The Room Where Power Sits
The conference room was designed to intimidate.
Glass walls. Polished steel. A table long enough to imply hierarchy without saying it out loud. Holograms hovered above the surface, each one carrying the face of a cabinet minister, an advisor, a legal representative who'd learned to smile without warmth.
Tony Stark was already exhausted.
Not physically. Emotionally. This was the kind of tired that came from knowing every sentence spoken in this room was bait. Every offer wrapped in silk and barbed wire.
He trusted no one here.
And he was right not to.
They talked in turns, polite, rehearsed.
They wanted access to Stark technology "for recovery efforts."
They wanted salvage rights to the wreckage.
They wanted "labor cooperation agreements" with Asgardian survivors.
They wanted research partnerships. Joint oversight. Committees.
They offered condolences.
They offered almost nothing else.
Tony listened, arms folded, jaw tight. He deflected without committing. Redirected without agreeing. He let them talk themselves into circles, watching for the moment the masks slipped.
Shuri sat two seats down, spine straight, eyes bright. Composed. Dangerous in the way only the truly intelligent were. She spoke when needed, precise and diplomatic, dismantling assumptions with a smile sharp enough to draw blood.
Thor stood at her side, earnest and calm, choosing his words with care. No thunder. No bluster. Just a king speaking for his people.
Tony watched them and thought, Okay. This might actually work.
Then it happened.
One of the ministers leaned back, lips curling slightly. His tone was indulgent. Condescending. Political in that way that pretended superiority was concern.
"Well," he said, eyes flicking to Shuri, "perhaps it would be best if Wakanda focused on its… traditional strengths, rather than inserting itself into matters of interstellar consequence."
The room stilled.
Shuri didn't move. Thor's jaw tightened.
Tony smiled.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly.
Professionally.
Everyone who knew Tony Stark froze.
He rolled his shoulders once, slow and deliberate, like a man settling into a familiar role he'd hoped never to wear again.
"Let me clarify something," Tony said mildly. "Because I think we've all gotten very confused about who's asking whom for favors."
No one interrupted. Not anymore.
He tapped the table.
The room lit up.
Numbers replaced faces. Markets. Supply chains. Defense dependencies. Energy grids threaded so deeply with Stark technology that removing it would collapse cities.
"This," Tony continued, voice conversational, "is Stark Industries' leverage footprint. Domestic and international."
He didn't look at the screens.
"I'm not threatening anyone," he said, holding up a finger. "I don't do threats. Threats are inefficient."
A minister tried to speak.
Tony didn't glance at him.
"What I am doing," Tony went on, "is explaining consequences. With math."
The data shifted.
Corruption pathways unfolded like exposed nerves. Donations laundered through shell organizations. Research grants siphoned. Favors traded for silence. Contracts stalled "accidentally."
"None of this is illegal," Tony said pleasantly. "Yet. But it becomes very illegal the second I stop pretending not to notice."
He finally looked up.
Eyes sharp. Focused. Unforgiving.
"And if we're discussing contracts," he added, "I've already drafted five that don't exist yet. They will by the end of the week. Infrastructure repair. Defense logistics. Emergency response."
A faint smile.
"You'll approve them. Because you need them."
The offending minister opened his mouth again.
Tony finished anyway.
"The Asgardian crash is now a classified humanitarian event. Internal gag order goes out tonight. Any leaks will be traced, audited, and buried."
Another screen flared.
"The United States will be committing one trillion dollars in reparations and aid to Asgardian recovery."
Silence. Absolute.
"That's not a negotiation," Tony said. "That's penance."
He turned his gaze back to the man who'd started it.
"And you," Tony said calmly. "You're going to resign. Voluntarily. Today. You'll cite stress. Family. A desire to step away."
The man stammered. "You c-can't"
"I already did," Tony replied. "Your replacement's been briefed. He's very agreeable."
The holograms blinked out one by one.
Compliance, silent and total.
When the room finally emptied, Tony sagged slightly, steel draining from him all at once.
Shuri hadn't looked away once.
She watched him now with something new in her eyes.
Fear.
Respect.
Understanding.
This, she realized, is how he protects.
Tony rolled his shoulders again, the smile gone.
"God," he muttered, "I hate politics."
Shuri smiled.
She believed him.