Chapter 195: Wanda (1)
Aryan was reviewing a preliminary analysis on a holographic screen, a satisfaction settling over him, when the Red Queen's voice, laced with a sudden urgency, chimed in his private ear-piece.
"Aryan, we have an unauthorized and unregistered aircraft approaching your position at high speed. It's military-grade, stealth technology, but it's broadcasting no IFF codes."
Before Aryan could even respond, the world outside his floor-to-ceiling windows was consumed by a blast of sound. It was the roar of a Quinjet's VTOL engines, a sound that should have been miles away, but was now happening directly outside his window, a hundred stories above the streets of New York. The armored aircraft hung there, its presence a physical violation of the city's airspace, its powerful downdraft rattling the reinforced glass of the tower.
Aryan turned his expression into a mask of analytical curiosity, as the rear ramp of the Quinjet lowered.
They came across the short gap in a fluid motion as ghosts of a war he had not witnessed. Sam Wilson, his Falcon wings retracted, a determined look on his face. Bucky Barnes, his vibranium arm a menacing gleam, his eyes cold and hard. The green form of Bruce Banner, ducking to fit through the doorway, his sheer size an act of intimidation. Clint Barton, his movements quiet and predatory. Thor, a god in mortal clothes, his presence a low hum of ozone and power. An old man with a face he knew from history books. And finally, her.
Wanda Maximoff.
The moment Aryan's eyes met hers, the world dissolved. The sound of the Quinjet's engines faded. The presence of the other heroes, the tension in the room, the city skyline behind them—it all vanished, reduced to an out-of-focus backdrop. There was only her.
This was not his Wanda. His Wanda was confident, happy, a radiant pillar of the world they had built together. This woman... This Wanda was a storm-wracked shore, beautiful but battered by a thousand tempests. Her eyes, the same brilliant green, were haunted. They held a deep-seated grief that was a physical ache in his own chest, a phantom pain from a life he had lived and she had not. She was a heartbreaking echo of the woman he loved.
And for the first time since his arrival, his calculated control wavered. He felt a shocking jolt, a feeling so strong it was almost like a physical impact. It was the impossible, illogical, and undeniable feeling of coming home.
For Wanda, the moment was a cataclysm. She had stepped out of the Quinjet, her heart pounding, her mind a storm of anxiety and a desperate hope. She was here to see a ghost, a mirror-image of a man who was the architect of a better world, a man who, in another life, was a version of her. And then she saw him.
The feeling of resonance, the familiar hum she had felt when she had first seen his picture, was a symphony. A tidal wave of pure recognition that washed over her, silencing every rational thought in her head. Her logical mind screamed that this was a stranger, a target, a mystery to be solved. But her soul, the deep, ancient, and chaotic part of her that was connected to the fundamental truths of the world, screamed a different, more powerful truth: Found.
It was the feeling of a key sliding into a lock that had been sealed for a lifetime. It was the feeling of a fractured bone setting itself right. It was the feeling of a long, lonely, and terrible exile mercifully, coming to an end. The hollow ache in her heart, the void that had been left by Vision's death, a wound she had thought would never heal... it did not vanish. But for the first time, it had a counterpart. An echo. She was not alone in her brokenness.
Aryan took a half-step forward, his mouth opening to say something, but he had no words. What could he say? I know you. I love you. But not you. A better version of you.
Before anyone could speak, before Sam Wilson could deliver the speech he had been rehearsing for the entire flight, the tableau broke.
Wanda moved.
It was an act of pure instinct, a gravitational pull she could no more resist than a planet could resist the pull of its sun. She walked forward, her gaze locked on Aryan's, her own eyes, for the first time since Vision's death, filling not with tears of grief, but with something she could not name.
The other Avengers froze, a collective wave of shock and confusion washing over them. "Wanda, wait," Clint said, his voice a cautionary hiss, but she didn't hear him.
She walked straight up to Aryan, this complete stranger, this man she had never met, and she did the one thing that made no logical sense and every bit of emotional sense.
She hugged him.
She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him, her body trembling with the force of an emotional dam breaking. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and a sound tore from her throat, a heartbreaking sob of pure relief.
The years of pain, of loss, of being the most powerful and the most alone person in the universe... it all came pouring out. She cried for her brother. She cried for her parents. She cried for Vision. She cried for the children she had imagined into existence and had to let go of. She cried for a loneliness so profound she had almost bent reality to fix it. And she cried because, for the first time, in the arms of this stranger who felt more like home than any place she had ever known, she felt... safe.
Aryan stood frozen for a shocked heartbeat. He felt the warmth of her, the familiar scent of her hair, an echo of a thousand quiet mornings in another life. The unfiltered agony pouring out of her was a physical thing, a psychic storm that beat against his carefully constructed walls.
And those walls crumbled.
His arms, which had been at his sides, slowly came up and wrapped around her trembling form. He just held her, a gentle, steady, and solid presence. He let her cry, let her unload the years of unbearable grief onto him. He was no longer a dimensional god planning his next move. He was just a man, holding a broken woman, and offering a simple comfort.
Chapter 196: Wanda (2)
As she clung to him, a new sensation prickled at the edges of Wanda's awareness. Her Chaos Magic, the untamed sea of power that lived within her, a power that had tasted the Infinity Stones and had stared down Thanos, was... afraid. It recoiled. It sensed the being she was holding, the 'normal' human, and it registered him not as a man, but as an abyss. A smiling void of a power so vast, so fundamental, that her own reality-warping abilities felt like a flickering candle in a hurricane. Her magic, her protector, pulled back, hiding itself in the deepest corners of her soul, refusing to be seen. But she, lost in her own emotional storm, in the simple comfort of his embrace, didn't notice. She just felt safe.
For a long, long time, the only sound in the state-of-the-art office was the sound of Wanda's heartbreaking sobs. The Avengers, the most powerful heroes on the planet, stood by, completely wrong-footed, silent witnesses to a reunion that had never had a beginning.
Sam and Clint exchanged a look of helpless confusion. They were soldiers. They understood tactics, threats. They did not understand this. Was Wanda having a breakdown? Was this man... controlling her? But his posture, his gentle stillness, was not that of a manipulator. It was that of a man patiently weathering a storm.
Scott Lang just stared, his mouth slightly agape. "Uh... is this part of the plan?" he whispered to no one in particular. "Because I don't remember this part of the plan."
Bruce and Shuri, the scientists, were trying to find a rational explanation for an irrational event. Their minds were racing. "Pheromonal response? Latent telepathic connection? A quantum entanglement of doppelgängers across realities?" But all their theories were just noise in the face of the undeniable reality of the scene before them.
Bucky watched, his expression unreadable. He, a man of a fractured identity, of a life stolen and returned, understood on a level the others could not. He recognized a connection that defied logic, a bond forged not in this life, but somewhere else, in the strange geometry of the multiverse.
Steve Rogers, the man out of time, felt a heartbreaking sense of validation. He had told them a story of a better world, of a Wanda who was loved and whole. And now, he was watching the impossible echo of that story play out right in front of them. The connection was real.
It was Thor who felt the truth most keenly. He was a god. His senses operated on a different level. As he watched Aryan hold Wanda, he had, out of a warrior's instinct, tried to get a 'read' on this man, this supposed civilian at the center of a cosmic mystery. He focused his own divine senses, the power of a king of Asgard, the perception that could see the energy of the stars, on the man in the simple business suit.
And what he saw had almost stopped his heart.
He didn't see a man. For a single, terrifying, eternal second, the human form, the disguise, peeled away under his divine gaze. He was looking at a core. A singularity. He saw a universe of a million exploding suns, a dimension of pure fire, contained within the fragile shell of a human form. It was not a gateway to power; the man was the power. He was a walking, breathing, living star, a cosmic entity of unimaginable magnitude, burning with a light so bright, so absolute, that it was blinding to his senses.
There was only one force: a perfect, terrifying, and absolute power, held in a state of effortless harmony by the will of the man who stood before him.
Thor's own power, the divine spark of Odin's son, the Power of Thunder that coursed through his veins felt like a child's toy in the presence of a star. It felt like an insignificant flicker of static electricity in the face of a supernova. His power, the storm itself, recoiled. It retreated, pulling back into the deepest parts of his being, a frightened animal in the presence of a primordial god.
Thor's eyes widened in a cosmic terror. His breath caught in his throat. He had stood before Surtur with the Twilight Sword. He had fought Hela on the Rainbow Bridge. He had faced Thanos wielding the Infinity Stones. He had never, ever felt a fear like this. It was a instinctual, soul-deep fear of a being whose power was not just a weapon to be wielded, but a fundamental law of existence.
He quickly schooled his features, forcing his face into a mask of neutral curiosity, burying the soul-shattering terror he had just experienced. This was a secret he had to keep. This man... this Aryan Spencer... was a cosmic entity wearing a human face, and no one else in the room could see it.
Finally, Wanda's sobs subsided into shuddering breaths. She slowly, reluctantly, pulled back, though she kept her hands on his shoulders, as if afraid he might disappear. Her eyes were red and puffy, but for the first time in a very long time, the haunting grief was replaced by a bewildered peace.
"I... I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "I don't know... I just... I feel like I know you."
Aryan looked at her, his expression one of gentle compassion. He offered her a kind smile. "It's okay," he said softly. "I feel like I know you, too."
He then looked up, his gaze sweeping over the assembled faces of the Avengers. He had not planned for this. This raw, emotional, and very public display. But his mind, ever the strategist, was already recalculating. They had come here seeking an architect for their broken world. They had come here with a plan.
He had just been handed a new one.
He was in control.
"You're the Avengers," he said, his voice calm, steady, and carrying a new weight of authority. "Something tells me you didn't just drop by to say hello." He gestured to the comfortable seating area in his office. "Please have a seat."
Chapter 197: Personal Secretary
Sam Wilson, the new Captain America, opened his mouth to speak, to try and regain control of the situation, but no words came out. What was he supposed to say? 'Excuse me, I know you're having a possibly multiversal emotional breakthrough, but could we interest you in helping us rebuild our global defense initiative?' The speech he had rehearsed felt absurdly out of place.
Clint, ever the pragmatist, just looked at Sam and gave a almost imperceptible shake of his head, a clear signal to 'stand down and see where this goes.'
Scott Lang, meanwhile, was having a minor internal crisis. "Okay, so she hugged him. That's... nice? Is this good for our plan? I feel like this is good for our plan, but I honestly have no idea what the plan is anymore," he muttered under his breath, earning a sharp look from Bucky.
Aryan took control of the awkward silence. He gently guided Wanda to a comfortable leather couch at the side of the room, never breaking contact, his hand a steadying presence on her arm.
"You're the Avengers," he said, his voice calm and steady as he turned his attention to the rest of them. "Something tells me you didn't just drop by to say hello."
It was Sam who finally tried to salvage their original mission, falling back on the flimsy pretext they had devised.
"Mr. Spencer," he began, his voice a little too formal. "My name is Sam Wilson. We... we've come to you for a consultation."
Aryan just looked at him, a knowing smile on his lips. "A consultation? You brought the God of Thunder and a platoon of super-soldiers for a 'consultation'?"
Sam winced. The excuse sounded even thinner out loud. "Well... it's a matter of... global security." He cleared his throat. "We're in the process of rebuilding our headquarters, the Avengers Compound. And we were hoping to get your expertise. Your company, Umbrella... It's the gold standard in security architecture, both physical and digital. We were wondering if you'd be willing to... advise us on our new security systems."
It was, perhaps, the most underwhelming and ridiculous request ever made by a group of superheroes.
Aryan just listened, his expression patient. "You want me to help you design a security system."
"Yes," Sam said, feeling his cheeks flush.
"You, the Avengers," Aryan continued, his gaze sweeping over the demigods and super-soldiers in his office, "who just saved the universe from an alien warlord, need my help to install some new cameras and a better firewall."
"Well, when you put it like that..." Scott Lang mumbled.
A long silence stretched. The plan was a dud. It was a joke. And they all knew it.
It was Wanda who saved them. She had been sitting quietly beside Aryan, a warm sense of peace settling over her. Being near him... it was like standing in the sun after a cold winter. It was a feeling she never wanted to end. She looked around at her friends, at their clumsy attempts at subterfuge, and she decided to take a leap of faith, a choice driven by an instinct she couldn't explain but trusted completely.
"Do you have a personal secretary, Mr. Spencer?" she asked, her voice cutting through the awkwardness.
Aryan turned to her, surprised. "No. I... I haven't needed one for some time."
"Well, you do now," she said, a fragile but determined confidence in her voice. She stood up, a silent declaration. "If you don't mind... I'd like to work here."
The shock in the room was a palpable thing.
"Wanda, what are you doing?" Clint hissed, his eyes wide.
Wanda ignored him. She looked at Aryan, her expression shy but her gaze unwavering. "I... I have a degree in business administration from before... everything. I'm organized. I'm a fast learner. And I..." her voice dropped slightly, becoming more personal, "...I think I could be of use to you." She felt a magnetic pull to this place, to this man. An illogical need to be near him.
Aryan looked at her, a genuine smile spreading across his face. The Wanda I know is a powerful leader of a world, was a distant echo. But the Wanda standing before him now, taking the first step out of her grief to reclaim a piece of a normal life... she was, in her own way, even more remarkable.
He leaned back, a teasing glint entering his eyes. "A personal secretary, you say? That's a very demanding job. Are you sure you're qualified?"
"I'm sure," she said, a hopeful blush rising on her cheeks.
"Well," he said, his voice a playful murmur that made her heart skip a beat, "I don't have a personal secretary in my company..." He paused for a beat, his gaze full of a warm amusement. "...and I also don't have a personal secretary in my life. It's a position that's been vacant for a very long time."
The air between them crackled with an instant chemistry. It was a private conversation happening in a room full of people.
The Avengers just watched, completely and utterly baffled. They had come here on a mission of global importance, a desperate attempt to recruit a reclusive genius to help them save the world. And they were now silent spectators at what felt suspiciously like a first date.
Tony, if he had been there, would have had a dozen sarcastic comments. Sam, however, was at a complete loss. He just sat there, his carefully prepared speech about global threats and shared responsibility now a useless relic. He looked at Bucky, who just gave a bewildered shake of his head.
Only Thor was not focused on the burgeoning romance. He was watching Aryan. He had been watching him since the moment they arrived. He had seen the man's genuine shock at Wanda's embrace. He had seen the effortless way he had taken control of the room. He had seen the playful charm he was now deploying. And beneath it all, through it all, he could still feel it.
The power.
It was a pilot light. An infinitesimally small, but impossibly potent ember of divine energy, banked so low, shielded so perfectly, that it was utterly invisible to any normal sense. But to Thor, a being born of that same cosmic fire, it was a sun, hidden behind a mountain. He could feel its warmth, its immense weight.
This man was not normal. He was a god, playing the part of a mortal with a skill that was, in its own way, as terrifying as any display of power.
"So," Aryan said, his attention still on Wanda, "if you're going to be my new secretary, you'll need a tour of the office. And we'll need to discuss your salary, of course. I'm a very demanding boss."
"I think I can handle it," Wanda replied, a genuine smile, the first one they had seen on her face in years, finally blooming.
"Alright, that's it, I'm out," Clint grumbled, standing up. "I've seen enough weird stuff for one day."
The movement seemed to break the spell. Sam, realizing their mission had gone completely off the rails, stood up as well. "Mr. Spencer," he said, trying to regain some semblance of control. "Our proposal... about the security..."
"Send me the files," Aryan said with a casual wave of his hand, his focus already returning to Wanda. "I'll have my team look it over." It was a polite, but dismissal.
They had been outmaneuvered, by a conversation they had never anticipated. They had come to recruit a genius, and had instead become the audience for a meet-cute.
One by one, the Avengers filed out of the office and back towards the waiting Quinjet, their minds a swirl of confusion and a unexpected hope. Their plan had been a complete and total failure.
And yet, as they flew away, they all had the distinct feeling that they had just succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. They had wanted to give Aryan Spencer a reason to care about the world again. And it seemed, in a way none of them could have ever predicted, Wanda Maximoff had just done it for them.
Chapter 198: Sun God (1)
The flight back to the Avengers Compound was a study in bewildered silence. The Quinjet, usually a space filled with the practiced banter of soldiers returning from a mission, was as quiet as a tomb. Sam Wilson, the newly appointed leader of Earth's mightiest heroes, sat in the co-pilot's seat, staring blankly at the clouds, replaying the events of the last hour over and over in his mind, trying to find a single moment where their perfectly crafted, if flimsy, plan hadn't gone completely and utterly off the rails.
They had gone in with a clear objective: to feel out a potential asset, to cautiously offer a reclusive genius a way back into the world. They had walked out as unwitting spectators to a scene that felt like it was ripped from a romantic comedy, having accomplished precisely none of their strategic goals. Their mission had been a complete and total failure.
And yet...
When they gathered back in the main conference room, the mood was one of profound confusion.
"Okay," Clint Barton said, breaking the silence as he poured himself a much-needed cup of coffee. "Someone, please, for the love of God, tell me what the hell that was."
"That," Scott Lang said, his eyes still wide with a kind of dazed wonder, "was either the weirdest job interview I've ever seen, or the most effective first date in the history of mankind."
"She just... walked up to him," Sam said, shaking his head in disbelief. "We had a plan. A script. And she just... hugged him. And then asked for a job." He looked around the table. "Is Wanda... is she okay? After everything, is it possible she's just... latching onto the first new person she's met?"
"No," Bucky's voice was a rough rumble from the corner of the room. He had been silent for the entire flight, his gaze distant. "It wasn't that. It was... recognition." He, more than anyone, understood what it was to feel a connection that defied a single lifetime. "It's like they were two halves of something, and they just found each other. I've never seen her look like that. So... peaceful."
"He's right," Bruce Banner added, his massive green form leaning thoughtfully against a reinforced wall. "From a biochemical perspective, her reaction was fascinating. Her cortisol levels, which have been consistently elevated for months, dropped to a near-perfect baseline the moment she was in his proximity. Her heart rate synchronized with his. It was an involuntary response. Her body, on a cellular level, registered him as... safe."
The room was quiet as they all contemplated the impossible chemistry they had just witnessed.
"So, that's it, then?" Clint asked. "Mission accomplished? We wanted to find a way to get him involved, to give him a motivation to care about the world again. And now he has one. Wanda is with him. She's our 'in'."
"It looked that way," Sam agreed, a hopeful smile spreading across his face. "When she was with him... the look on his face. That wasn't the apathetic recluse from the files. His eyes... They were on fire. It was like watching a man who's been dying of thirst in the desert finally find an oasis." He looked around at his team. "I think... I think our job here is done. We've found our architect. And Wanda just handed him the blueprints."
A wave of palpable relief washed over the room. Their clumsy mission had, through some bizarre twist of fate, succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.
It was in the midst of this fragile optimism that Thor's voice cut through the air.
"You are celebrating a victory," he said, his voice filled with an almost reverent gravity that instantly silenced the room. "But you do not yet understand the nature of the field on which you have won."
Every head snapped in his direction. Thor, who had been quiet and contemplative since their return, now stood, his massive frame seeming to fill the room. The look on his face was one of sheer awe.
"You have no idea what you are dealing with," he said, his gaze sweeping over each of them. "You see a man. A brilliant man, a lonely man, yes. But you see a man." He took a deep breath, as if trying to find the mortal words to describe an immortal concept. "As a god of Asgard, my senses perceive more than just flesh and blood. I can see the energy of a soul, the light of a being's inner power. When I was in that room... I looked at him."
He paused, the memory of what he had seen playing in his eyes. "The man you see... it is a vessel. A disguise. Inside him... I saw a sun. A sleeping star. I do not think he is a man at all. I believe he is some kind of god, most preferably... a Sun God."
The room grew cold. The easy atmosphere evaporated in an instant.
"A Sun God?" Clint repeated, his voice a disbelieving whisper.
"I can sense the power of a million exploding suns sleeping at his very core," Thor explained, his voice low and intense. "It is a power on a scale I cannot comprehend. A power that, if awakened, could unmake this galaxy with a thought."
The poetic insanity of the statement hung in the air. Shuri's hologram flickered as she leaned forward, her scientific mind struggling to quantify the impossible data. Bruce Banner looked genuinely horrified, his own experience with god-like power paling in comparison.
"But," Thor continued, raising a hand to quell their rising panic, "his nature, the way he spoke with Lady Wanda, the way he treated your clumsy plan with a gentle amusement... I do not believe he knows."
"I looked into his eyes," Thor said with a sudden certainty. "I saw a man. Nothing more. He is playing the part of a normal human so perfectly because I believe, on some level, he thinks that is what he is. The power inside him is a sleeping dragon, waiting for its master's command, but the master does not even know the dragon exists."
It was Steve Rogers who finally broke the stunned silence. He had been listening, a look of brilliant clarity spreading across his weathered face. "Now it all makes sense," he whispered, his voice filled with a sudden understanding.
All eyes turned to him.
"The Illuminati," Steve said, the name itself now carrying a new weight. "Their fanatical protectiveness of him. It wasn't just about protecting a leader." He looked around the room, making them understand. "In their world, they know. They know what he is. And their entire society, their entire strategy, is built around that truth."
"They treat him like a guardian," Steve explained, remembering the awe and reverence he had witnessed. "A benevolent god who has chosen to live among them. And their world is stable, it's at peace, because they have that ultimate guarantee. They know that no matter what threat comes, no matter what monster appears from the stars, they have a 'last resort' of such absolute power that defeat is a conceptual impossibility."
"That's why their Tony wasn't afraid," he said, the final piece clicking into place. "That's why their world is so much more advanced, so much more... hopeful. They aren't just living day to day, crisis to crisis, like we have. They are building a future, secure in the knowledge that they are protected by a breathing sun." He looked at his friends, a sad but beautiful smile on his face. "Their peace... it is born of that knowledge."
The mood in the room shifted again. The terror of Thor's revelation was being tempered by the profound strategic implication Steve had just laid bare. They were dealing with a potential guardian angel of unimaginable power.
"And you don't understand the scale of it," Thor said, his voice a low rumble, ensuring they grasped the full picture. "The power I felt... just with a thought, he could erase this galaxy. Now, you can imagine how much power he has. The fact that it is dormant, that he is so calm and unaware... it is not a threat. It is the greatest blessing our universe has ever known."
The heroes were silent, their minds reeling as they tried to recalibrate their entire understanding of power. They had fought for their world with fists and shields and arrows.
Chapter 199: Sun God (2)
The weight of a sleeping sun god living in their midst, had settled over the Avengers Compound. The initial shock had given way to an analytical quiet. They were heroes, soldiers, scientists. Their first instinct when faced with an unimaginable new reality was to gather data, to find the proof.
While the others discussed the strategic implications in somber tones, Bruce Banner had returned to his console. His massive green fingers, usually capable of tearing apart a tank, now moved with a surgeon's delicacy across the holographic keyboard. Thor's theory was a mystical one. Bruce needed to find the science. He wasn't looking for Aryan Spencer's public file anymore. He, with Shuri's remote assistance, was performing a deep-level data archeology, a forensic audit of a single human life.
"I don't get it," he murmured to himself, his brow furrowed in concentration. "It's all... too clean."
"What is it, Bruce?" Sam asked, walking over to the console, the others following.
"His file," Bruce said, pulling it up on the main screen. "The one we looked at before. On the surface, it's a simple, if tragic, story. But when you look closer, when you really dig... the story is full of holes. Not just holes. Impossibilities."
He highlighted the first line of the file: 'Subject: Aryan. Surname: Unknown.'
"He first appears on any official record at the age of five," Bruce explained, "when he was admitted to a state orphanage in Queens. There's no birth certificate. No hospital records. His parents... the file just says they died in a fire, but there are no corresponding police reports, no fire department logs, no death certificates. As far as the digital world is concerned, on a cold Tuesday in November, a five-year-old boy named Aryan just... appeared out of thin air."
The room was silent. A ghost from the very beginning.
"Okay," Clint said, his voice tight. "So he's a ghost. We've dealt with ghosts before. What else?"
"It gets weirder," Bruce said, pulling up a scanned and digitized school incident report from Aryan's elementary school. "Age eight. An older boy, a known bully, corners him in a deserted hallway during recess. According to the report, just as the boy was about to strike him, a teacher, a Mr. Henderson, rounded the corner and intervened."
"So? He got lucky," Scott Lang said with a shrug.
"He didn't," Shuri's voice cut in from her holographic projector, her tone sharp and analytical. "I have accessed the school's full architectural and scheduling records for that day. Mr. Henderson was a sixth-grade science teacher. His classroom was in a different building, two hundred yards away. And for the twenty minutes of that recess, he was scheduled to be monitoring the playground, which is in the opposite direction of that hallway. There was absolutely no logical reason for him to be there at that exact moment. When questioned later, he just said he had a 'sudden, inexplicable urge' to check the boiler room in that wing of the school."
"A coincidence," Clint said, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Let's move on to high school," Bruce continued, his voice grim as he pulled up another file. This one was a heavily redacted police report. "Age sixteen. Aryan is walking home. He's confronted by a street gang. Three of them, all with prior convictions for armed assault. They drag him into a back alley." The implication hung heavy in the air.
"Before they could even touch him," Bruce said, his voice a low rumble, "a subterranean gas main, a pipe that had been inspected and certified as stable just one month prior, spontaneously ruptured directly beneath that alleyway. The resulting explosion was massive. It leveled two buildings. All three gang members were... incinerated. There were a dozen other casualties in the surrounding area."
"And Aryan?" Sam asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"He was at the absolute epicenter of the blast," Bruce said, pulling up a grainy security camera photo from across the street. It showed the alley erupting in a ball of fire. And it showed a human figure, Aryan, being thrown clear by the initial shockwave, landing behind the solid steel of a dumpster. "He walked away," Bruce finished, his voice filled with disbelief. "Without a scratch. The official report called it a one-in-a-billion miracle."
The team was silent, a creeping dread settling over them. A teacher appeared from nowhere. A gas main exploding at the life-saving instant. These were not coincidences. This was a pattern. This was a force, an unseen hand, gently but absolutely, protecting this boy.
"His whole life is like this," Shuri stated, her hologram now displaying a complex web of interconnected events. "It's a statistical impossibility. A story of unrelenting good fortune."
She highlighted a new branch of the data. "His grandfather, Edward Spencer. A good man, a mid-level businessman who had lost his own wife and children in a tragic car accident years earlier. He was alone. One day, he visits the orphanage Aryan is in, for the first time in his life, on a whim. He meets the boy. He feels an overwhelming connection. He adopts him."
"And two weeks after the adoption is finalized," Bruce added, pulling up a new file, "Edward Spencer, a man who had never bought a lottery ticket in his life, buys one. A single ticket. And he wins the multi-state Powerball. One hundred and fifty million dollar. He used that money to start the company, Umbrella. And every venture he touched turned to gold. Competitors would mysteriously go bankrupt right before a big contract bid. Favorable zoning laws would pass with unexpected support. For a decade, it was like the entire world was conspiring to make this good man rich and successful."
"Because he had the lucky charm," Clint murmured, the horrifying truth dawning on all of them. "He had the boy."
"He was healthy, too," Bruce said, his gaze distant. "Edward Spencer. He lived to be ninety-eight years old. Never had a single major illness. Not a heart condition, not cancer, nothing. His medical records are cleaner than a twenty-year-old's. It's... unnatural."
"Which brings us to two years ago," Bruce said, his voice dropping to a somber hush. "His death." He looked at Sam. "I accessed the private security logs from the Spencer Mansion archives. This was the last recording of him."
He played the video. The image that filled the screen was painfully intimate, clearly recorded by a hidden security camera in a sunlit study. It showed an old, but still vibrant, Edward Spencer, age ninety-eight, sitting in a comfortable armchair, a soft blanket draped over his knees. Opposite him, on a small stool, sat a young Aryan, his shoulders hunched, his face a mask of quiet sadness. The silence between them was heavy with the weight of an unspoken goodbye.
"You have to live well, my boy," the old man on the screen said, his voice thin as paper but woven with a love so deep and so powerful it seemed to fill the room. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly with age, and gently cupped Aryan's cheek. "Don't you waste a single tear mourning an old man like me. My time has come. I have lived a long, happy, and impossibly, wonderfully fortunate life."
He smiled, a warm expression that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "My time of departure has come, Aryan. I want to go and spend some time with my children again. With my Elizabeth. It has been a long time."
He took a slow breath, his gaze never leaving the boy's face. "If my own son had lived," he said, his voice a heartbreaking whisper, "and if he had given me a grandson... I would have prayed to any god that would listen for him to be just like you." His wrinkled hand moved to rest on Aryan's knee, a final touch. "Don't be sad for me. You have grown up now. You are a good man. It is time for you to start your own life, to find your own happiness. Fall in love. Have some children. And know that I will be watching over you, so very proud." A teasing glint, a last flicker of his old humor, entered his eyes. "And please, don't be too sad over my departure. It is not a tragedy."
Aryan, on the screen, just looked at his grandfather, his hero, the only family he had ever known. The tears he had been fighting finally broke free. He gave a slow agonizingly reluctant nod, a gesture of a boy being forced to accept the unacceptable.
And on the screen, seeing that loving acquiescence, Edward Spencer's face was filled with a look of pure peace. He smiled one last beautiful smile, a smile that held a lifetime of love. He leaned his head back against the soft cushions of the chair, his gaze drifting to the sunlit window as if looking at a welcome shore. And with a peaceful sigh... he was gone.
Just like that. A man who had been in impossible health just... chose to leave.
For a long moment, the Aryan on the screen just stared, his face a mask of disbelief. Then, a shudder wracked his body. He leaned forward, his hands clutching his grandfather's still-warm ones. The composed young man was gone, replaced by a heartbroken boy. An agonized sob tore from his throat, a sound of pure grief. He buried his face in his grandfather's lap and cried, his shoulders shaking with the force of a loss so profound it had just extinguished the sun in his own small universe.
Bruce paused the video on the image of the smiling old man. "The official cause of death was 'natural causes'," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But there was nothing natural about it. It was... an ending. A perfect one. He lived a long, healthy, impossibly lucky life, and then he died peacefully, at a moment of his own choosing, surrounded by the love of the boy who had brought him all that luck."
The room was silent, the emotional weight of the scene, of the entire, impossible life story, settling over them. Thor had been right. This was not a normal man. This was a god, dreaming he was an insect. A god whose very presence bent reality, whose unconscious power had protected him from bullies, from explosions, and had granted a good man a life of impossible fortune and a gentle death.
"His power isn't dormant," Steve Rogers whispered from his seat, his voice filled with a dawning comprehension. "It's been active his entire life. He just doesn't know how to see it."
Chapter 200: Sun God (3)
The video of Edward Spencer's impossibly peaceful death played out in the silent conference room, a final testament to a life blessed by an unknowable magic. The heroes sat stunned, the weight of what they were seeing settling over them like a physical shroud.
"It doesn't stop there," Bruce Banner said, his voice a low rumble. The story was not over. The pattern of impossible fortune was not limited to personal miracles. "The 'coincidences'... they continue. And they get bigger."
He swiped his hand across the holographic console, and the screen behind him shifted. It now showed a satellite heat map of New York City, dated May 4th, 2012. The day of the Chitauri invasion. Most of the map was a chaotic bloom of red and orange—fires, explosions, energy signatures. But in the middle of it all, there was a single and impossibly calm blue square.
"This," Bruce said, zooming in on the location, "is the St. Regis Hotel, a five-star luxury hotel in Midtown Manhattan. According to the hotel's private financial records" he added with a grimace, "on May 3rd, 2012, a single guest checked in for a one-week stay. His name was Aryan Spencer."
A fresh wave of shock rippled through the room.
"He was there," Sam Wilson breathed. "He was in the city, on the ground, during the entire invasion."
"He was more than just there," Bruce said, pulling up archival footage from the battle. It was a chaotic montage of news clips and SHIELD surveillance feeds. He cross-referenced the footage with the hotel's location.
On the screen, they saw a Chitauri Leviathan, a monstrous armored space whale, roaring down Park Avenue, its passage leveling entire city blocks. Just as it was about to slam into the block where the St. Regis stood, the Hulk, in a fit of savage, brilliant rage, leaped onto its back and began tearing it apart from the inside, causing it to crash two blocks north.
Another clip. A squad of Chitauri warriors on their flying skiffs were strafing a street, their plasma bolts incinerating cars and storefronts. Just as they turned their attention to the St. Regis, a volley of explosive arrows, fired by Clint from a rooftop half a mile away, struck their lead skiff, causing a chain reaction that sent the entire squad careening into a skyscraper across the street.
Clip after clip told the same impossible story. Every single alien warrior that got within a one-block radius of that hotel was intercepted by the swirling tides of the battle. It was as if an invisible wall of sheer luck surrounded the building.
"We were there," Clint murmured, his eyes wide with a horrified realization. "All of us. We were fighting for our lives, trying to save the city. But we were also... without knowing it... we were his bodyguards. The Battle of New York... it was a subconscious, city-wide effort to protect him."
"The hotel was the only five-star establishment in a ten-block radius to suffer zero structural damage," Shuri's voice added, her tone one of pure disbelief. "Their insurance claim was for three broken windows and a scuffed awning. The buildings on either side of it were rubble. The statistical probability of that happening by chance is... well, it's effectively zero."
"It's like the universe itself was playing a game of chess," Steve Rogers whispered, his voice filled with awe. "And it was sacrificing its own pawns, guiding the pieces of the battle, all to protect its king."
They, the mighty Avengers, had been unwitting puppets, their heroic actions guided by a cosmic force they had never even known existed, all to protect an unaware man sleeping in a hotel room.
The implications were staggering. An almost religious silence fell over the room as they all grappled with the idea that their greatest battle had been subtly influenced by an invisible hand.
It was Thor who gave voice to the terrifying thought that was forming in all their minds. He looked from the map of New York to the file on Aryan Spencer, a look of horrified awe on his face.
"Wait a second," he said, his voice a disbelieving rumble. "The Battle of New York... we were on the verge of being overwhelmed. The portal remained open, their fleet was endless. We were losing." He looked around the table. "And then, the World Security Council, men a thousand miles away, made a suicidal choice. They launched a nuclear missile at Manhattan."
Everyone nodded, the memory of that terrible moment still vivid.
"And Tony," Thor continued, his gaze distant, "intercepted it. He flew it through the portal, destroying the Chitauri command ship. It was an act of selfless heroism. It was the move that won us the war." He then looked at them, his eyes wide with a terrifying question. "Wasn't it? Or was it... another coincidence?"
The room went cold.
"Are you suggesting," Sam Wilson whispered, his voice barely audible, "that the universe made a World Security Council fire a nuke at its own city, just so it could maneuver Tony into the perfect position to end the invasion... all to keep the battle from reaching a single hotel?"
The idea was insane. It was also, based on everything they had just learned, terrifyingly plausible. Their greatest victory, Tony's most defining act of heroism... had it all just been another move in a cosmic chess game they didn't even know they were playing? Had the universe itself been their silent strategist?
The weight of that thought was too much to bear. Bruce Banner, his face grim, quickly swiped the holographic display to the next file, desperate to move on.
"But it gets worse," Bruce said, his voice dropping, the next part of his presentation clearly a source of personal horror for him. "Much worse."
The date on the screen changed. The year was 2018.
The screen filled with a single image that was burned into the memory of every person in the room: a person dissolving into a cloud of grey dust.
"The Snap," Bruce said, the words a painful weight. "The day Thanos won. The day we failed."
He began to pull up data of people. Global census records, corporate employment files, social media data. He was cross-referencing every person connected to Aryan Spencer.
"We know that the Snap was, according to Thanos, random," Bruce explained, his voice shaking slightly. "It was supposed to be cruelly balanced. Fifty percent of all life, gone in an instant. No exceptions." He looked up, his eyes filled with a terrifying truth. "But there was one."
"The Spencer Manor," he said, pulling up a file. "At the time of the Snap, Aryan was living there with his grandfather, Edward Spencer. The manor also has a full-time staff. A groundskeeper, a cook, a housekeeper, a small private security detail. Including Aryan and his grandfather, that's a total of fourteen people living on the estate."
"None of them were taken," he stated, the words landing like hammer blows. "Not a single one. Fourteen for fourteen. Statistically improbable, but maybe... maybe just a fluke."
He then expanded the search. "So I looked at their families. The groundskeeper's wife and two children. The cook's husband, her sister, her three nephews. The security guards' parents, their spouses, their kids. I ran a full genealogical and social network analysis of all twelve employees." He took a deep breath. "One hundred and thirty-seven people, all directly connected by one or two degrees of separation to the staff of the Spencer Manor. One hundred and thirty-seven people... and not a single one of them was erased in the Snap."
The room was completely silent. This was not a coincidence. This was not a statistical anomaly. This was a violation of a fundamental law of their new reality.
"The Infinity Stones," Thor rumbled, his voice a disbelieving whisper. He, a god who had seen the Stones up close, who had felt their cosmic power, looked utterly terrified. "The ultimate power in our universe. A force that can rewrite creation itself... and it bent its own rules for him. It refused to touch anyone even remotely connected to him."
"It's like the universe doesn't just want to protect him," Sam Wilson said, his mind struggling to find the words. "It's like the universe doesn't want him to ever feel pain. It shielded him from the single greatest trauma our world has ever known."
The realization was a soul-deep chill that was more terrifying than any army. They were dealing with a power that was seemingly benevolent and sentient. A power that quietly, invisibly, and absolutely edited reality to ensure the comfort and safety of its favorite son.
Steve's voice barely whispers. "He's the chosen child of the universe itself."
Chapter 201: Sun God (4)
"There's more," Bruce Banner said, his voice a low rumble.
He brought up a new file on the holographic display. It was a public-domain video from a park security camera in Central Park, dated from a sunny afternoon in late September, 2017.
"This, on its own, means nothing," Bruce explained, his voice low and somber. "It's just background footage. But F.R.I.D.A.Y., cross-referencing Tony's old schedules, flagged it. Tony was in New York for a week of meetings. Pepper was in California. And Tony... was waiting for her to arrive. He went to this specific rose garden because he knew it was her favorite quiet spot in the city."
The video showed a familiar figure—Tony Stark, dressed in casual clothes—walking into the frame. He looked stressed, distracted, his usual confident swagger completely gone. He sat down heavily on an empty park bench, running a hand through his hair, a man clearly burdened by his own thoughts.
Already sitting at the other end of the same bench was another young man, quietly reading a book. It was Aryan Spencer.
For a long moment in the video, they didn't interact. They were just two strangers sharing a bench. Then, the Aryan on the screen closed his book and looked over at Tony. The camera was too far away to pick up the audio clearly, but F.R.I.D.A.Y. had been able to isolate and enhance it.
A quiet voice filled the conference room, a voice they were just beginning to recognize. "You look troubled."
The Tony on the screen startled, looking over at the young man, his first instinct clearly to deliver a dismissive reply. A familiar expression crossed his face. But then, something shifted. The tension in his shoulders seemed to lessen, just slightly. He looked at the stranger, at his calm and non-judgmental expression, and he made a choice that was completely out of character. He chose to be honest.
A voice they all knew, a voice that made their hearts ache, filled the room. "Is it that obvious?" Tony's voice said. He let out a long sigh. "I'm... uh... I'm about to be a father. And I'm not sure if I'm cut out for it."
There was a pause. "My old man... he was a complicated guy," Tony continued, opening up to this complete stranger in a way he rarely did with his closest friends. "I don't want to be him."
The quiet voice of Aryan replied, "What do you want more? A boy or a girl?"
Tony on the screen seemed taken aback, but he answered. "A boy would be... easier, I guess. He'd like me. The suits, the tech. We'd have that in common. But a girl... I don't know. It feels more... comforting. If I'm being honest... I think I'd choose a girl."
A warm smile appeared on Aryan's face in the video. The camera caught the light in his eyes. "Well, don't worry about it too much," he said, his tone light and teasing. "Boys, girls... they all love their dads. You'll probably end up with a daughter who loves you, like, three thousand times more than you love yourself."
The comment was so absurd, so ridiculously over-the-top, that the Tony on the screen, despite his anxiety, let out a surprised bark of laughter. The dark cloud that had been hanging over him seemed to lift, just for a moment.
"Yeah," Tony's voice said, a real smile in his tone. "Yeah, maybe."
The video continued for another minute. They saw Pepper arrive, saw Tony's face light up, saw him greet her with a kiss and walk away, leaving the stranger on the bench to reopen his book. The encounter was over. A brief, random, and completely meaningless conversation between two strangers in a park.
"Three thousand..." Clint whispered, his eyes wide with a dawning understanding.
Before anyone could process the statistical unlikelihood of that phrase, Bruce's hands were flying across the console. "After Tony's death," he said, his voice choked with emotion, "Pepper gave me access to the house's internal security archives. The 'nanny cams.' I was looking for... good memories. For Morgan. For when she was old enough."
He brought up a final video file. It was labeled: 'Morgan_Bedtime_Story.mp4'. The time stamp was from a few days before the final battle.
On the screen, a familiar scene appeared, one taken from a small camera in the corner of a child's bedroom. A tiny Morgan Stark was sitting up in her bed. Tony was tucking her in.
"...and that's the story," Tony's voice said on the recording, clearly finishing a bedtime story. "Now, it's time for bed, little miss."
"But I want another one," Morgan's small voice insisted.
"Nope. Lights out. Final offer," Tony said, his voice a perfect imitation of a firm but loving father.
Morgan pouted for a second, then her expression turned serious. "I love you tons," she said.
Tony smiled, a look of pure paternal love on his face. "I love you tons, too." He leaned in to kiss her forehead. But as he pulled back, Morgan's little voice piped up again, a competitive glint in her eyes.
"I love you three thousand."
Tony froze. The camera caught the look on his face—a flicker of pure shock, a memory of a quiet afternoon in a park, a conversation with a stranger—followed by a wave of emotion so profound it made his eyes well up. He just looked at his daughter, a look of breathtaking wonder on his face.
"Wow," he finally whispered. He leaned back in and gave her another kiss on the forehead. "Now, go to sleep. Or I'll sell all your toys."
He walked out of the room, switching off the light. The camera's view was now dark, but the audio continued. The sound of Tony's footsteps descended a staircase. They heard him enter another room, the kitchen, where the sound of clinking dishes could be heard.
"...put a pin in it," they heard Pepper Potts' voice say, clearly in the middle of a different conversation.
"I got a real zinger for you," Tony's voice cut in, filled with a joyous excitement. "I love you tons."
"I love you tons, too," Pepper replied, her voice warm.
"That's what she said," Tony said. "And then she said... 'I love you three thousand.' Not that far off. If you consider the ... you know, the analytics..." He trailed off, clearly still trying to process the impossible coincidence. "Cheeseburger first, or... what are we doing?"
The recording ended. The conference room was a wreck of heartbroken sobs. It was a perfect, beautiful, and impossible circle, completed. A perfect piece of their own broken history, a moment of pure love, had been seeded, years in advance, by a quiet young man on a park bench, a man who was the benevolent god of their world.
They were looking at the brushstrokes of a master artist, a gardener who also, in his own mysterious way, planted the most beautiful flowers.
The revelation was a soul-deep comfort that was almost as overwhelming as the terror had been. The sleeping dragon in their midst was a guardian angel. A quiet, sad, and lonely god who walked among them, his very presence a blessing, his every chance encountered a life-altering miracle. And he had no idea.
The heroes in the Avengers Compound sat in a heavy silence, each lost in their own thoughts, trying to reconcile the world they thought they knew with the strange, magical, and terrifying truth they had just been shown.
They were reading the biography of a miracle, a man whose life was a tapestry of impossible coincidences, woven by the gentle hand of a universe that seemed utterly determined to protect him.
Chapter 202: Wanda
The silence in the office after the Avengers' departure was a living thing. It was a space filled with unspoken questions, with the lingering energy of an emotionally charged encounter. Aryan stood by the window, watching the Quinjet become a small speck against the vast blue of the sky. His mind, usually a fortress of hard strategy, was a chaotic mess.
The plan had been simple: acquire the Sentry serum, secure his position, and then begin the slow process of understanding and dismantling this world's power structures. Wanda Maximoff had been a variable, yes. A future asset. But she was supposed to be a name on a file, a piece on a chessboard he would move when the time was right. He had not, under any circumstances, planned for her to walk into his office, look at him with the familiar eyes of the woman he loved in another lifetime, and then fall apart in his arms.
He felt a strange vulnerability, a phantom limb of an affection that didn't belong to this body, to this world.
He turned from the window, and his eyes met hers. She was sitting on the leather couch where he had guided her, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea that one of his automated office assistants had delivered. She was watching him, her gaze a mixture of profound confusion, a deep-seated sadness, and something else... a hopeful curiosity.
The silence stretched, charged with a magnetic potential. He was the CEO of a multi-billion dollars company, a secret god who had just leveled up his power to a cosmic scale. And in this moment, he felt like a nervous teenager, completely and utterly out of his depth. He, who could orchestrate the fall of nations, had no idea how to start a simple conversation.
He cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "So," he began, his voice a little too formal, "I, uh... I guess we should probably introduce ourselves properly."
A genuine smile touched Wanda's lips, the first real one she had shown all day. The sight of this impossibly calm man suddenly looking so flustered was... endearing. "I think you might have a slight advantage there, Mr. Spencer," she said, her voice a gentle murmur.
"Aryan," he corrected her instantly. "Please. And you're right." He walked over and sat in the armchair opposite her, maintaining a respectful distance. "I know you're Wanda Maximoff. An Avenger. One of the heroes who saved the universe. Your public file is... extensive." He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that felt completely alien and yet strangely natural to this luck-infused body. "But that's all I know. The file doesn't say much about... you. Your... personal life. Hobbies. That kind of thing."
It was a clumsy attempt at small talk, and they both knew it.
Wanda looked down at her mug, a shadow passing over her eyes. "There hasn't been much time for hobbies lately," she said softly. The unspoken grief of Vision, of everything she had lost, hung in the air between them.
She was amused by his nervousness. The man who had faced down a room full of the world's most powerful heroes without flinching was now stumbling over his words with her. It was an unexpected shift in the power dynamic. She felt a flicker of her teasing self return, a part of her she thought had been buried under layers of pain.
She looked up, a playful light entering her eyes. "And how would you like to get to know me, Aryan?" she asked, her voice a teasing murmur.
The question, so direct and so flirtatious, caught him completely off guard. "I... well... I just thought, since we're going to be working together..."
"Are we?" she asked, her smile widening. "I don't recall you officially accepting my very forward job application."
"Right," he stammered, feeling his carefully constructed composure unraveling. "Yes. Of course. The job. You're hired. If you still want it, that is."
"I do," she said simply, her gaze unwavering. She felt a illogical certainty that this, right here, was where she was supposed to be.
"Good," he said, a wave of relief washing over him. "That's... good." He cleared his throat again, trying to regain some semblance of control. "So, as your new employer, I suppose I should know some basic logistical details. For HR purposes, of course. Where... where do you live now?"
Wanda's smile faded slightly. "I'm at the Avengers Compound, for now," she said, her voice quiet. She didn't mention the empty plot of land she had bought in Westview. That was a part of her past she was desperately trying to move on from. "It's... a place to stay."
"I see," he said, sensing the pain behind the simple words. He looked around his own vast office. "I have a mansion, upstate. A big, empty place. There are some staff who live on the grounds, but mostly... I live alone."
The confession hung in the air, a quiet admission of a shared loneliness. Wanda looked at him, at this brilliant, powerful, and obviously lonely man, and an impulse, a brave and reckless idea, took hold.
"If you don't mind," she said, her voice a little hesitant, "and if it's not too much to ask... could I possibly rent a room there? The compound is... full of memories. I think a change of scenery would be... good for me."
Aryan stared at her, completely and utterly surprised. His mind, the mind that could process a thousand variables a second, went completely blank. She wanted to live at his house. The parallel, the echo, was so strong it was almost deafening.
"Of course," he heard himself say, the words coming out before he had even fully processed the request. "Yes. Absolutely. Consider it part of your compensation package. There are... more than enough rooms."
A radiant smile bloomed on her face, a smile so beautiful it made his heart ache with a phantom memory of love. "Thank you," she said, her voice filled with a genuine gratitude.
"No problem," he said, his own mind now racing. His house. His private sanctuary. He couldn't just bring her there. The staff... they were professionals, but this was different. He needed it to be just them. He subtly tapped the side of his smart watch, sending a silent text message to his butler, who had served his grandfather for thirty years. The message was simple: "Alfred, an unexpected situation has arisen. Please give the entire household staff a paid holiday, effective immediately. Tell them to take the rest of the day off. I will see them tomorrow morning."
Chapter 203: A Dinner
The time was already late, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the New York skyline in hues of orange and gold. The workday was over.
"Well," Aryan said, standing up, a new energy buzzing through him. "The office is about to close. And since you're now technically a resident... would you like to come with me?"
The drive to the mansion was a comfortable one. They spoke of small things—the city, the weather, the absurdities of Avengers. By the time they pulled up the long driveway to the Spencer Mansion, a beautiful estate of old stone and modern glass nestled in a private forest, night had fallen.
An wizened watchman at the main gate gave Aryan a respectful nod as the gates swung open. That was it. The house, usually lit and bustling with the quiet activity of the staff, was dark and silent.
Wanda stepped out of the car, looking up at the grand house with a sense of awe. "It's beautiful," she whispered. "But... it's so quiet. Where is everyone?"
"I gave them a holiday," Aryan said, a hint of a nervous flush on his cheeks as he led her to the front door. "I wasn't... I wasn't expecting a guest at my house. Especially not one so... important."
The words, so simple and sincere, made Wanda's heart flutter.
Inside, the house was just as impressive. An open-plan living space with a roaring fireplace, comfortable-looking furniture, and floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a moonlit garden. It was a house that should have been full of life and laughter, but it felt... asleep.
"So," Wanda said, turning to him as he set his keys down. "You invite a girl to your giant mansion. What's next? Are you going to invite me for dinner?"
Aryan, who had been about to suggest they order food, suddenly his smile replaced his suggestion. "Actually, yes. I am."
"Oh?" she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. "Are we going out? Or are you going to bravely attempt to operate your own food delivery app?"
"Neither," he said, a playful confidence in his voice. "Tonight, I was thinking you could be the judge of my... craftsmanship."
She stared at him, her head tilted in genuine curiosity. "You can cook?"
"I am a man of many hidden talents," he said with a mysterious smile. "Come on. You can watch. And make sure I don't burn the place down."
He led her into the kitchen, and it was like watching a different man come to life. He shed his suit jacket, rolled up his sleeves, and moved with a grace and a purpose that was utterly captivating. He opened spice drawers that Wanda hadn't even known existed, pulling out dozens of jars filled with fragrant ingredients. He took out a bag of long-grained Basmati rice, fresh chicken, yogurt, and a dizzying array of herbs.
Wanda just leaned against the counter, a glass of wine in her hand, and watched him work. He was a whirlwind of skill and precision. The way he chopped the onions, the way he toasted the spices, the way he moved between the stove and the counter... it was a dance. A beautiful dance.
"Where did you learn to do this?" she asked, her voice filled with awe.
"My grandfather," he said, his voice a fond murmur as he expertly layered the ingredients in a large pot. "It was his recipe. Our Sunday tradition. He said it was the one piece of home, one piece of comfort, you could make for yourself, wherever you went."
The story, so simple and so personal, touched her deeply. She saw, for a fleeting moment, the lonely boy who missed his grandfather, the soul that existed beneath the layers of power and success.
They talked as he cooked, the conversation easy and flowing. She told him about her childhood, the real one, the one of love and simple joys before the tragedy. He told her about his grandfather, about his love for travel and new experiences. They were just two people, sharing stories, finding a fragile connection in the warm kitchen.
Finally, he sealed the pot with dough and set it on the stove to cook. He turned to her, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, a triumphant smile on his face. "And now," he said, "we wait."
They ate at the small table in the breakfast nook, the moonlit garden their only backdrop. The moment he lifted the lid and the fragrant steam billowed out, Wanda knew she was about to eat something special.
But she wasn't prepared for the first bite.
The flavor was... perfect. A harmonious explosion of taste and aroma that was unlike anything she had ever experienced. It was... something more. It was the warmth of the spices, yes, but it was also the warmth of his grandfather's memory, the warmth of the stories they had shared. It was the taste of a home. A happy home.
And in that moment, the fragile dam she had built around her own heart, the one that had held back the ocean of her grief for so long, finally broke.
A single tear slipped down her cheek. Then another. And another. She tried to stop them, but she couldn't. She put her fork down, her shoulders shaking with an overwhelming sob.
Aryan was instantly at her side, his own fork forgotten, his face a mask of alarm and concern. "Wanda? What is it? Is it too spicy? I can get you some water-"
She just shook her head, unable to speak. She took the handkerchief he offered, pressing it to her eyes. "No," she finally choked out, her voice a wet, broken whisper. "It's not that. It's... it's just..."
She looked at him, her eyes swimming, trying to make him understand. "I haven't... I haven't tasted anything like this in a very, very long time," she said. "Since before... everything. It just... it tastes like..."
It tastes like a life I could have had, she thought. A life with a family. A life with love. A happy home.
"It's just so good," she whispered, the simple words a stand-in for the vast, complex, and heartbreaking emotions swirling within her. "It's so good, my tears just... came out."
Aryan looked at her, at this beautiful, broken, and impossibly strong woman, crying over a simple meal he had made. He reached out, his hand gently covering hers on the table. He just sat with her, his presence a silent comfort.
Chapter 204: Guest Room
The last of the dishes had been cleared away, the warm kitchen returned to its pristine state. The emotional storm that had swept through Wanda over dinner had passed, leaving in its wake a quiet but genuine sense of peace. The shared meal had been a communion, a grounding experience that had tethered her grieving soul to the simple reality of the here and now.
"Come on," Aryan said softly, his voice a gentle current in the quiet house. "Let me show you to your room."
He led her up the grand staircase and down a softly lit hallway. He stopped before a large wooden door and pushed it open, revealing a room that was less of a guest room and more of a luxury suite.
It was a beautiful space, decorated in warm tones of cream and soft grey. A massive bed with a plush, inviting duvet dominated one wall. A comfortable-looking armchair and a small reading lamp were tucked into a corner near a large window that offered a breathtaking view of the surrounding forest. And a door on the far side of the room stood slightly ajar, revealing a glimpse of a modern bathroom carved from white marble.
Wanda walked in, her footsteps silent on the soft carpet, a sense of disbelief washing over her.
"This is... a guest room?" she asked, her voice filled with awe.
"It is now," Aryan replied with a small smile, leaning against the doorframe. He had anticipated this. In the hour they had spent waiting for the biryani to cook, he had sent a series of quiet commands to the Red Queen.
He had personally selected the room, the one directly adjacent to his own. He had instructed the Queen to prepare it perfectly. The bed was fitted with the finest Egyptian cotton sheets. The closet, which now stood open, had been stocked with a curated selection of comfortable women's clothing—soft sweaters, simple t-shirts, lounge pants—all in her size, a fact the Red Queen had quietly provided.
The en-suite bathroom was a similar story. The marble vanity was neatly arranged with a complete set of high-end toiletries. A lavender-scented French soap. A bottle of moisturizing shampoo and conditioner. A new toothbrush, still in its packaging, sat next to a tube of toothpaste. A set of fluffy white towels were folded neatly on a heated rack. He had thought of everything. It was the considerate care of someone who genuinely wanted her to feel at home.
Wanda ran a hand over the soft fabric of a cashmere sweater in the closet, a lump forming in her throat. After months of living out of a duffel bag in the functional barracks of the Avengers Compound, this thoughtful gesture of welcome felt like an act of profound kindness.
"Aryan," she said, her voice a little thick with emotion. "This is... too much."
"It's nothing," he said, his voice a gentle reassurance. He gestured to the door of his own room, just across the hall. "My room is just next door. If you have any problems, any at all, just... knock."
She turned to face him then, and the change was instantaneous and breathtaking. The fragile woman who had accepted his offer with hesitant gratitude seemed to melt away. In her place, a playful, alluring, and utterly confident spark ignited in her green eyes. She leaned against the doorframe, her posture shifting from guarded to inviting, a deliberate and deeply mischievous smile spread across her face. It was a smile he recognized with a jolt, a smile that had always preceded a night of teasing, laughter, and no sleep at all.
"Any problem?" she asked, her voice dropping to a suggestive murmur that was a soft caress in the quiet hallway. Her gaze held his sparkling with a newfound confidence she seemed to be trying on for the first time.
The unexpected shift in her demeanor hit him with the force of a physical blow. A warm blush, a genuine and completely involuntary reaction, rose on his cheeks, and he knew she saw it. Her smile widened, a silent acknowledgment of her small victory.
He laughed, a slightly unsteady sound that was a mixture of surprise, delight, and a healthy dose of sheer panic. He, who had faced down gods and dismantled global conspiracies, was being completely and utterly disarmed by a teasing question.
"Yes," he finally managed to say, his own voice a little unsteady, his heart hammering in his chest. He met her sparkling gaze. "Any problem at all."
"Goodnight, Aryan," she said, her voice a soft caress.
"Goodnight, Wanda," he replied.
They stood there for a moment, the charged air of the hallway humming between them. Then, with a warm look, they both retreated into their separate rooms, the soft click of their doors closing echoing in the silent mansion.
The next morning, Aryan woke not to the familiar weight of Wanda and Sharon, but to a scent. A delicious aroma that was slowly pulling him from a deep and peaceful sleep. It was the smell of freshly brewed coffee, of sizzling bacon, and of something sweet, like cinnamon and maple.
He blinked his eyes open, momentarily disoriented. For a second, he was back in his old life, in the mansion with Wanda and Sharon, a morning like a hundred others. Then, reality reasserted itself.
He got out of bed, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, and followed the incredible aroma downstairs. The scent grew stronger as he approached the kitchen, and it was joined by a new sound: a happy humming.
He stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, and the sight that greeted him made his heart stop for a perfect beat.
Wanda was standing at the stove, a vision in one of his oversized band t-shirts that she must have stolen from his closet, her hair once again in a messy but beautiful bun. She was completely absorbed in her task, a shimmering red orb of her Chaos Magic expertly flipping French toast in a hot pan while she, with her own hands, whisked a bowl of what looked like eggs. The morning sun streamed through the kitchen windows, catching the red glow of her magic and the stray strands of her hair, creating a halo of light around her. She was a portrait of pure domestic beauty.
"You look absolutely beautiful when you cook," he said, his voice a sincere murmur from the doorway.
She startled slightly, not having heard him approach. A lovely blush rose on her cheeks, but she didn't turn around immediately. She just continued to cook, a small smile on her face. He just leaned against the doorframe, content to watch her, this beautiful woman who had appeared in his life like a dream.
Chapter 205: Morning
Finally, her magic placed the last piece of golden-brown French toast onto a waiting plate. She turned off the stove and finally looked at him, her smile now a full, teasing, and utterly confident grin.
"Have you seen enough?" she asked, her voice a playful challenge. "Or do you want me to cook something else so you can keep enjoying the view?"
He laughed, a warm sound that filled the kitchen. He walked over, stopping in front of her, his own smile matching hers. "I could watch you cook forever," he admitted honestly. He then leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But I have to admit, I never thought I'd see a being who could probably level this entire city with a thought, making French toast."
"Even reality-warping witches get hungry," she shot back, her eyes dancing with amusement. "And I seem to recall a certain 'normal guy' making a biryani that could make angels weep. I think we're even."
"I think we are," he said, his gaze intense.
The flirtatious banter flowed between them as they ate, sitting at the small breakfast nook table, the morning sun warming their faces. It felt... normal. Impossibly, wonderfully normal. They talked about nothing and everything. She teased him about his "nerd" t-shirt collection. He teased her about the frankly alarming amount of syrup she was putting on her French toast. It was a conversation between two people who felt, on some inexplicable level, like they had known each other for a thousand years.
After breakfast, the warm bubble of the morning gave way to the quiet energy of the day ahead. They cleared the dishes together, a simple act that felt more like a married couple than a new boss and his employee. As they prepared to leave for the city, the mood shifted slightly, a shared sense of purpose and anticipation settling over them.
They arrived at Umbrella Tower an hour later, stepping out of the private elevator and into the sunlit expanse of Aryan's top-floor office. The view of New York City, sprawling out beneath them, was breathtaking.
Wanda walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sense of awe on her face. "This is... quite a view."
"It helps to see the board," Aryan said, walking to his minimalist desk.
She turned to face him, a small smile on her lips, though her eyes were still sparkling with the memory of their morning. "So," she said, her voice a mix of business-like formality and underlying warmth. "You hired me yesterday. What exactly does the personal secretary to a genius billionaire do? Am I just fetching coffee and managing your schedule?"
"Sometimes," he replied, a teasing light in his own eyes. "But not today." His expression became more serious, the playful man from the kitchen replaced by the visionary CEO. An ambitious light entered his eyes. "Today... you help me change the world."
He gestured for her to come closer. She walked to his side, and with a wave of his hand, he brought the main holographic display to life. It was a multi-layered business plan, a project of a scale that would make any other CEO on the planet balk.
"This is the real reason I've been a recluse for the past few years," he explained, his voice now filled with a fire and a passion she had not yet heard from him. "I've been building something."
He pointed to the top of the plan. A single, familiar, and yet unknown word. "Google."
"In this world," he began, "information is chaos. It's scattered, disorganized, controlled by a hundred different competing companies. It's a library with all the books thrown on the floor. I'm going to change that. I am going to build a single, unified, and hyper-efficient system for organizing all of the world's information and making it universally accessible and useful. We will be the index of human knowledge."
He then swiped to the next phase of the plan. A series of logos appeared: Facebook, WhatsApp, YouTube, Spotify.
"Communication, entertainment, connection," he said, his voice ringing with a visionary's conviction. "They are all fragmented. We will unify them. We will create a seamless 'Umbrella Ecosystem' where people can connect, share, and live their digital lives. We will build a new, better, and more connected world, and we will give it to everyone, for free."
Wanda stared, her mind struggling to keep up with the breathtaking ambition of his plan. He was planning to build the very infrastructure of the 21st century.
"But this..." he said, swiping to a more esoteric diagram, "this is the heart of it all. The part my grandfather always dreamed of."
The diagram was of a digital archive. He called it "The Alexandria Project."
"Humanity's greatest asset is its knowledge," he explained, his voice filled with a reverent passion. "But so much of it is lost, or locked away. Scientific patents that expire and are forgotten. University research that sits unread in obscure journals. Historical texts that are not digitized. I am going to build a new Library of Alexandria, a digital one. A place where all of this 'public domain' knowledge is gathered, translated, cross-referenced, and made available to every single person on Earth. A scientist in a small village in India should have the same access to knowledge as a professor at MIT. We will unlock the collective genius of our entire species."
He finally turned to her, his eyes blazing with a fire she had seen on his face when they had first met in his office. The fire of a man who had found his purpose.
"This is my plan, Wanda," he said, his voice a intense whisper. "This is what I have been building. It is a plan to give this broken world... a new start. A better future. A future free from fear."
Wanda looked from the grand plan on the screen to the man standing before her, his entire soul laid bare in his ambition. Steve had called him the "architect." She now saw that it was an understatement. He was a dreamer, a builder of worlds, a man who wanted to elevate humanity itself.
She had come to him looking for a job, a distraction, a safe harbor from her own grief. She had found something else entirely. She had found a mission. She had found a king, a brilliant king who was about to build a new and better kingdom for them all.