What’s your problem?”
His tone is harsher than usual. You hear the irritation. No, worse: the disappointment. And that crushes you more than any insult. You inhale quietly, try to straighten your shoulders. Keep up appearances. Smother the fire in your chest. You can’t tell him the truth. Not here. Not now.
— “Nothing, Boss.” Your voice is steady, but the effort to hold it is anything but. “I’ll get it done.”
You dive right back into your screen, fingers hesitating on the keyboard, trying to pick up where you left off. But you still feel his gaze on you. Heavy. Scrutinizing. He doesn’t believe you. He knows something’s wrong. And yet, he says nothing more. Maybe he’s waiting for you to crack. Maybe he’s waiting for an explanation. But you’d rather stay silent. And in that silence, in that wordless judgment, there’s maybe something even worse than reproach. The last lines of code are tweaked, transitions smoothed to the pixel, latency shaved down to nearly nothing. You adjust one final curve, check once more how the interface reacts in real time—everything seems to be working as expected.
You take a deep breath, longer than necessary, as if your body had forgotten how to breathe under pressure. Then you click. The file is sent. Final.
— "It’s done, Boss. This time it’s finalized."
Your voice is steady, but it betrays a fatigue you can’t quite hide anymore. You lean back slowly in your seat, without collapsing, without sighing too loudly, as if every movement had to go unnoticed. Your wrist protests violently under the release of tension, but you grit your teeth, refusing to show the slightest weakness.
Stark says nothing.
He remains seated, motionless, his eyes jumping from one point to another of the holograms projected in front of him. He tests, drags, enlarges certain zones, speeds up the interaction rate, forces transitions in random contexts. A real stress test in silence.
Every second that passes seems to stretch into eternity. The wait gnaws at you. Then finally, he nods. A barely perceptible gesture, quick, but sharp.
— "Not bad."
Two words. They drop into the silence like a pebble into water. No mocking tone, no hidden irony. Just a dry, blunt appreciation. It’s almost… a compliment.
And that, coming from Stark, is worth gold. You exhale softly, the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slipping out in a partial release. You feel the weight of the pressure begin to ease—not completely, but enough to catch your breath. But the respite is brief.
— "Alright, now that your project’s done, maybe we can talk."
His voice, calm but unwavering, slices cleanly through the illusion of rest. Your stomach knots immediately, like his words just pressed a raw nerve. Your heart skips a beat. You knew this moment was coming. You’d seen the shadow of this conversation in his looks. You’d guessed, since the moment he said Matthew’s name.
You tense slightly, but you make an effort to keep a neutral, detached expression—as if you weren’t suffocating under the pressure.
— "Talk about what?"
Stark raises an eyebrow. A few seconds of silence settle in, threatening. Then he slowly straightens, leans back against his desk, arms crossed, eyes locked on yours.
— "You don’t get it?" His voice is low, deceptively calm. Every word hits with surgical precision, sharp as a well-honed blade. "You’ve got a problem that’s keeping you from doing your job properly, and I hate distractions. So I’m gonna ask you again: who’s Matthew?"
Your heart stumbles. The air seems to freeze around you. You could almost hear the buzzing of the ceiling lights, the silence is that thick. Your back stiffens, your gaze shifts despite yourself. He knows. He’s watching. He’s waiting. You inhale slowly through your nose, hold it for a second, then exhale soundlessly. You gather what little composure you have left.
— "No one important."
Your voice is calm, too calm. Flat. Like you’re trying to hide a chasm behind a paper-thin wall. The silence that follows says more than any sharp retort. You know he doesn’t believe you. And you also know he won’t push right away. Stark’s a predator: he probes, he gauges, he strikes when the weakness is exposed.
He sighs. Not loud, but enough for you to hear it like a verdict. Then his gaze drifts slowly to your hand.
— "Your wrist."
You instinctively follow the direction of his finger. You hadn’t even noticed you were clutching your injured arm with your other hand, like you could contain the pain through sheer willpower.
— "It’s not better, is it?"
You open your mouth, ready to toss out a canned reply, a polite lie—but he cuts you off, sharply:
— "Don’t bother giving me a bullshit excuse. I can see damn well you’re still struggling."
You freeze. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, but it’s not shame. It’s anger. Frustration. Fear, too. Because he sees too clearly. Because he lays bare everything you’re desperately trying to hide.
— "I’ve had worse," you finally say, your gaze locked on his, defiant, almost.
Stark doesn’t react right away. His eyes stay locked on yours, as if trying to figure out how true—or desperate—that line really is. Then, without transition, he changes the subject. But you know it’s on purpose.
— "And your housing?"
You freeze. A blade to the gut. You should’ve expected it. Of course he’d ask. But hearing it, right here, spoken so plainly in this vast and silent space, hits differently. You want to answer. Say you’re handling it, that you have a plan, that you’re not some lost charity case. But no words come. And your silence says more than you’d wanted.
Stark says nothing. He just stares at you. But you know. You feel. That something is shifting. Stark notices. Of course. Nothing escapes him.
— "So you haven’t found anything."
It’s not even a question. Just a blunt, cold, clear statement. A scalpel tossed without hesitation. You clench your jaw, eyes slightly lowered. You hate this feeling: being dissected, analyzed, exposed. Like every poorly patched lie you carry is blinking in neon for him.
— "I’m handling it."
Three words. Weak. Hollow. The moment you say them, you regret it. You know it’s a flimsy defense, and Stark won’t buy it. He stares at you for a moment… then lets out a short, dry scoff. Not a real laugh. A sarcastic sound, hard as metal. A blade of irony in a barely disguised glove of contempt.
— "You’re handling it, huh?" He repeats your words slowly, chewing them, turning them to ridicule. "Remind me—aren’t you still crashing at your buddy’s place? What’s his name again… Peter?"
Your heart stutters. Your gaze snaps to him, breath briefly cut off. A shiver crawls slowly up your spine, icy. How does he know that? You never told him about Peter. He must just know you're his friend. You never gave him an address, a name, any details. And yet he knows. You open your mouth, but no words come out. Stark just crosses his arms, leaning against the edge of his desk, perfectly at ease. His gaze doesn’t leave you.
— "It’s not magic, you know," he finally says, with an almost casual tone. "You’re in my company. I have access to your hours, your commute logs, your school file, your medical file… Your phone rings twenty times, your expression freezes, you’ve got a fracture you tried to hide, and you show up here without a stable address. I connected two dots, no satellites needed."
His tone is calm. Measured. But behind every word, you feel the same thing: he knows. More than you thought. A massive weight drops on your shoulders. You no longer really have any armor, no escape. His nonchalance sets your nerves on edge. Like a spark landing on a dry field. You feel your jaw clench, your throat tighten.
— "You’re monitoring me, is that it?" you snap, your voice a bit sharper than you meant. "I’m under constant surveillance now?"
He chuckles. Not loud, not exactly mocking—just that kind of disillusioned laugh that sinks you deeper into discomfort.
— "Oh, please. Spare me the paranoia."
He crosses his arms, like someone who’s already won the argument without even participating.
— “You showed up here yesterday with a half-empty bag, wrinkled clothes, and the face of a guy who's been crashing on couches for way too long. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re struggling.”
His tone is direct, blunt, unfiltered—but that doesn’t dull the sting you feel inside. You swallow down the bitterness rising up.
— "So what?" you snap, lifting your chin. You cross your arms to give yourself some posture, to hide just how much he’s shaking you. "Why do you care?"
Stark’s gaze hardens. Just a bit. Enough to make the atmosphere in the room heavy. He steps forward, slowly, unhurried, and leans against the edge of his desk. The distance between you narrows. His voice now is calmer, but icy.
— "I care because you’re under my roof, using my tech, and I can’t afford to work with someone who’ll collapse at the first gust of wind."
You feel your heart pound harder. You inhale, but the air gets stuck halfway. You ball your fists in your sleeves, joints stiff.
— "You’re overreacting."
He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t even need to reply right away for you to know what he thinks of that weak defense. But he does anyway.
— "Seriously?" He lets out a short, dry laugh, humorless. "You’ve got a busted wrist, slept who knows where last night, flinch every time your phone buzzes and refuse to talk about it like it’s just a hangover. You think that’s a stable environment to work in on my team?"
You tense. You feel the anger rise—aimed more at yourself than at him. But you refuse to look away.
— "I’m not your problem."
Stark stares at you. And this time, his gaze is calmer. But sharper, too.
— "You work for me. That makes you my problem."
He pauses, then adds in a graver, almost glacial tone:
— "And if you think I’m going to waste time, resources, and trust on someone who’s going to implode in a week… then you don’t understand how things work around here."
The room is thick with tension. You could swear even the background hum of the holographic screens has gone silent. He’s not yelling. He’s not losing his temper. It’s worse. He’s lucid. Cold. Realistic. And somewhere deep down, you know he’s not entirely wrong.
The tension is almost palpable in the air. Your muscles are tight, your breathing shallow. He’s pushing you to your limits with surgical precision, never raising his voice, never wavering. Stark is a wall. And you keep crashing into it, again and again, hoping it’ll crack. But it doesn’t. He’s analyzing you, calculating. And he sees what you’re trying to hide. And the worst part is, you know he’s not completely wrong. You breathe a little deeper, trying to regain control. Just a bit.
— "Listen, Boss… I’ve got this. I always do. I don’t need pity, just a little time."
He doesn’t interrupt you. Doesn’t raise an eyebrow. He lets you speak, like someone letting a kid talk themselves into a wall. And still, you continue.
— "I’ve already started looking for an apartment. Might take a few days, but I’ll find something."
You want to believe it. You want him to believe it. But the second the words leave your mouth, you know they sound hollow. Fragile. And he doesn’t need to say it. His look says it all.
— "And in the meantime?" The tone drops like a blade. "You gonna keep crashing on a couch, working with a half-broken wrist, and ignoring calls that make you flinch just from seeing the name pop up?"
You don’t answer. Because he summed it all up. Because he saw what you’re trying so hard to bury. You lower your eyes. Your hands tremble slightly. You clench your fists to still them. "I’m not going to fall apart," you whisper. A silence. Brief. Charged. Then Stark says:
— "Alright. There’s a spare room here, in the tower. It’s yours."
A jolt. Your heart skips a beat. You look up sharply, eyes wide.
— "What?"
Stark is still there, unshaken. Arms crossed. Unmovable.
— "You need a roof. I need an employee who can work without dying at their desk. It’s not charity. It’s optimization."
You stay frozen. The word “room” loops in your mind, but he’s already continuing, relentless:
— "I don’t hand out second chances, kid. And I sure as hell don’t house people. But you’re a gamble. And if you can’t keep up, it’s my time you’re wasting. So I’ll ask one last time. Are you taking it or not?"
You search for words. For breath. You glance around, as if an escape route might open up in the shadows of the holograms. But nothing. Just this offer. Sudden. Real. Heavy. You open your mouth. Nothing comes out. A silence hangs, thick, then a laugh escapes you. One of those involuntary ones—nervous, dry, a little bitter.
— "I guess if I say no, you’ll keep yelling at me, right?"
Stark doesn’t flinch, but a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. Almost invisible.
— "Bingo."
You roll your eyes with a sigh. Exasperation clings to you, but somewhere behind it, a weight lifts. Just a little. You straighten slowly, crossing your arms like you’re reclaiming some form of control, even if everything in you still screams uncertainty.
— "Alright. But… I don’t want it to change anything, okay? No weird stuff. No messed up chain of command. Just a roof. Nothing more."
Stark raises an eyebrow, half amused, half skeptical. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s examining an absurd art piece in a modern gallery.
— "Oh, of course." His tone is mock-formal. "We’ll draw up the cleanest lease you’ve ever seen. Ironclad contract, confidentiality clause, guarantee I won’t be giving you morning hugs."
You shake your head, a tight smile on your lips. The irony—always. But it’s better than pity.
— "Great…" you mutter, half drained. "Guess I’ll go get my stuff then. If the offer still stands."
Stark gives a vague nod, already turning back to his screens.
— "As long as you’re on time tomorrow morning, I don’t care."
He taps on the interface, already filing you away as a temporarily resolved issue. But you catch the tiniest hesitation in his movements. As if, despite the laid-back façade, he knows this conversation mattered. You stand there one second longer, thoughts still tangled. Then you nod to yourself. And turn on your heels.
You leave the office with brisk, almost mechanical steps. Your mind is spinning, swallowed by the conversation that just happened. Every word Stark said still echoes in your skull like a metallic aftershock.
A room in the tower. You still don’t know if it’s a lifeline… or a well-wrapped trap. You walk the corridor without noticing the high-tech walls, the dimmed lights, the impeccable architecture. Nothing feels real. As if, in a matter of minutes, the precarious balance you were trying to maintain had been quietly ripped from under you.
When the elevator doors slide open, you step in without thinking, shoulders slightly hunched. The chamber seals behind you with a discreet hiss, locking you into an almost oppressive silence. The cold metal of the wall you lean against reminds you that you’re still here, in flesh and bone, and that you have to keep going.
You pull out your phone with a tired hand, the pale blue screen blinding you for a moment. Then you type a short, dry message, almost cynical:
“Found an ‘apartment.’”
The quotation marks are intentional. A sarcastic wink Peter will easily understand. He’ll ask questions, of course. You know him. But for now, you don’t feel like explaining. Don’t feel like saying that Stark himself “offered” you a bed the way someone throws a lifeline to a drowning man. You just want to go get your things. Close the door on this strange, exhausting day that feels a little too unreal for your tired brain.
The elevator descends slowly, floor by floor. Each level pulls you farther from that tower of glass and secrets… and brings you back to a reality you no longer want to inhabit. Stepping out of the tower, the air hits you hard—colder than you expected. The night breeze slips under your jacket, lifts the edges of your coat, makes you shiver. You inhale deeply, like trying to cleanse yourself of everything that just happened upstairs. A breath of oxygen to dispel the exhaustion, the confusion, the feeling of having been pulled into something beyond you.
You walk fast, your steps tense, hands in your pockets, eyes locked on the asphalt. You try to convince yourself it’s fine. That it’s nothing. That a bed in a glass tower doesn’t change who you are. That it’s just… temporary. A technical solution to a logistical problem. Nothing more. But you’ve barely turned the corner when a voice stops you dead.
— “Not answering your phone anymore, huh?”
Your spine locks. Your lungs refuse to work. A chilling shiver climbs your back.
Matthew.
Your heart explodes in your chest. You don’t even need to turn around to recognize the tone, the familiar intonation, that mix of reproach and sarcasm that’s silenced you so many times before. He’s here. He was waiting. A shudder runs through you, but you don’t speed up. You keep walking. Straight ahead. Hands still deep in your pockets. Don’t respond. Don’t give him what he wants. Just walk away. But of course, Matthew doesn’t give you that option.
You hear his footsteps behind you, fast, insistent. He catches up in a few strides.
— “Seriously? You think you can just ignore me?”
Your stomach knots. Your breath shortens, your jaw clenches. The panic, familiar, insidious, begins to creep into your mind, blurring any rational thought. You didn’t want this. Not tonight. Not him. Not now. A hand bursts into your back, brutal, unrelenting, slamming onto your shoulder with a force that knocks the breath out of you. Before your brain even registers what’s happening, your body is yanked backward, thrown off balance, ripped off course.
You fall.
The ground hits you mercilessly—hard, cold, rough like a blade of glass against your skin. Your back slams against the pavement, and the air is violently expelled from your lungs. A white flash tears across your vision as the back of your head smacks the concrete with a dull crack. A deep ache pulses instantly at the base of your skull.
Then silence, crushed by the chaos inside you. A dry laugh splits the air above you. Cruel. Detached. Almost delighted.
— “Think you can erase me just like that without a word? You’re dead wrong.”
You slowly turn your head, cheek burning against the asphalt, just in time to feel a warm splash hit your face. Spit. He spat on you. You stay frozen. Paralyzed. Your breath is jagged, cut by shock and humiliation. Your fist clenches against the pavement, but your body refuses to follow the fury boiling in your chest. Paralyzed. Trapped in a nightmare on repeat.
In the distance, behind the glass walls of the Stark Tower lobby, movement catches your eye. A poised, tense silhouette.
Pepper Potts.
She’s there. She saw. Her expression freezes in silent horror before she grabs her phone, her gestures quick, precise. She gives orders, alerts someone. But all that feels distant, drowned in the moment. Because Matthew hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy reveling in his fleeting power, his shadow stretched by the streetlights like a specter come to haunt you.
— “You’ve always been a fucking wreck. A parasite.”
You lift your eyes, blurry, and that’s when you see his foot. And you understand too late. He raises it high, with surgical precision. And slams it down—directly on your injured wrist. The pain explodes, catastrophic. A cry escapes you, ragged, ripped from your gut. Your body twists from the impact, your vision sways. A raw scream echoes somewhere in the night—yours, maybe. Or your pain’s.
Then nothing. Just cold concrete, the metallic taste of fear, and the sharp whistle of blood pulsing at your temples. The pain electrocutes you head to toe. It shoots through you like a shockwave, slashing you from the inside. A cry escapes despite you—guttural, strangled, torn from the depths of your throat. Your arm spasms under the pressure, your fingers twitch, twisted, as if trying to flee the impossible agony.
And he laughs.
A dry, vicious laugh that turns your stomach. He presses harder. Slowly. Methodically. He savors every second, every groan. His heel digs into your wrist like he wants to crush it to the bone. You feel the bone give a little more, acidic heat spreading through your arm like your blood’s boiling.
— “Bet you’ll think twice before ignoring me again, you little bitch.”
The words hit as hard as the blows. Humiliating. Filthy. Your breath comes short, gasping. You’re choking. The pain clouds your vision, drowns you in a red haze. You want to move, scream, get up, but your body won’t respond. You’re frozen. Nailed to the ground by his hate.
Around you, the world fades away. Unreal. But a sharp voice cuts through the fog. A crisp, commanding snap.
— “Hey! Get away from him. Now!”
It’s Pepper Potts. She strides toward you, heels striking the pavement, elegant silhouette radiating icy fury. Phone still pressed to her ear, she gives orders with tense calm, every word weighed and sharp. Matthew freezes. Just for a second. He turns slowly to her, surprised, almost caught off guard.
— “I’ve already alerted security. If you touch another inch of him, you won’t set foot in this city again without us finding you.”
Her voice is calm. Controlled. But it radiates an authority even Matthew can’t ignore. You’re still on the ground, trembling, your wrist crushed against your chest, protected by reflex. You hear nothing but the buzzing in your ears and the frantic pounding of your heart. But you see her gaze—sharp, furious, not at you… but for you.
Matthew clenches his jaw. His fingers twitch at his sides, his eyes cloud with restrained rage. He hesitates. He wavers. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He wanted to break you in silence, in the dark. But now there’s a witness—and not just anyone: Pepper Potts. A public figure, powerful, untouchable.
— “None of your business.” His voice aims for sharp, detached, but wavers with nervous frustration. Yet in his eyes, doubt flickers.
Pepper doesn’t move an inch. Her heels strike again, a firm declaration. She steps toward him, unflinching, gaze locked on his, burning cold.
— “Yes, it is.” Her voice is calm, but every word slaps like a strike. “You just assaulted a Stark Industries employee. Right in front of our building. I strongly suggest you back off… if you care at all about your future.”
Matthew shoots a contemptuous glance your way. You’re still on the ground, breathing shallow, hand clutched to your burning wrist. You can’t move. You can’t even speak. But he understands. He’s lost control.
Behind Pepper, silhouettes approach fast. Stark Tower security agents. Black vests, earpieces, sharp eyes. They’re ready. He won’t escape this.
— “Fuck…” Matthew growls through clenched teeth. He finally pulls his foot back. You feel it retreat, like a trap springing open.
Air floods your lungs. You gasp, your body shaking with pain. You can’t even speak. Matthew leans in. Too close. His shadow swallows your face.
— “This isn’t over.” His voice is low, hissing. A cold blade under your skin.
Then he stands and steps back, hands raised like an actor striking a pose. He flashes a fake smile—pathetic. The guards surround him immediately.
— “Name. Now.”
One of them grabs his shoulder. Matthew lets out a bitter, empty laugh. With a sharp move, he slips into the street, shoving past pedestrians without looking back. Pepper doesn’t follow him with her eyes. She stays focused on you. She crouches beside you, her voice soft but firm.
— “Breathe. You’re safe now.”
But no. Nothing is okay. Not at all. You stay on the ground, unable to speak. Your heart slams inside your chest, chaotic, like it’s trying to escape too. Your wrist is on fire. Every pulse a hammer blow. And your whole body shakes uncontrollably, as if the adrenaline refuses to leave your veins.
You can’t see the sidewalk anymore. Everything is blurry. Sounds fade. You feel only this hand on your shoulder. Solid. Steady. You’re not alone. But you’re broken.
Everything blurs. Your mind drifts, searching for something solid to cling to—but nothing holds. Every heartbeat drives a spike of pain through your wrist, flooding you with dizziness. The world shrinks to one truth: you’re on the ground, shattered, and you can’t get up on your own. The concrete beneath you is freezing, but you barely feel it. You hardly feel your body anymore, like part of you detached to escape the shame. The shame is rising, quiet and unstoppable. You tried to move on, turn the page. But all you see is that the past follows, hunts you, and always ends up crushing you.
Pepper is crouched beside you. Her perfect suit clashes with the grimy sidewalk, but she doesn’t care. Her gaze is on you—not the scene, not Matthew, not the guards—just you. A fierce concern beneath her composure. Like she truly sees you. Sees past your collapsed form.
— “It’s going to be okay. I’ll help you up.” Her voice is calm, controlled, but you hear the urgency she’s holding back.
You nod weakly, not from conviction, just because she needs a sign. Words won’t come. Even a “thank you” feels impossible.
She slides an arm under your shoulder and, gently but firmly, helps you sit up. Your body protests, a low moan escapes as you rise halfway. You stagger. Your legs wobble like they don’t trust you anymore either. The world around you keeps turning: footsteps, whispers, stares. You hear them without really hearing, like you’re underwater, trapped in a bubble. A guard speaks into his earpiece. Others disperse now that the threat is gone. But inside, it’s chaos.
You can only think one thing: you let him get to you again. You let Matthew win. Not physically—he’s gone, this time. But he broke you. He reignited that dull pain, that inner void you kept trying to ignore. Pepper says nothing. She senses your silence, your fall, your isolation. She doesn’t try to fill it with words.
She’s just there. And for now, that’s enough. She supports you like someone who refuses to let you fall. Not out of pity. Not from distance. Just with solid, grounded presence.
— “Let’s head back.” Her voice slices the air like a final note.
You don’t argue. You can’t. You just move forward—or try to. One step at a time, guided by her hand and sheer inertia. Eyes blank, thoughts swallowed by a single truth: you’re still alive… but you hurt. Everywhere.
What Remains | Chapter 9 Fractured Resolve (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : Injured and exhausted, he’s forced to face Stark’s relentless expectations while pushing through the pain. Every mistake is scrutinized, every moment a test of endurance. By the end of the day, there’s no praise—just a quiet acknowledgment. But as exhaustion settles in, one thought lingers—how much longer can he keep going?
word count: 16.3k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
You freeze, Stark’s words ringing in your head like an electric shock. The atmosphere in the room turns suffocating, every passing second stretching out, heavy with pressure. He stares at you intensely, his dark, piercing eyes locked on yours. It’s a firm gaze, almost merciless, like a sharpened blade ready to cut through any pretense.
— “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get up and go see a doctor.” His voice is clear, sharp, leaving no room for discussion. He speaks as if it’s just a formality, but the authority in his words leaves no doubt.
— “If there’s really nothing wrong, fine. But if it’s serious, I don’t want to see you trying to work through it like an idiot.” He pauses, making sure each word hits its mark before continuing.
The air seems to grow heavier, the tension thickening around you. Each heartbeat pounds in your temples, echoing the anxiety rising inside you. You remain frozen, throat tight. Stark’s gaze doesn’t waver. He watches you like an inspector, scrutinizing every inch of your behavior, waiting for you to comply. A chill runs down your spine. He’s testing you—you know it.
— “This isn’t a request.” His words are firm, like the final blow that nails shut any chance of rebellion. He leaves you no way out, no escape.
He steps closer, and the space between you shrinks, making the atmosphere even more oppressive. He towers a little more now, his shadow engulfing the space around you. He moves slowly, unhurried, yet each step feels like added weight on your soul. His eyes never leave yours—a silent challenge, a demand.
— “You can either do what I say, or I’ll remove you from my team. And believe me, that’s non-negotiable.” The coldness in his voice allows no hesitation. It’s a brutal ultimatum, and you know he’s not bluffing. He’s given you a chance, a moment to act properly, but the line has been drawn.
You want to protest, to defend yourself, to say he’s overreacting, that it’s just a small issue, nothing serious. But something in his eyes stops you. You can tell he’s serious, that he won’t budge, that any attempt to dodge this would fail. The weight of his words overwhelms you, holding you in place. Stark won’t let you slip away from this. It’s not just about work—it’s about respect, discipline. And he expects you to follow through. You find yourself trapped in an invisible net, a pressure woven through words and threats, and yet, you know you have no choice. The decision may be yours, but it’s already shaped by him. You let out a long sigh, the weight in your chest growing heavier. You look up at him slightly and, despite the defiance still simmering inside, you know there’s no space left for resistance. “Okay, Boss. I’ll go see a doctor. But I wasn’t lying about the fight with my colleague.” The words fall from your lips with strange heaviness, a confession lost in the tension between you. You don’t intend to downplay what happened, but the admission lingers in the air, with no immediate impact.
Stark doesn’t respond right away, and the silence between you becomes nearly unbearable. His eyes stay locked on yours, piercing, analyzing every shift in your expression. He’s not satisfied—not at all. His gaze sharpens, searching for what lies between your words. Then, without warning, he grabs his phone, fingers flying over the screen with mechanical speed. Frustration radiates from him, each movement betraying a tension he no longer hides. He doesn’t need to say much for you to realize—there will be no leniency. He quickly dials a number and waits for the tone, slicing through the dense silence.
— “Pepper. Yeah, he needs a medical appointment. Right now. Find someone who can see him immediately.” His voice is firm, direct, completely devoid of hesitation. He’s already planning the next steps, taking control, but the urgency in his tone isn’t concern—it’s pressure, pure and simple, laid heavy on your shoulders through every motion.
You watch him, wary, as he prepares to issue more orders. Anxiety prickles beneath your skin. He’s seized control, but something tells you this isn’t over. He seems irritated by the slowness of it all, by the need to push things forward on his own relentless terms. Pepper finally answers, and Stark presses on, his tone brooking no argument.
— “Make it fast, okay? I don’t have all day to waste on him.” He nods slightly, as if emphasizing the urgency even more. But then, a thought seems to strike him—there’s a flicker in his eyes, a brief pause.
He stops for a second, gaze drifting into space. Then, almost to himself, he mutters, “Could try Bruce, but he’s not available today.” A short sigh escapes him, frustrated by the constraint—as though this entire situation is just another hurdle in his quest for total control. Bruce’s name lingers in the air, a possibility Stark would’ve liked to pursue, but is forced to dismiss for now. His eyes settle on you again, one last glance to assess whether you're still playing your part. Then he picks up the phone, a flicker of frustration in his movements. You know time is slipping through your fingers, and you realize he’s leaving you with barely any options.
He turns his head slightly toward you, his eyes scanning you with that same cold, heavy intensity. His gaze weighs on you, as if he’s measuring every word, every breath. You instinctively lower your eyes, unwilling to confront that constant pressure. He says nothing, but you know he’s sizing you up, looking for a crack, a hesitation—something to use. He finally hangs up, the echo of the final beep lingering in the room. Without looking at you, he states flatly, "You’ve got ten minutes to be downstairs. We’re waiting." His words are sharp, unequivocal, like an order that doesn’t need justification. No room for refusal. No room for negotiation. You clench your jaw discreetly, a wave of frustration and helplessness surging through you. It disgusts you to be treated like a child dragged unwillingly to the doctor. Every fiber of your being tenses against the humiliation, but you know you have no choice. You never did. You never had the luxury of saying no.
A sigh slips from your lips, heavy with resignation, and you rise slowly. Every movement feels heavier than the last, like you're carrying the weight of the entire conversation on your shoulders. You drop your things on the side of Stark’s desk, carelessly, before casting one last glance his way. He doesn’t move, doesn’t say a word. He’s already back at his screen, as if you never left the room, as if everything was already settled. In his world, there’s no room for discussion. Everything is already decided. The weight of his invisible gaze follows you as you head to the door. Even without looking, you can feel his attention pressing against you, slipping into your movements. He’s there, silent, a specter trailing behind you, guiding you without a word. But you won’t give him that victory. Not yet.
You take a deep breath, trying to gather some calm, and walk toward the elevator. The metallic door slides open in front of you, and you step through. A deeper sigh escapes your lungs, like a weight finally letting go, but it’s a bitter relief. The first real sign of ease since the beginning of that conversation. It’s like all the air you’ve been holding in for far too long finally escapes. But even as you breathe more freely, you know it’s not over. It’s just a pause. And you’re not fooled.
The elevator doors slide open into the main lobby, bathed in dim light, the muffled bustle of Stark Tower blending into a calm that feels almost artificial. The air here is cooler, a faint breeze threading its way through the modern walls of glass and steel, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing on your chest. The reality of your situation—what you’ve just been through, and what still awaits—wraps itself around you again, just as heavy, just as present.
You scan the room, searching for Pepper Potts in the midst of the commotion. She stands out immediately. Her impeccable appearance, upright posture, almost imposing presence, with that tablet clutched against her side like an extension of herself, gives you the impression of a woman who controls everything, who has absolute command over every aspect of her surroundings. She’s talking with an employee, words exchanged quickly and professionally, but the moment she catches your gaze, her expression shifts imperceptibly. What seemed like a simple business interaction transforms into a swift, efficient analysis. She looks at you, head to toe, without a word, but you feel her gaze linger on your wrist, a flash of comprehension and judgment flickering in her eyes. You know what she’s thinking, you know she’s noticed, and that sense of vulnerability grows with every second you spend under her scrutinizing gaze. Then, after a pause, she exhales quietly, a sigh so faint only a trained eye might catch it. But it speaks volumes. She already knows.
You walk toward her with measured steps, stomach tight with apprehension, each movement feeling heavy, as if the air around you has thickened. You know she won’t spare you, that this won’t be easy, but you’re ready to face it. She’s there, poised and unreadable, and you know there’s no way out.
— "You’re faster than expected." Her tone is neutral, but a subtle tension disrupts the perfection of her voice. She’s used to managing crises that arise out of nowhere, but you can read in her eyes that this one bothers her, even if she doesn’t show it. She’s mastered the art of remaining calm, but it’s obvious this situation irks her.
You shrug, trying to downplay everything, though deep down you know she’s right.
— "Didn’t really have a choice."
She tilts her head slightly, a barely-there movement, but you catch it. Her gaze softens a fraction, but it’s just a façade, a gesture of understanding without truly meaning it.
— "Tony said you need to see a doctor immediately. And when he says immediately…" She lets the sentence hang, but the words remain suspended in the air between you. This isn’t a suggestion. It’s an order. Stark’s never been one to compromise in situations like this. And you know that, just as much as she does.
A heavy silence settles. The tension is palpable, almost electric. There’s a subtle nervousness—not in her gestures, but in the atmosphere—a silent pressure urging you to move, to act. But you resist. She takes a deep breath, her gaze flicking away briefly before returning to you, as if weighing every word she’s about to say.
— "I’ve arranged an appointment with someone trustworthy. Nothing official, nothing recorded. Just someone who knows what they’re doing." Her eyes hold yours for a moment, as if waiting for a reaction, but you remain quiet, absorbing the information with resignation.
She gives you a beat to process, then adds, a touch more firmly.
— "He’ll examine you and see how bad it is. And before you ask, no, this isn’t negotiable." The sentence rings out with finality. No room for debate. It’s not a request—it’s a directive. And you know resisting will only make things worse.
You lower your head slightly, a flicker of frustration rising within you, that feeling of being trapped, everything slipping away under the weight of relentless events. You’re tired. Tired of the day, tired of the pressure, tired of this constant urge to run. But you know arguing won’t help. You have no option but to comply, to bow your head and face what feels like yet another trial in a spiral that won’t stop tightening. She nods toward the entrance, and you spot a driver already waiting—still, efficient, dressed in a discreet suit, his gaze fixed on the door, ready to take you wherever you need to go. There’s no need to ask—you know he’s just waiting for you.
— "Come on, let’s get this over with. The sooner we do, the sooner you can get back to work."
Her voice is neutral, but beneath the apparent indifference, there’s a subtext. She’s not just fulfilling a task—she wants you to understand this is for your own good, that this ordeal needs to be handled quickly, like a necessary evil. There’s something in her tone, an unspoken but unmistakable undertone, that tells you she isn’t simply being efficient. She wants to make sure you don’t lose yourself in all this. She wants you to be in shape to keep going. And you know, in some corner of your mind, that she’s right. But right now, in this precise moment, you’re not sure you have the energy to fight anymore. Everything’s piled on too fast, and the fatigue—that quiet, gnawing anxiety you’ve carried for weeks—has become almost unbearable. Every step feels heavier than the last. But there’s no room left for hesitation. You have no choice but to follow, to move forward, to let things unfold.
The building’s automatic door opens with a faint sound, a split second where outside air mingles with Stark Tower’s chilling atmosphere. The warm breeze rushing in is a stark contrast to the cold, rigid mood inside the lobby, and a shiver runs through you as you step across the threshold. The outside world—with its heat, noise, and chaos—suddenly feels far more alive than the place where you’ve spent the last hours. The sound of the city, distant and muffled until now, crashes over you. Honking horns, hushed conversations, the continuous hum of traffic—all merge into a noisy symphony that somehow feels vibrant, real, grounding. Suddenly, the city seems to call you back, to pull you from your stupor. You’re out there now, in the never-ending tumult. But for a fleeting second, it feels like the world is still turning around you, like a perfectly oiled machine you still belong to—even if you don’t quite feel like a part of it anymore.
In front of the entrance, a black sedan waits silently, its understated and discreet appearance almost anonymous among the sea of parked cars. The immaculate paint gleams under the lights, and the vehicle seems to blend into the urban environment while somehow remaining perfectly distinct. The driver, a man with closed features and an unreadable gaze, approaches the rear door with an almost mechanical efficiency. He pushes it open slowly, a precise and professional motion, as if he'd performed this exact gesture thousands of times. A simple nod, and he waits.
Pepper steps forward without hesitation, her movements fluid and familiar, slipping inside with the ease of someone accustomed to this kind of transport. For her, this is routine, a meticulously orchestrated ritual. But you hesitate for a second. Just a fraction of time, standing outside in the fresh morning air, a silent tension gripping you. You know you have no choice. You never had a choice. So eventually, you sit beside her. Inside the car, the atmosphere is as calm as the outside is chaotic. The space is roomy, every detail designed for comfort and silence. The soundproofing smothers all noise from the city, creating a sealed bubble that cuts you off from the world’s frenzy. The leather seat is cold beneath your fingers, and a subtle shiver runs through you as you shift, trying to find a comfortable position despite the persistent pain in your wrist. Just moving your arm is an ordeal, each motion sharpening the ache. A faint grimace flits across your lips, but it vanishes quickly, replaced by silent focus.
The driver closes the door with a quiet professionalism, and the car glides forward smoothly, its suspension absorbing every bump in the road. The city's sounds vanish instantly, as if you’d slipped into another dimension. A near-oppressive calm fills the cabin, a quiet that contrasts sharply with the noise and chaos that have filled your days. Pepper sits perfectly still, her posture impeccable. Her gaze is directed at the road, focused outward but not truly looking. Her hands rest on her knees, fingers interlaced in a minimalist, composed gesture. She doesn't speak immediately, as if waiting for the right moment. It’s not indifference, but a masterful command of silence. Pepper has a way of being silent without it feeling empty, as if every word she might say has to be weighed, chosen, never wasted.
The quiet between you is heavy, almost tangible. But you know it won’t last. She has a way of drawing out the truth without asking direct questions. And you, in this enclosed space, wonder how long you can carry the weight of this silence. You watch the cityscape pass by through the window, morning light dancing on the glass façades. The city is alive, every corner bustling with hurried pedestrians, weaving cyclists, endlessly flowing traffic. It’s a choreographed dance, like nothing could disturb the balance of this perpetual motion machine. But you feel like a distant spectator, a stranger to this frenzy that escapes you. The city seems oblivious to the storm brewing inside you, the internal chaos clinging to you like a second skin.
A sigh escapes your lips—soft, almost imperceptible—but it breaks the silence. Pepper slowly turns her head toward you, a measured gaze, observing without judgment. Her eyes hold calm determination, but there's something else too, a quiet strength that nudges you toward the truth without pushing.
— "Do you want to tell me what really happened?" Her voice is gentle, but there’s a subtle insistence. It’s not an aggressive question, more an invitation, an opening where you might finally let go of some of the weight. It’s sincere.
You hesitate, searching for words, unsure where to start, how to explain this whirlwind that’s been sweeping you up for days. You shrug, trying to deflect.
— "I already told Stark everything."
Pepper smiles faintly, but there’s skepticism in it, as if she already knows that’s not the whole truth. She doesn’t fully believe you, but she doesn’t press.
— "Tony isn’t always the most... delicate in his methods," she says, her tone even. "He doesn’t like being kept in the dark. But neither do I."
You swallow hard, bitterness rising in your throat. Her words linger, and your eyes drop to your wrist. The pain is constant, a dull throb that recalls the chaos of your morning—but even that’s nothing compared to the vulnerability under her gaze. This is the truth she’s waiting for, the one you haven’t yet had the courage to voice. And you know she’s right. You know she’s not here to judge, only to understand. Silence settles again. This silence is different—heavier. It’s intimate, like time has frozen for a moment. You could tell her everything. You could spill every secret buried under forced smiles and half-truths. But what for? Because she deserves it? Because you need it?
You hesitate again, but the weight of her presence—calm and grounded—pushes you to reflect. She’s not Tony. She’s not here to criticize or coerce you into something you don’t want. But the words stay lodged in your throat, a burden you’re not ready to drop. The truth is right there, just below the surface, ready to explode—but not yet. Not now. Pepper doesn’t follow up right away. She knows pressing would only shut you down more, so she lets you breathe. You can almost feel how she adjusts her approach, attentive without pressure. She waits for you to be ready, even knowing that there’s still something unsaid.
Finally, she slowly uncrosses her arms and straightens slightly, shifting into a more relaxed but still focused posture. A small movement, but it changes the tone. She’s not trying to make you speak. Instead, she’s giving you space, respecting your silence while remaining a steady, patient presence.
— "Do you think you'll be able to handle this job?" The question is direct, but not accusatory. It's more of an invitation to reflect, to acknowledge—or not—what you feel inside. Her voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of concern beneath the surface neutrality.
The question catches you off guard. You were ready for other kinds of remarks, but this one throws you off. You raise your head, surprised by the simplicity and depth of it. She's not trying to test your loyalty, but rather gauge your ability to face the reality of the role you just accepted.
— "Of course I will. Why wouldn't I?" The answer slips out faster than expected. You let the confidence ride your voice, as if to convince yourself. But something rings false in that certainty. It's not the calm answer of someone fully prepared. Not yet.
Pepper tilts her head slightly, analyzing, perhaps looking for sincerity behind the words. She studies you—not to judge, but to understand whether you truly grasp what's ahead.
— "Because working for Stark Industries isn’t like any other job. And judging by how you showed up this morning…" She trails off, more pensive than reproachful. There’s no judgment in her tone—only observation. She’s not speaking to make you uncomfortable, but to make sure you realize the gap between what you think this job is and what it will demand.
The remark hits you harder than expected. You feel the tension rise inside, an old frustration flaring like a familiar burn. You clench your jaw subtly and look away, back toward the window. The city keeps rolling past, but it’s no longer the world outside you're seeing—it’s your own reflection in the glass, dimly lit by morning light. Tired. Drawn. Like someone you barely recognize. You take a deep breath, trying to push back the feeling of helplessness that starts to creep in. The answer is there, ready to come out, but it’s not as simple as saying it aloud.
— "I’ll manage," you finally mutter, more firmly this time, even if you're not sure what that truly entails. It’s more a wish than a promise, a hope you try to keep at arm’s length so it doesn’t swallow you whole.
The silence that follows weighs on you, but this time, it feels more soothing. Pepper seems to have heard what she needed. Now it’s just a matter of whether your actions will back your words. Your voice is steadier, but there's still a crack you can’t quite hide. The uncertainty underneath betrays you, and no matter how hard you try to keep it in check, the truth clings like a persistent shadow. Pepper hears it—and while she doesn't comment right away, you know she sees more than you want to show. She nods softly, eyes fixed on the road ahead, offering you that quiet, attentive kind of listening.
The car slows slightly as you approach your destination, every turn of the wheels on asphalt sounding like a silent deliberation. The passing city becomes a blur, a slideshow of shifting scenes that barely register anymore. You're somewhere else now, your mind circling what’s to come. You breathe in deep, trying to calm the tension stretched through every muscle. The pain in your wrist feels more bearable now, but it’s still there, lingering, ready to remind you with each movement. The anxiety doesn’t ease so easily. It seeps in like a fog, making you doubt if you're truly ready for any of this.
— "We’re almost there," the driver announces neutrally, breaking the silence that’s begun to envelop you. His voice sounds distant, like the world is slowly receding.
You glance one last time at Pepper, and this time, her gaze has shifted. It’s no longer just professional analysis. There's something else there—an unspoken understanding that cuts through the layers. You barely catch it, but you know she gets it. That this isn’t as easy as you’re pretending it is.
— "You can still change your mind," she says gently, her voice calmer, less directive, but still carrying that steady, reassuring strength that seems to come naturally to her.
But you don’t answer right away. Because even if you wanted to back out, to walk away, everything inside you keeps pulling forward. Deep down, you know there’s no real choice. It’s no longer about what you want. It’s about what you have to do. There’s no option left. You look at her, at the experience etched into her face—the years spent navigating far more complicated situations. You know everything she says comes from a place of care, even if it doesn’t always feel like comfort. Finally, you say it—your voice more honest now, like a truth finally breaking through after being held in too long:
— "I don’t really like people paying attention to me. I didn’t want to start my first day like this. I just needed to grab my stuff before finding a new place. But it turned out more violent than I expected."
The words come faster than you planned. There’s a hint of frustration, but also a release, like sharing this with her peels away some of the pressure strangling your throat. Pepper stays silent, but her calm gaze feels more understanding now. She doesn’t respond immediately, but you sense she got it—that even without saying much, she accepts your reality, no matter how tangled it is. She studies you, eyes softening slightly, but never dripping into pity. She doesn’t ask more questions, like she knows it wouldn’t help. She gets the point. Stark was right to be worried. And deep down, you know this isn’t just about a sore wrist. The car slows to a final stop, the gentle hum of tires on asphalt fading in front of an unremarkable building. Nothing grand or flashy. No golden plaques. No glowing signs. Just a glass door framed by neutral-colored walls, almost blending into the neighborhood. It’s not a place trying to stand out—but one that earns trust by staying simple. Nothing extra here. Just what’s needed.
Pepper steps out first, her movements fluid and confident. She casts a quick, furtive glance around, as if to make sure the surroundings are safe, before motioning for you to follow. The outside air is cool, a light breeze hits you as soon as the car door opens, carrying with it a faint scent of recent rain mixed with warm pavement. The contrast with the stifling atmosphere of the sedan seems to ease you slightly, but the nervous tension lingers, ready to seize you again at any moment. You take a discreet breath, trying to shake off some of the tension that has been eating away at you since morning, and join her at the entrance. Inside, the place is as sleek as the façade. The lobby is understated, almost minimalist, with a few black leather seats arranged neatly. Nothing extravagant, but every element seems to belong, every object deliberately chosen. The receptionist, dressed in an immaculate lab coat, types silently on her keyboard, focused and reserved. Everything here is calm, controlled, almost clinical, as if every movement is measured, every word weighed.
Pepper strides to the front desk, and you follow at a respectful distance, still conscious of your pain, of the situation. The receptionist barely lifts her eyes when she hears the door open, but Pepper gives her a look, a silent signal of acknowledgment. The woman nods in return and rises with a practiced fluidity that betrays how routine this type of visit is. She gestures wordlessly to one of the doors on the right. The atmosphere in the lobby is hushed, almost secretive, as if the place were reserved for a privileged few, those for whom confidentiality is paramount. The soft lighting and the absence of any outside noise reinforce the impression of a place cut off from the rest of the world.
Pepper, with a tone both neutral and assertive, steps up to the counter.
— “Stark Industries. For the 10:15 appointment.” The way she says it leaves no room for argument, as if her name alone is enough to open every door.
The receptionist, still without lifting her gaze, scans her screen. A few clicks, the soft clack of keys, and a silent nod. She gestures toward a hallway to the right in a smooth, mechanical motion.
— “Second door on the left. The doctor is expecting you.”
Pepper doesn’t bother looking your way. Her stride is steady, efficient, ready to move from one step to the next without dwelling on the details. Once again, you feel like a shadow, a burden being ushered through the process without much ceremony. Doubt flickers in you, but you know you have no choice. Wordlessly, you follow her down the narrow hallway, each step echoing in the closed space, intensifying the tightness in your chest. The restrained décor, the pristine walls, only amplify the growing discomfort with every passing second. When you reach the indicated door, Pepper knocks sharply. No pause, no excess politeness, just a brisk motion meant to keep things moving. She turns the handle and steps in without waiting for a response. The room inside is exactly what you imagined: minimal, almost clinical. Pale walls, cold lighting, cutting-edge instruments neatly arranged, like a hospital tableau where everything is in place, but nothing feels warm. A tidy desk sits at the back, papers stacked precisely and a computer screen open to what appears to be medical records. The doctor, a man in his forties with a serious, emotionless demeanor, stands ready to receive you.
Pepper gives you one last look, a silent permission to proceed with this next step of your day. You take a slow breath, bracing yourself for what’s coming—an evaluation that will likely unsettle you more than you’d care to admit. The man, somewhere in his forties, wears a perfectly pressed white coat, his expression focused, almost cold. As soon as he lifts his eyes to you, they settle immediately on your wrist, without any need for verbal explanation. He’s seen enough cases to know where to look.
— “Take a seat,” he orders in a measured tone, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.
You don’t dare argue. All you want is for this to be over. Without a word, you move to the seat and sit down, head slightly bowed. Pepper stands a few steps behind, arms crossed, still as a statue. She’s watching you, but says nothing. A silent presence, distant but ready to step in if needed. The doctor, wasting no time, steps closer. His hands are firm but precise as he grasps your wrist, handling it like a fragile object. His eyes track every movement, examining each angle of your joint, testing its mobility with clinical precision. Pain shoots through you instantly, pulling a small flinch from your body. You grit your teeth, determined not to show further weakness, but each of his motions sends a jolt through you.
He doesn't make any comments during the examination, but his face—stoic as it may be—betrays a hint of concern. Finally, he slowly nods, as if he’s already drawn his conclusions.
— “How long did you wait before seeking medical attention?” he asks in a neutral, almost absent voice, continuing his meticulous examination.
You avoid his gaze, a discomfort gnawing at you at the thought of having to answer. You don’t want to justify your actions.
— “Since this morning,” you finally mutter, your voice low, almost inaudible.
He sighs, a soft sound but full of reproach.
— “You should’ve come immediately.”
He says it as if it were obvious. As if it were hard to understand that the persistent pain wasn’t just a sore muscle or a scratch. His tone isn’t accusatory, but it leaves an imprint of disappointment, like you’ve failed a basic protocol. Without adding another comment, he gestures for you to stand and follow him. You obey, a bit slower than you’d like, and head toward a portable X-ray device in the corner of the room. The doctor is already there, ready to use it. You steal a discreet glance toward Pepper, but she remains still, her cold, scrutinizing gaze fixed on the doctor, probably waiting for it all to be over. She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move, just a silent silhouette behind you.
This transition—from the desk to the exam—seems to last forever. You feel, once again, isolated in this room, trapped in your own discomfort. A few minutes pass in heavy silence before the doctor places a translucent image on a backlit screen. The image sharpens and you clearly see the outlines of your bones, some darker than others, where the fracture has formed.
— “Minor fracture,” he announces in a voice that leaves no room for doubt. His tone is clear, almost cold, as if describing a procedure rather than a person’s condition. “Nothing dramatic, but combined with stress and lack of immediate care, it’s more problematic than it should have been.”
You release an internal sigh, a wave of frustration rising within you. Of course. It was obvious. Nothing ever seems simple, and even this injury, which you thought would pass, is turning into something more complicated than it needed to be. The doctor removes his gloves with a mechanical motion, crosses his arms, and turns toward Pepper, who stays calm, observing without showing any emotion. He seems to address her, as if giving the report was more her concern than yours.
— “Partial immobilization is necessary. I recommend a brace for several days. No excessive pressure. No heavy lifting, no sudden movements.” His words echo in your head, the idea of remaining still already feeling unrealistic.
You grimace slightly. Another obstacle, added to all the others. It’s not the pain that bothers you, but the limitation it brings, the inability to act freely. It once again forces you to confront a reality: your body is a barrier to your autonomy, and you hate that.
— “Can I still work?” you ask, eyes fixed on the doctor, even though you already suspect the answer.
The doctor raises an eyebrow, as if weighing the question, before glancing at Pepper—a silent exchange between them. Pepper’s stoic gaze betrays nothing, but you know she’s already calculating the implications.
— “That depends,” the doctor says after a pause. “If you’re sitting behind a screen, typing, that’s fine. But if you intend to use your hand for anything else, it’s not advised.”
The words hang in the air, and a shiver of irritation runs down your spine. The thought of only being able to sit at a screen, locked in a task so mechanical and monotonous, already feels suffocating. But that’s not really the issue. You know there’s no room for compromise here. You feel Pepper’s gaze settle on you, heavy with unspoken meaning. You avoid looking at her directly, turning your eyes slightly away. You already know she won’t be happy with this news. She’s never liked weakness—whether it came from others or from you. Her stare doesn’t need to say much for you to understand: this is going to complicate things. And you’re not sure you’re ready to deal with that. The doctor steps away to prepare the brace, his footsteps silent on the floor, but you know he’s leaving you with more than just the immediate need for care. The atmosphere, sterile as it may be, suddenly feels heavier, an invisible weight pressing on your chest. This appointment isn’t just about health; there’s another dimension here, another kind of judgment lurking in the background. You feel that consequences are coming, deeper than you initially imagined.
Silence settles immediately after the doctor’s verdict. Every breath echoes in the room, every second stretches longer than the last, leaving you alone with your thoughts, your doubts, and your physical discomfort. The kind of silence that doesn’t just hide unspoken words—but expectations, and unspoken truths laden with meaning. Pepper remains still, straight as a rod, arms crossed, her gaze anchored on you with an intensity that’s almost tangible. She studies you, as if she could see through your skin, read your thoughts without a word. You see the tension in the tight line of her lips, and you know that, despite her silence, she’s not pleased with how this has turned out. There’s a kind of silent disapproval, a judgment floating between the two of you, and her look is heavier than any direct reproach.
The doctor finally finishes adjusting the brace on your wrist, his movements meticulous, almost surgical. The brace’s pressure is firm, uncomfortable, and you feel every adjustment like a constant reminder of your fragility. But you’re not the type to flinch, to show weakness in public—especially not here. Not in front of Pepper. Not in front of Stark Industries.
— “There. No strenuous effort, and come back in a week for a follow-up. If you feel more intense pain, contact me immediately.”
The words echo in your head, only digging you deeper into this uncomfortable situation. Another week of doing nothing, dealing with an injury that, really, isn’t even that bad. But it annoys you. It’s like your life, already a mess, is now even more restricted, more confined. You nod mechanically, almost without thinking, but your gaze immediately lifts to Pepper. She hasn’t said a word since the diagnosis was announced, and it’s in that carefully maintained silence that you sense the real gravity of the situation. She watches you, but doesn’t speak—and that’s exactly what makes you uneasy. Her silence is weighty, heavier than any scolding she might give. Because, deep down, you know she doesn’t need words to get her message across. And that message? It’s clear. You didn’t handle this the way she expected.
You lower your eyes slightly, but you know she won’t give you a break. Not here, not in this environment. The doctor straightens up, packing his tools with near-military precision, as if every gesture is calculated. The sound of the equipment grows heavier as he steps away, leaving a palpable void in the room. You feel that stillness, that suspended moment when you know Pepper will finally speak. And you’re not wrong. She breaks the silence, first with clinical simplicity, but her words carry a particular weight.
— “A fracture.”
Her voice is calm, but there’s an intensity behind those two words, a form of silent judgment. She’s not asking for confirmation. She simply lets that truth hang in the air, and you feel it strike you full force, as if that simple fact has amplified the pain already gnawing at you from within. You swallow hard, trying to ease the weight now pressing on your chest. A moment passes. Then she steps forward—discreet but intentional—moving closer to you with a precision she doesn’t even try to hide. Her gaze pierces through you. You don’t need to look up to know she’s weighing you, measuring you against her expectations and her disappointments. There’s no yelling. There never is with her. It’s more subtle. More cutting.
— “And what exactly were you planning to do? Just keep going like nothing happened?”
The question hits you. Not in its form, but in its meaning. You sense a trace of reproach in her words, even though there’s no visible anger in her voice. It’s her stare—cold, sharp—that says more than any outburst ever could. You lower your head slightly, trying to avoid that look. Guilt tightens your throat, but you’re not ready to answer. Not yet.
She doesn’t just ask the question—she lets it hang, dragging it out so you have no choice but to sit with it, to feel its weight settle onto your shoulders. The tension in the room crystallizes. It’s invisible, but palpable. She’s waiting for you to respond, but she’s in no rush. She gives you just enough time to think about your answer, even though you already know it won’t be enough to soften her expression.
— "Because, you see, I'm rather curious to understand how you thought working with a fracture was going to go well."
She lets the words fall, without rushing them, like a net she slowly casts, trying to trap you in a corner. The silence that follows is heavy, suspended, as if the rest of the world had suddenly stopped to observe this moment. You want to respond, to explain that you weren’t really thinking, that you just thought you could handle it, that you didn’t have the luxury of slowing down. But you know those are just excuses, and excuses won’t be enough here. Not for her. Not with that look in her eyes. She sighs, and you can tell it’s not just a sigh of annoyance. It’s heavy with disappointment, like she hoped for something better from you, like she thought you would’ve learned the lesson before she even had to repeat it. Her eyes drift briefly, as if she’s trying to regain some patience before facing you again. When she shakes her head, it’s barely perceptible, but there's that hint of impatience, like in her mind, this situation has dragged on long enough. She wants you to grow up, to take this situation seriously.
— "Stark hired you. You’re on his team now. And that means you can’t just show up thinking your personal problems won’t have any impact on your work."
Her voice is firm, but there’s a trace of kindness hidden behind the seriousness. She’s not trying to tear you down, she’s trying to put you back on the right path, to help you understand that this isn’t just any job. And she’s right, but you don’t want to admit it now. Not after everything you’ve just been through. She crosses her arms again, and her fingers start tapping lightly on her elbow, as if weighing each word before saying it. Every move is measured, deliberate, and it makes you feel even more exposed.
— "You think he brought you here so you could crumble under the pressure?"
She asks the question boldly, without flinching. And you feel it’s not just a question—it’s a test. A test to see if you understand what’s at stake here, if you can face this job and this world. You take a deep breath before answering. It’s hard, but you force yourself to look at her.
— "It’s not the pressure that’s the problem. You’ve been treating me like a kid since this morning. I can handle it. I know I can. I just had bad luck this morning with my coworker."
The words come out more abruptly than you intended. A reflex, a way to push back against the feeling of being treated like a child. You know it’s not a real excuse, but it’s all you’ve got. You try to stay in control, to show you’re capable, but one glance at her tells you you don’t look nearly as convincing as you’d like. Pepper raises an eyebrow, and you see her jaw tighten for a moment, an invisible tension crossing her. She slowly shakes her head, then, without warning, a dry laugh escapes her lips. It’s not amused, it’s almost hopeless—a sound of exasperation that gives you no room to argue.
— "If you already managed to fracture your wrist in one day, I can’t imagine what a week would look like."
The words hit hard. The implication hits even harder. She’s not saying you’re fragile, but that the way you’re handling things isn’t sustainable. One day. That’s all it took for a small incident to put you in this situation. How will you last in the long run? She lets her sentence hang in the air, staring intensely at you, as if waiting for something to click, for a reaction that shows you finally get it. You don’t have an immediate answer. All you feel is the weight of her gaze on you, the sense of being unmasked. And, even if you want to protest, deep down, you know she’s right.
— "It’s not a matter of luck. It’s a matter of environment."
Pepper’s posture shifts, her arms slowly uncrossing, and her tone becomes graver, more commanding. There’s no room for negotiation in her voice, and you feel her pushing you into a corner. She doesn’t just want you to understand—she wants you to accept it. Her gaze never leaves yours, piercing, unwavering.
— "You can tell me you’re capable as many times as you want, but if you keep living somewhere people can hurt you like this, the only thing that’s going to happen is that in a week, in a month… you won’t even be able to show up here."
She pauses, and the air around you seems charged with new tension. The words she just spoke hang heavy, and you know she’s right. The situations you keep finding yourself in only drag you down, and it’s not about skill. It’s about resilience, about conditions, about your environment. And if you really want to stay here, in this world that demands more from you than you thought you could give, you have to change what surrounds you. She tilts her head slightly—a subtle but deliberate movement, like she’s trying to deliver a message you can’t ignore.
— "And frankly, I don’t think Stark hired someone who’s going to disappear that fast."
There’s conviction in her words, a confidence in you that you hadn’t noticed before, but which, for the first time, makes you truly reflect on your place here. You’re not just an employee to her. You’re part of the team, and you can’t just vanish at the first hurdle. That thought slips into you like a slow but powerful realization. You open your mouth to reply, to defend your choices, to show you know what you’re doing, but suddenly, your phone vibrates in your pocket. The interruption is abrupt, and you almost feel relieved for the distraction, like the conversation was heading somewhere you weren’t ready to go. Pepper raises an eyebrow, her piercing gaze landing on you, watching your reaction. She waits, silent, as if the interruption was more than just a coincidence. And, though you’re tempted to look at your phone, you feel the weight of her gaze on you, forcing you to decide what to do with this moment.
You pull out your phone slowly, your fingers hesitating briefly before landing on the screen. The name that appears strikes like lightning: Matthew.
A cold shiver runs down your spine, and you almost feel the air being sucked out of the room. Your throat tightens instantly, each heartbeat pounding against your chest. It’s as if everything you’ve just been through rushes back at once, heavy, unrelenting. The anger, the pain, the sense of injustice. Pepper says nothing. But you can tell from her expression that she instantly understands what’s happening. She sees the small signs: your clenched jaw, the sudden tension in your shoulders. She doesn’t speak, but everything about her posture shows she understands more than you’d like her to. Your phone vibrates again—a vibration that seems to last forever. You stay frozen for a moment before making a decisive move. With one gesture, you hang up. The buzzing stops immediately, but the echo of that choice hits as hard as the call itself.
The silence in the room grows heavier, nearly suffocating. It’s no longer just Pepper watching you—it’s the moment itself, the past that won’t let go, and the intensity of that decision weighing on you. And even though you try to convince yourself it was for the best, you know that, somehow, you’ve just turned a page you weren’t quite ready to close.
You step out of the medical office in silence, the outside air hitting your face with a sharp, almost stinging freshness. The breeze feels colder than before, but you know it’s just your body reacting to the pressure, to the weight of this day that clings to your skin.
The black sedan is still there, unmoving, faithful, waiting to drive you back. The driver remains fixed in place, expressionless, as if this brief stop at the clinic held no significance. But you know something’s shifted. Somewhere, a threshold has been crossed. It’s no longer just a medical check-up, a simple appointment. It’s a new beginning, or maybe an ending looming on the horizon. Reality hits you with brutal clarity. Pepper opens the door without a word, her gaze focused inside the car. She enters with the same composure, the habit of staying in control. You don’t have time to react, to form a coherent thought, before you’re doing the same, gently closing the door behind you. The sound of the car sealing shut is almost symbolic. It’s as if the outside world has been abruptly cut off, an invisible curtain drawn between you and the reality waiting on the other side.
Inside, the air feels heavier, saturated with silence. The dark leather seats seem to absorb the atmosphere entirely. You sit next to Pepper, the cold of the car settling around you like a cocoon that’s too tight. The warmth from this morning feels distant now, like a memory. Everything is still. Too still. Pepper stares straight ahead, her hands resting on her knees. She says nothing, and yet her silence speaks volumes. She’s watching you, but not insistently. No need for words. Her gestures, her posture, the way she waits in this car remind you there are things you can’t keep ignoring. The engine hums softly, and the car slowly pulls away. The streets slide past outside the window, but you barely notice. Your mind is elsewhere, overwhelmed by the weight of it all. The buildings, the people—everything is a blur, like the world keeps spinning without you, indifferent to the storm in your head.
Pepper’s gaze stays fixed forward. The silence in the car grows dense, oppressive, stretching between you like an invisible wall. She says nothing, but you know her silence speaks louder than any reprimand she could give. She already made herself clear back at the office. There’s nothing more to add. But inside you, there’s this gnawing urgency. Pressure building in your chest, like your body itself is trying to tell you that you can’t keep pretending. This job—it’s all you’ve got left. You’ve got nowhere else to go. You don’t have the luxury of burning it all down now, of slipping back into who you were before, of falling further. This job, this chance—this might be your last shot. And the thought of losing it twists your insides.
You take a deep breath, heavier than usual. Then, without even thinking it through, you break the silence.
— "I can’t lose this job. Please understand that, ma’am. I’m begging you."
Your voice is rougher than you intended. More sincere too, but that sincerity stings. It’s a confession you hadn’t meant to make. It’s as if, by speaking the words out loud, you dropped the mask, and the urgency of your reality burst into view. It’s not just a job, not just a professional opportunity. It’s everything you’ve got left. Pepper slowly turns her head toward you. Her expression is unreadable. She doesn’t reply right away, but you see in her eyes that she’s analyzing every word you just said. There’s no pity, no harshness. Just… observation. And that unnerves you more than if she’d snapped. Because she sees things you won’t even admit out loud.
The silence stretches on, but now it feels different. It’s a waiting silence. She’s waiting for you to say more. To explain. But there’s nothing more to say. She already knows. She slowly crosses her legs, a graceful, controlled motion, and places her hands on her knees with surgical precision. You feel the tension rising in your chest, as if your heart senses before you do that her next words are going to hit where it hurts. She doesn’t rush to speak. She takes her time, as always. Her silence is never hesitation—it’s preparation. A muted warning. And that small pause is enough to make you feel even smaller in that leather seat, to make you regret being the one who spoke first.
— "Do you really think I’m the one you need to say that to?"
Her voice is calm. There’s no reproach in her tone, but the weight of her words slams into you like a verdict. You clench your fingers against your pants, feeling the sweat in your palms, the uncomfortable heat of anxiety creeping up.
— "Tony hired you because he saw something in you. I have no say in that." She pauses. You might think she’s done, but then she adds, her voice lower, graver, with no attempt to soften the blow:
— "But if you think you can keep going like this, and we’ll just sit by and watch… you’re wrong."
You swallow hard. Your thoughts race, your instincts beg you to say something in your defense, to clarify, but she doesn’t give you the chance. She continues, every word placed with surgical accuracy:
— "It’s not just your job that’s at stake. It’s you."
It’s said simply. Almost gently. But it crushes you more effectively than a shout ever could. Because it hits deeper. Not your skills. Not your output. You. And that’s too much. You turn your eyes away, unable to hold her gaze that seems to see straight through you. You stare out the window again, letting the streets blur past. You feel that familiar knot forming in your gut, that pressure that aches without a clear source.
Because she’s not wrong. And that’s the worst part. The rest of the ride plays out in an almost ceremonial silence. There’s nothing more to say—or rather, too much to say, and neither of you has the strength or will to break that frozen tension. The quiet hum of the engine becomes a numbing backdrop, joined by the rhythmic pulse of the turn signal, a reminder that the world keeps moving whether or not you’re ready to catch your breath.
Outside the window, the city slips past. Its colors, its faces, its buildings—all feel distant, unreal, like a life you no longer truly belong to. A dull beat in your chest reminds you you’re still here, still caught in the current. But the echo of that conversation, Pepper’s words, the look she gave you—that clings to you. And deep down, you know this moment, this muffled scene between leather seats, will stick with you long after today ends.
The car finally turns onto the avenue leading to Stark Tower. The building looms in the gray sky like a giant of glass and steel, unshakable, almost intimidating in its coldness. Its red logo, pulsing even under the dull daylight, seems to watch you from afar. A silent reminder: this is where you have to prove yourself. This is where mistakes aren’t an option. The sedan slows and eases to a smooth stop in front of the main entrance. The silence, already heavy, becomes nearly suffocating. It stretches between you and Pepper like a suspended verdict. You don’t move right away. You feel her beside you, straight-backed, unshaken, but her muteness says it all: she’s given you a chance. Just one.
You inhale slowly, almost soundlessly, and your hand rests on the handle. The metal is cold against your fingers. You open the car door. The air hits you at once, denser than before, saturated with an invisible tension. You step out of the car like you’re crossing an invisible line, and the moment you shut the door behind you, you know there’s no turning back.
The glass doors of the lobby slide open in perfect silence, welcoming you into the glacial vastness of Stark Tower’s ground floor. The place is just as immense, bathed in dim artificial light that slides across the polished marble floors and glass walls. The atmosphere, though familiar, feels different this time. Tighter. As if the very air had been charged with static while you were gone. Employees in strict suits move with the precision of an invisible ballet, their crisp footsteps echoing softly through the lobby. Their faces are focused, closed off, immersed in their flawless routines. They all ignore you, of course — and in a way, you prefer it like that. You don’t have the energy to be seen. But something stops you. Something imperceptibly twists the mood.
And you see him.
There, in the middle of the lobby, perfectly at home in this setting, like he belongs here naturally: Tony Stark. He’s not doing anything spectacular. He’s just there, hands in his pockets, feet slightly apart, with a falsely relaxed air. His suit is cut with surgical precision, collar slightly open as if he just walked out of a meeting too long — or too boring. His beard is trimmed to the millimeter, his gaze partly hidden behind tinted glasses. But even so, you can feel him watching you. No — analyzing you. It’s that look, that exact and inescapable look, that freezes you. Like he’s reading straight through you. Like he already knows — what you’re hiding, what you’re feeling, what you’re afraid of. He doesn’t say anything right away. He sizes you both up, as if a thousand scenarios were running through his head without revealing a single one.
Your footsteps echo in the vast lobby, clear, almost solemn, like they’re marking your return… or your judgment. The brace on your wrist is a flag you can’t lower, a truth you can’t hide. You could try to straighten up, to put on a front, but what’s the point? You’re too drained, too raw. Stark doesn’t move. He simply tilts his head slightly, his gaze shifting from your wrist to your face with near-clinical precision, then slides over to Pepper, straight as an arrow by your side, arms crossed, face unreadable.
— "So?" he finally says, his voice slicing the air with calculated nonchalance. "Is he fixable, or do I already need to replace him?"
A smirk plays on his lips, but his eyes don’t follow. They scrutinize. They cut. You feel your jaw clench. The tension in your neck, your back, your gut. That sensation of being exposed, again. The irony scrapes at your nerves, but you force yourself to answer, voice as neutral as possible.
— "It’s nothing. Just a small fracture." You swallow. "Nothing that’ll stop me from working."
He raises an eyebrow, lifts his head slightly like he’s weighing your answer against a completely different question. He doesn’t interrupt. He just lets you sink. He briefly glances at Pepper, probably seeking confirmation, a signal. But she stays silent, impassive, locked in deliberate muteness. She doesn’t defend you. Not this time. She waits. Like it’s your turn to prove you deserve this spot — in spite of everything. He narrows his eyes, and his expression subtly shifts. Less amused. Sharper.
Then he steps forward. Slowly. Deliberately. His steps echo confidently on the marble, and he stops just close enough that you have to lift your chin slightly to meet his gaze. The lobby lighting casts a strange shadow across his face, a half-mask of sharp light. His presence feels colder than his tone.
— "Oh, so a small fracture is nothing?" His voice is soft, almost too soft. A caress before the slap. "Great news. In that case, I guess if I ask you to punch that wall with your wrist, you’ll prove me right?"
He nods toward the polished concrete wall to your left. Just enough for your eyes to flick over, despite yourself. You freeze. He’s provoking you. He knows it. You know it. He’s waiting for you to bite. But you say nothing. So he tilts his head slightly, that smirk now more predatory than sarcastic.
— "No, seriously, I want to understand. You’ve got a busted arm and you’re still here." He pauses, studying you like a faulty prototype. "What does that mean? You a robot? ‘Cause if you are, I want the maintenance manual. And a warranty, if possible."
A nervous laugh bursts out behind you — brief, awkward, probably an employee who hasn’t yet learned that laughing when Stark’s in missile-lock mode is suicidal. He doesn’t even turn his head. Pepper, however, shifts slightly and shoots a glare that could freeze steel. The laugh dies instantly in awkward silence. And you, you stand there, upright, despite the urge to shrink away. Because he’s not humiliating you for fun. He’s measuring you. He wants to see what you’re made of. Even when you’re shaking.
You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the pressure crushing your ribs. You search for a comeback, a deflection, something to diffuse the tension… but he doesn’t give you the time. Stark folds his arms, and in the motion, his expression shifts subtly. The amusement snaps off like a light switch. He’s not playing anymore.
— "Look at me."
His voice is steady, but there’s a glacial intensity that pins you in place. So you obey. You lift your eyes to his, unable to look away, despite the growing weight pressing down on you. This isn’t mockery. This isn’t a test. It’s a line of truth he’s throwing in your face.
— "I hired you for what you can do, not to see how long you can last before breaking."
The words hit harder than you expected. Because there’s something sincere, almost raw, in the way he says them. Like underneath the sarcasm and challenge, there’s a man who knows exactly what it costs to push too far. A silence settles. It only lasts a few seconds, but in your head, it rings like a bell. You feel your heart beat a little harder. Not panic. Not yet. Just… that strange feeling of being seen. Then, he finally looks away, like the subject’s closed. He lifts a hand and waves it vaguely in the air.
— "Go on, you can still walk, right? Get back to work. But if I see you collapse on a keyboard, you’re fired."
The tone is lighter, almost offhand. But this time, you know exactly what’s behind it. It’s not a threat. It’s an early warning. He’s giving you a chance to get back up. To prove you’re not just another spark in his trail. And you, despite the pain, despite the tension, you nod slowly. Because you know damn well it’s your only safety net. Pepper gives you one last look, both firm and laced with that quiet kindness she knows how to distill without overdoing it. A look that says: don’t waste your shot. You meet her eyes for a few seconds, then nod again. You don’t know if it’s apprehension or relief rising in you. Maybe both. But one thing’s certain: you’re still standing. And that’s already a win.
The elevator doors slide open with a mechanical sigh onto the office floor, and the atmosphere shifts instantly.
Everything here breathes precision. Demands it. The air is drier, the lighting more clinical. The smooth floor absorbs footsteps, rendering every sound oddly muffled. You can barely hear the quick clatter of keyboards, the hushed exchanges between engineers, the steady beeps of holographic interfaces. Screens project an icy blue light onto pale walls. Every workstation is meticulously arranged, without a trace of disorder. You don’t dare look around too much. You can feel that everything here runs like clockwork, and you—with your brace, your drawn features, your heart still reeling—are terrified of disrupting the harmony. Stark, on the other hand, walks without a word. His pace is fast, direct, each step striking like punctuation. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t slow down. It’s on you to keep up. Always.
You tighten your coat around you—a useless reflex—then walk after him, your wrist pulsing with pain at every movement, your mind still numbed by the conversation, the diagnosis, the missed call from Matthew. You don’t dare imagine yet what this day will still cost you. But for now… you move forward. Because you're still here. And you refuse to fall again. Once inside his office, Stark doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t glance at the chairs, not at you. He strides across the room, waves a hand in the air, and his main screen lights up instantly, projecting a series of high-resolution holographic images. Your project appears in front of you both, frozen mid-air, suspended in the room like a sculpture of light. The room is bathed in cold light. No sound, except the subtle hum of machines breathing around you. The screen flickers gently with each of his finger movements, and you recognize the plans, the layers, the animations. Your work. Your feverish effort.
— "Alright," he says, tone neutral, almost weary. "Let’s pick up where we left off."
He doesn’t look at you right away. His eyes scan the technical elements, the colors, the transitions. His face remains expressionless, focused, but you know he’s already spotted every mistake, every hesitation. Then he slowly turns his head toward you, one eyebrow raised, almost bored.
— "You want me to tell you what’s really wrong, or would you rather I lie and say it’s revolutionary, that you’ve redefined the foundations of contemporary animation and I’m lucky to have found you?"
You clench your teeth slightly. Of course he won’t sugarcoat it. He never has. You inhale deeply, fixing your gaze on the projection, even though your shoulders are already tensing in anticipation.
— "I’ll take the truth."
Your voice is calm, but tense. You know what’s coming won’t be pleasant. But you also know that if you want to learn, grow, hold on… there’s no other path. He nods, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He respects someone who can take criticism without breaking—but that doesn’t mean he’s going to go easy on you. You’re in his office, not a classroom.
— "Alright. First off, the execution is sloppy."
With a precise gesture, he enlarges a section of your project. The holographic images unfold in the air, translucent and sharp—except for the detail he points to. A hesitant transition, a slight blur, but enough to disrupt the whole harmony.
— "The flow isn’t smooth. It catches—and not in a good way."
You nod slowly, offering no protest, focusing on memorizing each comment, even though your stomach tightens.
— "Next, your material rendering. This is supposed to be adaptive coating, right?"
He tilts his head slightly, looking almost curious, then zooms in on a greyed surface you’d intended to look smart, evolving, high-tech. But in the hologram, the texture looks flat, unconvincing.
— "Right now, it looks more like plastic tarp than intelligent surface. Something you’d slap on a camping table, not a cutting-edge exoskeleton."
You glance down for a second, the remark stinging more than you’d like to admit. But you take it. He continues, unrelenting.
— "And this…"
He scrolls through the timeline to a sequence you’d already flagged as wobbly, hoping it would go unnoticed. Bad bet. The motion stutters, then rushes forward abruptly, breaking all readability.
— "A real masterpiece—if you’re trying to simulate a system glitch in real time."
A bitter laugh escapes you despite yourself. It’s not pleasant to hear, but he’s right. On every point. You force yourself to keep your head up, to not fold. Stark crosses his arms and leans against his desk. He’s not smiling anymore.
— "So, tell me. What are you going to do to fix this?"
His voice is lower, but it hits harder. He’s not asking for an excuse. He wants an answer. A clear idea. Proof that you’re not just here by chance, but because you can fight to improve. The ambient sounds of the office slowly fade, like muffled through thick glass. Nothing else matters. Not the hushed footsteps of the engineers behind you, not the steady hum of the servers. You sit at your workstation, shoulders tense, your face still etched with the confrontation.
In front of you, the screen lights up, and your project flashes back—flawed, unfinished, achingly human. You take a deep breath, then place your fingers on the keyboard. Instantly, the clicking of keys syncs with your breathing. Short, precise, almost military. Every keystroke a declaration of war on mediocrity. You mentally replay Stark’s comments, one by one. They loop—not as accusations, but as a score to be rewritten. "Too jerky," "plastic texture," "incoherent sequence"… Each critique becomes a target. Every flaw, a point to eliminate. Not for him—not just—but for you. To prove you’re not an impostor here.
And then, the pain returns.
Your wrist protests at the first pressure on the graphics tablet. A dull, persistent throb, like a line of fire running through your arm. You tighten your fingers, shift your posture slightly, but it doesn’t help. It hurts. Bad. And still, you keep going. You can’t afford to stop. You adjust interpolations, smooth transitions. You revise textures, reinvent lighting, rework timing frame by frame. Time stretches around you. There’s only the project, your bandaged wrist, and that silent rage driving you forward.
Hours slip by unnoticed. They dissolve into the quiet hum of technology, into the bluish glow of the holographic screen hovering before you. The rest of the world is nothing but a blurry backdrop. You are alone with your project. The space fills with dynamic textures, material simulations, code and nodes you tweak one by one. You rework the coating’s texture, trying to breathe visual logic into it—a behavior, something almost organic. Something alive onscreen. But the material resists. It’s temperamental. Light reflects too harshly, shadows don’t slide right. A tiny imperfection breaks the illusion. So you start over. Again. And again.
You don’t know how many times you’ve saved the file. How many versions you’ve stacked into this now-insane folder. Your movements are mechanical, precise, almost disembodied. Your brain anticipates every step before your hand moves. And yet, your wrist burns. The pain has settled in, quiet but stubborn, like a thorn buried deep in your flesh. You push it away. Refuse to let it stop you. You’ve become one with your interface, lost in a loop of obsessive perfection. And then—you feel it.
A presence.
Something in the air shifts subtly. A barely audible movement, a new breath. You don’t lift your eyes. You know. Stark is there. He says nothing. But you feel his gaze on your back—precise as a scalpel, unforgiving. He watches. He analyzes. Every action you take, every tweak, every delay—scrutinized. You feel his calculated patience, his silence heavy with judgment. So you keep going. You don’t want him to speak before he sees. You want him to see the difference. You want him to understand that you’re not just fixing things — you’re transforming them. Raising your work to the level he demands. You move faster, more confidently. Your movements grow sharper. What used to take an hour now takes twenty minutes. You anticipate the reflections, fine-tune the transparency, adjust the motion dynamics on instinct.
Your body hurts, but your mind is burning with a new fire. You’re at war with imperfection. And this time, you refuse to lose. You slowly start to get used to the workspace. The interfaces that seemed alien just a few hours ago now feel less hostile. The keyboard shortcuts become automatic, the advanced settings start speaking a language you understand. Logic begins to settle into the chaos. But the calm doesn’t last. The first bug hits like a slap.
You tweak a key parameter in the particle system to refine the fluidity of the coating — a minor adjustment on the surface, almost subtle. But on the screen, everything breaks. Violently. The material reacts like a wounded creature: it detaches in shreds, slides down the arm’s surface like mud under heavy rain. It pulses, it shakes, it warps.
It’s a horror.
You freeze for a second. Then inhale deeply. No panic. You’re in control. You roll back, adjust density, compression values. You recalculate the friction. Nothing works. The coating behaves like a distressed organism, bursting into absurd trajectories. Filaments shoot into the void, others crash against the structure. It’s unstable. Illogical. You tap your finger nervously on the table, the dry rhythm echoing in the almost silent room. You can’t show this to Stark. Not like this. You start again. You open the system’s internal archives, dig into shader libraries and recorded simulations. You jump from folder to folder, read notes, browse prototypes. You dive into Stark Industries’ internal forums, where employees sometimes share code snippets or buried tips in obscure technical threads. You gather references, compare script lines, look for precedents. And then, an idea takes root. A different approach.
Instead of forcing the material to follow a fixed surface, you rewrite the logic to adapt to dynamic anchor points. A more flexible solution. Less brute force. You test. The animation restarts. And this time, the material flows smoothly. It hugs the shape, reacts to movement, absorbs light like intelligent fabric. You hold back a sigh of relief. You just defused a problem that could’ve cost you hours — or worse, your credibility with Stark. But the reprieve is short-lived. A sharp jolt shoots up your arm. Your wrist protests violently. Not a vague ache. A sharp, clear pain pulsing with your own stress. You shift slightly, searching for an angle with less pressure. You crack your fingers, stretch your working hand slowly. But it’s useless. The pain is there. Anchored.
You close your eyes briefly. Not now. Not when you’re finally regaining control. But your body is starting to give in. Then, a wrong move. A push too hard on the tablet. Almost nothing. But enough. The pain explodes. A sharp blade slices through your wrist, stealing your breath. A whimper escapes you, more animal than human. You regret it instantly. The room goes dead silent. Still. Hostile. You feel his gaze. Sharp, precise, like a scalpel.
Stark has looked up. He says nothing. But he doesn’t need to. His eyes dissect you. He saw everything. He understands. You swallow slowly, throat dry, shoulders stiff with a mix of pain and shame. You refuse to break. You refuse to show weakness. So you avert your eyes, stare at the screen, pretend to dive back in. As if nothing happened. As if your wrist isn’t on fire. As if you hadn’t made that humiliating sound.
But his stare doesn’t waver. It’s still there. Suspended. Piercing. He’s weighing you, measuring. And the longer it lasts, the heavier it feels. You don’t even need him to speak to hear what he’s thinking. You think you can lie to everyone. Even to your own body?
Time is ticking. The deadline’s closing in. Your wrist is a volcano threatening to erupt. Every move sends a shiver down your spine. Every click is torture. Your jaw is clenched, muscles tight, sweat beading at your hairline. But you keep going. Because there’s no other option. Because stopping means losing everything. Because you’d rather suffer than be seen as weak. The red digits of the timer glare at you like a sentence. 00:12:17. Every second ticking down echoes in your skull like a bomb. The countdown keeps going, relentless, cruel. But you won’t back down. Your focus is absolute. Office sounds fade, dissolve into a dull buzz. Even Stark behind you becomes a blur in your peripheral vision. There’s only you, the screen, and this project that must work, no matter what.
You return to the coating’s texture. You adjust refraction and elasticity, fine-tune tension values. You want the material to feel alive, reactive, organic. Something that breathes with technology, not just a surface effect. You manipulate animation curves with surgical precision, correcting jerks, smoothing transitions frame by frame. Your fingers tremble, breath shallow. The pain in your wrist has become more than an obstacle: it’s a constant scream you ignore with ferocious determination. Every press on your tablet is a blade driven into your flesh. You know it. You’re worsening the fracture. But it’s that, or failure. And you can’t afford to fail.
Stark still hasn’t spoken. But you feel his eyes, heavy, sharp. He’s watching. Waiting.
Minutes pass, accelerate, vanish. You force your brain to block out the pain, to think faster. You’re moving quicker than your body allows, but instinct takes over. You’re on the edge. And it’s precisely there that you find what you’ve been looking for. One last adjustment. You correct the refraction index, apply a slight dynamic vibration to the surface particles, simulate a light shift on the outer shell. An intuition. A flash. You take a deep breath. Your hand trembles over the validation click. You launch the final preview.
The render begins. Slowly, almost solemnly. The liquid spreads, wrapping around the shape of the arm with an unsettling grace. The animation is fluid. The movements are logical, precise, organic. Light glides across the surface, bouncing off with a soft yet controlled gleam. Every texture responds exactly as intended. Every detail seems to have found its place. You say nothing. You don’t even breathe. But deep down, one thing is certain. You’re nearing the end.
A violent, almost brutal relief floods through you, like a cold wave crashing all at once. But there’s no time to give in. You know you’ve overshot Stark’s deadline, and you have no idea if he’ll forgive it. Your trembling hand reaches for the internal messaging system. You attach the final file, your fingers barely hesitating on the keyboard.
Modified project. Available for review.
You hover for a second over the message, your vision blurry, your breath shallow. Then you hit send. The adrenaline that had kept you going starts to fade, replaced by crushing exhaustion. It’s as if your body suddenly remembers every pain it put on hold. Every muscle screams. Your shoulders are stiff, your neck numb. Your wrist burns like a live ember under the brace. You don’t even dare look at it. You inhale deeply—more to convince yourself that you're okay than to actually breathe—and you slowly straighten up. Your chair creaks softly, as if protesting this last effort. You held on. You don’t know how, but you did.
Your eyes drift one last time to the screen. The final project still rests in the timeline. It’s imperfect, but it’s real. You want to keep this image in your mind: a first step, tangible proof that you didn’t run. Not this time. But one final test remains: gather your few belongings, stand, and walk out without breaking.You glance sideways at Stark. He hasn’t moved from his desk, but your render is now projected onto his main screen. Massive. Detail by detail, he scrutinizes it in silence. His brows are furrowed, jaw slightly clenched. His fingers tap rhythmically on the table’s edge—a nervous tic betraying deep concentration. He scrubs back through the timeline, zooms in on specific segments, replays the animation three times. No comments. He doesn’t even look at you. But you know what it means. He’s assessing. Weighing. Deciding. And all you can do is wait for the verdict.
Then, the slightest nod. Almost nothing. Just a tiny movement of his neck, barely perceptible, but enough for you to understand. It’s not perfect. It never will be in his eyes. But this time… it’s acceptable. He closes the hologram with a smooth flick, almost absentmindedly, as if the matter is settled. His gaze stays on the screen, and in a dry, emotionless voice:
— "It’s better."
That’s all. No congratulations, no comment on the effort, on the pain you hid, on the hours of focus. Just those two words. Raw. Sharp. Classic Stark. And yet… a faint, involuntary smile brushes your lips. Tiny, but real. Because you know what it means. From him, it’s huge. You reach for your things. A simple routine, a trivial motion—until pain slices through your wrist like a white-hot blade. You hold your breath, just for a moment, to avoid groaning. Your fingers tremble as you tighten your grip on the straps. You grit your teeth. You won’t let go. But you feel it—that gaze. Stark has looked up. Not for long. Just a moment. Long enough. He saw it. He saw the shadow crossing your face. He saw how your hand clenched against the pain. And for a fraction of a second, you think he’s going to say something. That he’ll drop that unshakable facade.
But no. His expression doesn’t change. Not a word. Not a reaction. Just that silence—louder than anything else. You meet his gaze briefly, then force a faint, nearly casual smile. As if to say, "I’m fine. I’ve got this." And in a low voice, steady despite everything:
— "See you tomorrow, Boss. Have a good night."
Silence. A heartbeat. Then he turns back to his screen, as if you’re already gone. Finally, in an even tone, flat, without a hint of emotion:
— "Don’t be late."
Nothing more. No worry. No comfort. But in his language, it’s almost a sign of respect. Because he’s already including you in tomorrow. He’s planning for you. And somehow, that’s enough. You nod—more to yourself than to him—and turn on your heel. Your footsteps echo softly on the floor as you leave the office. Every step a small battle against the pain, your wrist pulsing at your side with each movement, but you keep going. Head high. When you finally reach the elevator, a wave of relief washes over you. Not a triumphant victory. Just… the right to release a bit of pressure. You take a soft breath, ready to step in, when the doors open on a familiar figure.
Pepper Potts. Impeccable, as always. She stops when she sees you, her gaze sliding instantly from your tired face to your braced wrist, then to the tension in your posture. She doesn’t speak right away. She assesses you. Like Stark, but differently. More human. Less harsh.
— "Rough day?" she asks finally, her voice calm, almost gentle.
You force a smile. The kind that never reaches your eyes.
— "You could say that… But it could’ve been worse."
She arches a skeptical eyebrow. She knows a polite lie when she hears one. But she doesn’t call you out on it. She lets you keep that little fiction. Her gaze returns briefly to your bandaged wrist, lingers a second longer, then climbs back to your face. Her arms cross slowly—that specific motion she makes when she’s trying to phrase things delicately.
— "You should rest," she says.
You shrug, looking away. Shame brushes past you. You don’t want to talk about your condition. Or where you’ll sleep tonight. Or anything, really.
— "I’ll survive," you mutter, with a nervous laugh that sounds wrong, even to your own ears.
She doesn’t smile. Not even a hint of amusement. Silence settles in. And at that moment, your phone vibrates in your pocket. You pull it out, almost grateful for the distraction. The screen lights up with a reassuring name: Peter.
"Still alive?"
A smile reaches your lips this time. Tired, a bit broken, but real. You quickly type a reply:
"Still."
When you look up, Pepper is still watching you. You expect a remark, another question. But she simply lets out a quiet sigh, as if she’s just made an internal decision.
— "If you ever need anything… ask."
You freeze. Surprised. You didn’t expect that. You stare at her, not sure what to say. But she doesn’t ask for a response. She doesn’t force you to talk. She doesn’t look at you like a burden. She simply steps aside to let you into the elevator. As if, deep down, she knows those few words will stay with you. You step inside, your body aching, bags still too heavy, and your mind still flooded with too many emotions. The doors close slowly. And for a brief second, just before they shut completely, you meet Pepper’s gaze one last time.
Worried. But trusting. You’re still alive. For now, that’s all you can give.
Night has fallen by the time you finally step through the doors of Stark Tower. The air outside brushes your face like a gentle slap — damp, crisp, and oddly comforting after hours spent in the dry heat of offices and screens. You stand there for a moment, motionless on the sidewalk, breathing in the night air like it’s the first real breath you’ve taken in hours.
Then you start walking again. Slowly. Your bags bounce against your hip with every step, far too heavy for how little they hold. But it’s your wrist that reminds you most painfully of your limits — every movement bites, a sharp reminder that your body has boundaries, even if you refuse to listen. You head down the street toward the subway, the noise of the city brushing against you without ever really reaching you. Horns, voices, hurried footsteps... everything floats around you, like a parallel world where people still live normally, while you drag your exhausted body through the shadows. The buildings shine under neon lights. Giant screens flash hyper-polished ads. You pass hurried silhouettes, laughing couples, delivery bikers, groups of friends chatting softly. They’re all living a version of the city that feels beyond your reach.
And you keep moving. Drained. Silent. With the strange feeling of having climbed an invisible mountain today. Of having survived something no one around you could ever fully understand. You don’t yet know what this day means. But you know you’ll never be quite the same again. In the subway, you find an empty seat and drop into it with deliberate slowness, as if your body’s unsure whether to release the tension it’s held since dawn. You lean your head against the cold window. It vibrates gently with every jolt of the train, the mechanical rhythm becoming a strange kind of lullaby. The steady sound of the rails, the muffled announcements on the speakers, the blurry voices around you… it all blends into a suffocating haze.
But your mind refuses to rest. You replay the day on a loop, like an old film projected too loudly in an empty theater. Stark. His eyes. His voice. That way he looks straight through you without blinking. His sharp, precise, relentless critiques. And you, at the center of it all, standing. Broken, exhausted, but still standing. You feel your phone vibrate in your pocket. You half pull it out, even that motion feeling like a chore. Another message from Peter.
"You’re taking your sweet time. Still alive or did Stark eat you whole?"
A faint smile tugs at your lips, despite the tension in your shoulders that refuses to ease. You slowly type a reply:
"On my way. Get the beer ready."
You don’t have the energy for more, but you know he’ll get it. Peter’s place is a haven. A fragile, warm in-between. Tonight, it’s all you need. A roof. Lukewarm pizza. A friendly voice. When you finally reach his building, your legs feel like lead. Your wrist throbs with every swing of your bags, and your head buzzes like an overloaded antenna. You press the intercom, and not even a second later, Peter’s voice, clear and familiar, answers:
— "You made it, huh? Hurry up, there’s pizza waiting."
And in that simple sentence, there’s more comfort than in anything else you’ve heard all day. A deep, real relief flows through you. It’s been so long since someone welcomed you that simply. No judgment, no tension. Just someone opening the door, handing you a beer, and telling you you can set your burdens down. Literally. The door closes softly behind you. You climb the stairs, each step making the weight of your exhaustion sink deeper into your bones. Your muscles protest, your wrist pulses with pain, and your skull still hums with leftover adrenaline. You feel like you’ve been spun in a washing machine. Peter’s waiting on the landing, leaning against the doorframe, a cold beer in hand. He studies you for a second, his expression shifting from neutral to a kind of amused shock.
— "Damn, you look like you just finished boot camp."
You don’t answer right away. You step through the door, drop your bags by the couch with a heavy thud, and collapse onto it like your spine just gave out. Just taking that weight off your shoulders... it’s a kind of redemption. He hands you the beer. You grab it with your good hand, open it without a word, and take the first sip. The bitter taste makes you grimace slightly, but it feels damn good. Something real, cold, bitter — something that doesn’t judge. That grounds you. Peter settles beside you, one knee tucked up on the edge of the couch, looking attentive but not pushy.
— "So? How was it?"
You pause. You could say a lot of things. It was brutal. Unfair. Intimidating. Draining. But what comes out is just:
— "Intense."
Peter bursts out laughing, one of those disarming, honest reactions you’re not sure how to handle anymore. He raises his beer.
— "Yeah, figures. Stark must be a real asshole to work for."
You raise an eyebrow, almost amused despite yourself, and your smile emerges — quiet, tired, but genuine.
— "He’s... demanding. But fair."
Peter nods slowly, like he’s approving of that answer. He takes a sip, glances at you with a look that’s part teasing, part proud.
— "Demanding, huh? And you held up?"
You stay silent for a moment, your eyes drifting to a corner of the room. You think back to the bugs, the pain, Stark watching you like a human scanner, every minute of your wrist screaming… to the urge to collapse that you pushed back all day. Then you shrug lightly, letting the invisible weight of the day slide off with the motion.
— "Yeah. I held up."
And in your chest, amid the chaos... something small, quiet, but solid begins to grow. A flicker of pride. Fragile, but real. Silence settles for a while, broken only by the sharp sound of a pizza cutter against cardboard, and the indistinct murmur of the TV in the background. You take a bite absently, but you’re not hungry. Something’s still stuck, wedged somewhere between your stomach and your throat. Your fingers glide over the neck of the bottle, restless, as if trying to push away an invisible knot. Then, you exhale. And you let go.
— "I went back to Matthew’s place this morning."
Peter looks up, his gaze shifting immediately. He straightens up slightly, setting his beer down without even noticing. His eyes fall on your immobilized wrist, and you see it in his face—the pieces fitting together all at once.
— "And?" His voice is low, but he's already tense.
You take a deep breath, run a hand over your face to wipe away the image of the hallway, the shouting, the slam against the wall. The words are there, blocked. They want to come out, but they resist. Until they finally slip free.
— "He… attacked me."
Saying it aloud makes you nauseous. Peter freezes. He doesn’t speak right away, but his jaw tightens. He slowly pivots on the couch, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes locked onto yours like he needs to be sure he heard right.
— "That asshole…" he breathes through clenched teeth, his voice trembling with restrained fury. "What did he do to you?"
You look away, shrug vaguely, as if hoping downplaying it might make it feel less serious.
— "Just an argument that went too far. He saw me show up, and he lost it. Couldn't stand that I was there, getting my stuff. Like it was still his place. Like I owed him something..."
You breathe slowly, but your throat tightens. You keep going, despite the weight.
— "He slammed me against the wall. Threw me down. Then he..." You pause. Your fingers brush the splint like you're checking it's still there. "He crushed my wrist with his foot."
You hear Peter inhale sharply. His fists are clenched now. His eyes are blazing.
— "Fuck."
The word slices through the room, raw and sharp. But he doesn’t say anything else right away. He stares at you, breathing hard. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re precious. Like it’s the first time he truly understands how deep you’ve sunk, and how long you’ve held on alone. He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they’re shining with a restrained, frozen anger.
— "And you let him?"
His voice is sharper than expected. Not accusatory. Just… powerless. You laugh, but it’s hollow, empty, brittle.
— "You think I had a choice?"
Your gaze drops to your empty beer. Your fingers wrapped around the glass tremble slightly, just enough for you to notice. Peter doesn’t reply right away. He just sits there, staring, jaw tight, breathing shallow. He knows you’re not the type to make things up. That you never ask for help. And that makes him even angrier—that it took all this for someone to see. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh and leans back into the couch. His head rolls back, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
— "You can’t go back there."
He says it plainly, without mercy, without hesitation. Like a guillotine. You already knew that. Since this morning. Since the moment your wrist gave out under pressure. But now that it’s spoken aloud, real in the air, undeniable… it hurts more than you expected. You nod slowly, without really lifting your head.
— "Yeah."
A silence falls. But this time, it’s not awkward. It’s the kind you share when there’s nothing left to say, because the truth already said everything. Peter eventually grabs another slice of pizza. He holds it out to you without a word, and you take it without protest. It’s not much, but tonight, it’s enough. You eat in silence. The TV murmurs softly in the background, and the city hums beyond the windows. But here, everything is suspended in this shared fatigue, this barely loosened tension. The night stretches on. But sleep won’t come easily.
Lying on the couch, wrapped in the blanket Peter left you, you stare at the ceiling, eyes wide open in the dim light. The city’s bluish glow slips through the curtains, casting soft shadows on the walls. The fabric against your skin is soft, but you barely feel it. Your body is heavy, dulled by exhaustion, and yet… your mind keeps spinning, relentless, unable to shut down. The day’s images replay on loop. Stark. His gaze slicing through you like a scanner. His voice, sharp, precise, demanding. Every word, every silence. And you, alone under his scrutiny, pushing your body to the brink. The corrections, the pressure, the ignored pain… And you made it. You endured.
You should be proud. Isn’t that what people say? But the memory of this morning hits like a punch to the chest. Matthew. His face twisted in rage. The door slam, the hard floor against your back, the muffled crack when your wrist gave way under his foot. You still feel his breath, his voice warped by fury. You relive each second, each impact, with cruel clarity. The anger returns. Not toward him. Toward yourself. For saying nothing. For taking it. For not leaving sooner. You inhale deeply, trying to push the thoughts away. You close your eyes, searching for refuge in the dark. But memories are like ghosts: silent, persistent, impossible to banish.
Your wrist throbs, a dull, living pain, as if your body refuses to let you forget. You draw it gently against your chest, cradle it with your other hand. A gesture of retreat. A gesture of survival. You survived. You repeat those words. Again and again. But tonight, they sound more like a statement than a victory. You slowly turn onto your side, curled in the blanket up to your shoulders, and stare into the darkness of the living room. The city lights cast shifting patterns on the ceiling, like a silent sea of neon and warped headlights. The silence is dense, almost tangible, broken only by Peter’s steady breathing through the wall. That distant, steady sound acts like an anchor.
The apartment is small, but it feels safe. An ordinary calm. A human warmth you had forgotten. The faint smell of pizza, the blanket still holding some warmth, the simple furniture… everything here seems designed to remind you that the world doesn’t always revolve around violence, chaos, or judgment. It feels good, being elsewhere. Even if it’s only temporary. You stay there a long while, motionless. Thoughts drift by, slow, scattered. Your mind shifts between painful memories and the uncertainties of tomorrow. Between what you’ve escaped and what you still have to face. You know you should sleep. You know tomorrow won’t offer any mercy.
But your body doesn’t follow. Too tense. Too worn. The demons of the past never truly sleep. Tonight, they whisper in the corners of your mind. They take the shape of familiar faces, shouted voices, unresolved aches. They remind you of what you’ve lost, and what you might still lose. You sit up slightly, the blanket slipping off your shoulder. Your fingers pass slowly over your face, as if to wipe away the wear of the day. An overwhelming fatigue wraps around you, but it still can’t lull you to sleep. And a fleeting, dull thought settles in your skull:
How much longer can you keep going like this?
You don’t have the answer. So you lie down again, slowly, painfully, and close your eyes. You’re not expecting sleep. Not really. You just hope to rest your body long enough to stand again tomorrow.
Because tomorrow is another test. Another battle to fight. Another day to survive. And for now, that’s all you can afford to think about.
What Remains | Chapter 8 No Room for Lies (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : After securing a job at Stark Industries, You spends the night celebrating with Peter, relishing a rare moment of peace. But the morning brings a harsh reality—before starting fresh, they must return to their old apartment to retrieve their belongings. The encounter with Matthew turns violent, leaving them injured but determined to move forward. Rushing to Stark Tower, they barely make it on time, masking their pain. Stark quickly notices the bruised wrist and the heavy bags, seeing through the lies. Confronted, You are forced to admit the truth—no home, no stability, and a fight that left them hurt. Stark, unimpressed by their stubbornness, gives them no choice: either seek medical attention or risk losing everything.
word count: 11.3k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Cars rush by at full speed along the avenue, their headlights slicing through the night, engines roaring like the frantic heartbeat of the city. Taxis pass, honking, breaking through the urban turmoil, while hurried silhouettes cross paths, walking briskly beneath the blinking neon lights of the shops. The streets are lively, noisy, but that noise—that ordinary chaos—suddenly feels distant, as if you were no longer just a bystander. You've made it. This world, this frenzied rhythm, it's yours now.
Tonight, you're part of the flow. You take a deep breath, your eyes scanning the street with a mix of apprehension and excitement. You could speed up, fall in step with the passersby, but you choose to slow down. No rushing. Not tonight. Tonight, you've won something greater than you dared to imagine just days ago: a fresh start, an open door. And you want to savor it. Savor every moment, every movement, every step that brings you closer to an uncertain, but promising future.
You head toward a small park bordering the avenue. The air grows cooler as you move away from the noisy street. The atmosphere becomes calm, almost soothing. A few groups of friends sit carefree on wooden benches, their laughter floating in the night air like bursts of joy. Their cheerfulness is contagious, and you catch yourself smiling, soaking in this rare pocket of serenity. The lamplight casts a golden glow on the paved ground, and a fountain whispers nearby, softly breaking the stillness of the night that's slowly settling in. You pause for a moment, close your eyes, and breathe deeply. A shiver runs through you, but it isn't from the cold. It’s the feeling of a new chapter beginning, something vast and unknown just on the horizon. Tonight, you feel lighter. Strangely at ease. The anxiety that clung to you seems to have lifted, replaced by an odd calm. You feel like a stranger discovering a familiar place for the first time. A place you’ve always dreamed of reaching, but never dared to believe was within reach.
You could almost believe that tonight, everything will be fine. That this isn't a dream, but a reality finally revealing itself. Maybe there are still obstacles to overcome, challenges to face. But tonight, nothing feels impossible. You’re here. And that’s enough for now. After a few blocks, you finally reach Peter’s building. The lights outside feel softer here, like a promise of intimacy in the middle of the city’s chaos. You take a deep breath, your heart still slightly racing from the past few hours. The excitement, the fatigue, the adrenaline—they’re all still pulsing through you. But more than anything, you just want to return to that small corner of comfort, your temporary haven. You stop in front of the apartment door, hesitate for a moment, and then knock gently. A dull thud echoes inside, and a few seconds later, the door opens.
Peter is there, his smile stretching nearly across his whole face, already holding a beer like it was a long-anticipated reward. He eyes you for a beat, his gaze twinkling with mischief before shaking his head and saying:
— "Tell me you’re joking and you didn’t actually manage to impress Stark."
A laugh bursts out of you instantly. You shake your head, amused and almost relieved. You step inside, crossing the threshold as if escaping from another world—leaving behind the shadows of past struggles, the moments of doubt and stress. Tonight is different. Tonight is a victory. A victory you can almost touch with your fingertips as you enter this small haven that reminds you everything is still possible. Peter hands you the beer with a familiar gesture and a knowing wink, and you take it without thinking, savoring the coolness of the bottle. It’s a pause. A suspended instant where doubts and uncertainties feel suddenly far away. There’s something comforting in the simplicity of it all, something unexpected and deeply welcome.
You let a slight smile stretch across your face as you join him inside the apartment. The evening stretches on in the warmth of Peter’s apartment, a relaxed atmosphere perfectly contrasting with the tension of the day. Empty beer bottles begin to line up on the coffee table, forming a subtle but clear sign of your impromptu celebration. The soft, golden lighting filters through the curtains, creating a cozy and almost intimate ambiance, as if the outside world had disappeared. It’s one of those simple moments that doesn’t seem like much, but somehow, it soothes. A moment where fatigue and worries slowly melt away, swallowed by laughter and companionship.
The air is light, conversation flowing easily, and at one point Peter, grinning mischievously, turns on the console and tosses you a controller. "Come on, let’s settle this on the battlefield." The challenge is clear, and you don’t hesitate. The game begins. A classic fighter—the one you’ve played countless times before—but that’s what makes it fun. You know the characters, the moves, the tactics. The first rounds are tight. Peter knows your tricks by heart, and you’ve learned to anticipate his. Taunts fly, laughter echoes. It’s a familiar dance between two friends who know each other too well to be surprised.
— "You’re too cocky tonight, you think you’re Stark or something?" Peter throws out as he dodges a move, eyes gleaming in mock challenge.
You smirk, fingers tight on the controller, focused. This is your night. There’s a certain energy driving you not to back down. With surprising precision, you chain combos, feints, and well-placed strikes. The moves flow, almost instinctive, and with one final spectacular blow, you take him down.
— "BOOM!" You throw your arms up, a wide grin spreading across your face, relishing the win with the exuberance of a kid who just won his first game. Peter groans in frustration, tossing a mock-annoyed glare your way.
— "Okay, you got lucky. Rematch." He hates losing, but you know he’s already ready to go again—and so are you.
The night goes on, full of laughter and teasing with every loss and win—but it doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is this moment. This simple pleasure shared between friends, far from worries, expectations, and pressures. Time slips by, and though fatigue begins to settle in, you feel strangely good. Maybe a little drunk, sure—but there’s a lightness that lets you set aside all that usually weighs you down. You get up and stretch, your body responding slowly but pleasantly to the motion. Your muscles still tense from the day, but a warm calm spreads through your limbs. You move toward the bathroom with slight hesitation—a welcome detour before you finally close your eyes.
Hot water hits your skin with a soothing gentleness, each droplet sliding down, dissolving tension. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift into the sensation. Heat fills your body, muscle by muscle, fiber by fiber. Your head, still buzzing from the day’s adrenaline, slowly empties. A moment of peace. A moment just for you. But then, like a jolt back to reality, your eyes open—and you catch your reflection in the fogged mirror. Steam clings to the surface, but your eyes are fixed on what can’t be erased. The scars.
Those marks are there, an immutable truth etched into your skin. They tell stories you’d rather forget, old burns and pain that won’t ever fully fade. The look you give them is familiar, but a strange coldness runs through you as you realize they’re part of you, forever. You reach out, fingers brushing over one of them, still sensitive to the touch. There’s a calm in the gesture, a silent acceptance. You’ve learned to live with them. To hide them beneath layers of clothes and fake smiles. You’ve learned to bury them under layers of silence. But they’re there. They remind you of every mistake, every moment you lost yourself. They won’t leave. A reminder of what you’ve been through, of what still defines you.
A suspended moment, heavy and quiet, as you stand there with hot water still running down your skin, your thoughts lost in the depth of marks you can’t erase.
You breathe in deeply, air filling your lungs, a silent sigh escaping before you quickly look away. Tonight’s not the time to drown in these thoughts. You don’t want to be trapped in memories or swallowed by the weight of the past. Tonight, you’ve won something. It’s time to enjoy that victory. So without further hesitation, you turn off the water, grab a towel, and get ready to return to the couch—where Peter waits, where the air is lighter, almost joyful. But before you leave the bathroom, a thought crosses your mind. Your apartment. You haven’t taken the time to think about it yet, but it’s inevitable. With your new salary, finding a place of your own shouldn’t be hard. It’s just a matter of time, of paperwork. You already imagine the comfort of a real home, a place that’s yours, where you can leave behind the nightmares of the past. But before that… there’s still one last step. You need to go back to Matthew’s. Collect your things. End this story once and for all.
A chill runs through you at the thought of setting foot there again, where everything went wrong. But it’s necessary—you know it. You glance down at your jeans, reach into the pocket, and the metallic feel of your keys brings you back to reality. The keys to your old apartment. That place now a symbol of everything you want to leave behind. You could go early tomorrow, before your first day at Stark. Close that chapter. Never go back. The thought of returning, of doing what must be done, stirs a strange tension in your chest. It’s a mix of relief and apprehension. A final act, necessary but hard. Yet you know it’s the only way to truly move on. Tonight, you can’t ignore this step, no matter how uncomfortable it is.
You tighten your grip on the keys. Tomorrow morning. One last time. You close your eyes for a moment, letting a heavy exhale escape your lungs. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, you close the book for good. A simple word, but it resonates like a promise you make to yourself. A promise to start fresh, to face what’s coming, to move forward without looking back.
As you leave the bathroom, you spot Peter sprawled on the couch, completely out. He’s fast asleep, one arm dangling off the side, an empty beer bottle barely balanced between his fingers. An amused smile slips from you—a little flicker of irony. It’s crazy how completely he let go, as if the night drained him entirely. The beer, the laughter, the taunts and victories... he soaked it all in effortlessly. In seconds, he passed out, like a kid worn out from a day full of games and joy. You take a moment to observe the room bathed in soft semi-darkness. The bluish glow of the still-on TV casts gentle shadows on the walls, creating an atmosphere both calm and familiar. The silence is comforting, like a light blanket draped over the apartment. A soothing silence, far from the one that haunts your mind most of the time. Without a sound, you head for Peter’s bed. Just for tonight. The couch looks like it’s become his domain, but it’s too uncomfortable for you. Might as well take advantage.
You lie down, sinking into the mattress’ softness. A wave of relaxation washes over you, though a slight tension still lingers in your muscles, a persistent fatigue. The alcohol still hums through your veins, mixed with the day’s adrenaline, creating a strange cocktail of exhaustion and anticipation. Your breathing slows, and as you surrender to the pull of sleep, thoughts still swirl in your mind. Tomorrow, you’re working for Stark. Tomorrow, it all begins. A new chapter. An opportunity. A challenge you accepted without really thinking it through.
Tonight, at last, you fall asleep in a strange kind of peace—a fragile peace, but real—one that lets you surrender to fatigue. For once, you feel ready to face what’s ahead, without getting lost in the anxieties of the past. Tonight, you finally sleep—not exactly at peace, but with the hope that maybe, just maybe, tomorrow will be different
The wake-up is brutal, much earlier than expected. Adrenaline courses through your body before you’ve even set a foot out of bed. A spike of tension pierces your chest, hitting as sharply as the first ray of sunlight breaking through the window. Yesterday’s excitement already feels like it belongs to another world. Today is different. Today marks the beginning of a new life. But before that, you have to go back there. Where it all began. Where, in some way, it all ends too. Peter is still asleep on the couch, curled up, his breathing steady and slicing through the silence of the room. He looks peaceful, unaware of the storm building inside you. You stand there a moment, watching his relaxed face. It’s strange — a part of you wants to shake him awake and ask if he feels it too, this pressure eating you alive. But no. That morning, you are alone in your anxiety, alone in the fight.
The apartment is bathed in a dull grey light, the cold light of early morning sneaking weakly through the curtains. A striking contrast to the warmth of last night, now blurred into foggy memories. You rise carefully, every movement calculated not to disturb the quiet that clings to the space. The floor creaks under your bare feet, but you manage to avoid the worst spots, every sound too loud in the hush of the house. You head to the kitchen, thoughts already spinning toward what awaits. The cup is cold in your hand when you pick it up, part of an automatic routine you rely on just to stay grounded in something tangible. The coffee brews quickly, a black liquid crackling softly. The familiar smell begins to fill the room — almost comforting. And yet, it clashes so violently with the storm twisting in your stomach. Just breathing feels like work, as though the air has thickened somehow.
A first sip, scalding, slides down your throat. But it only highlights the tempest in your head. The coffee can’t calm the anxiety climbing up your spine, nor dispel the doubts slipping into every corner of your mind. You’re not even sure you’ll be able to concentrate, to stay calm. Every thought is another hurdle to overcome before you even leave the apartment. You close your eyes a second, searching for some clarity in this mental haze. But it doesn’t come. Things are clear: there’s no going back. You know what needs to be done. You know where you need to go. You know you have to return. It’s inevitable. Just a matter of time. One last task, one last formality before you can turn the page and leave this part of your life behind. Collect your things. Get out of his life, out of that apartment, out of that suffocating routine. Leave no room for regrets or unanswered questions. You take a deep breath, close your eyes again, and give your head a small shake, trying to cast off the last lingering doubts. It’s the only thing to do. It has to be done. Nothing else matters anymore.
Before leaving, you cast one last look at Peter, still sleeping on the couch. He’s curled under the blanket, his arm hanging at a slightly odd angle, the empty beer bottle forgotten beside him. The silence in the apartment is heavy, but also comforting. Peter didn’t wake up. Maybe it’s better that way. Fewer explanations. No questions. No unnecessary words. You exhale deeply before turning the handle and walking out the door. As you step out, you leave behind the warmth of the apartment — a warmth that now feels more distant, more foreign. The streets are still quiet. A few early risers, solitary figures moving with silent determination, along with a few hurried workers, cut through the stillness of the city. The sound of the subway in the distance, the first cars gliding gently down nearly empty roads — all of it part of the city’s awakening.
The morning chill slips beneath your coat, a shiver racing along your spine. But it’s almost welcome, in a strange way. A sharp shock, but necessary. Like a forced awakening, a plunge into reality that reminds you: it’s not over. Not yet. You have to keep going. You walk briskly, thoughts like fog inside your head. Memories start creeping back in with every street you cross, chasing you down despite your pace. Every intersection, every unlit lamp post brings you back to a time when things felt simpler, when you were more naive. When the days stretched endlessly and the future felt wide open, still untouched by the scars that would etch themselves into your skin and your mind. These streets — you know them by heart. And yet, they feel both familiar and foreign, like a set you left too quickly without ever really understanding it.
You shake your head, trying to silence those thoughts before they bury you. Not this morning. Not now. Then comes the subway. The doors screech open with a metallic whine, and a gust of stale air escapes the train like a heavy exhale. The subway is noisy, saturated with familiar sounds: barely audible announcements echoing like distant calls, hurried footsteps, the shuffle of passengers sinking into the collective indifference. You sit down in silence, arms crossed, eyes fixed on nothing, barely aware of the world around you. Your thoughts are already locked onto what must be done, what you haven’t yet done but will soon have to face.
You don’t want to go. The idea of returning to Matthew’s apartment chokes you, but you know you don’t have a choice. You have to do it. It’s the last step. Automatically, you pull out your phone, hoping to distract your mind. Notifications from the class group flood the screen, a constant stream of messages flashing past. Shared projects, endless course discussions you never really followed, invitations to events you’ve ignored for far too long. Your thumb scrolls without thought, all the way to the bottom, where the group name appears. One last thought brushes past before you stop on the "Leave group" button.
No hesitation. You tap it. The group vanishes, like a door closing on another chapter of your life. You don’t need it anymore. It’s like one last act of renunciation, a weight lifted without noise, without drama. You have no ties here. Not with them. Not with a world that never really felt like yours. The subway keeps rolling underground, and you sit there, in your corner, alone with that decision. A faint sense of relief begins to rise. The stop comes sooner than expected, and you barely have time to react. You lift your head, startled by the sudden braking, and force yourself to get off, each movement mechanical, every step heavier than the last. Your stomach tightens more with every step, as if your body already knows what’s coming. The path to the apartment is short, but endless. Streets pass by your eyes, but everything feels frozen, like a scene you’ve relived a thousand times. Every corner, every passing face brings you back to a past you want to escape — but that refuses to let you go.
Finally, you reach the door.
There it is. Familiar. Detestable. Like an old friend you have no desire to see again, but who forces her way back in regardless. You stand before it, still for a second. The door challenges you, silent, and the air around you feels thicker, heavier. You know this moment marks the end of something—but at what cost? You can’t quite name what you’re feeling. It’s not anger. It’s not fear. It’s a confusing blend of both and more.
Your hand trembles slightly as you search for the keys in your pocket. It’s a small gesture, almost banal, yet anxiety slowly coils around your heart, squeezing each beat.
One last breath.
You slide the key into the lock. The metallic sound of it turning is deafening in the vast silence. The door opens slowly, like an invitation—but there’s nothing reassuring about it. The smell hits you instantly: acrid, familiar, soaked in memory and resentment. It’s as if everything here is watching you, judging you, reminding you of everything you tried to forget. You’re back. For the last time. The contrast between the closed space and the light filtering through the open door is stark. You take a few steps inside, and everything feels smaller, more suffocating. The unreal stillness of the room mixes with a palpable tension, like a calm sea before a storm. Time feels suspended. Everything frozen in a silent wait. The apartment is unnervingly quiet. Too quiet. Like an empty shell. A heavy void floats in the air, a silence so thick it feels like the space has been holding its breath since you left. You cross the threshold, and a chill hits you immediately. This isn’t your home anymore. It used to be—a refuge, a haven—but now it feels as foreign as any other place. A relic of a past you chose to erase.
You walk the hallway with measured steps, avoiding any creaks in the floor, as if every sound could awaken something too heavy to face. Every detail here, even the most mundane, feels strange, distorted, as though the apartment changed in your absence. You force yourself to keep moving, but a strange tightness grips your throat: you’re no longer a resident of this place. When you step into your room, the feeling only deepens. Everything looks unchanged, as if time had frozen here, suspended between two worlds. Yet a cold distance settles within you—an invisible barrier that cuts you off from the past. This room that once understood and protected you now only brings back memories: nights spent overthinking, letting thoughts swarm you, drowning under the weight of endless days.
Without delay, you move toward your things. The objects are there, familiar, but they now feel useless. You grab what matters: clothes, a few personal items that still tether you to yourself, family photos you refuse to leave behind because they are the last remnants of who you once were—what you can’t erase, no matter what. The rest… wrinkled sheets, worn furniture, little everyday things—they no longer matter. What counts now is ending this. Because all of that can be replaced. But not the memories. Those, you take with you. You hold onto them, despite everything. Your bag fills quickly. You’re determined not to linger, not to leave room for nostalgia or doubt. Every motion is another step toward closure. You give the room one last sweeping glance, one last look at everything that was, one final moment to register what you’re leaving behind. A brief hesitation lingers—but you push it away, like a discomfort you refuse to face. You shake your head, your mind already focused on the exit. There’s nothing left to do here.
You leave the room, closing the door behind you with a force that feels almost unconscious. A weight slowly lifts from your shoulders, as if the room itself releases you from the burden of its memory. You walk a few steps, your mind already escaping, picturing the freedom that awaits outside. The exit—it’s just a formality now. But as you move forward, a figure suddenly emerges in front of you, quick and abrupt, too fast for you to react in time. It blocks your path, and the air turns instantly heavier, more suffocating. A brutal shock. Before you can even move, your back slams against the wall behind you, as if the whole world had frozen in place. Pain flares, but it’s the shock—more than the impact—that paralyzes you.
The breath knocked out of you, you struggle to grasp what just happened. For a moment, you’re frozen, stunned—and then pain crushes your chest, pinning you against the cold surface of the wall. The air thickens, nearly unbreathable, and you’re barely able to process what’s overwhelming you.
Matthew.
His face appears like a mask of barely restrained fury, a boiling rage under his skin. His eyes pierce you—cold, ready to explode. He stands there, crushing you in place, and you feel his alcoholic breath invading your space, heavy and suffocating. A shiver runs through you, your skin reacting to the disgust, but you have no time to respond.
— “How dare you come back here without even paying the damn rent, you piece of shit!”
His voice, warped by alcohol and fury, cracks through the air like a whip. The words sting, harsh and sharp. Before you can say a word, he throws you violently to the floor. The fall is brutal, merciless. Your shoulder slams into the tiles, a sharp pain slicing through you, like your body exploded on impact. You lie there on the cold floor, mind spinning, trying to push yourself upright, to regain balance. But before you can move, a heavy weight crushes your wrist, pinning you down. The pain is searing. A groan escapes your lips before you can stop it. Your body shakes, pain tearing through everything. But it’s not just your wrist—it’s deeper, rooted in your gut, where all the memories hide, where you’ve buried yourself for too long. And now, this moment, this violence, rips it all open again.
Matthew presses harder, his dark gaze locked on yours, pure hatred glowing in his eyes. He wants to see you in pain. He wants to break you. You grit your teeth, enduring the agony in silence. As always. Like you always have. But this time, it’s not the same. A quiet rage rises in you—deep, raw. No more fear. No more hesitation. Just a primal, instinctive will: escape. End this nightmare. Without thinking, you gather every ounce of strength, and do the unthinkable. In one swift motion, you roll to the side, catching Matthew off guard. He doesn’t expect it. His grip loosens—just enough. In a flash of clarity, you rip your arm free. He stumbles, loses balance—just enough for you to slip away.
Your heart pounds wildly, panic fused with a desperate adrenaline. You jump to your feet, pure reflex, bolting for the door. Your heartbeats thunder in your ears. Bag clutched tight, your feet almost skid on the floor. But you don’t stop. Without thinking, you wrench the door handle and cross the threshold. The cold air outside hits you hard—but you don’t care. All that matters is distance. Distance from this place. From him. Behind you, insults tear through the air, followed by something smashing into the door—an explosive burst of rage. But you no longer hear any of it. You’re already in the hallway, out of his reach, your legs pushing you far from that hell.
Your heart drums in your chest, every beat echoing in your skull like a war drum. The stairs blur beneath your feet, each step a final goodbye, one more cut from a past that no longer defines you. Each step carries you closer to an uncertain freedom—but a sweet one, a promise. At last, you burst through the door. The icy air slaps your face like cold water—but you don’t care. It’s a brutal relief, a breath of clean air. The outside world greets you—but it’s just the backdrop of a new life. Your wrist still throbs, dull and persistent—but it no longer holds you back. He’s still there, right where he always left you. And you—you’re finally free.
It’s over.
As you leave the housing estate, adrenaline still courses through your veins, giving you a feverish yet focused energy. Your wrist screams in pain, a throbbing pulse that syncs perfectly with the beating of your heart, but you don’t have the luxury to dwell on it. Not now. Not after all this.
Your phone trembles slightly in your hand as you pull it from your bag. The time appears on the screen—cold, unrelenting. The urgency intensifies. There’s no room for detours. No time to waste. You have one chance left, and you know you have to give everything—sacrifice everything—to seize it. The path to Stark Tower must begin now, even if your body protests. You tighten your grip on your bag, the leather biting into your already raw skin. You take a deep breath, casting one last glance at your old apartment, at the place where so many nightmares were born. You don’t linger. It’s not your home anymore, and it never will be again. Without a second thought, you turn on your heel and head for the subway.
Each step is a tear, an echo of the anxiety still clinging to your mind, but each stride brings you closer to Stark Tower, and each movement takes you farther from a past you refuse to relive—a past you are determined to leave behind, no matter the cost. Your heart pounds in your chest, hammering away, but it’s not fear that drives it faster. It’s necessity. Pain. Urgency. Each step grows heavier, harder, like the weight of the entire world is settling on your shoulders. But you keep going, again and again. Because you have no other choice. The icy wind rushes under your coat as you move quickly, your pace brisk and determined, weaving between early-morning passersby. The city wakes around you, indifferent to your frantic sprint, each person absorbed in their own routine. Voices mingle, people laugh, sipping their coffee on the go without sparing a glance to those around them. And you—you are there, like a specter, a ghost in a hurry, fleeing a past you left behind and running toward an uncertain, but necessary, future.
The subway is packed, the body heat oppressive. But you hardly notice. The crowd pushes and pulls you, but you remain focused on your goal, on the flicker of hope glowing in the distance. Your gaze drifts for a moment to the blurred reflection in the subway window. Your face is drawn, fatigue etched into your features, sweat beading on your forehead despite the chill. It’s cold sweat—born of fear, effort, and adrenaline. The clamor of the world around you feels distant, like an echo you can’t quite reach.
Your wrist, still aching, reminds you of its presence with every movement, every jolt of the subway. The pain is sharp, but you ignore it. You try to shift position discreetly, moving just enough to avoid being bumped, without drawing attention. There’s no room for weakness. Not today. The loudspeaker announces each stop, bringing you closer to your goal. But every minute seems to stretch, to warp, as if time itself hesitates to deliver you where you need to go. Each passing second intensifies the pressure building in your shoulders, your stomach, every fiber of your body. Anxiety and determination swirl within you in a nervous storm, bracing you for the moment when you’ll have to face everything this means.
You try to catch your breath, to calm the frantic pounding in your chest that feels ready to burst. Your breaths are ragged, each inhale burning your throat. Your mind, still gripped by adrenaline, flickers for a moment to Matthew. His hate-filled gaze, the flash of his rage, strike you like lightning. You shake your head violently, refusing to give him another second in your mind. This is no longer his moment, no longer his story. The subway doors open. You leap out of the train, slicing through the crowd of rushing workers. Footsteps, conversations—all blur into a confused background as you push forward. Your eyes briefly catch a wall clock nearby: not a second to spare. Just enough time to run. You force every muscle to follow the pace set by your mind, every step an urgency, a necessity.
When you finally reach Stark Tower, breathless, it feels like your legs can’t hold you up anymore. The effort of your frantic dash has drained you completely. You slow down, but there’s no way you’ll let your exhaustion show. You force yourself to mask your condition, square your shoulders, walk with confidence. The walls of the tower rise before you, imposing, almost intimidating, but you steady your breathing, trying to find a trace of calm amid your mental storm.
One last glance at the glass doors. The soft lighting inside reflects against the glass, a stark contrast to the chaos you left outside. You take a deep breath, forcing one final surge of courage. And, with a resolute gesture, you push open the door, stepping into a new world—a world where you are no longer just a ghost in the crowd.
The air conditioning hits you immediately, cold and nearly glacial, a brutal contrast to the heat of your sprint. A shiver runs through you as you cross the threshold, a final sigh of relief you barely allow yourself. The Stark Tower lobby is vast, almost unreal. The walls are white, sleek, minimalist. Artificial lighting casts a brilliant, nearly clinical white over everything, a sharp break from the frenzy you just left. It’s a place where order and perfection seem to reign. Pepper Potts is there, at her desk. You spot her instantly. She’s focused on a file, but the moment you walk in, she lifts her head. Her eyes—sharp as blades—lock onto you in an instant, measuring, analyzing. She watches you with almost surgical precision, and you immediately sense that every detail matters. She scans you from head to toe, as if detecting unease, a crack in the surface.
— "Are you alright?" she asks, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity, her brows slightly furrowed in faint concern.
You nod, too out of breath to reply. The pressure in your chest lingers, your breathing still uneven. The silence between you stretches, and you know—even without another word—that she’s testing you. She has the eye. She’s noticed something’s wrong, but she doesn’t push. Without another word, she turns back to her file, resuming her methodical work. But you know she hasn’t truly looked away. Her eyes follow you discreetly, tracking your every move as you head toward the elevator. Her gaze weighs on you, and despite her apparent detachment, you feel something shift within her. She saw past the mask you tried to wear over your fatigue and distress.
The elevator doors close with a metallic click, enclosing you in a cold, silent cocoon. Still breathless, you fight to rein in the thoughts swirling wildly in your head. The mechanical hum of the elevator is the only thing anchoring you to reality—but even that seems distant, almost unreal. Your eyes drift toward your wrist, where the pain brutally reminds you of the altercation. The skin is marked, a bruise already blooming beneath the surface—a lasting trace of that last confrontation. A slight shiver overtakes you, but you strive to stay calm. You wince, barely, a wave of frustration crashing through you before you grip your bag tighter, as if to remind yourself to keep moving, not to stop. You quickly look away, fleeing the image of your own fragility.
The seconds stretch endlessly, and you try to push back the echo of your own thoughts. The soft chime of the elevator doors pulls you from your daze. They open, and reality tightens its grip on you once more. Light floods the room, almost blinding in its perfection, as if the outside world no longer holds sway here. A jarring contrast to the storm simmering inside you. Every corner seems suspended in an icy calm, too quiet to offer any comfort. Seated behind his desk, Tony Stark waits, implacable in his apparent ease. He’s relaxed, as always, a faintly curious air about him as you enter. One eyebrow raised, a slight smirk tugging at his lips, he sizes you up without a word. One look, and you know he’s already seen everything you’re trying to hide.
You take a deep breath, feeling the urgency to ground yourself in this reality—this new beginning—and drop your bag onto the floor with a soft thud. Even that seems too loud in the room’s silence. You force yourself to hide the tremble in your hands, determined not to let your unrest crack through your facade. You straighten, lift your gaze to meet his, and try to swallow back anything that might betray your agitation.
— "Morning, Boss. I’m ready to work today."
Stark glances up, his eyes skimming your face briefly before flicking to your bag, then your wrist. Time stalls in that split second. He says nothing, but you know he’s seen it. You know he’s noticed. That sharp, calculating look leaves no doubt. A slow smile curves across his lips, amused and intrigued all at once, like he’s already aware you’re slipping—and curious just how far you’ll go to pretend otherwise.
— "Just in time." The words hang in the air, offhand, yet the tone—tinged with challenge—tells you exactly where he’s placing you: here, now.
You swallow quietly, the weight of the morning clinging to you like a second skin. Work begins, but the tension in your body doesn’t ease. What just happened—back at the apartment—still sticks to your skin, and it feels like every movement is a clumsy attempt to distance yourself from it. You settle at your desk, placing your two bags down with a nearly imperceptible sound. The workspace is immaculate—too immaculate. The atmosphere feels almost oppressive in its flawlessness, like every item is positioned to remind you that this is unfamiliar territory. A state-of-the-art monitor blazes before you, dazzling in its brightness and tech innovation, paired with a top-tier graphic tablet—far beyond anything you’ve ever used. The equipment taunts you, daring you to rise to this new standard, to this level of demand that presses in on you.
Stark, still seated behind his desk, watches silently. His gaze is piercing, analytical, like a magnifying glass tracking every movement, every slight hesitation. He says nothing, but his presence weighs on you, an invisible pressure. He folds his arms, tilts his head slightly—you see it in his eyes: he’s waiting. Waiting for you to measure up. He inhales slowly, and finally breaks the silence, his voice deceptively casual.
— "Well, since you’re here, I might as well give you something to do."
With a precise gesture, he slides a file toward you on the shared screen. Instantly, several lines of directives appear, outlining what feels like a colossal task. A real-time animation request for an interactive interface prototype. Dynamic shapes to model, transitions to design—all requiring seamless fluidity. A craftsman’s work, where every detail counts. The scale of the task hits you hard—a challenge worthy of the Stark name. The words ring in your head, but you know you can’t afford to be intimidated. This isn’t just a job. It’s your entrance exam. You read the directives carefully, heart pounding faster with every line. The project is complex, ambitious—far beyond what you expected. Adrenaline spikes, and the throbbing pain in your wrist reminds you of the morning’s violence. Every movement is a bit harder because of it, but there’s no time to waste.
Stark, cold as ever, finally speaks again, voice low, almost too calm.
— "You’ve got three hours. Show me what you’ve got."
His words slice through the room—sharp, direct. This isn’t just about responding to a task. He expects results. Not a sketch, not an unfinished piece. A real product. Proof you belong here. The challenge is set, and the pressure tightens like a vise. You nod, trying to capture the moment. You position yourself properly at the screen, shoulders stiff, hands a little shaky. You try to block out the mental noise—but it’s there, always. Looping in your mind: Matthew, your wrist, the stress that won’t shut off. The world around you shrinks, and the space before you becomes a blank canvas, a silent stage waiting for you to give it life. Your fingers hover above the graphic tablet, stylus ready to trace the first line—but you don’t start right away. The screen flickers, challenging, promising endless possibility. But right now, the problem isn’t technical. The real obstacle is the stress gripping you. Your body hasn’t recovered from everything you’ve been through, and that internal pressure squeezes your chest like a phantom hand.
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, trying to still the storm inside. Each breath feels more difficult than the last, but you try to focus that energy. The hum of the air conditioner, the heavy silence—everything hones in on you like a spotlight on an unspoken act. Behind you, Stark says nothing. Doesn’t move. You know it’s a test. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He watches. Measures. Waits. You lift your head, grip the stylus, and finally draw your first line. Your voice rises, firmer now, more confident than before.
— "Okay, Boss. It’ll be ready in three hours."
Stark raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips—part mocking, part impressed.
— "I like the enthusiasm. Don’t let me down."
He rises slowly, as if savoring the tension, taps the desk lightly. The sound echoes sharply, then he walks away, leaving you alone with your challenge. His presence dissipates as quickly as it arrived—but his relentless gaze lingers in your mind. He’s given you a chance. Now he wants results. You can’t afford to fail. You’re left alone in the silent room—the metallic tang of the desk, the cold walls closing in. Your eyes land on the glowing screen, the blurry shapes of the interface waiting to be transformed. The tablet is under your fingers, but nothing comes. Just emptiness. A cold white space that offers nothing back. Your mind, however, is anything but empty. It’s boiling over—thoughts clashing, fighting for dominance. You can’t focus. Can’t settle. Every finger movement feels disconnected, like your body refuses to comply. Frustration takes root fast—you’re trapped in a loop of useless thoughts, and you can’t break free.
You shut your eyes, trying to be logical. “It’s just an animation,” you tell yourself. “Just like the others you’ve done. Nothing new.” But doubt slinks in anyway. Why now? Why here? Why this added pressure? Why this constant weight in your chest, like something unseen crushing you from within? Your wrist throbs with every motion. The pain becomes a low hum, a persistent vibration added to the chaos in your head. Every stroke of the stylus replays the memory of this morning—the violence, the rush, the escape. That wasn’t just about picking up your stuff. It was an exodus. A panicked flight. And still, you’ve never felt further from safe. Your body is here, in this room, beneath the cold lights of Stark Tower. But your mind is still back there—in that cursed apartment, in the chaos that trails you like a shadow, choking your breath, splintering your focus.
You take a deep breath, desperate to regain control. Each inhale harder than the last, but you try to keep going. One line. Just one. The stylus in your hand—your only lifeline to the world in front of you. But nothing comes. Not yet. Not today. You move your fingers slightly, uncertain, and draw a first line. It’s clumsy. Every motion feels forced, every curve uncertain. You erase. Start again. Over and over—but nothing takes shape. Everything feels off, like your hands have forgotten what to do. Normally your work has rhythm, a natural flow. Now it’s mechanical. The motions are there, but something’s missing. The soul of the piece. What you might call your “touch,” your creative spark—it’s gone.
Behind you, Stark remains silent. Watching. But you know he’s observing. Waiting. He’s given you this task—a challenge—and he won’t overlook a single flaw. Time ticks on, seconds bleeding into minutes, and still you have nothing to show him.
The pressure rises. You drag a hand down your face, trying to gather your thoughts, to find clarity. But the truth hits hard. Why is this so difficult? Why has everything become a war against yourself? You’ve done this before. It’s within your skillset. You know how to build an animation, how to breathe life into transitions, how to make an interface move. And yet… nothing. Your brain is stuck, like a rusted engine refusing to start. The weight of the morning pulls you backward—every memory, every buried emotion, every painful gesture clinging to you, keeping you from breathing freely
You stop. Close your eyes for a moment, desperately trying to regain a sliver of calm. Breathe. A deep breath. Then a longer exhale. You clench your fists under the table, close your eyes again, and try to block out everything haunting you. You have to move forward. But the screen stays blank. And your mind just as empty. A spiderweb of entangled emotions traps you, makes you lose yourself in insignificant details, and you lose sight of the end goal.
The silence in the room is deafening, each passing minute stretching into infinity. The emptiness on the screen reflects you, throws back this image of yourself: a version of a creator whose mind is crushed by too much weight, too many doubts, and too much pain. A sharp throat clearing breaks the oppressive silence, yanking you out of your trance. Stark has stood up. He walks toward you slowly, a mug of coffee in his hands, his gaze fixed on you. He stops behind your desk, glances briefly at your screen, then lets his eyes drift toward you. His silence is heavy, almost unbearable.
— "Ah, I see. Minimalist approach. Very bold." His voice is laced with mockery, a smirk betraying his amusement. He knows exactly where you are—and he’s making sure you know he knows.
You clench your jaw, shame flushing hot across your face. His words sting, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing your irritation. Eyes locked on the screen, you stubbornly ignore him.
— "Want me to tell you what I see?" He doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he leans against the edge of your desk, lounging in a posture that screams casual dominance. He sips his coffee, eyes never leaving you. The silence thickens, every second dragging. "I see someone who's convinced himself he’s going to fail before even trying."
His words punch you straight in the gut. You feel anger rising, but you hold firm. No way you’re giving him what he wants. He wants you to snap. You won’t. Stark seems to relish the moment, his eyes locked on you, waiting for the collapse.
— "And I don’t need people who drown in their own doubts. If that’s what you came here to do, say it now, so I don’t waste my time."
The pressure intensifies. His eyes bore into you, daring you to push back. He’s testing you—and he knows it.
— "So what?" he raises an eyebrow, that victorious smirk creeping back. "Lost your talent overnight?"
His words ring in your ears like a trigger. A detonation. A switch. Something cracks inside you. A surge of frustration, pride, and pure fire rises to the surface, sweeping away the weight of doubt. You inhale sharply, fists clenching. Your back straightens. Adrenaline fuels your defiance. Okay. Fine. He’s not going to be right about you. Not like this. Not today. The challenge is set. And this time, there’s no doubt left. You’ll show him what you can do.
Something clicks inside you. A brutal jolt, almost physical. The frustration that had been simmering inside turns into a commanding force. Instead of collapsing under the weight of pressure, it becomes your engine. A new energy seeps into your veins, fueled by the rage to prove that you're not here by accident, that you weren’t going to fail. Your fingers, hesitant until now, regain their agility. The tablet, under your stylus, finally seems to obey your will. Every movement becomes smoother, every line more precise. What seemed insurmountable just minutes ago takes shape, falls into place. The first animations emerge—dynamic, vivid. The challenge is no longer a towering mountain but a playground you're starting to tame.
Your mind dives into the task; outside thoughts vanish. The world around you fades, as if you’ve slipped into another dimension. The shapes you create come to life before your eyes, everything aligning perfectly. Each transition, each movement flows more naturally. What was shaky at first now breathes under your stylus—like a dance you've finally mastered. Time distorts. Seconds melt into minutes, but you don’t notice. Everything around you—down to the ambient hum of the room—disappears. The world’s noise recedes, becomes non-existent. The pain in your wrist, which had been dragging you down, dulls into background noise, a secondary detail, like an old tune fading into silence. The pain is still there, but it no longer slows you. It becomes part of the process—an echo in your battle to finish.
Your mind is clear, focused. The objective is simple now: finish. No room for doubt, no hesitation. The work speaks. Nothing else. Stark, seated quietly at his desk, watches you in silence. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He watches, studying every motion, analyzing how you’ve responded to the pressure. He sees it—the click, the shift. He knows his pressure worked, that you’ve entered the zone. But he remains silent, a spectator waiting for the story to unfold. You don’t lift your head once. Your gaze stays locked on the screen, your eyes tracing invisible paths in the digital space. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into hours, but you’re too absorbed to notice. The animation progresses, each frame forming, every transition settling perfectly. The lines that once faltered now hold firm, curves soften, movements grow fluid. It’s like every detail is finding its place, slotting into the bigger picture. The rough idea you carried morphs, perfects itself under your fingers, each tweak bringing it closer to what you envisioned.
Your gestures grow confident, instinctive. Your stylus glides over the tablet—each motion deliberate, each transition refined with feverish precision. The stress, the pain, the early confusion slowly dissipate. There’s no space left for doubt. Only the animation—the shine of the idea taking form. Only after a long time—maybe an hour, maybe more—do you finally straighten up. A chill runs down your spine. You blink, suddenly realizing the atmosphere in the room has shifted. The background noise is gone, replaced by a nearly tangible stillness. You inhale deeply, a slight tension easing from your shoulders. The work is going well—better than you expected. You’ve found your rhythm again, and with it, a sense of self-belief.
You steal a glance at the wall clock. The three hours are long gone. Time had stretched under the weight of your focus, but you know there’s no leeway left. The animation is ready, but the stress lingers—like a persistent shadow in your mind. Stark still says nothing. He remains there, unmoving, implacable, as if everything hinges on this moment. He waits, as always, for you to be ready to show him what you’ve done. A furtive glance tells you his attention is fixed on his screen. He’s not even looking at you, but you know he’s waiting, scrutinizing every pixel of what you’ve just built. With a decisive motion, you send the file by email. A moment later, the receive icon flashes on Stark’s screen. He opens the file without a word, eyes locking onto the animation. He rotates it from various angles, tests the flow, inspects each transition, dissects every movement. Silence reigns, thick and heavy. You watch from a distance, heart pounding too fast—like a machine refusing to slow down.
He scrolls through the animation slowly, zooming in on some parts, pulling back on others, his expression unreadable—but you know he’s analyzing every fragment. The suspense stretches taut, each second tightening the coil. You don’t know what to feel—only that your body is frozen, tense, as if bracing for a final verdict. And then finally, after what feels like an eternity, he speaks, and the air drains from the room.
— "It’s not bad."
Silence falls. The words hover in the air—heavy and ambiguous. They echo in your head, but they don’t satisfy. It’s fine, but not enough. It’s never enough with him. No clear praise, no validation. You know what it means. It’s acknowledgment of effort—but nothing that lets you breathe. Not yet. He begins listing weak points, his tone as measured as it is unforgiving. The transitions look good, but something’s missing. The energy could hit harder—more punch, more flow. Some textures lack depth; others feel too flat, visually uninspiring. He walks through every piece, methodically, point by point—like a conductor adjusting each instrument with clinical precision.
You try to listen, to process his feedback—but his voice washes over you without fully sinking in. The adrenaline has drained away, and a dull fatigue creeps in. You nod vaguely, trying to stay engaged, but everything’s a little hazy. You know he’s right on some points, but the weight of his critique starts to wear you down. And then, in the middle of his technical dissection—while pointing out a detail in the movement flow—his eyes catch on you. A pause. And you feel it: he’s seen something. He’s noticed what you were trying to hide. You're clutching your wrist without realizing it, fingers tightened around the ache that won’t quit—every pulse flaring through your nerves like a silent alarm. Anxiety, exhaustion, and pain weave together—but you do your best to shut them out, staying fixed on the screen. Still, you know you’re not as unreadable as you’d like.
But his eyes are sharp. He catches every slip. His expression shifts—subtle, but real. A shadow crosses his gaze, fleeting, before he clicks his tongue sharply, cutting off the critique.
— "Okay. Break."
His tone slices through the air. This isn’t Stark dissecting your work anymore. This isn’t the demanding leader pushing for better. This is Stark seeing something far more personal. Something he clearly doesn’t like. A heavy silence drops over the room. You feel his gaze drilling into you, searching from a different angle—trying to figure out what’s hiding beneath your sudden falter. He waits for an explanation, but you know he won’t ask directly. He wants you to admit something deeper.
You lift your head, slightly startled by the sharp shift in the atmosphere. His eyes lock onto yours with piercing coldness. He crosses his arms, a stance that betrays heightened focus. He nods toward your wrist, and you immediately feel the weight of his question—a gaze that dissects your every move.
— "What’s that?"
The words are simple, but the tone carries a pressure that instantly ramps up the tension between you. You know it: he expects an answer. Not an excuse, not a deflection. A straight answer. The room feels like it’s shrinking around you as the situation shifts. The void deepens, and you can feel the heat of discomfort creeping in. Stark doesn’t look away, and that makes it even worse—more unsettling than you’d like to admit. You sit up straighter, trying to take back control.
— “What do you mean, what’s that? I’m just holding my wrist. Am I not allowed?” The words come out sharper than you intended. You meet his gaze without flinching, but his expression stays cold. Unmoving. Unforgiving. He doesn’t even blink. Just stares harder.
A heavy silence falls, almost tangible, as Stark stays motionless, arms crossed. He leans against the desk, observing your every move, every breath. He says nothing for a while, letting time stretch, tension thickening. He waits, nearly merciless, for you to break the silence. His irritation is palpable, even without a word. You can tell he’s about to push harder. But what he’s really waiting for is something you don’t even know how to give.
— “You serious right now? You really think I’m that stupid?”
His voice is low, controlled, but oddly sharp. It’s the way he speaks—like he’s dissecting every word, ready to tear apart even the slightest misstep. The tone is more threatening now, and you know it’s not just a passing comment. No, it’s a veiled warning. A chill slides down your spine, but you hold your ground. You take a deep breath, shrugging almost mechanically, trying to downplay the whole thing. After all, you don’t want this to get worse.
— “I don’t see the problem. It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
He lets out a laugh, but it’s dry, bitter. There’s no warmth in it. It makes your jaw clench.
— “Oh, sure. Nothing at all. And I guess your little trick with the bags is nothing too?”
Your stomach twists the moment the words hit. He noticed. Of course he noticed. He saw everything. Every detail, every movement—everything you thought you had under control. The bags. You thought the gesture was inconspicuous, that no one would think twice. But him… he sees everything. Instinctively, your eyes drop to the bags left near your desk. They’re all you have now. The only tangible link to who you are. More than luggage. They’re a burden you carry, one you can’t seem to put down. You don’t even dare to look at them too long. It’s too obvious. Too heavy.
— “It’s not important.”
The words come out mechanically, too quickly. But you know they sound wrong. You know he won’t believe you. The silence that follows seems to smother you, each second pushing you closer to confronting the truth you’ve tried so hard to outrun. Stark exhales, the sound nearly imperceptible but clearly irritated. Then he straightens up. He walks around the desk with a calm but deliberate stride, like a predator closing in. His gaze sharpens with each step, each one echoing through the tense stillness.
— “See, that’s the problem. You think you’ve got everything under control, that you can handle it all your way, but really, you’re just postponing the mess that’s already on its way back to you.”
His voice is still level, almost cold, but now laced with frustration. He studies you intensely—your every move scrutinized under his eyes. He’s already spotted more cracks in your armor than you’d like to admit.
— “Listen, kid.” He leans against the edge of your desk, eyes drilling into yours like a scalpel. “I’m not asking for your life story, I couldn’t care less about your personal drama. But what I’m seeing is you throwing away everything you could be, everything you could do. And that, that pisses me off.”
A cold shiver runs down your spine. He’s not shouting. He doesn’t even raise his voice. But each word lands like a precisely aimed blow. He speaks calmly, slowly, with such confidence it almost hurts to admit he’s right. You feel vulnerable under his gaze, as if everything you’ve tried to bury is now exposed. You try to hold steady, to resist the urge to spill everything. You won’t give him the satisfaction. You straighten your back, clench your fists, and reply with quiet determination:
— “I’ve got it handled.”
Stark slowly straightens, clearly annoyed, and rubs a hand down his face like this whole exchange is draining him. Then he looks at you again, voice sharper, cutting deeper.
— “You’ve got it handled, huh?” He nods at your wrist with a pointed tilt of his chin—casual, but piercing. “That’s you handling it? Because the way you’ve been holding it, it looks more like you’re trying not to wince.”
The words hit dead-on. A shiver of irritation shoots through you, but you don’t move. Your jaw tightens. He’s right. That’s what pisses you off the most—that he’s right. He sighs again, heavier this time, stepping back with arms crossed. His stare stays sharp, but now carries a quiet disdain.
— “You want to play stubborn? Fine. But if you think I’m just going to stand by while you break yourself, you’ve misunderstood how this place works.”
Silence. Dense. Suffocating. Each word reverberates in your head, the tension rising like a tide, ready to drown you. He pauses, eyes locked on yours, and says firmly, without room for argument:
— “You need a doctor. And you’re going. Now.”
The stillness after his words is freezing, like the room’s temperature dropped several degrees. You knew this conversation was coming. Just not now. Not when everything’s starting to unravel. Stark doesn’t blink. No pity. No compromise. He expects a response. He won’t let this slide.
You open your mouth to protest, but a cold wave of panic rises.
— “I don’t think it’s broken, someone just stepped on—”
You stop. Your voice cracks mid-sentence, caught by the confession you didn’t mean to make. You bite your tongue, hard. Too late. You already said too much. The air thickens, heavy and oppressive. Stark says nothing at first, but his gaze sharpens. He saw the slip—and he’s already moving in. Stark misses nothing. His gaze sharpens, nearly dissecting. He no longer sizes you up like just another employee — now it’s like he’s staring at someone who’s just let a piece of their mask slip, a mask that was already cracking. He sees the fissure. And he’s not going to let it go. He crosses his arms, his jaw clenches briefly. You feel the tension deepening between you. He doesn’t speak right away, but you know he’s measuring every word you didn’t say.
— “Trampled, huh?” His voice is low, almost disillusioned.
You avert your gaze, a furtive movement, a gesture that betrays the guilt gnawing at you. If you could disappear, you would. You already regret letting those words slip, but it’s too late. You opened a door you can’t close anymore. Stark sighs, longer this time, and runs a hand through his hair, as if trying to express all the exasperation he’s feeling. It isn’t pity or compassion. It’s pure annoyance. And in his eyes, you see he’s tired of the game.
— “Great. So not only are you stubborn, but you let people walk all over you, literally.” He shakes his head, disappointed. He doesn’t look impressed at all.
His tone hardens as he steps closer.
— “Alright, enough. Either you tell me what happened, or you go see a doctor before I fire you for physical incompetence.”
It hits like a punch to the gut. You know he’s not joking. He’s been patient, but that patience has run dry. He wants an answer, giving you one last chance, but his gaze allows no retreat. He knows you’re out of excuses. And he is too. You stay frozen, eyes fixed on the floor, unable to look up. The silence in the room is heavy, almost suffocating. Each passing second feels longer than the last. The atmosphere is saturated with tension, an invisible pressure pinning you in place. Stark doesn’t move. He stares, unflinching, unwavering, letting you drown in the unbearable waiting.
Finally, you break the silence, your voice far lower than you intended, like you’re afraid the words might escape.
— “I need to find an apartment, okay? And I went back to my old place to get the rest of my stuff, but I didn’t have time to go home.”
Your gaze stays on the floor, hands clenched on your knees, as if that might anchor you in some stability. The truth, now that it’s out, feels too obvious, too heavy. A moment of silence follows, and the rising anxiety makes the air feel even more oppressive. You take a quick, almost involuntary breath before spitting out the words that burn your throat.
— “We got into a bit of a fight, that’s all. That’s it.”
The confession suspends the air between you, like a taut wire stretched over a void. Your heart pounds too fast, too hard. The room seems to shrink around you. You still don’t dare look up, but you know Stark is watching you, analyzing. His silence is worse than any question. It’s a silence full of judgment, full of waiting. Stark doesn’t react immediately, but you see it — the tight jaw, the fingers tapping nervously against his crossed arms. It’s like he’s slowly chewing over your confession, digesting each word with icy coldness. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, yet silently violent.
— “Huh. A bit of a fight.”
He repeats your words, lets them slide through his lips like a silent insult. His eyes don’t leave yours, his gaze piercing, devoid of pity.
— “So, you got into a bit of a fight, and by sheer coincidence, your wrist took the hit.”
The implication in his words drives into your skin like a blade. Part of you wants to protest, but you know it’d be futile. So you shrug, trying to flee his gaze by lowering your head even more, but you can feel the heat of his presence just there, just above you. You tried to reduce all of this to a single sentence, a quick excuse.
— “I’ll find an apartment soon, then everything will be fine, Boss.”
But it’s not enough. The silence between you stretches again, like a thread pulled to the breaking point. He takes his time, lets you stew in the discomfort gnawing at you. Then, out of nowhere, a slight laugh escapes his lips. It’s dry, humorless, brutally cold. A purely sarcastic laugh.
— “You really think I’m buying that?”
His tone leaves no doubt: he doesn’t believe a word you just said. And somewhere, you know he’s right. Stark slowly uncrosses his arms, and the faint sound of his fingers tapping against the wood echoes through the room like a silent threat. He approaches you with calculated slowness, like a predator knowing he’s in control. His gaze darkens, sharpens, as if every word he’s about to say is just another blow to your defenses. He places a hand on his desk, leaning slightly toward you, his body tense with an impatience he doesn’t bother to hide. His tone grows colder, more cutting, and you feel each syllable strike like another hit.
— “I won’t beat around the bush.” He pauses, and you see his fingers tapping against the wood, barely audible, but echoing in the silence. “You don’t have an apartment.”
The words hit your chest like a weight. A lump of apprehension instantly rises in your throat. Deep down, you know he’s right, but it’s hard to admit. Hard to lay your shame bare with such clinical detachment. He doesn’t give you time to react.
— “You showed up here with all your stuff.” His voice drops even lower, more pointed. “Which means you’re crashing somewhere, or sleeping outside.”
A shiver runs down your spine, and you feel a burning flush rise to your cheeks. You want to protest, but his words freeze you. You open your mouth to reply, but before a sound escapes, he raises a hand and cuts you off with a sharp gesture, like you don’t matter.
— “And now your wrist hurts like hell, which you’re trying to hide because you’re scared I’ll fire you.” He steps away from his desk, slow, measured steps, then crosses his arms again, leaving you under his unflinching stare.
The silence that follows is heavy, oppressive, almost tangible. You feel like a trapped insect, each of Stark’s words pinning you further into your own guilt. But he doesn’t leave you in silence for long.
— “There’s a problem with all this.”
He breaks the silence again, and your thoughts blur under the weight of his accusations. You know he’s seen through you, exposed you. Every part of you that hoped to hide the truth crumbles under his gaze. And he gives you no respite.
— “I don’t tolerate employees who lie to me.”
The blow is brutal, sharp, like a guillotine falling on an already fragile existence. Stark looks at you one last time, and you know he’s waiting for something from you — a sign, an explanation, a justification — but for the first time since you’ve been here, you have nothing to say. Nothing that could ease the suffocating tension rising higher and higher.
What Remains | Chapter 7 No Turning Back (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : The morning of your interview, anxiety looms as you officially abandon your old job. Arriving at Stark Tower, you face skepticism but are given a chance to prove yourself. Stark critiques your work harshly, then pushes you into two high-pressure challenges, demanding near-perfection under tight deadlines. After relentless effort, you deliver an improved result. Though not flawless, it’s enough—Stark hires you. Leaving the tower, you text Peter: "Get the beers ready. I got the job." For the first time, you’re truly moving forward.
word count: 13.9k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
The next morning, you open your eyes long before dawn. You couldn’t say the exact time — it’s still pitch black outside, and the silence in the apartment feels almost oppressive. The pallid glow of a streetlamp cuts through the half-closed curtains, slicing your face into two contrasting halves. You’ve been lying there most of the night without sleeping, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain tapping gently against the windowpanes. And when sleep finally did take you, it was only for brief moments, fractured by vague, jittery dreams.
But it’s not fatigue that weighs you down. It’s that knot in your stomach — tight, compact, like a lump of steel lodged beneath your ribs. Anxiety. Pure. Silent.
Your phone vibrates on the coffee table. You reach out without thinking, mechanically. A missed call. The screen briefly lights up your face in the darkness. It’s your job. You were supposed to start at 4 a.m. And you didn’t go. You stay motionless for a moment, your thumb frozen above the screen. A voicemail awaits. But you don’t open it. You don’t need to hear it to know what’s in it. Reproaches. Anger. Maybe a thinly veiled threat. You know the tone. You’ve heard it enough to anticipate its every inflection. You take a deep breath. The air in the apartment is warm, almost stifling. It clings to your skin like a tension you can’t shake off.
Should you call back? Pretend there was an emergency, lie, come up with some flimsy excuse just to save face? Or… should you let it go entirely? Own it. Accept that you’ve turned a page, even if you haven’t completely closed the book yet. Your hands tighten around the phone. You’ve never done this. Walked away from a job like this, without notice, without telling anyone. Even a job you hate. Even when you had every reason. There was always that underlying guilt, that fear of disappointing, of ruining the little bit of stability you’d managed to hold onto. But today… it’s different.
Today, you took a leap. You sent your project. You got a reply. And in just a few hours, you have a meeting with Tony Stark. Not an interview with an HR rep tucked away in a windowless office. No. Stark. In person. You slowly let your head fall back until it rests against the couch. Eyes closed, you feel the tension in your neck, your shoulders. The world feels silent. Suspended.
You’ve made your decision.
Time moves slowly but surely. The hour approaches. The one where you’ll have to get up, get ready… and face what’s coming. The interview. The meeting. Stark. You stay seated in the silence, the phone still beside you, its screen black but ever-present. It doesn’t vibrate anymore. It doesn’t need to. The countdown is ticking in your head, inexorable.
A few feet away, Peter is still asleep. His breathing is steady, calm, like a metronome ticking in another reality. You watch him for a moment, curled under the blanket, hair tousled, jaw slack. He seems so far from the world you carry on your shoulders. You envy him. Not just his sleep, but his ability to detach. To breathe. You haven’t shut your eyes. Since your phone buzzed that night, you’ve been there, awake, staring at shadows and the red digits of the clock.
You finally get up, slowly, as if your own body resisted the motion. The floor is cold under your bare feet, drawing a slight shiver from you. Every step awakens a muscular tension you hadn’t yet noticed. Your back is stiff. Your legs heavy. You move in silence, short of breath, as if you were afraid of waking the world.
You push open the bathroom door. The harsh light of the neon assaults you for a second, forcing you to squint. Then, automatically, you turn on the water. The hot jet hits your skin with a reassuring violence, a controlled burn. Steam fills the space quickly, stifling but almost comforting. For a few seconds, you close your eyes. You try to let the water carry away the anxiety, the waiting, the doubts. Just the water, and you. Nothing else.
But it never lasts long. Your gaze lowers, slides over your chest, your stomach, down to those familiar marks. Old traces. Some discreet. Others less so. You know them by heart, even if you pretend to forget. They’re there, etched in. As if your body had become the mute echo of your story. You run a hand over them, mechanically. A slow, almost gentle gesture that feels more like a check than care. You want to make sure they’re still there. Or maybe that they’re still there. Proof that everything you’ve been through didn’t vanish with a snap. You look away. Nothing really disappears. Not even under the shower.
The water keeps flowing a few more seconds, beating against your shoulders in a monotonous rhythm. Then you turn it off, reluctantly, and step out of the stall. Steam has fogged up the room, drawing blurry halos on the mirror above the sink. You grab a towel, wrap it around yourself, then wipe the mirror with your hand.
You freeze.
Your face appears in fragments through the steam, as if you weren’t entirely there. The circles under your eyes are deep, purpled, hollow. Your eyelids are heavy, your complexion dull. You look drained. Almost fragile. Your expression doesn’t show fear, not directly, but it’s there — lurking in the set of your lips, in the tension of your jaw. You sigh heavily, then grab your toothbrush. You force yourself into a routine, to keep your hands busy, to drown your mind in the banality of daily gestures. Toothpaste. Brush. Repetitive motions. Rinse. Dry. Look away. Pretend. When you finally step out of the bathroom, shoulders still damp and nape warm, the apartment’s silence feels heavier than it did when you woke up. Peter is still asleep, wrapped in the blanket, unaware of the storm tearing you up inside.
You softly open his closet door with a discreet creak. Not enough to startle, but enough to make you feel the weight of every move. You’ll have to look the part. Not perfect. Just… credible. No shapeless sweatshirt. Not your exhausted-student clothes. Something that says, "I’m serious." Even if you’re only halfway there on the inside. You skim over the hanging clothes, the soft fabrics, the clean laundry scent. A dark gray t-shirt, simple. A white button-up shirt, slightly oversized but clean. Black jeans, not too worn. You lay them out on the bed and put them on carefully, as if the slightest wrinkle could shatter the illusion. You adjust the sleeves meticulously. Always cover the arms.
You breathe a little deeper, but your heart speeds up. You feel it pounding against your ribcage, as if it’s trying to snap you out of it. This is it. It’s no longer a distant idea. Not a fantasy. You’re dressed. You’re ready. You’re just a few heartbeats away from something that could change everything you know.
The interview awaits. Stark awaits.
The outside air grips you the second you step through the door, brisk, almost biting against your skin still warm from the shower. You inhale deeply, but the chill doesn’t soothe the turmoil pulsing in your chest. If anything, it sharpens it. Each breath stirs up that dull anxiety, coiled just beneath your skin. The street is deserted at this hour. Shutters still drawn, shop windows dark, even the birds seem to be waiting for the day to truly rise before they start singing. You walk with measured steps, but your mind races. Every sound, every rustle of fabric, every footstep echoing off the pavement jostles something inside. You feel like you’re overheating, like an engine running too hard down an empty road.
The solitude is absolute. The world seems frozen, suspended in silent anticipation, while you walk toward something far too big. Uncontrollable. A void you dug yourself by sending that email. You try to breathe slower, but your throat stays tight. Your heart pounds. You haven’t eaten. You barely slept. And you feel it in your legs, in your temples, in the way your fingers curl deep into your pockets.
What if it goes badly? What if he realizes you’re not good enough? That you were just a blip in his overloaded schedule? That you’re nothing more than a name among others, a decent but forgettable project?
You cross an avenue, the light still red for cars, but the road is empty. The city’s silence becomes almost oppressive. As if it’s watching too, holding its breath. And then you see it. First from a distance, blurred by the lingering mist above the rooftops. Then clearer. More massive. Stark Tower. It rises in the middle of the skyline like a blade of glass and steel planted in the city’s heart. It catches the first light, reflects it, dances it along its façade like a futuristic beacon. It’s stunning. Imposing. Proud. It doesn’t need to say “this is where everything begins.” It demands it. Silently.
And you, a tiny figure in the still-sleeping streets, wonder if you even have the right to approach. That world — polished glass, silent elevators, futuristic visions — is it meant for you? Or did you just sneak in by mistake, like a stowaway on a bullet train? You don’t know. But now, it’s too late to turn back.
You swallow, throat dry like paper. You inhale deeply, eyes fixed on Stark Tower’s smooth façade. You’re here. Right in front. There’s no more escape route. No excuse left to back down. The choice is made. You walk forward.
As you push open the glass doors, a blast of cold air wraps around you, sharp enough to feel like it cuts your skin. The interior hits you at once with its contrast: spacious, silent, bathed in a clear, artificial light—almost clinical. Everything is perfectly ordered, symmetrical, spotless—to the point where you fear you might break something just by breathing too hard. The polished black marble floor vaguely reflects your body, distorted, unstable. You barely glance at yourself, but you can feel it—you don’t belong here. You’re not part of this place. Your soles tap softly with each step, a quiet sound but enough to make you feel like an intruder. The echo of your discomfort.
Behind the front desk, a woman briefly lifts her eyes. Auburn hair pulled tightly into a high ponytail, calm face, professional, focused. She's already back to typing before you've even reached her. Her fingers dance across the keys with surgical precision. You stop right in front of her. Half a second of silence. You're searching for your words. Her name tag catches your eye. Virginia "Pepper" Potts. And your heart jumps. Because you know who she is. Everyone does. CEO of Stark Industries. Responsible, brilliant, untouchable. And you? Just a kid in a borrowed shirt, heart pounding in your chest.
You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The air seems blocked in your throat. Sharp and dull anxiety crushes your chest. You freeze a second too long, your gaze drifting, uncertain. It's only when the woman behind the desk looks up again that you manage to pull yourself together. Her steel-blue eyes briefly scan you, and in a single glance, it feels like she reads everything you're trying to hide—your nervousness, your doubt, your exhaustion. She blinks slowly, calm and methodical.
— "Do you have an appointment?" she asks in a soft, yet perfectly assured voice. Each word articulated with flawless clarity. No hesitation. Just the certainty of someone who’s used to controlling everything around them.
You swallow with difficulty, your heart beating too hard against your ribs. Your fingers tighten around your bag strap despite yourself.
— "Yes…" you finally whisper. "With Stark."
Her expression freezes for a second. A faint line appears between her brows. She lowers her gaze to the screen in front of her, types a few keys, then slowly looks up again.
— "I don’t see anything scheduled on his calendar for this morning."
You feel the blow like a physical hit. Your ears ring. Your throat tightens. It takes one second for doubt to creep into your mind like a cold blade. Your stomach twists. Was it a mistake? A test? A cruel joke? Your voice is weaker when you speak again.
— "I… I got a message from him. Last night. He told me to come at ten."
She stares at you, unreadable. Just enough surprise to suggest she’s wondering, but nothing hostile. Then, with a quiet sigh, she picks up the phone beside the keyboard. Your heart pounds harder. You straighten slightly, tense, as if your body wanted to retreat without your permission. Every second that passes stretches the wait absurdly.
— "Tony?" she says after a short pause. "I have someone at reception claiming to have an appointment with you." She gives you a neutral glance. "He says you messaged him last night."
The silence that follows is terrifying. She listens. Says nothing. No words escape from the other end, and yet every fraction of a second feels like it pushes you closer to the door. You stare at a spot on the counter. A blemish, a flaw in the polish, a faint flicker of light. Anything but meeting her eyes. Anything but facing the possibility of a misunderstanding—or worse, rejection.
If Stark denies it. If it was a trap. If she hangs up and politely asks you to leave… then what? Pepper slowly nods, focused, still silent. She listens with perfect neutrality, but you barely notice the slight relaxation in her shoulders. An almost imperceptible sign. Then she gently places the receiver back on its base, adjusts her blazer calmly, and folds her arms in front of her, chin slightly lifted. Her lips press into a professional, resigned pout.
— "Very well. He’s coming down."
Those few words fall like a verdict. Neither warm nor hostile. Just factual. But to you, it’s a breath of air you hadn’t realized you were holding. You inhale deeply, finally, but the tension in your body doesn’t ease. It’s rooted too deeply to vanish so quickly. You nod in thanks, unable to muster the strength to speak. Pepper watches you for another moment. Not harshly, nor with pity—but with that sharp, precise look reserved for unexpected variables. Like she’s evaluating the risk you pose. Like she’s still trying to figure out why you. You don’t hold her gaze. You lower your eyes, palms damp, shoulders slightly hunched. You don’t want to face in her eyes the doubt you’re already dragging like dead weight.
So you stay there. Frozen. Waiting. The lobby is a well-oiled clock. Everything here moves with precision, orchestrated. Employees walk past you without more than a neutral glance, if any. All walk briskly, files in hand, earpieces in place, their steps echoing softly on the immaculate marble. Their faces are focused, confident, perfectly at home. You, you’re static. A foreign silhouette, soaked from the morning rain, still a bit rumpled from a sleepless night and fear. You feel like a misalignment in a clinical tableau. And then, a sound. Light, but distinct. The hum of metal mechanisms, taut cables. The elevator doors open.
And he’s there.
He crosses the lobby with that innate ease that seems to absorb all the space around him. His stride is fluid and resolute, like he’s never doubted a single step since birth. He wears a pristine black t-shirt beneath an anthracite blazer—fitted, casual without ever being careless. A pair of sunglasses rest nonchalantly at his collar, as if tossed there without thought, yet perfectly in place. Around him, the atmosphere barely shifts. The employees carry on, used to his presence. As if he were part of the walls. Of the very structure. His eyes scan the lobby briefly before landing on you. His gaze lingers, a flicker of recognition crossing his expression. A faint, enigmatic smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
— "Well, look who found the front door."
His voice is calm, slightly amused, but you can’t tell if he’s joking or already sizing you up. Your stomach knots violently. The last time you saw him was in his office, late in the evening, just after you’d rushed to finish your project. You still remember his critical gaze, his sharp remarks. The fear of messing up, the gut-wrenching stress. And now he’s here, in the flesh, a few meters away. You freeze. You don’t know whether to respond, laugh, apologize, or just flee. Your hands are clammy, your heart pounding too hard, and your brain running on empty. You’re not even sure why you came. Did he really ask you to? Or is he here to tell you you should’ve never crossed those doors?
Pepper Potts cuts in, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched, her tone as cold as it is professional.
— "Tony, is it true you scheduled an appointment with him? Because nothing in your calendar mentions a meeting this morning."
You sense her annoyance. Not at you—hopefully—but at the man who once again imposes an exception to her meticulous order. Tony just shrugs, nonchalant, still focused on you. He offers Pepper a vaguely contrite smile without losing an ounce of confidence.
— "Technically, yes. But not officially. You know I like to improvise."
He turns fully toward you, and this time, his gaze grows more serious. And you? You’re still standing there, in the middle of a hall that wasn’t built for you, facing a man who embodies everything you’re not. The moment hangs in the air. From here, everything can shift. Tony stops in front of you, eyes scanning you head to toe with a gaze both piercing and casual, making you feel like you’ve been X-rayed. A half-smile returns to his lips, almost mocking, but not truly cruel.
— "You look more stressed than an intern asked to bring a double-shot espresso, no sugar, high pressure…" He squints, tilts his head slightly. "Relax, it’s not an interrogation."
His tone is meant to be light, almost reassuring, but in your mind, every word echoes like a test. A hidden trial in an innocent sentence. You want to say something, even a joke—anything—but your body won’t follow. Your muscles are taut like electric cables. Your shoulders stiff, your jaw clenched, your heart racing uncontrollably. Tony sighs, glances up at the ceiling like he’s used to seeing candidates frozen by panic, then makes a vague gesture toward the elevators.
— "Come on. If you stay planted there any longer, someone’s gonna hand you a courier application."
And without waiting for an answer, he turns on his heels and walks away with an easy pace, almost nonchalant, as if this was all just a formality.
You stay there for a second longer, frozen, before your eyes shift to Pepper. She's still standing behind the counter, tall and poised, studying you with that unreadable expression—somewhere between distant curiosity and polite suspicion. You can't tell what she thinks of you, and part of you prefers it that way.
So you lower your eyes, inhale slowly, and force yourself to move forward. One step. Then another. And you follow him. The elevator is spacious—almost too much for just the two of you. The silence inside is clinical, amplified by the soft hum of the motor vibrating beneath your feet. You stand upright, arms at your sides, your damp hands clenching the seams of your pants. Your eyes stay locked on the glowing panel, hypnotized by the slow-climbing red numbers. Every floor passed brings you closer to the unknown, yet time feels like stretched rubber about to snap.
Beside you, Tony Stark leans against the wall with perfect ease. Arms crossed, phone in hand, he's scrolling through something with his thumb, completely at ease in a space that only tightens around you. The silence lasts, heavy, until he breaks it without lifting his eyes.
— "So... sleep well?"
You turn slightly toward him, one eyebrow raised. The question is so unexpected it almost pulls a nervous smirk from you. You shrug, unable to say more.
— "Not really..."
He nods, faux sympathy written on his face, before replying in a tone almost too innocent:
— "Shame. You looked like you were getting some solid rest during my conference."
You grit your teeth, just enough for your jaw to clench. He doesn't even look at you, but his smile—you can feel it. It doesn’t hit hard, but it’s clearly a test. To see if you react. If you break. You inhale discreetly, then reply with forced calm:
— "I’m trying to forget."
A quiet chuckle escapes him. He still doesn’t lift his eyes, but his smile stretches just a little.
— "Good. Because I forget nothing."
You freeze, his words spinning for a second in your mind. Is that a threat? A joke? Both? You don’t know—and the worst part is, he knows that. A sharp beep cuts the air, making you flinch slightly. The doors open slowly onto a floor bathed in natural light. The contrast is jarring. A glass ceiling, sleek furniture, screens embedded in the walls—an environment that reflects Stark: functional, futuristic, and intimidating. He slips his phone away in one smooth motion, as if everything is perfectly timed. Then, without a glance your way, he strides ahead, his voice echoing in the cold corridor:
— "Alright... let's see what you're really made of."
And you, still rooted there, have no choice but to follow. You step into Stark’s domain, and the space swallows you whole. His office is just like the man himself: vast, bright, and chaotically brilliant. The room seems alive, constantly humming with movement. Wall-mounted screens blink with encrypted data streams, 3D renderings, and lightning-fast calculations—a language you barely understand. On the workbenches, polished metal and glass fragments assemble in silence, half-machines, half-art pieces, ideas in gestation. A subtle but omnipresent technological buzz fills the air, like the breath of a beast that never sleeps.
Stark crosses the room with the ease of someone entirely at home—because he is. He doesn’t speak to you. Doesn’t look at you. He simply walks ahead without turning around, sure you’ll follow. And you do, of course. A few seconds later, with a tilt of his chin, he gestures to a modern chair placed in front of his desk.
— "Sit."
His voice is calm, almost distracted, but the effect is immediate. You obey without question, sliding into the seat silently, muscles tense. Your back stays straight like a rod, nearly rigid, and your hands latch onto your jeans out of reflex, as if gripping the fabric could anchor you to reality. The stress doesn’t leave you. On the contrary, it seeps into every breath. You’re sitting here, in a place you never thought you’d approach, facing a man who seems both unreachable and terrifyingly real. And still, you can’t help but feel out of place. Like you crossed a forbidden line. Across from you, Stark collapses into his chair with a theatrical sigh, as if he just ran a marathon even though he only climbed a few floors. He props his feet on the desk’s edge, reclining into a posture so relaxed it’s almost comedic next to your own stiff frame. He looks like he’s got all the time in the world. You’re counting every heartbeat—and each one screams a single thing: don’t screw this up.
The stress doesn’t leave you. On the contrary, it seeps into every breath. You’re sitting here, in a space you never thought you’d come near, across from a man who seems both unreachable and painfully tangible. And despite all that, you can’t help but feel like an intruder. Like you’ve crossed some forbidden line.
On the other side, Stark slumps into his chair with a theatrical sigh, like he just ran a marathon even though he only climbed a few floors. He props his feet up on the edge of his desk, sprawling into a posture so relaxed it borders on comical, in sharp contrast to your stiff demeanor. He seems to have all the time in the world. You, you’re counting your heartbeats, and each one screams the same thing: don’t screw this up.
— "So, then…" Stark laces his fingers behind his head, sinks into his seat, and fixes you with his sharp gaze. Not mocking. Not hostile. Just... piercing. As if he’s trying to decipher every micro-expression on your face. As if he’s searching for what you’re hiding inside.
You hold his gaze for half a second, then look away. It’s too much. You feel heat rise in your cheeks, anxiety sneaking into your already tense shoulders.
— "You get why I brought you here, or do you want a hint?"
His voice is light, almost sarcastic, but it cuts through the air like a fine blade. You swallow hard. Your thoughts blur, your brain spinning uselessly in search of an answer that won’t sound arrogant or desperate. It takes you a few seconds too long before you mumble:
— "To see if... I have potential?"
A silence. Then Stark raises an eyebrow, a flicker of irony in his eyes. He nods slowly, like he’s approving a half-right answer on a pop quiz.
— "Not bad. That’s what I wanted to hear."
He straightens slightly, his feet landing back on the floor in a smooth motion. The interview has truly begun.
— "Yesterday, I gave you one hour. Just one."
He activates the screen built into his desk, and with a quick gesture, pulls up your animation. There, in front of you. Like a moving verdict. You hold your breath. The digital wrist animates, reaching forward. The protective fluid envelops it, pulsing softly, hugging its shape. You know every frame, every color choice, every hesitation. And yet, in this moment, it feels like you’re seeing it through his eyes. And you’re not sure you like what you see. Stark watches. Silent. Your heart pounds. Too loud. It feels like it could drown out the low hum of machines in the room. He could say anything. Everything could tip now — one word, one sigh, and it all collapses.
Then he laughs. A short breath, somewhere between sarcasm and pure irony. He doesn’t even look away from the screen when he says:
— "You expect me to be impressed by that? Seriously?"
The words hit you like a slap. Cold. You feel your stomach clench, your fingers tightening around your pants. You knew it wasn’t perfect. You knew you could do better. But to have it thrown at you like that… You swallow a reply, a word, a breath. You say nothing. Stark continues. He tilts his head slightly, thoughtful, and expands the animation with a quick swipe. The image spins, pivots, breaks down from different angles. His fingers tap the desk mechanically, almost absent-minded, but his eyes never leave the motion. He says nothing. He assesses. The atmosphere freezes. You don’t dare breathe.
— "Hm."
Just a sound, barely uttered, but it snaps like a verdict. There’s something dry, annoyed in his tone, something that leaves no room for interpretation: he’s judging. And he’s not convinced. You feel sweat bead at the base of your neck. The back of your t-shirt sticks slightly to your skin. Stark suddenly straightens, forearms on the desk, his face now serious. No more casual attitude. He stares at you with brutal intensity.
— "Alright. Let’s be honest."
You swallow.
— "You call that a clean animation? Seriously? You think I’m gonna give you gear, access, a seat in my building — when you hand me a render where you can still see the seams?"
You stay silent. Paralyzed. Every word he says punches you in the gut. You open your mouth, a defensive instinct, a reflex, but he raises a hand to cut you off. Precise. Sharp.
— "Look here."
He points at the screen, zooming in on a sequence you know by heart. And yet, at this moment, it feels foreign, sloppy, like a child caught red-handed.
— "The compositing’s off. You see that? It’s floating. The fluid drifts too far from the arm. And here..."
He slides his finger to shift the timeline.
— "Your timing’s stiff. No breathing. You go too fast, then too slow. It lacks flow, rhythm. You’ve got an idea. Sure. But an idea’s not enough."
You clench your fists on your thighs, nails digging into your jeans. You feel exposed. Taken apart piece by piece under the cold light of his critique. And what kills you is—he’s right. You know it.
— "Let me guess," he goes on, leaning back with a tired sigh. "You figured, ‘I’ve only got an hour, so I’ve got an excuse for a half-baked render.’ Right?"
You don’t answer. You don’t need to. That’s exactly what you thought. And he just pinned it, like he looked inside you. He shakes his head, clearly disapproving.
— "Bad strategy, kid. I spot that crap from miles away."
His eyes lock on yours, razor-sharp.
— "You wanna work with me? You do the work. I want precision. Guts. Not a lost student patching things up between two insomnias."
You take a deep breath, but it’s painful, trembling. You feel tiny in this chair. Like the floor might open beneath you any second. And still… you stay. Because despite everything, you’re here. Because he still called you in. Because maybe, just maybe, there’s something behind his words. You wait for what’s next. Because you’ve got no other choice. His eyes stay locked on yours, unyielding. He doesn’t even blink. This is a test. A real one. Not just a jab. He wants to see if you can take the pressure. If you’ll melt or hold your own with some dignity.
You swallow your pride, clench your jaw tighter, then lift your chin. Your voice stays low, but you fight to keep it steady, controlled.
— "I did what I could with what I had..."
A sarcastic glint flashes instantly in Stark’s eyes. He pulls that half-smile that can make a room laugh or crush you like a bug.
— "Oh yeah?" He leans forward a bit, arms crossed. "So if I give you real gear, what’ll you give me? A miracle?"
You inhale slowly. The tension spikes, but you refuse to back down. Your pulse pounds in your throat, a surge of adrenaline warming your temples. He’s pushing you — and strangely, it brings clarity.
— "I don’t think I’d pull off a miracle, no." You hold his gaze. Your voice steadies, almost in spite of yourself. "But I’d rework a lot of elements."
He tilts his head, slightly intrigued. Not mocking. Not yet. Just... curious.
— "The animation lacks fluidity, yeah. Because I worked in full 2D. My computer couldn’t handle more. I had to make do."
Stark doesn’t move, but one eyebrow rises a millimeter. He’s waiting.
— "If I’d had a proper machine, I would’ve used a 3D simulation. Physics-based. Played with viscosity, weight, collisions with the skin. Made the material feel alive."
Your voice no longer shakes. You’re not justifying. You’re explaining.
— "And I would’ve worked on lighting — not just cheat layers with shadow masks. Real texture. Dynamic reflections. Not what I patched together with three preset effects."
Silence. You don’t move. You meet his eyes, your heart still beating too fast, but with a new spark. The kind that says maybe — just maybe — there’s something worth defending. Stark says nothing. He taps his finger gently on the desk, eyes still on you, looking thoughtful. He’s listening. And that, in itself, might already be a victory. You feel the momentum shift. That you’ve caught something in his gaze — curiosity, a tiny opening. So you go on, letting your voice follow the thread of that possibility.
— "It’s true I couldn’t optimize everything in an hour. I didn’t polish every frame, didn’t fine-tune the textures or adjust all the timings... But the core is there. The idea. The intent."
Stark lets out a dry chuckle, barely more than a breath, shaking his head, amused despite himself.
— "So what you’re telling me is, you’d have made a masterpiece if you weren’t working with a toaster?"
You crack a smile without meaning to, shoulders lifting in quiet resignation.
— "Pretty much."
He squints. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just attentive. He watches you for a few seconds, like trying to read past the static. To gauge what’s behind the tremble in your voice, the fatigue on your face.
— "Hm. Interesting."
He turns slightly, his eyes falling back on the animation still looping on the screen. Arms crossed. And for the first time since you walked in, he’s quiet. Observing. Analyzing. The air has shifted — still tense, but less hostile. He’s not testing you anymore. Not right now. He’s thinking.
You remain silent, your breath caught in your throat, hanging onto the slightest reaction. You feel like you’re suspended over a void, fingers clenched onto a table far too smooth to offer any real grip. Then he takes a deep breath, straightens slowly, and his gaze locks back onto yours. This time, it’s clear. He’s made his decision.
— "Alright."
He clasps his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the desk, his face neutral again—but not cold.
— "I won’t lie to you, kid. I’ve seen way more impressive stuff than this. People with golden diplomas, stacked portfolios, and state-of-the-art tools."
He pauses, letting his words hang in the air.
— "But I’ve also seen people with all that… and zero instinct. No fire. Just polish. Emptiness."
He leans in slightly, his eyes gleaming with something sharper.
— "You worked with nothing. And you still managed to create something that tries to say something. So… yeah."
A small smile, discreet but real, pulls at the corner of his mouth.
— "I’m giving you a chance."
You freeze, breath cut short. His words echo in your head like a truth you can't yet believe. He’s not joking. It’s not a trick. Not an illusion. It’s real. An opportunity. A foot in the door you thought was locked forever. Stark leans slightly back against the desk, his gaze still locked on yours, more serious now.
— "A chance. Not a job. Not yet."
His tone sharpens, precise like a blade.
— "You’ll work on a bigger project. With my resources, my tools. And if you manage to produce something decent with all that… then we’ll talk."
Decent. The word snaps like a whip, brutally simple. He’s not offering favors. No charity. Just a trial. A full-scale test. You don’t know whether to feel relieved or terrified. It’s dizzying. It’s no longer an abstract idea, a rushed animation: it’s tangible. Real. And now, you’ve got no excuse.
Stark tilts his head slightly, waiting for your answer.
— “So? You in?”
You feel your throat tighten. You could still hesitate. Still hide behind fear, behind the “what ifs.” But you know the moment is now. It’s now or never. You swallow hard, then finally exhale, your voice a bit hoarse, a bit tense.
— “I’m in.”
A discreet smile flickers across Stark’s lips. He stands up without another word and starts walking to the back of the room. You get up instantly, following on unsure feet. He stops in front of a clear area, distinct yet close to his own desk. He gestures toward a perfectly arranged workspace, lit by natural light filtering through a large bay window.
— "Good. Come here."
On the table, a cutting-edge computer, massive screen, powerful tower. Next to it, a professional graphics tablet, high-end design accessories. It’s an altar for creators. A space you’ve only dreamed of, seen on magazine pages. Stark taps the edge of the desk, like saying: your move.
— "Here’s your space."
He gestures briefly toward the brand-new high-tech desk. The giant screen waits like a blank canvas.
— "Try to make it worth it."
He turns around, arms crossed, and stares. He hasn’t lost a shred of his natural authority. The air still hums with intensity from the conversation, and you can feel that what comes next will be decisive.
— "Now let’s talk about the project."
His voice cuts through the silence like a fine blade. No small talk, no detours. The atmosphere shifts. He sizes you up, top to bottom, almost clinically. As if assessing exactly how much you can give—or waste.
— "Listen closely, kid, because you’re going to have to prove I didn’t waste my time on you."
You nod slowly. Your pulse pounds in your throat, but you don’t look away. Stark’s focus is total, almost suffocating. And you know there won’t be a second chance. He steps toward his own desk, pivots slightly on his heels, and positions himself in front of you. Arms crossed, shoulders relaxed—but his gaze is razor sharp. He waits until you’re perfectly focused. You instinctively freeze, hanging on his every word.
— "What I’m going to ask you…"
He lets a silence linger, long enough to make you tense. A strategic void, just enough to raise the stakes.
— "…is not a college assignment. Not an exercise. Not some project where you throw in two cool effects and ambient music to fake depth."
He tilts his head slightly.
— "It’s a real test."
You feel adrenaline spike in your veins. Your brain kicks into overdrive, already trying to guess what he wants. But nothing leaks. He lifts a hand and taps a small embedded panel in the desk. A beep sounds, followed by a soft click, and one of the wall screens lights up. The interface is dense, overloaded with data layers, incomprehensible code, and technical renders. Schematics float in 3D, slowly rotating. You recognize only a fraction, but the whole thing is overwhelming. Almost intimidating.
Then, at the center of the screen, he points to a model. A metallic glove. Gleaming, incomplete. Almost alive. He doesn’t need to say more for your mind to start making connections. The shape. The textures. This technology… it reminds you of something. Not a finished product. A sketch. A base. Somewhere between prototype and dream. Stark crosses his arms again and turns toward you. His gaze locks with yours.
— "You’re going to work on this."
He lets the silence stretch a second longer, like he’s forcing you to really observe the projected image. The glove turns slowly on screen, revealing exposed circuits, raw joints, zones clearly awaiting refinement. It’s not a finished render—it’s a lab. A prototype still in progress.
— "It’s a work base," Stark says, his voice breaking the stillness with the calm authority of someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard. "A nanotech prototype I’m exploring. Not finalized. Just… promising."
He turns to you, hands in pockets, eyes sharp.
— "What I want from you is an animated modeling of its activation."
You frown slightly, already breaking the idea down. A basic animation? No. He cuts you off instantly, like he’s reading your mind.
— "Not a flashy effect. Not some stylized demo flashing lights everywhere like a teenage video game trailer." He lifts a finger, punctuating each word. "I want it to look believable. Physically logical. Organic."
Your brain snaps to attention. What he’s asking has nothing to do with school projects. He wants research, nuance, precision.
— "That means you’ll have to think like an engineer," he continues, suddenly slapping his palm flat on the desk. The sharp clap startles you. "As much as like a designer."
He stares, unblinking. The glove keeps turning behind him, like a clock already ticking on time you haven’t even started using.
— "If your particles react like a badly tuned smoke plugin, or if your shapes assemble without coherence, I pull the plug. Got it?"
You nod, throat a little dry, but you hold his gaze. Because you want to rise to this. Because you refuse to back down. But he’s not done. He straightens slowly, steps back, and says more casually:
— "Oh, and last detail: you’ve got three hours."
Three words. Three seconds. Three hours.
Your stomach knots suddenly, like your body wants to revolt before your mind even catches up. Three hours to conceptualize, model, animate, and make believable a tech process still in R&D? It’s borderline impossible. Stark doesn’t give you time to spiral.
He tilts his head, a wolfish smirk playing on his lips.
— "Scary, huh?"
You inhale deeply, slowly, like trying to hold back the adrenaline spike. Yes, of course it’s scary. But it’s a familiar fear. The kind that comes with real challenges. The one before every turning point. You look back at him, and even if your voice is low, it’s steady.
— "Yeah. But I’m doing it anyway."
Stark narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s filing that away. You slowly approach the workstation Stark pointed out, as if walking toward that machine means crossing an invisible line. The desk is clinically neat, but the gear on it takes your breath away. The computer looks pulled straight from a technophile’s dream: a massive tower with silent fans, accented by subtle LEDs, a curved screen with vivid colors, nearly unreal sharpness. You graze the desk’s edge with your fingertips, checking if it’s all real. The keyboard is mechanical, each key perfectly aligned, the mouse fits your palm with surgical precision. Nothing like your dented, sluggish old laptop.
Behind you, Stark leans casually on his own desk, arms crossed. He’s watching you, saying nothing, his gaze burning with restrained urgency.
— "Well?" he says, voice flat but firm. "What are you waiting for? The clock’s ticking."
You take a deep breath. Three hours. Not a minute more. Your fingers find the keyboard, your thumb nervously clicks the mouse. The interface explodes onto the screen. A constellation of pro-grade software appears: some you know, others… not at all. Even the module names spike your heart rate. You choose to launch a hybrid 3D platform—one you’ve only seen in cracked demos or YouTube walkthroughs. And then, everything accelerates.
The first few minutes hit like a shockwave. A technical and mental slap in the face. The machine responds instantly, but you're always a beat behind. Options overflow, renders appear in real time, each function hides a web of tools of which you only master a fragment. You open windows, test, close, reopen. A true labyrinth. Your heart is pounding, sweat beads on the back of your neck. Every click is an attempt, every shortcut a desperate hope.
You're both thrilled and terrified. The excitement of raw potential, of this power you've never had in your hands, clashes with the panic of not being good enough. You're in unknown territory, and the enemy is time. But you can't retreat. Not now. So you keep going, holding your breath, determined to make this environment your own. To turn this machine into an ally. You tweak the first shapes, drop the first simulation nodes. It's slow, hesitant, but each second teaches you. You start to see the logic. To improvise. To dare.
Three hours. Already slipping through your fingers.
You begin at the beginning: importing the raw glove model, the one Stark showed you a moment ago. The file is heavy, precise, every joint, every ridge modeled with near-clinical meticulousness. You insert it into the scene, adjust the scale, pause to observe the metallic curves frozen on the screen. Then comes the first real step: surface treatment. You choose a reactive texture — a material meant to change with light, temperature, movement. The idea is there: something alive, almost organic. You apply the texture. Launch a first preview.
And the result lands like a guillotine: rigid. Cold. Artificial. The material reacts poorly. The light bounces too evenly, reflections are flat, shadows inconsistent. You frown, tweak a few parameters, launch another render. Still lifeless. The surface looks hastily painted, like the glove was coated in shiny plastic. You mutter under your breath and try again. Switch shaders, adjust normals, implement a more dynamic reflection map. Revisit global illumination. Again. Still nothing. Every attempt leaves the image stubbornly dead. Pretty, maybe — but empty.
Frustration starts to crawl in, quietly. Your breath shortens, your stomach tightens. Usually you can handle this. Even on an old PC that lags past 300MB, you’ve always pulled through. You learned to tinker, cheat, optimize every detail to save your render last minute. And now? Now you have everything you ever dreamed of: a war machine, a screen that displays textures like they're real, a toolbox to make any studio jealous… And yet you can’t do anything. You stare at the massive interface, your mouse pointer gliding aimlessly through digital void. Every menu reminds you of your limits. Every new attempt, a dead end. Like being dropped into a race car without ever learning to shift out of first. You've got speed and power, but no control. And time erodes with every heartbeat.
Ironic, isn’t it? Finally in the right place, with the right tools… and you feel like you're drowning in your own inadequacy. You inhale slowly, fingers tightening on the mouse. You have to take back control. Breathe. Stop panicking.
Minutes slip away, sneaky. Ten. Then twenty. It feels like you’ve clicked a thousand times, opened dozens of tracks… for nothing. The model sits there, overburdened with clashing effects. You jump from software to software, desperate for a more intuitive interface, a magic tool to simplify it all. But each render gives the same verdict: it’s not working.
Your stress gnaws at your focus. Your hands tremble slightly on the mouse. You mutter to yourself, curse internally, start over again — and you know it’s off. It’s blurry, overloaded, almost gooey. Nothing responds right. Nothing looks how you imagined. Then, without warning, footsteps echo behind you. You freeze. Your shoulders tighten instinctively.
Stark.
He stops right behind you, his shadow stretching across your glowing screen. You feel his gaze pierce your work — cold, surgical. He says nothing at first. And it's almost worse than being interrupted mid-try. You don’t dare move. Don’t even dare breathe. Then, finally, his voice drops. Dry. Sharp.
— "Oh, brilliant."
You close your eyes for half a second, bracing for what’s next.
— "So in twenty minutes, you managed to crap out a pile of blurry, ugly pixels."
His tone drips sarcasm. And the worst part? He’s right. The render looks like a digital sketch vomited out by an engine too old for this kind of job. Textures are glitching, lighting is off, and the fluid meant to glide naturally across the glove surface has the texture of glowing jelly. Horrible. You grit your teeth, eyes locked on the screen. The humiliation rises to your throat. Stark leans in slightly, arms crossed, like an art critic facing an incomprehensible painting. His silence is almost theatrical.
— "Tell me… are you experimenting, or just pretending to work?"
He straightens up, raises an eyebrow.
— "Because if that’s your level of focus, I’ll save us three hours and spare you the shame."
His voice is calm — too calm. Each word hits the sore spot. He’s pushing you. The pressure’s unbearable. Your jaw tightens, breath shortens. The fear of failure clings to your neck like a cold hand. But you can’t crack. Not now. You grit your teeth. Hard. Do everything not to react, not to answer, not to show how much his words cut deeper than they should. But inside, it burns. Not at him — not really. At yourself. At your inability to master this damn software, your hesitant hands, your head spinning too fast and not fast enough. You want to do well. You want to prove you belong here. But every click feels like a mistake. Every attempt, a step closer to ridicule.
— "Come on, kid. Show me you’re more than dumb luck."
And with that, he turns on his heel. He walks away, not even glancing back, leaving you alone with the screen and a knot of anxiety lodged in your throat. You can still hear his voice in your head, mocking. "Ugly, blurry pixels." You want to punch something. Scream. But you do the opposite. You breathe. Once. Twice. Close your eyes. Place your hands flat on the desk. And start over.
You dive into advanced shaders. Explore dynamic fluid parameters. Test particle engines you’ve never touched before. You learn on the fly, line by line, slider by slider. You shift strategies. Stop trying to replicate an effect you know. Start building one you feel. The liquid shouldn’t just coat. It should reveal. Like armor that understands your body, follows its curves, strengthens without replacing. Time passes. You almost forget. After over an hour of brutal effort, something clicks. A smooth sequence finally plays: the glove begins to form, starting from a central point, spreading in a fluid, translucent material that hugs the hand, following each joint with almost organic precision. Reflections adapt to movement, light pulses softly — as if the material were alive.
It’s still raw. Still imperfect. But you’re holding onto something. Your heart pounds in your chest, this time with a mix of hope and defiance. You haven’t given up.
You take a deep breath and lean slightly away from the screen. Your eyes sting, your neck is stiff, your fingers still clenched around the edge of the desk. The render loops on repeat. It’s no masterpiece. You know that. But it’s alive. It’s coherent. And above all, it’s miles away from the chaos of your early attempts. You could almost feel relief.
But the sound of footsteps behind you rips that illusion of respite away. Stark is back.
He walks in slowly, arms crossed over his chest, face unreadable, posture as relaxed as ever — but each step he takes toward you feels like a warning. He stops behind your shoulder. You feel his presence like a weight, an invisible pressure, his gaze scanning the screen line by line. The animation keeps looping, the liquid flows, the gauntlet forms. You hold your breath.
Silence.
Then a dry chuckle escapes him. Sharp. Mocking.
— "You call that progress?"
A chill shoots down your spine. Your heart skips a beat. You expected criticism, sure. But not that tone. Not that contempt seeping under your skin. He gestures at the screen brusquely.
— "It’s better than your pixel mess, I’ll give you that. But it’s still ugly. Stiff. Predictable."
His finger almost grazes the screen as your work loops beneath his eyes. He then turns toward you, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that almost makes you look away.
— "What did you do here? A cleaner version of your first attempt?"
You open your mouth. You want to explain. Say you’ve never had access to equipment like this, that you’re just now learning the tools, that it’s a miracle you even pulled this off in just over an hour. But he raises a hand. Sharp. Final.
— "No."
One syllable. And everything crumbles.
— "Not enough. Start over."
He doesn’t raise his voice. He’s not angry. But in his voice, there’s finality. The kind of uncompromising tone you don’t argue with. Not here. Not with him. You freeze for a second. The screen keeps looping. Your work keeps looping. But inside your head, everything’s stopped. He just told you to redo it all. Erase everything. Start from scratch. Stark stays put for a few more seconds, arms still crossed, eyes locked on you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s waiting. Not for an answer — for a reaction. He wants to see what you’ll do. If you’ll take it. Or fold. If you’ll sulk like a kid, or lift your head like someone who’s still got something to prove.
You say nothing. Not a word. But inside, you’re burning. Frustration rises to your throat, a brutal tension ready to snap. But you breathe slowly, deeply. You clench your jaw, swallowing your pride, your fatigue, your fear. He won’t let you settle for "not bad." And you know it. What he wants is excellence. What he wants is to see how far you’ll go when you’ve got nothing left to lose.
So you start again.
Your desk becomes a battlefield. Sheets pile up around you, scribbled with nervous sketches, arrows, diagrams. You redraw the fluid’s movement over and over, analyzing its behavior in transition, chasing that perfect moment when the material seems alive, in sync with the arm it wraps. You don’t even check the time. You work with rage, with method, with instinct. Each click sharper. Each effect tighter. The software you cursed an hour ago starts to obey you, respond to your pace. You’re not in control yet — but you understand it. Better. Faster. Stark circles back behind you regularly, commenting without mercy. His voice cuts, his remarks surgical.
— "Too stiff." "Where’s the personality?" "I’ve seen tutorials do better." "Trying to put me to sleep or is this meant to captivate?"
Each comment hits. Not because they’re unfair — because they’re true. And because they sting where it hurts most: in your need to do well. To be seen. To finally be acknowledged. But you hold. You don’t even look at him when he speaks. Sometimes you nod. Sometimes not even that. Not out of arrogance — because you’re elsewhere. On fire. Focused. Burning with a fierce will to get it right.
Two and a half hours. You’re no longer aware of your aching back, the sweat on your temple, your heavy eyelids. Your brain’s on overdrive. Adrenaline’s replaced panic. The fear is still there — alive — but it no longer paralyzes you. It drives you. It guides you. You refuse to fail.
Not now. Then finally, after one last tweak, silence settles. Something just changed on the screen. The fluid reacts. It wraps around the virtual arm with new elegance. No more stiffness, no more dead zones. It flows, contracts, solidifies with almost eerie coherence. It’s not perfect, no. But it’s believable. It’s alive. It works. And that’s when you feel it.
Stark moves closer, footsteps muted on the floor, until he’s just behind you. You don’t even need to turn — his silence is a presence all its own. He says nothing. Not a breath. He watches. And that silence… crushes you. You hold your breath. Your heart pounds so loud it might echo through the room. You don’t move. You don’t dare. Every tension in your body hangs on what he will — or won’t — say. He narrows his eyes. Leans in. Zooms. Zooms out. Replays the animation. Slows it down. Observes. He rotates the simulation from every angle, searching for invisible flaws, a detail you missed. Arms crossed. Analytical stare. Meticulous. Ruthless.
Your work plays: three hours condensed into a few seconds of animation. Three hours of doubt, sweat, second-guessing, furious persistence. It’s all there. You can’t change it now. And him… unmoved.
He steps back, straightens slowly. Fingers tap the desk’s surface in an irregular rhythm that grates your nerves. His expression unreadable. Not impressed, not disappointed. Just… elsewhere. Lost in thought. You want to speak. Explain. Justify your choices. But you know it’s pointless. Worse: a weakness. Stark doesn’t want excuses. He doesn’t care about intentions. He wants results. So you stay silent. And wait. Then, finally, Stark straightens fully. A faint, almost imperceptible chuckle escapes him.
— "Hm."
One sound. But from him, it carries the weight of a verdict. Your stomach knots instantly. You don’t know if you just passed… or only barely survived. He stands there a moment longer, eyes still on the screen. Then raises a hand and points to a specific spot in the animation.
— "I won’t sugarcoat it. It’s better than I expected in three hours… but it’s not there yet."
Your heart tightens. You don’t know if that’s praise or warning. He moves to the screen, adjusts the interface, zooms in. The fluid slows, unfolds frame by frame.
— "Look here." His voice now sharper, almost surgical. "The dispersion. Still too stiff. Too linear. You can feel the simulation. You can see the math."
You focus where he’s pointing — and you see it now. Where you thought the transition was smooth, he spots a motion too uniform, too neat.
— "This thing’s supposed to be alive." He points again, a little more sharply. "Instinctive. Organic. And this? It’s just data slapped on a dead skeleton."
He turns toward you, and this time, his gaze offers no escape.
— "Tell me the truth. Did you really push your algorithm? Did you take a risk… or did you just code something safe, something that wouldn’t crash halfway through?"
Your throat tightens. You already know the answer. You didn’t go where you could’ve. You played it safe. Delivered a stable render. Clean. Predictable. You aimed for "good"… not "brilliant." And now, he sees it. Stark exhales, long and almost weary, then shakes his head in resignation.
— "That’s what I thought." He straightens, hands on hips, gaze fixed on you like a cold spotlight. "You went for safety. For efficiency. And left boldness behind."
You bite your cheek. You know he’s right. And it stings to admit it. He’s not yelling. He’s not angry. But his tone weighs heavy. He’s judging. Measuring. And you feel each second of silence as a box he’s either ticking… or crossing out.
— "So…" He lets it hang, just long enough to spike the dread twisting your gut. "Does this warrant me firing you right now?" A pause — your breath stops.
Then:
— "No."
You barely exhale. You’re not even sure if it’s relief. It’s a "no" that grates, a provisional no. Almost a warning.
— "Does it make me want to give you real work?" He turns slowly to you, arms crossed. His gaze fixes — hard. A silence. Long. Long enough for heat to rise up your neck.
— "Not yet."
Every word is a slap that snaps you awake. You didn’t fail. But you didn’t convince either. And here, in his world, that’s almost the same thing. Stark stares at you for a few more seconds, then something shifts in his posture. He stands straighter, shoulders easing slightly, and his expression changes. A different glint crosses his gaze.
— “Alright.” He taps the edge of the desk with his finger, almost absentmindedly.
— "Now let’s see if you can work under real pressure."
The tone drops. It’s no longer a question. It’s a statement. You lift your head slightly. He’s taking you further. He brushes a finger over the surface of his touch desk, and a new project opens on the central screen. More complex. More detailed. Lines of code, dynamic renderings, layout plans with annotated zones. This time, it’s no longer an exercise. It’s real. Something in development. And he’s just invited you to touch it. You raise your head, eyes locked on the screen. An inner click — fleeting but distinct. Is he… is he actually giving you a real opportunity? Not a formality test, not a pretext for humiliation. A real project. You force yourself not to believe it too much. Not yet.
But the screen speaks for him. And what you see is anything but trivial. Your focus narrows. This isn’t a practice animation, not a free imagination challenge. It’s dense. Structured. Lines of code intertwine with 3D visuals, each element paired with real-time data. A living, nearly autonomous system. At the center, a complex modular structure — something between a second skin and a flexible armor. You swallow slowly. This is real. An active development prototype. And you’ve just been exposed to this level. Stark gives you no pause. He slides a finger over the tactile table, and the modeling suddenly expands. The interface reorganizes itself, zooming in on a specific material section — a finer, more sensitive zone. He points to a highlighted diagram, where tension lines cross in an almost organic mapping.
— "This," he says without looking at you, "is one of the concepts we’re trying to stabilize. Next-gen adaptive polymer." He zooms in again, and you can see the simulated molecular structure deform precisely around a moving object.
— "In theory, it’s supposed to react to pressure and movement, cover a surface to reinforce it, protect it… without locking it." He lets the silence linger, then turns slightly toward you, a half-smile at the corner of his lips. "In practice?"
A raised brow.
— "Still buggy."
You slowly nod, trying to absorb it all. Your eyes scan the screen, analyzing without even realizing it. You don’t have all the keys yet. You don’t even know where he’s going with this. But you feel, in the very air around him, in the clipped tone of his voice, that he’s expecting something from you. You have no idea what. But this is no playground.
— "I want you to take what you’ve learned today and integrate it into this."
Stark nods toward the screen, then turns to you. His gaze is sharp, precise, inescapable.
— "Improve the material’s formation sequence. Give it coherence. Logic. I want an organic result, not a flashy plug-in demo."
He leans back against the edge of his desk, arms slowly crossing.
— "And this time, not three hours. Less."
A cold wave washes through you. Your heart skips a beat. You open your mouth, ready to protest, but Stark’s expression — firm, non-negotiable — shuts you down instantly. You already know nothing will make him change his mind.
— "How long?" you ask, throat dry, tight as a wire.
He glances at the wall clock, almost absentmindedly.
— "One hour."
Your brain screams. One hour? For a project of this level? Far more complex structure, layers of dynamic interactions, evolving textures… In one hour? He catches your panic, and a brief chuckle escapes him.
— "Scared?"
It’s almost a provocation. Almost an invitation. You clench your fists without even noticing. Of course you’re scared. You’re terrified. But he expects something else. He expects you to stand. To refuse to back down. You take a deep breath, your lungs protesting. And you lift your chin.
— "No."
Stark watches you a moment longer, then gives that trademark crooked smile. The one of a man who knows you lied… but respects that you dared lie while standing tall. And the clock, it’s already ticking.
— "Good. Then sit down and prove it."
His voice snaps like a starter gun. No motivation. No promise. Just an order. A challenge. You sit down at the computer immediately, breath short, temples pounding. Your heart beats in your chest like a frantic metronome. But you no longer have the luxury of listening to it. You have to move. Now. Your fingers graze the keyboard, hesitate for a split second, then start moving — cautiously at first, then faster and faster. You open the files, unlock the layers, load the textures. Your gaze analyzes, scans, memorizes the parameters already in place. Materials, tension points, particle systems. You dive in. The stress is still there, tightening your chest. But you convert it. Bend it. It becomes raw energy. Fuel. Your focus sharpens, almost clinical. Every second is a puzzle piece that vanishes if you don’t catch it in time.
You scrutinize every corner of the 3D model, eyes fixed on the screen as if trying to decipher its breathing. You observe the shape, the structure, the articulation points. The polymer must react like an organism: hug the arm, slide along the virtual skin, then settle without hindering movement. It’s all in the transition. In the balance between flexibility and resistance. You close your eyes for a moment. In the darkness of your eyelids, you try to visualize the perfect movement. You imagine it: a wave of material stretching like water, coiling like muscle, stabilizing like a second skin.
You reopen your eyes, grab a notebook from the desk and sketch rapid, instinctive diagrams. Waves of lines, arrows, impact zones. It’s not art. It’s a survival map. No time to waste. You launch the simulation. Apply a dynamic texture. Program reactions at contact points, adjust particle speeds, implement visual elasticity. You want it to live. To breathe.
The world around you disappears. You forget Stark, you forget the time. Only you, the screen, and this technical ballet that must execute flawlessly remain. Your fingers fly over the keyboard. Every click, every moved cursor is a life-or-death decision for the rendering. The mental ticking returns. It won’t let go.
Forty-five minutes. You inhale deeply, hold the air for a few seconds, then exhale slowly, as if to push the weight off your chest. This is where it counts. You feel the panic brush your fingertips, but you don’t let it in. You lock your mind. If the standard method doesn’t work… you’ll have to reinvent everything.
And fast.
You dive into the propagation parameters, recalibrating the algorithm to give it a more instinctive logic. No more rigid trajectories, no more imposed paths. You change tactics: instead of forcing the liquid to obey, you invite it to respond. To follow, to contour, to embrace the volumes. You tweak the repulsion rules, adjust response delays, implement a softer inertia in the motion dynamics. The first preview shocks you: for the first time, it flows. Literally. The polymer hugs the virtual arm, reacts to joints, even seems to hesitate before stabilizing, like living matter understanding what’s expected of it.
You refine the reaction in tension zones — inner elbow, wrist, tendons. Insert a micro-delay between movement and solidification, to simulate organic adjustment. Textures become more believable, rhythm more accurate. It’s no longer a demo. It’s a performance. Behind you, Stark has straightened slightly. You don’t see him, but you feel it. His gaze is no longer distant. It’s locked on your screen.
— "Hm… interesting."
Just that. Two words. But this time, no sarcasm. No smirk. He’s focused. He’s evaluating.
The clock in the corner of your interface glows red:
05:00.
Five minutes. Your breath quickens. Your heart pounds in your temples. You no longer feel your chair, or the room around you. Every tick is a countdown, a bullet ready to fire at your neck. You launch the pre-render. The final touches must be surgical. You tweak acceleration curves. Reduce latency between phases. Rework the incident light on the polymer surface — one spot too shiny here, a halo too rigid there. You correct friction zones. Refine the transformation cycle. Again. And again.
Your fingers blur over the touchpad. You’re not thinking anymore. You’re executing. The screen reflects your work. Living material, adaptive. Not perfect, no. But believable. Innovative. And above all: alive. Adrenaline pulses through your veins, each heartbeat hammering your temples in sync with the ticking numbers.
04:30.
You scan the animation, and suddenly you see it — a break, a glitch in the fluidity. A transition too sharp, too angular. It breaks the illusion. The movement snags, stutters. You dive into the interpolation curves. No time to hesitate. You tweak tangents, smooth the entry, round the exit. Your eyes catch the values, but your brain begins to blur the lines. You’re not thinking anymore, you’re correcting.
04:00.
Your fingers tremble. Your palms are sweaty. You barely breathe, suspended in a state of alert close to snapping. Your nerves stretch, every muscle drawn like a bow. And still, you continue. A cold pressure slides down your spine. You want to do well. You must do well. You inhale through your nose, deeply, banishing chaos from your mind. The silence behind you is total. No comment. No mockery. Nothing. And it’s worse than anything. Stark’s silence is the shadow of a raised blade.
03:00.
You adjust light reflections on the polymer surface. The material must react naturally. Not like brushed metal, not like digital gel — like smart skin. Your tweaks are precise, millimetric. But time is slipping away.
02:00.
Your breath shortens, choppy. Each click echoes in the room like a heartbeat. You press your lips together, eyes locked on the fluid’s contact points. The joint zones finally come to life. The flow moves coherently.
01:30.
You hear — no, you feel — Stark approaching behind you. His shadow slides silently across the floor. He’s there, standing, arms probably crossed, watching. Waiting. You can almost feel his gaze weighing on your neck.
01:00.
Final stretch. Your fingers speed up, your mind sharpens. You adjust activation rhythm: smoother transition, more organic propagation. You lower reaction latency. One-tenth of a second saved — a world of difference. The effect takes shape. For the first time, the polymer looks like it knows what it’s doing.
00:30.
You launch a final playback. The movement is fluid, believable. But your instinct screams: not yet. You readjust brightness, reduce particle overheating along the forearm. Tiny detail, invisible to untrained eyes. But not to his.
00:10.
Beads of sweat slowly roll down your back. Your gaze flickers between parameters and animation. It’s there. It’s ready. Almost.
00:05.
You inhale deeply, hands trembling on the keyboard. A moment of hesitation. Just one.
00:00.
You hit the final key. The render launches. The screen freezes briefly… then lights up. It’s done. You remain still. Your fingers slowly slide off the keyboard. Your arms fall limp at your sides, numb. Your breath is irregular, short, but you’re still standing. Drained, muscles burning. You didn’t break.
Behind you, Stark says nothing. He watches. His silence is abyssal. You feel his gaze glide over every pixel, every detail of the animation. You slowly turn your head, throat tight. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown either. He is… unreadable. You wait. Ready to take the blow. Ready to fall. But you know one thing: you gave it everything. The verdict lingers like a silent shadow stretching over you. The silence grows nearly deafening, heavy, suffocating. The air is thick in the room, saturated with tension. Stark doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms crossed, eyes locked on the screen, dissecting every detail of the render with clinical precision.
You don’t even dare to breathe. The anxiety devours you from the inside, like a slow poison spreading through your veins. Every second feels endless, every tick of the clock on the wall echoes violently in your mind, louder than the beating of your heart. Your throat is dry, your hands still clammy, the stress climbing with every silence stretching between you. You feel like the whole world is hanging on this very moment. You’d like to break the silence, say a word, ask a question, even attempt a smile to ease the atmosphere, but you know it has no place here. Stark is a master of silence, and you’re just an amateur, frozen in anticipation of his verdict. If you interrupt him, even out of curiosity, he’ll make you pay for it. And if he’s not speaking, it’s because he’s weighing every detail, every particle of your work, looking for a flaw, a fault, a crack. Maybe even a problem you didn’t catch yourself.
So you wait. Not a word. Not a gesture. Just the kind of waiting that paralyzes your mind. You don’t even dare meet his eyes. You know he’s evaluating you, but you have no idea whether it’ll end in failure or a minor victory. The ticking of the clock keeps hammering through the room. Your thoughts race, panic slowly gnawing at you. This silence has become a silent judge, a ruthless witness to your rising anxiety. Then finally, Stark moves. But he still doesn’t speak. He leans in slightly, zooming in on a section of the render. He pivots, adjusts angles, scrutinizes, analyzes with an almost tangible concentration. He straightens, crosses his arms again, and stands there, still impassive.
The seconds stretch on. Still nothing. Still this endless waiting. You almost feel like time itself has stopped, as if everything is frozen around you in a moment of total uncertainty. You wait, eyes fixed on him, body tense, holding your breath, not knowing if this will be the moment he finally drops a devastating critique—or an unexpected approval. Then, after what feels like an eternity, Stark finally draws a deep breath, his gaze still fixed on the screen. He lets out a :
— “Hm.” that echoes like a gunshot in the empty room. That sound, as simple as it is, hits you like an electric shock. It could mean anything—or nothing. An affirmation or a pending critique, a veil of uncertainty that you have no clue how to interpret.
Your stomach clenches, tension mingling with frustration. That “Hm.” could just as easily be a positive note as a whisper of disappointment. And you have no idea which way it’s going. Stark keeps staring at your work without another word, making minor adjustments on the screen. He zooms into different angles, changes the lighting to examine how the polymer reacts. He still hasn’t looked at you. The silence thickens further, every one of his gestures underscoring his absolute calm—such a contrast to the storm in your head. His movements are calculated, meticulous, as if searching for the tiniest flaw. You feel every second pass, as if your entire future hangs on the decision to come.
Then finally, he speaks. And all he says is :
— “Not bad.”
That’s it. Nothing more. No compliment. No encouragement. Just a factual statement that hits like a slap, a breath slipping from your lips, but nothing more. You try to interpret it, but there’s nothing to interpret. Not bad. It could’ve been worse. But it’s certainly not good enough for him to be satisfied. The doubt stays, lurking, gnawing at you from the inside.
He straightens slightly, turns his head slowly toward you, and that’s when his gaze changes, when he assesses you again. His expression stays unreadable, but his eyes sharpen, as if he’s trying to understand something beyond the visible. He seems to be evaluating your reaction, weighing you.
— “…For a first attempt.”
It’s not even a compliment. It’s an observation, but a judgment disguised as a pseudo-praise. You feel disappointment creeping in, but you don’t have time to dwell on it, because Stark isn’t done. He points to a specific detail in the animation on the screen. You follow his gesture, your eyes fixing on the point he’s highlighting. A tiny flaw. Almost invisible to the untrained eye, but blatant enough for an expert like him. The polymer, despite its regained fluidity, shows a slight lag in the transition, a small dissonance in the motion that shouldn’t be there. Imperceptible to most—but not to him.
— “The reaction is smoother, that’s clear. But the timing’s still too mechanical.”
His words hit like a cold blade. You’re still not there. Not good enough. The stress morphs into additional pressure, a crushing weight on your shoulders. But he’s not wrong. That’s exactly how you feel too. It’s close—very close—to what he expects. But not quite. Not yet perfect. He narrows his eyes, a sharp look that seems to dissect every pixel of your animation.
— “And here…” He points again, his finger brushing the screen. “The particle dispersion lacks smoothness. It’s still a bit too forced. You tried to control it instead of letting the effect evolve naturally.”
Each remark echoes in your head like a hammer. You feel your ego flinch under the weight of his words, but you don’t budge. You take it—you’ve learned to. After all, you knew it wouldn’t be perfect. This is a first attempt, a first try under intense pressure. He’s right, of course. You know it. And you’re ready to learn from every bit of criticism. But he doesn’t stop there. After a long second of staring at you with that scrutinizing intensity, he pulls back slightly and sizes you up with a gaze heavier than ever. It’s no longer just analysis. It’s a test. He’s watching to see how you handle what just happened.
— “What would you do if you had more time?”
The question catches you off guard, freezing you in place without a ready answer. The voice in your head screams that it’s a trap, that every word needs to be weighed. You open your mouth slightly, surprised, before quickly collecting yourself. You know what he wants: a real answer. No excuses. No pretending. You take a deep breath, trying to stay calm, and reply, more confidently this time. “I’d try to optimize the dispersion so it better follows the motion dynamics. And I’d adjust the transition latency to make them feel more natural, more progressive.” You speak clearly, without rushing, hoping it’s enough to answer his question.
A silence settles. He doesn’t say anything for a second, but his eyes remain locked on you, as if weighing every word, every inflection in your voice. Then, slightly, he tilts his head, a faint trace of interest in his eyes. It’s neither approval nor rejection. Just observation.
— “Hm. So why didn’t you do that from the start?”
The trap. That’s when you feel the tension spike. It’s a loaded question, but you can’t hesitate. You know that. You swallow and think fast. This isn’t just curiosity—he’s looking for a real explanation. An honest justification. After a few seconds of reflection, you force yourself to answer, voice steady but direct.
— “Lack of time.” You shrug lightly, a trace of frustration in your posture. “I prioritized overall coherence rather than focusing too much on the details.”
You wait in silence, trying to decipher his expression. It’s the truth, after all. You didn’t have time to go further, but it wasn’t out of negligence. You made choices, necessary compromises to move forward. But is that enough for him? A heavy silence falls over the room. Then, as if making a simple observation, Stark exhales a faint nasal laugh and nods. A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his lips—barely there, but enough to make you doubt what just happened.
In a detached tone, he finally says, as if it were nothing:
— “You start work tomorrow. 8 a.m. Don’t be late.”
Your heart skips a beat. You’re not even sure you heard it right. What is this—a joke? Another test? You stand frozen, unable to react immediately, trying to understand what just happened. The idea that this moment might change everything hits you like a bolt of electricity. But at the same time, there’s no smile, no enthusiasm in the air. It’s just… a statement. A simple directive. You search Stark’s face, looking for any trace of humor or irony. But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just that same disconcerting neutrality, that impenetrable mask.
Through the office’s bay window, the sunlight begins to fade, casting a golden and almost unreal glow across the room. The contrast between the warmth of that light and the weight of the moment hits you suddenly. You've crossed a threshold. You're starting tomorrow. Stark Industries. No going back. But then, why won’t that knot in your stomach go away? Why does this feeling of anxiety mix so tightly with the excitement? Because tomorrow, it’s no longer a game. It’s real.
And like a blow to the head, a new worry slams into your mind. Your housing situation. You need to find a solution—fast. Get your stuff back from Matthew. Leave for good. Because you can’t keep working here while crashing on Peter’s couch. That’s no longer sustainable. Stark clearly notices the mental space you’ve just spiraled into, and with a sharp snap of his fingers in front of your face, the sound jerks you harshly back to reality.
— “You planning to pass out now or wait until you’re out of my office?”
You shake your head lightly, like trying to clear water from your ears. You come back to yourself, but the weight of everything that’s just happened crashes down on you.
— “No, it’s just...” You search for words, but he doesn’t give you the time.
With a lopsided grin, just as arrogant as it is irresistible, he cuts you off.
— “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re overheating. It’s normal. Go home. Cool off. And be here tomorrow.”
And just like that, as if the conversation had only just ended, he’s already turning away, going back to his screens as if what just happened was nothing more than a minor blip in his day. But for you, right there, in that suspended moment, everything is shifting. This is no longer about survival. This is no longer just one of many options. Stark just handed you a chance, an open door—and you know you can’t let it close.
As you step out of Stark’s office, a nervous smile clinging to your lips, you nod lightly at Pepper. She raises an eyebrow, her expression a mix of intrigue and curiosity, before responding with a knowing smile. Her gaze seems to grasp everything you're feeling without a single word needing to be said. She must have seen hundreds of young people like you come through here, but today, there’s something different in your eyes. The air of the tower, usually so impersonal and cold, suddenly feels warmer. A little more alive. Every breath in this space feels a bit lighter, a bit more filled with possibilities. In a single moment, your life has just shifted.
You pull out your phone with a trembling hand, unable to hide the excitement pulsing through your body. You quickly type a message to Peter, your heart pounding in your chest:
"Beers tonight. I got the job!"
You hit send, then slide your phone back into your pocket, palms slightly damp. Lifting your gaze, you take in the city sprawling before you. New York, that vibrant, ever-changing urban jungle, finally feels within reach. Every street corner, every sound, every movement seems more familiar now, less distant. And for once, that feeling of disconnect, that strange sense of being out of place that’s followed you everywhere, starts to fade. You’re no longer just a spectator. You’re part of this world. And in this moment, everything feels possible.
The air is crisp, almost invigorating, laced with the distinct aromas of the city. The asphalt still warm, soaked in the fading heat of the day, blends with the spicy scents from food trucks parked along the avenue. Grilled smoke wafts upward, adding a salty-sweet note that feels like an invitation to get lost in the city’s nightlife. Lights begin flickering on all around you—neon signs blinking on building fronts, car headlights weaving a fluid dance. The storefronts bloom with light as dusk quietly takes over the street, casting shadows and splashes of color. The city comes alive as day slips away.
For the first time in a long while, you don’t feel like just a bystander. There’s this sensation, faint but real, that you’re moving forward. Not just through a draining daily grind, not just trapped in a stifling routine, but truly heading toward something new, something exciting. You’re no longer here to simply observe the city. You’re in it, fully, and for the first time, it feels like the world around you isn’t a wall—it’s a canvas. One where you can finally paint your own strokes.
What Remains | Chapter 6 The Weight of a Choice (Tony Stark x M! Reader)
Summary : You submit your application to Stark Industries, but doubt lingers. Peter vouches for you, prompting Stark to issue a one-hour challenge. Under pressure, you create and submit your work just in time. Soon after, Stark messages—he wants to meet you tomorrow. Now, you must choose: risk your job or seize the opportunity that could change everything.
word count: 8.3k
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Morning light filters gently through the curtains of Peter's apartment, casting pale streaks across the couch where you're still lying. The familiar smell of coffee floats through the air, warm and reassuring — a sign that Peter’s been up for a while already. You crack your eyes open, head heavy, body numb from a night spent in an awkward position. But deep down, there’s a thin thread of relief: tonight, you weren’t at his place. Not with Matthew. And that alone changes everything.
You stay there a moment, motionless, listening to the muffled sounds of the apartment. The soft clink of a cup being set down, the distant hum of a water heater, Peter’s footsteps as he goes about his morning routine. The world resumes gently, without rushing you. You breathe.
A hand drags across your face slowly, trying to chase off the fatigue that refuses to let go. You sigh. And before you can stop them, your thoughts drift back to last night. That search you typed out with tentative fingers on your phone. Apply Stark Industries. The screen glowing in the dark, and the gesture you didn’t make. That click you couldn’t bring yourself to commit to.
You wonder again: is it really an option? Do you even have a chance in this? Or was it just another illusion? A mirage tossed by Stark between two lines, like a bone dangled in front of a tired dog. You slowly sit up, muscles still numb, arms heavy as you stretch with a sigh. A faint crack pops in your shoulder. It’s the kind of awakening that doesn’t feel like the start of a new day, more like a forced return after an incomplete pause. In the kitchen doorway, Peter appears with a steaming mug in hand. He watches you, half amused, half concerned.
— "You look like a zombie, dude." He hands you the mug without waiting, like he already knew you’d need it.
You take it with a slight nod, murmuring a barely audible "thanks." The warmth of the ceramic against your fingers draws out a quiet sigh. You raise the cup to your lips. First sip. Scalding. Perfect.
— "I’ve had gentler wake-ups..." you mutter, a hint of irony in your voice.
Peter sits across from you, his own coffee in hand. He studies you briefly, his expression more composed now. Less teasing.
— "Rough night?" His voice is light, but you sense the real question underneath.
You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. Another sip, another silence.
— "I'm fine... Just... too much on my mind."
Peter doesn’t say anything right away, but you feel his gaze linger. Waiting. You drink another sip of coffee, trying to delay the inevitable. Then, in a breath, almost reluctantly:
— "Last night... I looked at the job listings at Stark Industries."
His head lifts, clearly surprised.
— "Oh. And?"
You hesitate, eyes locked on the steam rising from your mug.
— "I don’t know. I just... looked. I almost clicked, then locked my phone."
Peter sets his cup down slowly, folding his arms on the table. His gaze sharpens.
— "Why didn’t you click?"
You glance up at him briefly, then look away.
— "Because it’s Stark Industries, Peter. It’s not some part-time gig or a logo commission for a student bar. It’s... massive. And who am I? Some guy who keeps running, turns in projects late, sleeps on his friend’s couch because he’s out of roommates."
Peter sighs, long and slow, then shakes his head.
— "Okay, stop. Maybe you’re lost, sure, but you’re not useless. And you’re definitely not incapable." He leans slightly toward you. "What you put together in Stark’s office, in a panic, was solid. And he saw that."
You stay silent. He adds, quieter:
— "That guy doesn’t waste time on people who have nothing to offer. He extended a hand, man. You gonna just stand there staring at the water as it evaporates?"
You stay silent, eyes fixed at the bottom of your mug. Peter’s words still resonate, a low vibration beneath your skin. He’s right. You know he is. But that fear, that clinging doubt, it sticks. It doesn’t dissolve with just a kind speech, no matter how kind. Peter lets out a light sigh and stands up. He passes behind you and ruffles your hair with a brusque but affectionate gesture. You groan, half-heartedly swatting his hand away.
— "Listen, man." His voice is softer now, almost calm. "You can spend your life hesitating, spinning around the same fear, finding a thousand good reasons to do nothing... or you can just try."
He pauses, then adds simply:
— "Worst case, they say no. Best case... you finally get your head above water."
He heads back to the kitchen. The sound of running water, cupboard doors opening, fills the space with a nearly comforting normalcy. You stay there, frozen, fingers still wrapped around your lukewarm cup. Finally, you set it slowly on the table. You grab your phone, the screen lights up, and you return to the page you’d closed the night before. The listings are still there. So is the opportunity. And this time, you don’t look away. Your finger hovers over the screen, frozen. The slightest touch could trigger everything — or collapse it all. Your thoughts whirl, looping like a nervous tide: What if it’s ridiculous? What if I’m not good enough? What if he was just messing with me, like everyone else?
You swallow. A bitter taste rises in your throat. You close your eyes, searching for an anchor. Peter’s face surfaces. His words. “You can just try.” Then Stark’s. Less expected. Less gentle. But they stuck.
You’ve got potential.
You can’t tell if he meant it. If he really believed it. But those words stayed. Like a splinter lodged in your mind. And what if, just once, you silenced the voice that sabotages everything? Just once. Just to see. You open your eyes. And without waiting any longer, without giving doubt a chance to reform, you press “Apply.”
The screen shifts immediately. A form appears. Name, surname, background, experience... You fill in each field with feverish focus, as if a typo could disqualify you. Your fingers tremble slightly on the screen. Your heart races — a mix of excitement, fear, and the strange sensation that maybe, just maybe, you’re doing something that matters. You reach the attachments section. You drag your portfolio into the upload box — that folder you’ve dragged from one hard drive to another, never quite daring to show. It’s not perfect. It’s full of compromise, of doubt, of sleepless nights. But it’s all you have. It’s you, in a way.
You’ve reached the final step. The "Submit" button appears at the bottom of the screen. Plain. No embellishment.
You freeze. Your gaze is locked on that word. Submit. You could still close the tab. Back out. Tell yourself it was nothing. Just a whim. That you were tired. But the thought leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. Running now would mean admitting that you don’t believe in it—not even a little. You take a deep breath. One last time. And you press your thumb down. The message appears almost instantly, clear and emotionless:
"Your application has been sent. A recruiter will contact you if your profile matches our expectations."
You stay there, staring at the empty screen. The world hasn’t changed. Nothing exploded. But inside, something shifted. Just a little. You remain planted, your eyes locked on the screen, as if the world might suddenly react. But nothing moves. Peter’s apartment is still as calm as ever, bathed in the soft sound of coffee trickling from the machine. You let your phone slide from your fingers until it rests on the table. A sigh escapes you.
It’s done. Peter reappears a few seconds later, cereal bowl in hand. He watches you briefly, and without you saying a word, he understands.
— “So?” he asks, sitting down.
You shrug, a slightly nervous smile tugging at your lips.
— “I sent it.”
He stares at you for a moment, then his face lights up with a wide grin. He claps you on the shoulder, more of a “I’m proud of you” than just encouragement.
— “Well done, man. What now? Waiting for fireworks?”
You chuckle softly, eyes lowered.
— “I don’t know… it’s just… weird.”
He scoops up a spoonful of cereal, then mutters between crunches:
— “Don’t worry. Maybe it’ll lead to nothing. Maybe it won’t. But you did it. That’s what counts.”
You nod silently. It’s still hard to believe. But yeah. You did it. You slowly nod again. He’s right. No matter what happens now, you dared. You took that step forward you’d been postponing for way too long. Now the question is whether Stark Industries will respond… and more importantly, whether you’ll be able to handle what comes next. The commute to campus is just a sequence of muffled noises, of thoughts too loud. The constant rumble of the subway, mechanical announcements blending with your inner dialogue, the sharp clack of soles on the station’s damp tiles. Everything feels distant, muffled. Like the world is moving without you. And your phone, still stubbornly silent.
A vibration in your pocket yanks you back to the present. You pull out your phone, heart skipping a beat. Maybe… a reply from Stark?
But no. Just a class group notification.
You sigh, already resigned, but you glance at the scrolling messages anyway. They’re still talking about yesterday’s submission. Comparing grades, screenshots of the professor’s comments, reactions. As usual, a bit of banter, some mild boasting. Then a message pops up in the middle. A dry, isolated sentence:
“Surprised he turned something in this time.”
A laugh underneath. A cascade of emojis. Other comments follow, mocking or complicit. You feel something tighten in your chest. A pinch at first, then deeper. A dull ache climbing, constricting your throat, wrapping your ribs like a slow burn. You lock your phone with a sharp flick. Black screen. Silence. Without thinking, you shove in your earbuds. Volume maxed out. Any song. Just noise. Ignore. Keep moving. Act like it doesn’t get to me.
Once in class, the mood is tense, charged with a nervous energy. The professor reviews the submissions, rattling off feedback in a mechanical tone. Every student gets their share of comments—some kind, some curt, always public. You try to make yourself small behind your screen, hoping your turn passes unnoticed. But he stops. Right before your name. He pauses, then says, in a neutral tone, not cold or warm, just factual:
— “Late submission. Too bad. There was potential, but the lack of discipline shows.”
A few muffled chuckles rise from the back of the room. Not loud, but sharp enough to cut. You stay still, eyes locked on your screen like it could swallow you whole. You don’t want to meet anyone’s eyes or see the sideways smirks. Once again, you’re the one who doesn’t keep up. Just visible enough to be singled out, but never enough to be reached. The class resumes, demos roll on, screens glow and the prof’s voice fills the room again, but you’re not listening. Your mind’s still clinging to Stark Industries, caught between hope and dread. Has anyone even opened your application? Is your portfolio, your name, your cover letter already forgotten in a digital pile? Did some recruiter read two lines and move on? You don’t know. And that silence is crushing.
During the break, you get up quickly, eager to avoid contact. But of course, Eliott doesn’t give you that luxury. He catches up in the hallway, soda can in hand, his signature smirk glued to his face.
— “So, boss, still dreaming instead of grinding?”
You sigh.
— “Not in the mood to talk.”
He chuckles lightly, like your bad mood is part of the scenery.
— “Man, you’re never in the mood. I still wonder why I talk to you.”
You shoot him a tired glance.
— “Me too.”
Eliott shakes his head, still amused.
— “Chill out, I’m kidding. Just wanted to know what you turned in. Judging by the prof’s face, I’m guessing it wasn’t a masterpiece.”
You inhale slowly. A sharp comeback bubbles up but you swallow it. Not worth it.
— “Yeah, I submitted something.”
He takes a sip, studies you like a rare specimen, then points at you.
— “You’re weird. One day you’re all in with motion design, the next you look like you’re ready to quit it all. You should figure it out.”
You raise an eyebrow.
— “Why do you care?”
He shrugs, clearly indifferent.
— “I don’t. But maybe you should think about what you really want.”
And with that, he strolls away, leaving that last line hanging in the air. Strangely, despite the tone, it keeps echoing. His tone is oddly serious, almost too much. And it irritates you. Because coming from Eliott, that kind of fake wisdom rings hollow. As if he could understand the chaos you live in daily. The exhaustion, the instability, the sleepless nights, the fear of collapse. He doesn’t get it. He has no idea what it takes just to exist like you do. You’d rather not answer. You look away, jaw clenched.
When the break ends, you head back to class, your bag slumping off one shoulder. You settle into your seat without a word, gaze drifting vaguely across the screen. The professor starts again, voices around you filling the air, but nothing sticks. Your mind’s elsewhere, miles away from software, assignments, deadlines. Eliott’s words keep looping in your head, like an involuntary refrain: what you really want. And the truth is, you’re not even sure you have the faintest idea.
The afternoon drags on, endless. You try to keep your eyes open, to stay focused, but everything feels blurry, insubstantial. Each slide of the lecture scrolls by slowly, like a disembodied background noise, incapable of holding your attention for more than a few seconds. The artificial light, pallid and cold, floods the room, giving everything a dull, lifeless appearance.
The constant hum of the projector blends with the muffled whispers of a few students exchanging jokes or discreet comments. You're there, in your usual seat, slightly slouched, fingers on your laptop keyboard, but nothing sticks. The professor's words barely reach you, as if they bounced off an invisible wall between you and the rest of the world. Your gaze drifts. To the window. To the screen. To your phone lying on the desk.
Silent. Screen black.
You feel that dull tension in your gut. The waiting. The kind that could change everything or do absolutely nothing. Your heart pounds softly, steadily, but every beat echoes a doubt: did they receive my application? did someone read it? do they already not care? You bite the inside of your cheek, still staring at your phone. You could unlock it. Check again. As if refreshing your inbox every two minutes might magically make a reply appear. But you know it would be pointless. So you resist. Barely. You breathe. Once. Twice. You straighten up slightly, place your hands back on the keyboard, and try to convince yourself you can still salvage this day. But the truth is, your mind is elsewhere. Completely elsewhere.
Across campus, Peter is in the middle of class when a discreet buzz shakes his phone in his pocket. He glances quickly at the professor—still engrossed in his explanations—then slides a hand under the table to pull out his phone. The screen lights up. A name appears.
Tony Stark.
His heart skips a beat. He frowns, thinking first it's a mistake, a coincidence. But no. It's really him. Tony Stark. He unlocks it immediately. It's not an automated email, not a bland newsletter. It's a message. Short. Direct. Signed. Stark.
"Parker, tell me... What's with this application I received? Your buddy—joke, or is there actually something there? I don't like wasting my time."
Peter freezes for a moment, eyes fixed on the screen. Around him, class continues. The voices, the movement, the clacking keyboards—all suddenly feel distant. An application. You applied. It hits him like a wave. The image of you last night, on the couch, looking hesitant... He thought you'd back out again. But no. You did it. You actually did it. He sets the phone down, mind already spinning. The class could collapse around him and he wouldn’t notice. A wave of excitement washes over Peter, sharp and fast. A smile escapes him, instinctive, almost proud—but he swallows it quickly, rereading the message. The tone is curt. Direct. Pure Stark. He’s not playing games. He’s not extending polite offers.
If he took the time to write, something caught his eye. Or he’s already looking for a reason to dismiss it. Peter takes a slow breath, straightens in his seat, then starts typing.
"He's good. Really good. Maybe he procrastinates too much and doubts himself, yeah... But his work’s solid. You should at least meet him."
He hesitates a moment, eyes fixed on the screen. Half a second more, a flicker of doubt: Did I just put my friend under Tony Stark's spotlight? Then he hits send. The message is gone. It’s done. He locks his phone immediately and looks back at the board, like nothing happened. The professor still talks. The rest of the class takes notes. No one knows that something—maybe something huge—just shifted quietly in the background. Back in your classroom, you absentmindedly scribble a few words in your notebook, mind still foggy. The lecture drones on without you, a muffled background you no longer hear. Then, a subtle buzz pulls you from your haze. Your gaze slides to your phone on the desk. A message from Peter.
"Your heart okay? 'Cause it's about to take a hit."
You squint, eyebrow arched slightly. Before you can even think of a reply, another notification appears.
"Stark asked about you."
Your stomach twists. Your fingers freeze mid-air, suspended above your keyboard. The classroom noise fades away, like it’s been muted. Stark asked about me? You reread the message. Once. Twice. And your heart starts pounding. Loud enough to feel it in your chest. A wave of dizziness. Adrenaline. And that strange, raw feeling that something might actually be changing—for real, this time. You reread the message again, incredulous. Like your brain needs confirmation you didn’t imagine it. Stark asked about you. It loops in your head. Then, a brutal thought cuts through: is this an opportunity… or the start of a new nightmare?
Across campus, Peter still stares at his phone, focused, tense. He’s waiting for a reply. It doesn’t take long.
"Hm. Okay. Tell him he’s got one hour to prove he’s worth anything."
Peter blinks, rereads the message, hoping to find a softer edge buried in there. One hour. That’s all Stark’s giving. One hour to prove your worth, like it’s already a test. No sugarcoating. Just like him. Peter inhales slowly, thumb hovering above the screen. He knows this message will shake you. But he also knows you can do this—if you believe in yourself, even just a little. He doesn’t waste a second. A new message flashes on your screen, the kind that hits harder than any alarm:
"Dude… he wants something from you. You’ve got one hour."
Your stomach clenches immediately. One hour? For what? What does he expect? Your gaze wavers, heart racing, adrenaline flooding your veins. You glance up at the professor, but his words are just static now. The world around you blurs slightly. Then, another vibration. An email this time.
You recognize it instantly—the Stark Industries header. Black on white. Cold. Clinical. You don’t dare open it right away. Your fingers tremble slightly as they slide across the screen. Everything slows.
From: Stark Industries
Subject: One-Hour Challenge
"If you want us to take your application seriously, show me what you can do. Send me an animation on a simple concept: 'Progress.' One hour. Not a minute more."
Your heart skips a beat. Adrenaline erupts in your chest. It’s a test. He’s testing you already. No preamble. No encouragement. Just a dry directive, a time limit, and a chance. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. One hour. No more. You don’t even think. You raise your hand sharply.
— "I’m not feeling well… I need to step out."
The professor gives you a skeptical look, but you don’t wait for a response. Your stuff is already shoved into your bag. You hear whispers, a few muffled laughs, but none of it matters. You don’t have time. You walk out without looking back. One hour. One idea. One shot. And failure isn’t an option. Without wasting a second, you rush from the room. The countdown has started. One hour. No more. You cross campus at a fast pace, almost running, heart pounding. Your breath is shallow, your mind racing. You need somewhere quiet, equipped, accessible. The library. Of course. Quiet. Computers. Stable connection.
You push the door open, ignoring the few students who barely look up. You spot a table slightly apart and settle in quickly. Your fingers are already moving, powering up your laptop, launching your software. Everything loads—each second feeling like an eternity.
Progress. The theme echoes in your skull. Too broad. Too abstract. And yet, you have to go with it. You take a deep breath. A blank screen opens in front of you. It’s waiting. And so is Stark. Think.
You open ten tabs, ransack Pinterest, Behance, motion design sites, inspiration videos. Too many images, too many styles, too many ideas… and not enough time. You scribble frantically in a corner of your notebook: human silhouettes, arrows, gears, timelines… All of it feels overdone, exhausted. Human evolution? Done a thousand times. An AI awakening? Cliché. A learning machine? Too academic. You grit your teeth. It’s Stark. He won’t look for polish. He wants precision. A take. An idea. A vision. You don’t need to revolutionize design. You need to be clear. Essential.
Then, a spark. You sketch circles. Shapes shifting, morphing, sliding into one another. Lines, squares, circuits, neurons. You think about fluidity. About what keeps evolving, learning, adapting. Progress as motion, not destination. Your fingers come alive. Your hands find their pace. You structure. Set a rhythm. A narrative without words. Abstract forms, an evolving palette, a subtle sound to carry it all.
The stress is still there, but it morphs into pure adrenaline. You tweak, adjust, launch a render. Start over. It’s not perfect — it never will be — but it’s moving. The minutes slip by, merciless. You’re glued to your screen, muscles taut, breath short without even realizing it. The world around you fades: no more library, no more noise, just you, your laptop, and that damn deadline. Your heart pounds in your chest, but your mind is sharp, locked onto a single goal. You test, adjust, delete. A line unfolds on the screen, twists, multiplies, becomes a network, a structure. Too rigid. You want something fluid, alive. You launch again. Your notebook is a battlefield of nervous sketches and scribbled-out arrows.
Your keyboard shortcuts become mechanical. Copy. Paste. Modify. Your mouse glides without hesitation, as if your body were trying to catch up with time barehanded. You don’t have the luxury of doubt. No right to hesitate.
Progress. You want it simple. Instinctive. A shape that learns, adapts, evolves. A transformation that speaks without words. But every second takes you further from perfection. So you cut the excess. You simplify. You accelerate.
One more tweak. One more export. And for a brief second, as the animation takes shape before your eyes… you think it might actually work. A few feet away, Peter is there. Silent. He says nothing, makes no sound, just watches you. You didn’t hear him come in, too absorbed in your screen, in the pulsing tension. He watches you work, fascinated. Your movements are precise, fast. You switch from one software to another with near-instinctive ease, every click loaded with intent.
He’s seen you work before. But this is different. He sees you under pressure, and yet completely in control of your space. Laser-focused. There’s something visceral about the way you create, like you’re betting your life on every frame. You barely breathe. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, your foot taps nervously against the floor. Every millisecond of animation matters, every transition must be flawless. You know Stark will watch everything. He won’t let a single thing slide. Peter stays there, arms crossed, a subtle smile on his lips. He murmurs under his breath, more to himself than to you:
— "Shit... you're really in the zone."
But you hear nothing. Nothing but the low rumble of your own mind and the countdown ticking somewhere in the back of your consciousness. You’re not in the library anymore, not even in your body. Just you, the screen, and the urgency coursing through your veins. Your ideas pile up without sticking... until your gaze freezes on a sketch. A wrist, simply extended forward. Bare. Human. You don’t know why, but everything clicks into place right there. Slowly, you see a material wrap around it. A strange fluid, almost organic. At first unstable, rough, then it smooths, structures itself, hugs every curve, every bone, every crease of skin.
You dive in. The animation comes alive. The substance moves slowly, methodically, turning the arm into something new. Not a machine. Not a tool. An extension. A second skin. Progress as fusion, not replacement. The human enhanced without being erased. You refine the flow, adjust the speed. You refuse stiffness. It must feel alive. Instinctive. You polish the textures, insert a subtle glow — something soft, like a luminous breath, pulsing with the rhythm of motion. Not too bright, just enough to hint at energy, at life. Minutes remain. Your breath is short, your fingers fly across the keyboard. You tweak, refine, resize. Every frame counts. Every detail. There's no room for error.
Behind you, Peter hasn't moved. He stays silent, arms crossed, eyes locked on your screen. He watches every micro-movement, every hesitation you hold back, every too-quick breath. He sees your fixed gaze, the tension in your shoulders, the calculated speed of your gestures. And even though he knows your talent, he’s never seen you like this. Completely engulfed. Raw. Overflowing with a kind of energy you can’t fake.
The animation loops one last time. Your eyes trace every motion with near-feverish intensity. It works. It’s not perfect — nothing ever really is — but it says something. It lives. And that’s all that matters. The timer shows the final seconds. You inhale sharply, as if to push away the doubt knocking again at your door. No time. Not now. You have to send it. Your fingers tremble slightly as you open your inbox. You type fast, without stopping:
To: Stark Industries
Subject: One-minute challenge – Visual proposal
Mr. Stark,
Here is my proposal in response to your challenge. I tried to illustrate an organic evolution of progress, where technology adapts to the human body until they become one. Thank you for the opportunity.
You attach the file. Check. Three times. And when everything’s finally ready, you pause for a moment, your finger hovering above the button. Then you click. A sharp beep rings in your headphones. The email is gone. You finally release the tension that held you for nearly an hour and sink into your chair, drained. It’s done. The adrenaline slowly fades, leaving behind a strange sensation of floating. Behind you, Peter finally exhales, arms still crossed, an incredulous smile on his lips.
— "Holy shit... You literally just sent a project to Tony Stark."
You nod, your eyes still locked on the screen. You can’t look away from the animation looping again and again. The wrist, the fluid material, the transformation. Over. And over. Like proof you actually did something. That it’s not just in your head. You should feel relieved. Maybe even proud. But no. That’s not what’s rising in you. It’s not pride, nor excitement. It’s that heavy, dull weight of a question already rumbling: now what? You did it. You sent the damn email. You took the risk. And now, you wait. The animation keeps looping, unmoved by your heart pounding in your chest.
The adrenaline crashes, leaving you deflated. Your fingers slip slowly off the mouse, still faintly trembling. You sink deeper into the chair, breath uneven, eyes locked on the screen. Now that it’s over, doubt floods in. A heavy pressure settles on your chest. Will it be enough? Peter hasn’t taken his eyes off you. He sees the tension still gripping your shoulders, the haunted look you cast at your work. So he gently breaks the silence, with that half-mocking, half-genuine tone of his:
— "What was that? An artistic trance? I felt like I just witnessed a fucking exorcism."
You turn toward him, still half-lost, and let out a nervous laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s exactly that. Like you expelled something visceral, too deeply buried. A pure discharge, followed by a deep void. You run a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes with a sigh.
— "I don’t know, man… I’m not even sure it’s good."
Peter looks at you like you’ve just said something insane. He crosses his arms, mock-offended.
— "Are you serious? Dude, it’s more than good. You whipped that up in under an hour, under pressure. And honestly… it was badass."
You shrug slightly, not replying right away. Doubt clings hard. But Peter’s words find a crack. You shrug, unable to share his excitement. You wish you could, really, but the fear of failure smothers everything else. What if Stark thinks it’s trash? What if it’s worthless? What if you just burned your only chance to change anything? Peter watches you, saying nothing. Then he exhales long and slow, before sitting down next to you. He puts a hand on your shoulder — firm, not heavy — and gives it a small shake, like he’s trying to snap you out of it.
— "Listen to me. You just sent your project to Stark. Tony Stark. That’s already huge, man. And honestly? You nailed it. Now stop freaking out like it’s a life-or-death situation."
You open your mouth, tempted to say something, anything, but no words come. Because he’s right. Because there’s nothing more you can do. Because now, everything rests in someone else’s hands. And that’s what terrifies you the most. The waiting. The unknown. Your fingers tap nervously on the table, trying to fill the void.
— "Yeah… I’m trying, but it’s not easy."
Peter shakes his head, stands up and nods toward the exit.
— "Exactly why we’re getting out of here. Come on, let’s take a walk. Eat something, breathe. Sitting here staring at your screen is the best way to spiral."
You hesitate. You look at your screen one last time, as if it might suddenly give you an answer. But nothing changes. He’s right. You nod slowly. With one last glance at your screen, you shut down the animation and quickly pack up your things. Your heart still pounds in your chest, like it doesn’t understand the urgent part is over. The waiting starts now, and you’ll have to learn how to bear it.
Outside, the air is cool, thick with the kind of humidity that signals imminent rain. You take a deep breath, hoping the evening air might quiet the turmoil in your head. You and Peter walk slowly along the slick cobblestones, streetlamps casting blurry halos on the sides of buildings. The city is still alive, but gently, as if on mute. Peter tries, as usual, to break the silence. He tosses out anecdotes, comments on the weather, mimics this morning’s professor with exaggerated flair. You smile at times, almost despite yourself, but your thoughts wander, far from the conversation. You nod occasionally, just enough not to vanish entirely, but your gaze remains fixed straight ahead, lost in the blurry horizon of your anxiety.
Then, without warning, a raindrop. Cold. Thin. It lands on your temple and slides down your cheek before vanishing into your hoodie’s collar. Another follows. Then another. And within seconds, rain pours over you. Not violent, but dense, insistent. A fine, uniform curtain. Peter grumbles, tugging his hood over his head.
— “Great. Like we weren’t soaked enough already tonight.”
You sketch a faint smile, almost involuntary. The rain soothes you in a strange, familiar way. It softens sounds and edges, as if the world becomes blurrier, more bearable for a moment. Beneath this gentle shower, your thoughts ease their assault. Just a bit.
— “Come on, let’s find some shelter. You haven’t eaten, and I’m betting your stomach agrees with me.”
You don’t have the strength to protest. You simply nod, hands stuffed in your pockets, and you both quicken your pace, skimming along buildings in search of refuge. A small street restaurant eventually appears at a corner, its tired neon flickering above the door. The smell of burnt coffee and hot food greets you instantly. The inside is modest, warm. A few tables occupied by exhausted students, employees still in uniform, faces closed by fatigue. No one speaks loudly. Everyone looks a little worn out. It’s exactly what you need. You sit by the window, where raindrops carve irregular trails down the glass, turning the streetlights into smeared streaks of orange and blue. Peter orders quickly, something simple and filling. You pick something almost at random, without thinking, still watching the hypnotic movement of the rain.
The waiter walks away. Peter stretches in his chair, throws you a sideways glance, but says nothing. He knows you need the silence. And tonight, that might be the greatest kindness he can offer. Peter taps the table lightly with his fingers, eyes on you, somewhere between curious and cautious.
— “Feeling better?”
You exhale a small laugh and shrug.
— “Dunno… a bit? I guess.”
— “Yeah, you still have that ‘lost in my own head’ look, but you’re less tense than ten minutes ago. So, I’m counting that as a win.”
You shake your head gently, half amused, then glance down at your phone. Still nothing. No notifications, no emails. You set it back down silently. The waitress arrives then, placing two steaming plates in front of you. The warm, spicy aroma hits you suddenly, and you realize just how hungry you are. You hadn’t even noticed. You pick up your fork, cut a bite without much thought, and bring it to your mouth. And finally, your body lets go a little. You eat slowly, in silence, and your mind begins to drift — gently, but surely. Just you, Peter, a hot meal, and the rain against the window. Nothing else really exists. Not for now.
You savor each bite with an almost calculated slowness. The food has a strange taste, but not unpleasant. A taste of transition. Maybe because you know that starting tomorrow, everything could change. If Stark accepts your application, you’ll probably have to quit your job at the convenience store. A job you can barely stand, but that’s kept you afloat in its own way. Peter keeps talking, arms on the table, tossing out anecdotes or comments about the people around, as if to fill the space. But each time, he shoots you a side glance, making sure you’re still there. Present. He can see your mind drifting, spiraling in that ‘what if’ loop, and still, he doesn’t push. Just there, quiet support.
— “Work tomorrow, right?” he asks, biting into a piece of bread, tone light.
You nod, sipping water.
— “Yeah. Really don’t feel like it.”
He chuckles.
— “Dude, if Stark hires you, it might be the last time you ever have to work there. That’s worth celebrating.”
You raise an eyebrow, smirking.
— “Celebrate still having to deal with my boss and annoying customers?”
Peter shrugs with a mischievous grin.
— “Think of it as the end of a chapter.”
You shake your head slowly, smile fading into a sigh.
— “Too soon to celebrate. I just sent the project email. No answer yet. Thinking about it stresses me out.”
He doesn’t reply right away. He just watches you, gauging the weight of your words without brushing them off. And in that moment, you realize that even if he doesn’t have a solution, his presence makes the waiting slightly more bearable. The waitress returns with two scalding coffees. The bitter aroma fills the air, sliding between you like warmth cutting through the cool night. You wrap your hands around the cup, the heat against your skin grounding you further. Tonight, for the first time in a while, you feel like something shifted. Like you moved forward — even just a hesitant step. You drink slowly, unhurried, trying to stretch out this rare moment, this fragile bubble with no urgency, no noise, no immediate burden. Just the muted hum of a nearly empty diner, the patter of rain on glass, and the warmth of your cups.
Then your phone vibrates on the table. A shiver runs through you. Your eyes lock on the screen, and in one second, the carefully built calm collapses. The name on the display. Peter sees it too. His gaze snaps to you, the relaxed look wiped from his face. He stares, eyebrows slightly raised, nervous excitement flickering in his eyes.
— “Well, dude…” he says, nodding toward your phone. “Guess it’s time to find out if we’re celebrating or not.”
You swallow hard, throat suddenly tight. Your hand inches toward the screen. You’re not breathing. You hear nothing. The restaurant lights, the clinking of cutlery, the rain — all fade. It’s not an email. It’s a message. Direct. From Stark himself. You freeze, finger hovering inches from the screen, heart pounding so hard it fills the space. Peter watches you, silent, waiting. And in this heavy silence, this moment stretched to eternity, you know that whatever it says… this message will change everything.
The world around you feels submerged, as if you were underwater. Voices, the clinking of dishes, even the rain — everything becomes distant, distorted. On your screen, three words shine with a simplicity that's almost cruel:
"Tomorrow. 10 a.m. Don’t be late."
Peter watches your face, catching the slightest twitch, as if trying to anticipate your reaction before you even speak. Seeing you frozen, he leans in slightly, eyes fixed on the screen.
— "Well?" he whispers, somewhere between suspense and barely-contained explosion.
You slowly lift your gaze, your breath barely steady, your voice strangled by anxiety.
— "He... he wants me to come tomorrow. At ten."
You swallow with difficulty.
— "No being late."
A silence. Then Peter’s face lights up. He slaps his palm against the table, an excited exclamation escaping him in a breath:
— "Shit, man. Holy shit."
You stay frozen. Your fingers clutch the phone tighter, like you need to hold on to something real to believe what’s happening. A jolt of adrenaline shoots down your spine. You just got a summons from Tony Stark. For tomorrow. For real. You should be smiling. Getting up. Celebrating. Jumping for joy. But no. Another reality instantly settles in your mind, cutting off the rise of euphoria: tomorrow, you have work. At the store. And this time, it’s not about picking the lesser evil. This is a real choice. A turning point.
Your jaw clenches violently, almost painfully. If you go to this meeting, you’ll have to ditch your shift. No notice, no arrangement possible. And you know exactly what that means. Your boss isn’t the forgiving type. One misstep and you’ll be fired without a second thought. He’s already proven it. He’s just waiting for an excuse to kick you out. Your eyes stay fixed on Stark’s words, your phone still clenched in your sweaty hand. A lump forms in your throat, a dense knot of conflicting emotions. There’s that part of you screaming with pride — Stark noticed your work. He wants to see you. You made an impression, enough to earn a direct response. And yet, just underneath, fear starts gnawing at the moment. What if you lose your only stable income? What if you bet everything on this and it blows up? No backup plan. No safety net. Just the void.
Peter, still across from you, doesn’t need you to speak. He already sees the dilemma in your eyes. He crosses his arms, his expression hardens, serious, almost annoyed by your hesitation.
— "Dude... you know you’re going. You’re trying to convince yourself you’ve still got a choice, but it’s already decided in your head."
You slowly run a hand over your face, lingering on your eyes like you're trying to push back the fatigue and confusion.
— "I don’t know... I want to go, yeah. Of course I want to go. But if I ditch work like that, I lose my spot. And with it, my only paycheck."
Peter raises an eyebrow, shakes his head slowly, looking almost incredulous.
— "And that’s supposed to make you hesitate? Seriously? You’ve told me a hundred times that job’s killing you, that you’re sick of smiling at people who treat you like shit for a twenty-dollar bill. And now you’re freaking out over this?"
He leans toward you a bit, eyes locked onto yours.
— "Tony Stark says ‘come tomorrow,’ and you’re hesitating because Gérard, king of the barcode, might get mad?"
You can’t help but let out a nervous, bitter laugh at the way he says it. But your heart keeps pounding against your ribs. Because this isn’t just a logical dilemma. It’s your reality. Your fragile balance that might collapse if this gamble fails. And yet... you know he’s right. He stays silent for a moment, arms crossed, before pointing at your phone with a sharp gesture, like he’s cutting through an imaginary debate.
— "If you say no, I’m dragging your ass there myself, I swear."
His voice is both mocking and dead serious. You know him well enough to believe it. That he’d grab you by the collar if he had to, just to keep you from wasting your shot. You don’t answer. You just sit there, frozen, with that massive weight still crushing you. You should feel relieved, even excited. But all you feel is this ball of anxiety growing bigger. As if every possibility — failing, succeeding, losing your job, stepping into a world where you don’t belong — carried the same weight, the same power to steal your breath. You clench your jaw, then lock your phone with a brusque, almost angry motion, like you’re trying to shut everything out.
— "Fuck..."
Peter watches you for a moment before letting the tension out of his shoulders. He tilts his head slightly, a softer, less provoking smile forming on his face.
— "Breathe, man. You’ve got this."
You nod slowly. Mechanically. Like you’re trying to believe it. But inside, nothing gets lighter. Because tomorrow morning, no matter what, you’re going to have to go. Get up. Walk toward a world that never felt made for you. And pray that this time, it doesn’t slam the door in your face. The rain has settled into a steady murmur, a fine drizzle soaking your clothes without you really noticing. You walk next to Peter, silent, hands deep in the pockets of your already damp hoodie. Each step on the wet pavement echoes like a ticking clock, heavy, inevitable. A rhythm that brings you closer to the deadline: tomorrow, ten a.m. Not a minute late. That’s when everything happens.
You say nothing, but your gaze stays fixed ahead, lost on an invisible point far beyond the wet facades and blurry streetlights. You think about Stark, about what he expects from you, about what this meeting means. A huge opportunity, maybe the only one. A possible exit from the vicious cycle you’ve been stuck in for months. But also enormous pressure. And a risk. The risk of failing completely. Peter doesn’t speak either. He walks at your pace, respecting your silence, but you can feel his furtive, worried glances. He doesn’t need to ask to know what’s going on in your head. You feel your stomach knot tighter with every step, your breath getting shorter for no apparent reason.
When you reach the building, the porch offers some shelter from the rain—but not from your thoughts. You climb the stairs slowly, one step at a time, like your body is refusing to carry you any further. Peter stays just behind you, silent, present. He doesn’t push you, doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—he’s there to catch you if you collapse.
When you reach the landing, you exhale loudly, like trying to purge an overflow. Peter gives you a sideways glance, calm but perceptive. He knows it’s rising in you, that anxiety tightening your throat, making tomorrow feel like a cliff edge. He places a brief hand on your shoulder before unlocking the door.
— "You’ve already done the hardest part. Now you just have to walk through."
Once inside the apartment, the warm air clashes with the damp clinging to your clothes. You drop your bag by the couch with resignation and run a hand through your still-wet hair, without really trying to dry it. You stare at the floor for a moment, like the weight of words is already too much.
— "I don’t even have anything decent to wear… I’ve got nothing here. All my stuff’s still at Matthew’s."
Your voice is low, almost flattened under the weight of exhaustion. Peter, closing the door behind you, frowns slightly. He walks toward the kitchen, never taking his eyes off you, then shrugs with feigned nonchalance.
— "So what? You’re not seriously thinking of going back there just for a shirt, are you?" He leans toward a cupboard, pulls out a towel, and tosses it to you gently. "I can lend you something, man. I’m no model, but you’ll look presentable. And don’t stress, it’s not a gala, it’s a meeting."
You catch the towel mid-air, let out a sigh, and shake your head.
— "It’s not just about the outfit…" You drop heavily onto the couch, elbows on your knees, head in your hands. "What if I go, skip work, and it goes badly? What if I mess up?"
You look up at Peter, worn out, tense. "
— I lose my job, and on top of that, I blow my only shot."
He leans against the counter, arms crossed, his expression more serious now. You can see in his eyes that he gets it. But you also know he won’t let you drown in doubt without saying something. Peter stays leaning against the counter, arms crossed, his gaze less sharp now, more grounded. He looks at you with that quiet patience he reserves for the moments when you’re on the edge.
— "Listen to me. If Stark wrote to you himself, it’s not a fluke. That wasn’t an automatic email or an HR response. It was him. He took the time to look at you, to judge you interesting enough to test. And you know what that means?" He pauses, locking eyes with you. "It means you’re already on his radar."
You don’t answer. You let your back sink slowly against the couch, head falling backward, eyes closed. Your temples are pounding. It’s too much, all of it. The thrill, the fear, the uncertainty. Your brain won’t stop playing out scenarios, one after another. Blurred visions of you in Stark’s office, unable to answer a question. Of you fired from the supermarket. Of your name crossed off some invisible list. And then, sometimes, the fragile image of you standing in a real room, facing a real future.
But if you don’t go… then you stay here. Stuck in the same loop.
You slowly open your eyes again, pupils catching the ceiling. The cracked plaster, the shadows of the streetlights dancing on the wall.
— "Fuck… I don’t even know how I’m supposed to sleep tonight."
Peter lets out a smile, not mocking, just knowing. He steps closer to the couch, leans on the backrest, and lets out a small laugh.
— "I know you. You’re gonna pace all night, remake the world in your head, imagine a thousand versions of tomorrow. And in the end, you’ll show up right on time, looking like shit but with your heart on fire. Like a guy running to his own funeral."
A short laugh escapes you, almost surprised. You rest a hand on your forehead, caught between exhaustion and nerves, and look at him with a worn-out smile. He’s not wrong. You inhale deeply. A long, heavy breath, trying to flush out the anxiety.
