James set the shopping bags near her bed. He glanced once at the folded clothes, then at her resting form, and shook his head. She'd been through enough.
Still, he couldn't help the faint smirk. "You better appreciate this," he muttered softly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James went back next door. Mindy was watching TV with Anny curled in her arms, the kitten's tail swishing lazily.
"Quite a sight to not see you playing computer games." James asked.
"Not a good time yet," Mindy replied without looking away from the tv. "There aren't many people online in the morning. We'll play later. Brother, will you still play with me today?" Her eyes widened hopefully.
James shook his head. "Can't. Got something important to do. You go hang out with your classmates today. Promise I'll make time for us to have fun soon."
She pouted but nodded, attention already sliding back to the screen. Anny yawned, unbothered by the conversation.
James took out his phone and dialed Phillip. The man answered within seconds. "What are your instructions, boss?"
"Do you know anything about Gilson Marbury?"
Phillip paused, thinking. "Yes Boss. A real estate magnate, worth several billion. But he's got a side business not known to the public—illegal arms trades, most of them through offshore accounts. He may keep himself clean on paper but dirty underneath."
"Good," James said. "Send a team to audit his development plan. He just bought land for an apartment project. I've invested one-point-five billion into it. I want the full scale of his investment and the exact shareholding ratios adjusted accordingly."
"Understood. Anything else?"
"Yeah. I need an assistant stationed in New York. Someone capable of handling… most of everything."
That last word carried weight. Phillip hesitated, picking up the shift in tone. "Understood, boss. Where do you want her to be based?"
"Our League Games office in New York. No assigned duties yet—just keep her on standby for my call."
Phillip didn't press for more answers. He'd learned that when James sounded like this, he was planning for something big. "I'll make it happen."
The call ended. James leaned back for a moment, rubbing his temples. After yesterday's fiasco in the mall, the idea of a personal assistant didn't feel like a luxury—it was battlefield logistics.
[Observation: Administrative personnel request logged. Efficiency projection increase—forty-one percent.]
"Thanks, Cortana," he muttered. "Just make sure she's better at picking clothes than I am."
[Baseline competency in fashion retail exceeds yours easily by anyone.]
He snorted. "Hey! Well, you ain't lying on that, but it still hurts when you hear that."
The ring sat on the table beside him, metallic and ordinary-looking. But he could still feel the faint pulse beneath its surface, like a heartbeat muffled through steel. He pocketed it and left again, driving straight toward Stark Tower.
Meanwhile, Natasha Romanoff slept until noon. Sunlight spilled across the sheets, and for a moment, she looked nothing like the infamous Black Widow—just a woman caught between exhaustion and stubborn pride.
She stretched slowly, yawned, and eventually sat up. Her hair was a tangled mess, her body still sore from the night's mission before. She went to the bathroom, washed her face, then noticed the shopping bags neatly placed nearby.
The outer one was wrinkled, crushed from handling. Curious, she opened it—and frowned.
"Oh, come on," she muttered, pulling out the underwear. "This is… vintage?"
It wasn't a bad quality, but it looked like something from an era long before her. She sighed, dressing anyway, muttering curses in Russian under her breath for james selections.
Then she saw the coat.
Her temper flared instantly. "You've got to be kidding me," she hissed. The design screamed a mature executive, not a top-level assassin. The shoes, thankfully, were better—simple black heels. She slipped them on and checked the mirror. The mismatched combination made her look like an undercover diplomat who'd lost a bet.
She stormed out of the room, heels clicking sharply across the floor. The first thing she saw was Mindy sitting cross-legged on the couch, holding Anny and watching something action packed.
"Mindy, where's your brother?"
"He went out," the girl said casually. "Didn't he tell you?"
"No. I was asleep."
"Oh. If you need something, just call him." Mindy turned back to the TV, not paying her anymore attention.
Natasha blinked at the indifference. A little girl radiating hostility toward her? That was new. She dismissed it, sighing. There were bigger problems—like the old vintage clothes that made her feel like a grandma.
Back in her room, she rummaged through her recovered handbag. Picking up her phone, she forgot that she got no number for James. She considered calling S.H.I.E.L.D., then decided against it. It was just clothing, after all. Pride won over irritation, barely.
Fine. She'd fix it herself.
She headed back to the living room. "Mindy, I'm going out. What do you want for lunch? I'll pick something up."
"No thanks. There's food at home. Hannah leaves it for me every day. It taste better than take out."
Natasha nodded and left, heels clicking.
Mindy watched the door close. Then she looked down at Anny, who blinked up at her with sleepy green eyes.
"Anny," she whispered seriously, "big brother's ours. We can't let that woman steal him, okay?"
"Meow."
"You agree? Then we'll work hard together!" Mindy grabbed Anny and gaved her affection for being on her side.
James reached Stark Tower and took the secure elevator to the top floor. Tony was already there, glass of wine in hand, city skyline glittering behind him.
"About time you show up," Tony said. "You left me waiting." He poured a Coke into a glass and passed it over.
James took it, unamused. "Don't even start. I've just endured the worst public humiliation of my life. Buying women's underwear by myself in front of many women—humiliating doesn't begin to cover it." He drank half the glass in one go and gaved a massive belch.
Tony chuckled. "You finally learned. You may play soldier, but you're still a man with resources, Use them. You need staff, you need armor, and sometimes—" he said with a grin, "you need someone to buy lingerie for you."
"Appreciate the wisdom," James said flatly.
Tony's grin widened. "All right, let's talk business." He picked up the metallic ring from James and placed it beneath a lab scanner. "J.A.R.V.I.S., initiate analysis."
"Scanning," came the AI's crisp tone. Then, after a few seconds: "Mr. Stark, the ring's composition cannot be analyzed. Energy readings are nonexistent."
James folded his arms. "Told you so. It's alien. No radiation bleed, no conventionally known signature. It's pure stealth tech."
"So what do we do—take it apart?"
"Not yet." James took the ring, sliding it onto his finger. It contracted instantly, three points glowing faintly as it pricked the skin.
[Biometric link established. Warning: neural handshake requested.]
"Go ahead," James said quietly.
[Confirmed. Attempting controlled penetration of data lattice.]
Tony leaned closer, fascinated. "How's it feeling?"
"Like being bitten by a mosquito that costs more than a car," James muttered.
A few seconds later, Cortana's voice returned.
[Connection stable. Neural link achieved. Internal architecture confirmed. It's a micro-control system, a digital binary similar to human design. Different code language, but conceptually the same.]
James relayed some of what Cortana told him, phrasing it like his own observation so Tony wouldn't suspect anything.
Tony whistled. "Binary logic in alien tech? Now that's something to be surprised about. You could theoretically sync that with your suit's targeting software."
'Can you get a direct proper scan now?' James asked.
[Yes, but the system must remain active. Do not remove the ring. I can open the shell protocols manually.]
'Do it.'
The ring clicked faintly, unfolding just enough for the scanner to catch a glimpse of its inner lattice—a geometric web of microscopic circuits pulsing with light.
Tony's eyes gleamed. "That's… beautiful. Whoever built this wasn't just advanced—they were efficient. No wasted motion, and no excess material to it."
[Confirmed. Structure density surpasses vibranium alloy by twenty-four percent. Heat tolerance exceeds known plasma thresholds.]
James grinned. 'In plain English?'
[It can survive a laser fire.]