Shadows Beneath the Spotlight
"Is this real, old man?" asked Owen while sitting in front of General Nathaniel's office. The older man also wore a slightly annoyed expression.
"Hmph... those idiots, always trying to contain everything powerful," the old man grumbled in his deep voice, leaning his elbows on the desk. "I wouldn't be surprised if the remnants of Hydra were involved too."
"What are we going to do?" asked Owen, leaning back in his chair with a calm yet curious gesture.
The general remained silent for a few seconds, his eyes fixed on the file in front of him. On the folder, the title read: Superhuman Registration Accord.
"Alright," he finally murmured. "Many are still against it, but the discussion continues. For now, we don't need to pay much attention to it; I'll keep an eye on things." He let out a tired sigh before adding, "If it ever comes to that point..." He lifted his gaze toward Owen with a sharp look. "...Well, no matter. I'll fish something out of it when the time comes."
"Ah, so those idiots will have to behave for a while, or people will start supporting those weaklings," said Owen with a teasing smile, easing the tension in the room.
"You could say that," the old man replied in a neutral tone as he slowly rose from his desk. He walked to a corner where a bottle of whiskey rested on a cabinet and poured himself a short drink.
"Whatever," said Owen, trying not to think too much about it. Whatever came next, he could handle it. He glanced at the old man for a moment before standing up. "You sure you don't want to come?"
"To a party full of hormonal brats? I'll pass. Have fun... and make sure Nicholas doesn't have too much fun," Nathaniel replied, his tone somewhere between serious and resigned.
"You do know we're all adults now, right?" asked Owen with a smirk.
"If you behaved like adults, I'd treat you like adults," retorted the general, waving his hand dismissively—a clear sign meaning get out of my office.
Owen just grinned and walked out casually. However, he stopped for a moment when he felt a light vibration in his pocket. He pulled out his phone, read the incoming message, and a genuine smile appeared on his face before he hurried out of the building.
"Hmph... hormonal brats," Nathaniel muttered, watching Owen leave in a rush. He shook his head, but a faint, almost paternal smile appeared on his face.
…
Meanwhile, in a well-known bar in New York, a grand party was in full swing. VIP guests filled every corner while security guards blocked the entrance to anyone without an invitation. Outside, a crowd of paparazzi and reporters tried to capture photos of the stars of the night.
Suddenly, a sleek sports car screeched to a halt in front of the small red carpet laid out at the entrance. Metal barriers kept the public at bay, and flashes burst instantly.
The car door opened, and Tony Stark stepped out with his trademark charismatic smile, posing briefly for the cameras before hurrying to open the passenger door. From it emerged Pepper, wearing a professional smile as she took Tony's arm. Together they walked elegantly toward the entrance, waving to photographers as the flashing lights filled the air.
Reporters immediately rushed in with questions.
"Mr. Stark," one began with an almost provocative smile, "after the death of Darren Cross, one of your biggest competitors in military technology, and the disappearance of Norman Osborn, it seems that the major weapons industries have weakened. Do you think Stark Industries might return to its old path?"
"Sure," Tony replied sarcastically. "Maybe I'll start building my suits with steam engines."
Pepper stepped in quickly before he could continue. "What Tony means," she explained calmly and professionally, "is that Stark Industries left that era behind. Going back would mean losing many of the current active projects that have nothing to do with weapons."
The journalist pressed on, his tone sharp. "And what about the so-called Iron Man weapons and those androids? Couldn't they be considered weapons of mass destruction capable of conquering a country if you wanted to?"
"If the country's beautiful enough," Tony replied with a wink before gently pulling Pepper along, clearly done with the exchange.
The journalist kept shouting questions, but the guards blocked his path as Tony and Pepper entered the venue, the echo of flashes following them inside.
Moments later, another sports car pulled up—this one golden, bright, and impossible to miss. Both doors opened at once. From the driver's seat stepped Nicholas, wearing a pristine white suit, his blond hair slicked back. From the passenger side, two stunning women—one blonde, one with jet-black hair—emerged, both smiling excitedly.
Nicholas greeted the cameras confidently and walked toward the red carpet, placing himself between the two women with natural arrogance.
"Mr. Hawthorne, over here!" shouted the same journalist from before.
Nicholas turned when he heard his last name, raising an amused eyebrow as he approached the man.
"Well, looks like someone did their homework to find out my last name," he said with a crooked smile. Normally, his name didn't appear in official records, though he never cared much about hiding his face; anyone interested enough could find out who he was.
"I'll let you ask me a couple of questions, since, as you can see, I'm a little busy," he added in a relaxed tone, glancing at the two women beside him and giving them a playful wink.
"Of course, I'll be quick," said the reporter, raising his microphone. "As the son of one of the oldest active generals, don't you think running around shooting makes you a target for the country's enemies? And according to records, you were once a renowned surgeon. Didn't you take an oath to protect and save lives? Yet here you are, going into battle, firing like a madman."
"Ah?" Nicholas lifted an eyebrow, glaring at him with clear irritation. "What's wrong with this clown?" he muttered with disdain, pointing at him with his thumb before turning away and ignoring him completely. Then he slipped his arm around the waists of his two companions and continued toward the entrance, leaving the reporter talking to himself.
The paparazzi kept waiting for quite a while, unaware that most of the heroes and key figures they wanted to interview were already inside. Many of them didn't enjoy being the center of attention. Well... most of them. Because if anyone did enjoy it, it was Tony and Nicholas.
However, they weren't going to be the only ones stealing the spotlight.
A new sports car stopped in front of the red carpet; this time, a bright red model that purred elegantly as it braked. The driver's door opened, and Owen stepped out with a relaxed smile. He wore a perfectly fitted black shirt and pants of the same color—simple but refined. On his right hand, a dark glove extended up to his wrist, disappearing neatly beneath his sleeve.
He walked calmly and with a hint of amusement as he opened the passenger door.
From the seat emerged Wanda, dressed in a stunning red gown that gleamed under the lights of the flashing cameras. Her expression was a mix of discomfort and irritation as she took in the swarm of cameras aimed at them... and the teasing grin on Owen's face, who had clearly chosen the main entrance just to annoy her a little.
She shook her head in resignation and finally took his arm.
"You should smile a little; it's a night to have fun," Owen said, his tone playful.
"Shut up. This is embarrassing; we're not famous or anything like that," Wanda replied, still visibly annoyed.
Before she could continue, a sudden gust of wind brushed past them, gently lifting their hair. A hand landed on her shoulder.
"Come on, little sister, of course we are! And we should enjoy it!" said Pietro, suddenly appearing beside her with a mischievous grin, waving enthusiastically at the paparazzi.
Wanda glared at him. "Don't use your powers unless it's for work," she warned firmly.
"Ah, you've gotten so boring, sis. That's what happens when you start dating the instructor. It's a betrayal of your own blood," Pietro said with a mocking tone.
Wanda's face turned red, clearly about to hit him, but her brother vanished before she could react. In an instant, he reappeared in front of the photographers.
"Hey! Take your photos quickly, or you won't be able to see me!" he shouted with a grin, provoking laughter and surprise among those present.
The flashes went off immediately as Pietro struck a few poses, clearly enjoying the attention. Then he walked calmly toward the entrance, ignoring every question shouted his way. He had only come to check on his sister—and he knew that if he stayed any longer, she'd drag him back with a lecture.
Owen continued walking beside Wanda toward the entrance, amused by the visible discomfort on her face. She kept a tense expression, still unaccustomed to that kind of spotlight.
Then, the same journalist from before, as if he knew exactly what to say to provoke each of them, tried again.
"Sergeant Colt, over here!" he shouted, raising his voice above the crowd.
But unlike Tony or Nicholas, Owen wasn't so easy to bait. He kept walking, smiling absently while stealing glances at Wanda, completely ignoring the man.
The reporter called his name several more times, but Owen didn't even look his way.
Just as they were about to pass through security, a voice rang out above the murmur of the press:
"ASSASSIN OF VIKTOR KEIM!"
The air seemed to freeze for a second. Owen stopped abruptly and slowly turned his head toward the direction of the shout. The journalist stood a few meters away, his eyes burning with a mixture of rage, contempt, and something deeper... hatred.
Owen studied him in silence. He was a young man, no older than twenty, with curly black hair, dark eyes, and large round glasses. His appearance was ordinary, almost harmless, but his gaze carried an intensity that Owen noticed immediately.
"What's wrong?" asked Wanda, realizing he had stopped.
Owen looked at her for a moment, then smiled calmly. "Nothing," he said lightly, brushing it off before gently taking her arm and leading her inside the building.
The journalist followed him with his eyes, visibly frustrated. When he realized Owen wasn't going to react, his face twisted into an expression of disgust. Lowering his microphone, he pushed his way through the other reporters and left without saying another word.