Chapter 49: Twists on the Race Track
In a modified car garage in the suburbs of Los Angeles, the smell of engine oil mixed with the scent of gasoline drifted far away.
Mia Toretto clutched a racing magazine as she pushed open the door and walked in, seeing her brother Dominicsquatting on the ground tuning an engine, the muscles of his bronze arms taut, and the wrench in his hand clicking away as he turned it.
"Brother, take a look at this." Mia spread the magazine out on the oil-stained workbench, her fingertips pointing at the title of the Monaco Vintage Car Grand Prix on the cover, "The champion's prize is two million euros, the rules are loose, and there's no limit on basic modifications."
Dominic raised his eyes slightly, his rough gaze sweeping past the prize amount, and then falling back onto the hood of his Dodge Charger without saying a word.
He never cared much for high-society hustle and bustle, but the Monte Carlo Circuit was a holy land for all racers, not to mention this prize money was enough to replace all the team's equipment.
"Letty checked, and everyone participating is a hardcore contender." Knowing he was tempted, Mia added, "Tony Stark is going too, the one who is Iron Man."
"Stark?" Dominic frowned. He had heard the name before: playboy, arms dealer, amateur rich second generation.
He thought for a moment, threw the wrench onto the workbench with a clatter, and said, "Let's go give it a try."
Just three words, and it was settled.
Mia smiled. She knew that whenever it came to challenges related to cars, her brother would never back down.
Meanwhile, in the private hangar of Stark Industries in New York, two modified vintage sports cars were parked side by side.
One was Tony's silver Maserati, with a polished body and smooth lines, secretly packed with a bunch of black tech—nitrous boost, intelligent auxiliary braking, micro-stabilization system, everything that could be installed was installed; the other was the black Shelby Cobra chosen by Logan, with a very plain appearance, having only its engine and brake discs modified, radiating a rigid, pure mechanical texture just like him.
Tony was circling his car, swiping fast on his tablet, muttering to himself: "Adjust the cornering assist by another 0.3 units, increase the nitrous injection duration by two seconds... With this configuration, let alone a vintage car race, even if you took it to F1 it could place."
Logan leaned against the car door, biting an unlit cigar, and rolled his eyes hard: "We're racing vintage cars, and you shove a bunch of electronic systems in there? Aren't you ashamed? Even if you win, it's an unfair victory."
"Fair or not, winning is what counts." Tony raised an eyebrow, patted his beloved car, "The rules only say you can't change the exterior, they didn't say you can't touch the interior. Smartly utilizing the rules, understand?"
While the two were bickering, Pepper and Fox walked in one after the other.
Pepper was clutching a stack of PR response plans, her expression not looking good at all. She walked straight up to Tony: "Tony! I'll say this for the last time, the hearing just ended a week ago, and you're running off to Monaco to race cars? Tomorrow's headlines will all be 'Stark ignores Congress, wantonly squandering and playing around', and the PR department won't be able to clean it up in three days!"
"If they can't clean it up, don't clean it." Tony waved his hand nonchalantly, "I'm spending my own money to play with my own car, what the hell does it have to do with them?"
Fox walked over to Logan, crossed her arms and glanced at the two race cars, then quietly poked Logan in the waist, "I originally thought you'd at most speed around Queens in the middle of the night, I didn't expect you to take it straight to the international arena. What did you bet with him?"
"A month's worth of whiskey, the loser covers it all." Logansmiled, his fingertips tapping the car door, "A sure win, no loss."
Fox shook her head, wearing an expression that said "you two really have too much time on your hands", and didn't say anything more.
A week passed in the blink of an eye.
On the day of the race, the sun in Monaco was just right. The Mediterranean wind carrying a salty, fishy smell swept across the Monte Carlo Circuit. The stands were packed with people, and rows of long lenses and short cannons from media of various countries were set up. Even the security was three times more than in previous years, basically all aimed at Tony.
When Tony made his entrance, the cheers from the entire crowd practically blew the roof off.
He was wearing a custom racing suit with amber-tinted sunglasses, waving to the audience seating, flashy as if he were walking a red carpet.
Logan was much more low-profile, wearing a duck-billed cap and squatting by the tires to check the tire pressure. He blended in among a group of racers without standing out at all, acting just like an odd-job mechanic.
Dominic was one of the last to arrive.
The moment his modified Dodge Charger drove into the pit lane, its low engine roar drowned out the surrounding commotion.
The man got out of the car, his black vest straining over solid muscles, with little expression on his face. His gaze swept over Tony's silver sports car, then paused for half a second on Logan's plain Shelby, his brow twitching imperceptibly. Without stepping forward to strike up a conversation, he turned and dived straight into his own pit garage.
"Who's that guy? Quite an imposing aura." Tony leaned close to Logan, lifting his chin to signal the direction of Dominic, "His car is modified wild enough."
"Dominic Toretto." Logan glanced at the other man, raised an eyebrow, then screwed on the valve core and straightened up, "A hardcore character in the underground racing circle, the kind who races like his life doesn't matter. Don't just focus on showing off, watch out for getting overtaken."
"Overtake me?" Tony sneered, full of disdain, "If he can even see my taillights, consider him the winner."
The moment the starting gun fired, a dozen vintage cars rushed out of the starting line in single file, the roaring engines making the ground tremble.
The first three laps were entirely Tony's personal show.
Relying on the blessing of black tech, he entered and exited corners ridiculously smoothly. Once he turned on the nitrous, he instantly left the second place behind by dozens of meters, occasionally tilting his head to wave to the audience in the stands, reaching peak flashiness.
Logan bit closely at second place unhurriedly, turning the steering wheel with extreme precision. Looking unhurried, he was never pulled away in distance.
Dominic bit at third place. The explosive power of the American muscle car was fully displayed on the straightaways, and every time he exited a corner, he managed to forcefully close the gap a bit. The roar of the engine made people's blood boil.
"Got some skills." Logan looked at the Dodge getting closer and closer in the rearview mirror, and raised an eyebrow.
He slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the Shelby suddenly lunged forward a chunk, forcefully overtaking Tony's Maserati from the inside lane.
"Hey! You're playing dirty!" Tony panicked, hurriedly pressing the nitrous button. The car body let out a hum and lunged forward, overtaking him back.
The two chased each other, making the audience seating scream continuously. Dominic wasn't idle either; taking advantage of the time the two were competing, he precisely cut through the inside of the hairpin turn, his car body almost brushing against the guardrail, and forcefully squeezed into second place.
The three cars marched side by side on the straightaway, their tires scraping the ground and emitting bursts of white smoke. They were so close that their rearview mirrors were almost touching, and the cheers of the crowd instantly cracked the sound limits.
"Now this is getting interesting." Dominic gripped the steering wheel, a faint arc hooking at the corner of his mouth.
Just when everyone thought this would be a peak showdown of gods fighting, a sudden change occurred.
By the guardrail of the track's run-off area, a man wearing an orange maintenance uniform slowly stood up.
His hair was messy, his face bore a sickly pallor, and a crude Ark Reactor was strapped to his chest with a worn leather belt, crackling with light blue electric arcs.
The man walked step by step to the edge of the track, his calloused hands suddenly whipping forward, and two bright blue energy whip-cables extended from his palms, reaching a length of five or six meters, with the electric light crackling.
The audience in the stands still thought it was some kind of halftime show and were just about to applaud and cheer, when they saw the man violently swing his arm.
"Zzzt—!"
The energy whip-cable lashed out with a scorching heat wave, precisely cleaving onto a speeding sports car.
The high-strength alloy car body was no different from paper in front of the energy whip, and it was cleaved directly in two from the middle. Fortunately, the driver jumped out of the car in time, but was still seriously injured.
The racing car instantly lost control, rolling and crashing into the guardrail, booming as it burst into a ball of fire, with metal fragments splashing everywhere.
The whole venue fell silent for a second, then erupted into deafening screams.
The audience ran blindly toward the exits, cries and alarms mixed together, turning into utter chaos.
"What the fuck?" Tony slammed hard on the brakes, his tires leaving long black Marks on the ground.
He stared at the man by the track acting like a lunatic, his pupils contracting.
Logan also braked at the same time, pushed open the car door and jumped down.
He flexed his fingers, his eyes turning cold.
They were just here to play around, not expecting that someone would actually dare to make trouble on this kind of occasion.
Dominic also stopped his car, pushed open the car door and stood on the ground, frowning as he looked at the smoking racing wreckage, then sweeping across the two crackling energy whips, his expression turning very grim.
He had seen quite a few hardcore characters, but this kind of supernatural stuff was something he encountered for the first time.
The track security rushed forward in a panic, but the man just casually swung his whip-cable, and the bowl-thick metal guardrail was cut off like noodles, scaring the security guards into retreating repeatedly, with no one daring to step forward again.
"Tony Stark!" Ivan Vanko roared, his voice full of hatred, spit flying everywhere, "Your father stole my father's technology! He took away everything that should have belonged to me! Today, I want you to pay with your blood!"
Tony cursed under his breath, reaching out to summon his armor, and only realized it after grabbing empty air.
Today was for racing; the Mark VI was back at the hotel and hadn't been brought along at all.
"Damn it, miscalculated." He irritably tugged at the collar of his racing suit; surely he couldn't go up and engage in hand-to-hand combat while wearing a racing suit.
Logan flexed his wrists, his joints clicking.
He took two steps forward, waving his hand at Tonywithout turning his head: "Alright, stop cursing. You go evacuate the audience over there, don't let them get accidentally hurt. This guy, I'll handle him."
"Can you handle it?" Tony raised an eyebrow, somewhat worried, "His whip is electrified and can cut metal, don't take it head-on."
"Cut the crap." Logan said disdainfully, his steps not stopping, "I've seen things much more hardcore than this. Just a broken wire, can it turn the world upside down?"
The sparse audience members who hadn't run away in the stands held their breaths. Tony frowned and took out his phone to contact the transport plane. Dominic stood in place, his gaze falling on Logan, with a bit more probing in his eyes.
In the center of the track, Ivan Vanko looked at Loganwalking step by step, grinning hideously as he swung the energy whip: "Another one coming to court death? Fine, I'll kill you first, then kill Stark!"
Before his voice fell, his arm swung violently, and the orange-red whip-cable, carrying a scorching heat wave, lashed straight toward Logan.
Chapter 50: Uniforms and the Championship
The Whiplash brought a scorching gale as it slashed toward Logan's face. Logan crossed his steps and twisted his waist, his figure sliding sideways like a swimming fish for half a foot. A bright blue electric arc swept past his shoulder, scorching the fabric of his racing suit until it was slightly charred.
Instead of retreating, he advanced, stepping with a mud-wading stance as he circled around Ivan sideways. The explosive power of his physical body, enhanced by the Crimson Power, was already far beyond ordinary people. Paired with the footwork practiced from traditional martial arts, in the eyes of others, only a black shadow remained weaving through the gaps of the whips, fast enough to almost leave afterimages.
"Seeking death!" Seeing that three consecutive whip strikes had missed, Ivan roared and crossed his hands. The two energy whips twisted into a spiral shape and swept horizontally, covering a two-meter range in front of him. The tips of the whips crackled with electricity, leaving nowhere to hide.
Gasps of cold air rang out from the grandstands, and Tonyinstinctively clenched his fists.
If this whip landed solidly, a person would surely be split in half.
The moment the whip was about to wrap around his waist, Logan violently bent his knees and lowered his waist, sliding out close to the ground. His back nearly grazed the asphalt of the racetrack as he swept past, narrowly dodging the strangulation.
Before Ivan could retract or change his move, Logan had already supported himself with a single palm and bounced up with the momentum, pressing close into Ivan's embrace.
Long weapons feared close-quarters grappling the most; no matter how sharp the whip was, once it was pressed against the chest, not a shred of its force could be unleashed.
"Is this all you've got?" Logan sneered, tightening his right fist. The inch-force of Baji burst forth along his fist face, slamming squarely onto the crude reactor on Ivan's chest.
With a muffled clanging sound, the reactor shell welded from sheet metal directly dented inward by a large chunk, and the internal circuits sparked wildly.
Ivan let out a muffled grunt, staggering back two steps, his eyes filled with disbelief.
Gritting his teeth, he still wanted to raise his hand to swing the whip, but Logan didn't give him the chance. Sidestepping to avoid the tip of the whip, Logan used his left hand to clasp the opponent's wrist, twisting and pulling with the momentum. The crisp sound of joint dislocation mixed with Ivan's miserable scream burst out, and his entire arm hung down limply.
The other whip still wanted to lash over by inertia, but Logan raised his elbow to take the hit head-on. His forearm tingled from the scorching electric light, yet he remained completely oblivious, following up by lifting his knee to fiercely drive it into the opponent's lower abdomen.
Ivan's entire body arched like a shrimp, and he could no longer hold the controller in his hand, dropping it onto the ground with a clang. The two energy whips instantly went out, collapsing into limp pieces of scrap iron.
Logan delivered a backhand knife-hand strike to the back of his neck. Ivan rolled his eyes, collapsed rigidly to the ground, and completely passed out.
In barely a dozen seconds, the whip-wielding man who had just looked fierce and malicious, shattering a race car with a single slash, was taken down bare-handed just like that.
The grandstands fell dead silent for two seconds, then erupted into earth-shattering cheers.
The spectators who didn't have time to run all stood up to applaud and cheer. The media's flashes flickered like crazy, the sound of shutters crackling like rain, and many people strained their throats shouting "Well done!", practically looking like they were watching a top-tier fighting match.
"Not bad, kid." Tony ran over, kicked the unconscious Ivan on the ground, and then looked Logan up and down, his eyes full of surprise. "I thought only your claws were hard, but I didn't expect your fists to be so vicious either. That hit just now wasn't much worse than my armor's heavy punch."
"Cut the crap." Logan shook his hand, the red marks scorched onto his forearm by the electric light rapidly fading under the action of his healing factor. Unobtrusively, he pulled down the sleeve of his racing suit. "The guy is knocked out, call security to drag him away. Are we still racing or not? I'm still waiting to win that month's worth of whiskey from you."
Dominic also walked over, his bronze-colored face expressionless. His gaze lingered on Logan for a few seconds before he solemnly spat out three words: "Good skills."
"Piece of cake." Logan shrugged, looking as if it were not worth mentioning.
People from the event organizers quickly ran over, panting. While directing security to carry Ivan away and secure him, they apologized with smiling faces to negotiate with the core drivers.
Fortunately, only one racing car had an accident, and all the other vehicles were intact. Not only did the audience not disperse, but they became even more excited because of the fight just now. Waves of chants of "Continue the race!" came from the grandstands, creating a massive momentum.
Taking advantage of the situation, the organizers immediately announced that the race would restart after a ten-minute break. The number of laps remained unchanged, and the scores would be cleared and recalculated.
Ten minutes later, the starting gun fired once more. More than a dozen vintage cars roared out of the starting line, their engine roars even fiercer than before, carrying a reckless, all-or-nothing momentum.
This time, no one dared to get distracted or show off anymore.
Tony put away his frivolous attitude, gripping the steering wheel with absolute concentration. His smart assistant system was maxed out, and the braking point into the corners was precise to the millisecond. The silver Maserati flew across the ground like a silver lightning bolt.
Dominic still maintained his suicidal, wild style. The V8 engine of the Dodge Charger roared so loudly that people's eardrums ached. He floored the gas pedal on the straightaways, scraping past the guardrails every time he rounded a corner, the tires grinding out billows of white smoke that made people's hearts leap into their throats.
Logan, on the other hand, was as steady as a boulder. He turned the steering wheel with absolute precision, and his racing line was even trickier than what a computer could calculate. Shelby's engine was squeezed to its limit by him, keeping a tight bite right behind the top two, seizing the opportunity to overtake with a single cut—crisp and neat.
"Did you hack or something, kid!" Tony shouted in the public intercom. "Your racing line is more accurate than my smart system. Did you secretly install assistance?"
"Just admit your skills are inferior, don't make excuses." Logan smiled and replied, stepping hard on the gas pedal. Taking advantage of Tony's distraction, he cut across from the inside lane hugging the guardrail, instantly overtaking to first place.
"Damn!" Tony cursed, hurriedly pressing the nitro boost button. The silver body surged forward with a hum, fiercely chasing back up.
While the two of them were fiercely overtaking and competing against each other, Dominic quietly caught up.
On the final long straightaway, he stepped on the accelerator to the floor. The violent engine of the American muscle car erupted completely, its roar overpowering all the surrounding vehicles as it forcefully squeezed between the two of them to temporarily take the lead.
"Not bad." Logan raised an eyebrow.
Ahead lay the final hairpin turn, the crucial corner that would determine the rankings.
Dominic's racing line leaned outward, intending to rely on the high horsepower coming out of the turn to accelerate and retake the lead.
Relying on his smart braking system, Tony wanted to cut into the inner lane to grab position.
But Logan was more ruthless than both of them, cutting directly along the guardrail into the most extreme inner lane. His car body almost grazed past the guardrail, and the tires frictioning against the ground erupted into thick white smoke with a piercing screech.
"Are you crazy?!" Tony exclaimed. His smart system had even judged that this route would hit the wall, automatically correcting the direction and making him a beat too slow.
The moment the three cars crossed the finish line almost side by side, the final results popped up on the big screen.
First Place: Logan Howlett, Shelby Cobra, leading the second place by 0.12 seconds.
Second Place: Dominic Toretto, Dodge Charger.
Third Place: Tony Stark, Maserati.
The cheers of the entire venue practically lifted the roof off.
Tony pushed open the car door, took off his helmet and threw it into the car, walking over with a displeased expression: "0.12 seconds! You were definitely doing that on purpose! Couldn't you have let me have half a car length?"
"A bet is a bet." Logan smiled and patted his shoulder. "A month's worth of whiskey, don't think about reneging. The age cannot be lower than eighteen years."
"Don't get cocky!" Tony rolled his eyes heavily, but didn't actually refute. He still had the backbone to accept a loss when gambling.
On the awards stage, the host's voice was shaking with excitement, handing over the glittering championship trophy and pushing over a bonus sign worth two million euros.
Logan took the trophy and weighed it casually, his gaze sweeping over Dominic off the stage, and he beckoned to him.
Dominic frowned, but still stepped up. He originally thought the other party was going to provoke him, but Logan reached out and shoved the bonus sign straight into his hands.
"Take it." Logan said it nonchalantly. "I just came to place a bet and play with him; this money is useless to me."
The whole venue instantly broke into an uproar. Two million euros in championship prize money, and he gives it away just like that? The media off the stage went crazy pressing their shutters, and even the host stood frozen in place.
Dominic was also stunned, instinctively wanting to push the sign back: "No way, this is what you won—"
"What's wrong with it." Logan waved his hand, his tone casual. "Your driving skills deserve this money. Besides, it's enough that I won the bet."
As he spoke, he glanced sideways at Tony next to him, who had a stinky expression, smiling teasingly. "Someone owes me a month's worth of whiskey, which is much more valuable than this."
Tony snorted unhappily: "Cut the crap, a bet is a bet, a month is a month. But let's get this straight, there are no limited editions, but ordinary years are all you can drink."
"Stingy." Logan chuckled.
Dominic looked at the heavy bonus sign in his hand, then looked at Logan's nonchalant profile, falling silent for a few seconds.
He wasn't a pretentious person; since the other party gave it sincerely, he didn't beat around the bush either. He accepted the sign and said in a deep voice: "Thanks. Next time there's a chance, let's race again."
"Anytime." Logan smiled and nodded.
In the grandstand, Pepper held her forehead and sighed helplessly: "I really give up on them. Such a nice vintage car race, first someone attacks with weapons, and now the champion gives away the prize money directly. Who knows what tomorrow's headlines will write, and the PR department will have to work overtime again."
Fox crossed her arms with a full smile, her gaze falling on the tall and straight figure on the awards stage: "Isn't this quite good, lively enough. Besides, with him around, at least Tony didn't actually get into trouble. If we really waited for the armor to fly over, who knows how much commotion it would cause."
Below the stage, the flashes lit up in pieces, and the host emotionally narrated the twists and turns of this race, blowing Logan's deeds of subduing the thug bare-handed and yielding the prize money into something miraculous.
Logan stood on the highest podium, raising the trophy and waving to the audience below. The sunlight spilled onto his face, causing another wave of screams from the grandstands.
He lowered his head to glance at the puffing yet paying-up Tony, and then looked at the calm-looking Dominic, a relaxed smile curving at the corner of his mouth.
He had originally just come out to play around; not only did he win the bet, but he also watched a good show and conveniently cleaned up a troublemaker. That was enough.
As for the prize money? Mere external possessions, how could they compare to winning a month's worth of aged whiskey from Tony for fun?
Chapter 51 Heart Knot
Just one day after the storm in Monaco, the news spread half across Earth via radio and fiber optics.
The live broadcast footage was cut into countless clips and went viral, with headlines more sensational than the last—"Terror at the Racetrack: Energy Whip Strikers Smashes Race Car, Mysterious Man Subdues Him Barehanded in Seconds" Stark's Friend Mr. Howlett Wins Vintage Car Race, Immediately Donates Two Million Euro Prize to Runner-Up" "From Bodyguard to Stark Partner to Combat Racing God, Just How Many Identities Is Logan Howlett Hiding?".
Social media was in an uproar, with some digging up his old news of becoming famous overnight at the Stark Industries press conference years ago, calling him a "hidden superhero."
Others focused on the prize money, praising him for being handsome and kind-hearted.
Some even specially edited slow-motion videos of his fight, analyzing his footwork and punching force, concluding, "Even professional martial artists can't deliver this kind of explosive power."
Meanwhile, the person in question was curled up in a suite at the sea-view hotel, biting on toast while flipping through newspapers, and after leafing through them for a while, he rolled his eyes heavily.
"These media guys can blow things out of proportion even more than Tony." He tossed the newspaper onto the coffee table, pointed at the headline "King of New York Combat" on it, and rolled his eyes, "I just beat up a crazy vagrant, how did I become a superhero?"
Pepper was sitting nearby processing emails without even lifting her head: "You should be content; at least it's all positive news. Yesterday, the event organizers' phones were ringing off the hook with interview requests, and brands are looking for you to endorse racing and sports equipment with ridiculously high offers."
"Turn them all down." Logan picked up his coffee and took a sip, "What a pain. With that time, I might as well go home and fish."
Fox crossed her arms, leaned against the window, and added with a smile: "Right now, all of Monaco is asking about you. A bunch of reporters were squatting downstairs at the hotel last night. At this rate, you won't get any peace back in New York either; your suitors could line up all the way to Queens."
"Oh, give it a rest." Logan waved his hand and turned to look toward the inner room.
Tony was curled up on the sofa tapping away at his tablet, the screen filled with Russian documents, his brows tightly furrowed.
Ever since he came back last night, he had been investigating Ivan Vanko's background, and the more he dug, the heavier his heart felt.
Hearing the commotion outside, he walked out holding the tablet and tossed it onto the coffee table: "I've checked it out. That guy is named Ivan Vanko, a Russian. His dad is Anton Vanko, who worked with Howard on the early research of the Arc Reactor back in the seventies."
Logan raised an eyebrow without speaking, waiting for him to continue.
"Later, Anton was deported and sent back to the Soviet Union, and afterwards he lived a miserable life—alcoholic, destitute, and died a few years ago." Tony paused, his tone a bit complicated, "Ivan said that back then, Howard stole his father's research results, gaining both fame and fortune through the reactor patents, while their family was ruined."
He had never gotten along with Howard since he was a child, and the father and son had never spoken many heart-to-heart words. In his memory, his father was always a workaholic, highly controlling, and full of big principles.
Ivan's words were like a needle, instantly pricking at his internal doubts about his father.
Given Howard's aggressive personality, it didn't seem entirely impossible that he actually plagiarized research results and drove away collaborators.
Pepper stopped her work and looked at him with concern: "Tony, don't listen to his one-sided story. Howard is not that kind of person."
"Who knows." Tony twitched the corner of his mouth, smiling somewhat self-deprecatingly, "There are plenty of things he hid in his life. He kept the new element a secret from me for decades, so one more case of plagiarism wouldn't be surprising."
The room fell silent for a few seconds.
Logan leisurely put down his coffee cup, looked up at him, his tone calm yet piercing: "Are you an idiot? You actually believe the words of a guy who spent half his life in prison and didn't amount to anything even before dying? No matter how much of a jerk your father was when he was young, he was someone who built the Stark Empire with his own abilities. Would he bother stealing someone else's technology?"
Tony was stunned for a moment, looking up at him: "How would you know? You weren't even there to witness what happened back then."
"I didn't see it, but you can figure it out by using your brain." Logan shrugged, counting on his fingers for him, "First, if he really stole the technology, wouldn't it have been better for Howard to just detain the guy back then to eliminate future troubles once and for all? Why go through all that trouble to deport him, leaving him to come back for revenge? Second, the Arc Reactor, from theory to execution, was entirely spearheaded by Howard. Anton was at most a deputy, and the core formulas were all derived by Howardhimself. What was there to steal from him? Stealing his screw-tightening technique?"
He paused and added: "Besides, someone who could hide a new element inside an expo model and wait decades for you to discover it—how petty would he have to be to steal his deputy's credit? With his pride, he'd rather not do it at all than deign to steal."
These words instantly awakened Tony.
He suddenly snapped to his senses.
That's right, what kind of person was Howard Stark? Arrogant and proud his entire life, daring even to disregard the Military's face, how could he possibly steal someone else's research results?
He had simply pre-judged the situation, carrying biases against his father, which was why he followed along with Ivan's words.
"Damn... I almost got led astray by that guy." Tony cursed, irritably scratching his hair, though his brows still hadn't unfurrowed, "But what actually happened back then? Why was Anton deported? It couldn't have been for no reason."
He wasn't sure about this in his heart. In the documents left behind by Howard, the parts regarding Anton Vanko were pitifully sparse, mentioning only "cooperation terminated, personnel repatriated," without a single half-sentence of explanation.
As he was pondering who to ask, a name suddenly flashed through his mind—Peggy Carter.
Back when S.H.I.E.L.D. was first founded, Peggy and Howard were old comrades-in-arms fighting side by side. From World War II to the Cold War, the two cooperated for decades.
She definitely knew about that reactor business in the seventies.
Moreover, Peggy was upright and righteous, never showing partiality to anyone. Her words carried more weight than anyone else's.
"Got it!" Tony's eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers, "I know who to ask. Peggy Carter, my dad's old partner back then, one of the founders of S.H.I.E.L.D.. She must be clear about what happened back then."
"Ms. Carter?" Pepper was stunned for a moment, "Hasn't she been retired for many years? I heard she's been living in retirement in London."
"It doesn't matter if she's retired, it's just a flight away." Tony acted immediately, picking up his phone to start checking flights, "Anyway, until this matter is cleared up, my heart feels blocked. I can't let my dad carry the infamy of plagiarism even after death."
As he spoke, he looked up at Logan and raised an eyebrow: "How about it, accompany me on a trip to London? Anyway, going back you'll just be fishing and walking dogs, consider it going out for a trip. I'll cover food and lodging, whiskey is all you can drink, starting at 18 years."
Logan originally wanted to refuse.
What was so fun about London? It was far better to stay home and keep Ares company.
But hearing "whiskey is all you can drink," the words on the tip of his tongue took a turn.
"Fine." He shrugged, wearing a look of "considering it for the sake of the alcohol," "Just in time, I also want to see just how formidable the legendary Agent Carter is."
Tony scoffed: "Cut the crap, I see you're just here for the alcohol."
"Otherwise what? For you?" Logan rolled his eyes, "You wish."
Beside them, Pepper helplessly shook her head, and Foxcouldn't help laughing either.
These two guys couldn't go three sentences without bickering, and while talking about serious business, they could somehow steer it right back to alcohol.
Tony didn't argue back with him either, lowering his head to quickly arrange the itinerary, his fingers swiping swiftly across the screen.
Only the corners of his mouth unconsciously curled up a bit—that blocked-up feeling in his heart had dissipated by more than half.
Whenever he encountered things concerning Howard in the past, he would always stubbornly trap himself in a dead end.
Now look at this, with someone accompanying him to curse a bit and wake him up a bit, it felt much more relaxed instead.
He looked up out the window; the sunlight of Monacosprinkled over the sea surface, sparkling.
London is fine too, just right to go and ask clearly.
By the way... also see what that woman who quarreled with his father for a lifetime yet stood side-by-side with him for a lifetime was really like.
Logan leaned back on the sofa, holding his coffee and sipping it leisurely, crystal clear in his mind.
Anton Vanko wanted to profit from the reactor technology back then, and was only deported after Howard discovered it—he was completely clear on this petty matter.
But he didn't need to spell it out. Letting Tony investigate and ask for himself was much more effective than him telling him directly.
After all, that knot in the hearts of the father and son was something Tony had to slowly untie himself.
He put down his cup and stretched lazily.
Fine then, London it is.
Consider it a company-funded trip, bumming a few bottles of good wine from Tony along the way—guaranteed profit without loss.
Chapter 52
When Tony's private jet landed in the outskirts of London, a misty drizzle was falling.
Wearing a well-pressed dark trench coat, he stood on the airstair, looked up at the sky, and frowned: "This damn weather in London is just like my old man's face, gloomy all year round."
Logan followed behind with an unlit cigar in his mouth, glancing at him: "Are you here to ask questions or complain about the weather? If you dawdle any longer, I'm heading to the bar first."
"What's the rush?" Tony curled his lips and got into the waiting car, "Let's go see someone first. Once business is done, you can drink as much as you want."
The car drove through the fog-filled streets and finally stopped outside a quiet, old-fashioned apartment building nestled in the bustling city.
This was Peggy Carter's retirement residence, with strict security and a tranquil environment, showing that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been looking after her all these years.
The two went upstairs and knocked on the door, which was opened by a woman who looked like a caregiver.
Walking a couple of steps inside, they saw a silver-haired elderly woman sitting on the living room sofa, wearing a well-tailored navy blue suit, with her back straight, flipping through an old photo album.
Hearing the commotion, she raised her head, her gaze sharp and clear, without a trace of the turbidity typical of ordinary elderly people.
"Aunt Peggy." Tony spoke first, his tone carrying a rare hint of restraint.
He had met Peggy a few times when he was a child, and in his memory, she was a woman with an extremely strong aura. Now that she was older, that poise and competence were even more pronounced.
Peggy Carter smiled, her gaze pausing on his face with a hint of nostalgia: "Tony, you've grown up so much. You're the spitting image of Howard when he was young—except you're not as annoying as him."
Logan couldn't help letting out a low chuckle beside him.
Peggy's gaze turned to him, carrying a hint of appraisal yet very gentle: "This must be Mr. Logan Howlett, right? I heard about what happened in Monaco. Good moves."
"You flatter me." Logan nodded slightly, feeling a bit surprised inside.
Rumor had it that Agent Carter had long lost her wits, plagued by Alzheimer's disease, and couldn't even recognize people, but the person before him had a clear train of thought and sharp eyes, showing not a shred of illness.
Tony obviously shared the same doubt. After sitting down, he deliberated before speaking: "Aunt Peggy, I heard before that your health wasn't very good... You look like you're in great shape now."
"Thanks to you Starks." Peggy picked up her teacup and took a sip, her tone calm: "Last year, S.H.I.E.L.D. sent a batch of newly developed neural repair Agents from StarkBiomedical. After trying them for over half a year, my mind finally cleared up. Otherwise, if you came today, you'd probably only be talking to an old lady who couldn't recognize anyone."
Tony was stunned for a moment, then realized this was the regenerative serum that had been developed.
He subconsciously glanced at Logan beside him, who was examining the old photos on the wall with great interest, looking like it had nothing to do with him.
"Speak, flying all the way here, it surely can't be specially to visit an old woman like me." Peggy put down her teacup and went straight to the point: "Is it about your father?"
Tony didn't beat around the bush either and nodded: "Yes, Ivan Vanko said that back then Howard stole his father's reactor technology and exiled him. I want to know what actually happened back then."
After hearing this, Peggy chuckled with a hint of disdain: "Stole? Anton Vanko is hardly worthy."
Though her tone was calm, it carried an unquestionable certainty: "In the seventies, the core theory of the Arc Reactor was deduced single-handedly by Howard. Anton was just an assistant he poached from the Soviet Union, responsible for material testing and component assembly. Barely two years into the job, this guy secretly contacted buyers, wanting to sell the semi-finished reactor technology to the black market to make a fortune."
"After Howard discovered it, he didn't send him to prison; he simply confiscated all research data and exiled him." Peggy paused and added, "According to the rules at the time, leaking core Military technology was enough for him to rot in prison for a lifetime. Howard left him room out of consideration that he had indeed contributed effort. Now look, the son turns around and bites back, claiming that we stole their family's things."
Tony sat there without speaking for a long time.
The truth wasn't very surprising, but it solidly smoothed away the last bit of a knot in his heart.
Howard might not have been a good father—arrogant, controlling, and never knowing how to express himself—but his bottom line and pride had never been lost.
He had actually almost doubted his father of plagiarism just because of a few words from Ivan. Thinking about it now, it was simply ridiculously stupid.
"What are you thinking about, looking so grim." Logannudged him with his elbow and teased, "Now you know your old man, asshole as he is, isn't enough of an asshole to steal technology?"
Tony rolled his eyes but didn't retort, merely letting out a long breath as the stifling gloom that had clogged his heart for days finally dissipated.
He looked at Peggy and said earnestly: "Thank you, Aunt Peggy. Now that I've figured this out, I won't disturb your rest anymore."
"What's the rush?" Peggy lifted her chin, "Accompany this old woman for lunch before leaving. Howard owed me countless meals back then; as his son, you have to pay back at least one."
Tony chuckled: "Of course, you call the shots."
Lunch was very relaxed. Peggy chatted about quite a few of Howard's youthful blunders—being punished for secretly flying Military fighter jets, blowing up half a laboratory during an experiment, and being hard-mouthed with a soft heart while secretly stuffing bereavement allowances to comrades.
Tony listened with relish, feeling for the first time that he had never truly understood his father.
Logan sat quietly eating on the side, occasionally chipping in with a couple of remarks that made Peggy laugh out loud.
The old woman's eyes were extremely sharp, sizing him up several times during the meal, wanting to speak but stopping, though in the end, she asked nothing.
After finishing the meal and bidding farewell, once seated in the car, Tony was still pondering the words just spoken.
"What are you thinking about?" Logan raised an eyebrow.
"Nothing." Tony shook his head, but his eyes were a bit brighter, "It's just that... my previous prejudice against him was too great."
"Rare, indeed, for Tony Stark to self-reflect."
"Cut the crap." Tony retorted ungraciously, then instructed the driver, "Go to the Monaco Royal Prison; I have some business with Ivan Vanko."
Now that he felt comfortable inside, he instead wanted to make things clear with Ivan face-to-face—not to forgive this guy, but simply because he couldn't be bothered to let the other party think the Stark family had wronged them.
When the car drove all the way to the prison, explained their purpose to the guards, and waited for a dozen minutes, a guard ran back looking panicked: "Mr. Stark, b-bad news! Ivan Vanko is gone!"
Tony was stunned: "What do you mean gone?"
"It means... nobody is in the cell!" The guard was sweating profusely with anxiety, "He was still there during the morning roll call, but when we went to fetch him just now, the person locked inside wasn't him at all, and even the surveillance footage was tampered with, capturing nothing!"
Logan leaned against the door frame, a cold sneer curving at the corner of his mouth: "Need to think about it? He must have been fished out by someone. Who do you think is most willing to go against you and has the ability to fish someone out of the Royal Prison?"
Tony instantly reacted, his face sinking: "Justin Hammer."
Aside from that lingering pest, no one would go to such great lengths to bail out a madman who attacked him.
Justin's intentions were as clear as day—since he couldn't master his technology, he picked up Ivan as a chess piece, hoping to overtake him on the curves using the other's technology.
"He really is an indestructible bug." Tony irritably yanked at his tie, "This guy is simply impatient to die."
"What's the rush?" Logan said slowly, "The monk may run, but the temple can't. Since he fished Ivan away, he's definitely planning a big move, so we just wait. Once he jumps out, we clean him up all at once, saving us from him acting like a toad hopping on our feet every day—not biting, just disgusting."
Tony nodded with a dark face.
That's true. Having held back for so long and finally securing Ivan as a card, Justin couldn't help but stir up trouble.
Rather than searching blindly now, it's better to wait for him to jump out himself.
"Fine, back to New York first." Tony turned and walked out, "Have Jarvis keep an eye on Hammer Industries' movements. I want to see what tricks they can pull off."
Meanwhile, in Queens, New York, inside Hammer Industries' secret factory.
Ivan Vanko, wearing an oily jumpsuit, sat before the workbench, fiddling with a pile of parts in his hands.
The madness from the race track was gone from his face; his eyes were gloomy, and his fingers rapidly soldered circuits. Two modified energy whips lay beside him, thicker, longer, and with more blinding electric arcs than the ones at the race track.
Justin Hammer stood behind him, rubbing his hands together with a flattering expression: "Mr. Vanko, do you find this equipment sufficient? Just say whatever is missing, and I'll get it all for you! As long as you can craft the Whiplash armor, money, venue, and manpower—I'll cover it all!"
He had spent a huge sum of money, bribed prison guards, and used all his connections just to fish Ivan out of Monaco, all for a gamble—betting that Ivan's technology could help him surpass Tony Stark and swallow up the Military's armor contracts.
Without even turning his head, Ivan replied in a hoarse voice: "I want the money, and I will build the armor. But I have one condition."
"Name it! Name it!" Justin nodded hurriedly.
"On the day of the Stark Expo, I want to take the field myself." Ivan stopped his work, turned his head, a crazy gleam flashing in his eyes, "I want to destroy Tony Starkand ruin Stark Industries' reputation in front of everyone."
Joy surged in Justin's heart; this played right into his hands.
The Stark Expo was watched by millions. If Tony could take a big tumble there, Hammer Industries would become famous overnight, and wouldn't the contracts be ripe for the picking?
"No problem!" He patted his chest in assurance, "I've already secured an exhibition spot for the Expo, and by then your Whiplash armor will be the finale exhibit! I guarantee that all of New York, all of the United States, will witness the prowess of Hammer Industries!"
Ivan sneered without speaking, turned back to continue soldering parts. The electric arcs crackled and hissed, casting shifting lights and shadows across his face.
What he wanted was never any Military contract, nor was it fame.
What he wanted was for Howard Stark's son to be utterly ruined and left with nothing.
Just like his father back then.
Chapter 53: Followed
For the first three days after flying back to New York from London, Logan lived a thoroughly restful, retired sort of life.
Tony buried himself in the lab monitoring the latest development progress of the mark vii, Fox was busy assisting Pepper with the preparations for the Stark Expo, Maggie was rushed off her feet expanding her coffee shop, and even Emma flew to the West Coast to negotiate business. In the huge Villa, only he and Ares were left staring at each other.
That evening, the clouds hung low, and the air carried the earthy scent of recent rain—perfect weather for walking the dog.
Logan threw on a faded black hoodie, held an unlit cigar in his mouth, and ambled out of the neighborhood with Areson a leash.
Just as he turned past two street corners, his extraordinary senses picked up a tail.
Fifty meters behind him, a figure followed at an unhurried pace. Their footsteps were extremely light and their breathing steady—clearly an experienced veteran at tailing people.
Without even raising an eyebrow, Logan pretended to bend down and adjust Ares's leash, casting a glance behind him out of the corner of his eye.
A hood obscured their face, their build didn't look particularly bulky, and their center of gravity shifted left with each step, suggesting they were left-handed. They weren't carrying a gun, smelling faintly only of leather and coffee.
"With tracking skills like this, they're not even up to par with the S.H.I.E.L.D. crowd," Logan snickered internally, showing nothing on his face as he ambled toward the docks with the dog.
He intentionally picked small alleys to weave through, stopping by a convenience store to buy a bottle of water one moment, crouching by the roadside to pet a stray cat the next. After winding around for forty minutes, the tail behind him surprisingly hadn't lost him—their stamina was quite good.
"Alright, interesting." Logan tugged at the leash. Ares's ears twitched and a low growl rumbled from his throat. Having sensed the ill intent as well, his muscles tensed all over.
Logan patted its head gently, signaling for it to stay calm, then turned on his heel and headed straight into the abandoned old warehouse district deep within the docks.
This area had been deserted for nearly ten years, filled with rusty shipping containers, and even the streetlights were reduced to crooked poles. After dark, not even homeless people wandered here, making it the perfect spot for a "chat."
Logan stopped at an open space in the middle of the warehouse area, unclipped the leash, and patted Ares on the back. Only then did he slowly turn around and jerk his chin toward the shadows: "You've been tailing me the whole way. Come on out. There's nobody here, so let's speak openly."
Silence fell over the shadows for two seconds before a figure slowly walked out.
With a black hood pulled down low and dressed in a tight leather outfit, the figure stood motionless seven or eight meters away, voice raspy: "How did you spot me?"
"With tailing skills like yours, if you followed me for another mile, I could've led you right to my house," Logansneered, flipping a lighter in his hand. "Speak up, who sent you? Hammer Industries? Or is S.H.I.E.L.D. trying a new trick?"
The other person didn't answer. Suddenly pushing off the ground, she charged forward like a cannonball.
Her right fist aimed straight for Logan's face with a whistling wind, the blow fiercely rigid and carrying ridiculously immense force.
Logan raised an eyebrow slightly. He had thought this was just a regular private investigator, not expecting her strength to be this immense.
He didn't use his claws or trigger his magnetic field, wanting to test her strength purely using his martial arts foundation.
Shifting his footwork, his body slid half a foot to the side like a swimming fish. His right palm caught her wrist, guiding it aside with the martial technique Taking the Goat in Passing.
By his estimates, this maneuver should have thrown her at least two or three meters away.
Unexpectedly, her stance was unnaturally solid. Stumbling only half a step from the pull, she forcibly stabilized herself, followed immediately by a wild, sweeping left hook packed with unbridled brute force.
"Heh, quite a bit of strength." Surprised, Logan didn't slow down, raising his arm to block. With a dull bang, his arm actually went numb from the impact, forcing him half a step back.
Now he had a clear picture—her strength far exceeded ordinary humans, boasting explosive power of at least two to three tons. While nowhere near a monster like Red Tank, she was already monster-level compared to regular people.
Judging by her wildly unrefined fighting style, she was likely a superhuman who had awakened abilities without any proper combat training, relying entirely on brute strength to smash through.
"You've got some skill." Logan smiled, his interest piqued instead.
It had been a long time since he fought someone relying purely on hand-to-hand moves. Setting aside his lightheartedness, his footwork became swift as wind and fluid as water as he began circling her.
The intruder had clearly never seen such tricky footwork. Her thrown punches all missed, wind only catching afterimages, leaving her dizzy and disoriented before long.
Letting out a low growl, she abandoned aiming altogether and spread her arms wide to bear-hug the space in front of her, intending to rely on her brute strength to pin him down.
"Too unrefined," Logan muttered under his breath. Ducking down, he slid past her arm to her flank, driving his left palm precisely into her elbow joint while his right hand grabbed her wrist, twisting it gently along the natural direction of the joint.
With a soft click, she let out a muffled grunt of pain, her arm instantly losing all power.
But she was tough; instead of retreating, she leveraged the momentum of the twist to slam into him sideways, her shoulder aimed straight for Logan's chest in an obvious bid to trade injury for injury.
"Stubborn, aren't you?" Logan planted a solid horse stance, sank his waist and dropped his shoulders, slamming into her with Baji Quan's Iron Mountain Lean.
BOOM—
A heavy thud of flesh hitting flesh echoed out as she was launched backward three or four meters like she had been hit by a truck, slamming heavily into an abandoned shipping container. The sheet metal buckled deeply with a loud clang.
Unable to contain himself any longer, Ares let out a howl when he saw her fall, leaping forward with jaws aimed straight at her neck.
"Ares! Back!" Logan barked low.
The large dog froze instantly, his paws stopping right beside her neck. Unwillingly flicking his tail, he crouched to the side baring his teeth, throat rumbling with a menacing growl. His eyes remained locked on her—at a single command from his Master, he would snap her neck in an instant.
Logan walked over slowly, looking down at the person on the ground.
She had taken a hard crash, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth and her chest heaving violently, yet she didn't utter a single sound, stiffening her neck to glare up at him with eyes full of defiance.
"Fiery, aren't you?" Logan reached out and yanked off the hood covering her head.
Messy, dark brown curly hair tumbled down around a pale, gloomy face with sharp features and lips pressed into a tight line. Though looking a bit disheveled, it couldn't hide the striking sharpness underneath—she looked just like a feral cat with its fur raised.
Logan paused for a moment, not expecting the person tailing him to be a woman, and a good-looking one at that.
But he had no inclination to show chivalry, pulling his hand back as his voice turned cold: "Speak up, who sent you? What's your name?"
The woman turned her head away in silence, acting completely unbothered by threats.
"Not talking?" Logan raised an eyebrow, flicking his index finger slightly. Adamantium Claws flickered between his knuckles, a flash of cold gleam passing through. "I have plenty of ways to make you speak."
He wasn't bluffing.
Once he unleashed a mental illusion, forget asking her name—he could even find out what color underwear she was wearing.
Just as he was about to use his ability, the woman finally spoke, her voice raspy and tinged with frustrated hostility: "Jessica Jones. Private investigator."
"Investigator?" Logan clicked his tongue. "Which agency? Has your business expanded to tailing bodyguards now? Who's the client? Justin Hammer?"
"I don't know," Jessica replied, wincing as she shifted her dislocated arm. "An anonymous commission. They just wired a deposit to my account and asked me to investigate your daily routine, who you meet, and if you have superpowers. No name, no face."
Logan stared into her eyes for a few seconds, seeing that her gaze was open and didn't seem to be lying.
Musing internally, it was most likely Justin Hammer behind this, or S.H.I.E.L.D. taking an outsourced route to avoid showing their own faces.
Retracting the claws at his fingertips, he stepped back, releasing his restraint on her: "How much was the deposit?"
Jessica blinked, unprepared for his sudden question, and answered reflexively: "One hundred thousand. Another hundred thousand upon completion."
"Two hundred thousand buys you off?" Logan scoffed, pulling a business card from his wallet and tossing it into her lap. "I'll double it. Four hundred thousand. When that employer contacts you again, tell me the time, location, and demands word for word."
Jessica caught the card and glanced down at it—it had only a name and a phone number, without even a job title, ridiculously simple.
Rubbing her aching wrist, she looked up to glare at Logan: "Aren't you afraid I'll take the money and turn on you?"
"You can try," Logan curled his lips into a harmless-looking smile, though his tone carried intense confidence. "You can't run away anyway. Next time I catch you tailing me secretly, it won't be as simple as a dislocated shoulder."
Whistling as he finished, Ares immediately retracted his fangs and trotted back to his side, his tail lazily wagging again—a completely different dog from his ferocious demeanor moments ago.
Man and dog turned and walked away, footsteps gradually fading into the distance and quickly disappearing around the corner of the warehouse district.
Leaning against the dented container, Jessica rested for a good while before climbing up. Exercising her twisted arm, though painful, there was no bone damage—he had clearly held back. Looking down at the card in her hand, then rubbing her throbbing shoulder, she couldn't help muttering, "Monster."
Curse as she might, she still slipped the card into the inner pocket of her leather jacket.
Four hundred thousand was too good to pass up. It was an anonymous job anyway, and as a mercenary detective, doing business with anyone was business.
The next afternoon, Logan carried his tackle bucket and walked Ares out to the lake in the suburbs.
He hadn't paid the mind to last night's little episode at all. The fish would bite sooner or later anyway, so waiting was all he needed to do.
The lakeside breeze was refreshing, reed beds swaying gently with the wind while fish broke the surface to breathe every now and then.
He found a sunny fishing spot, and just as he set up his rod and baited the hook, he spotted a man walking down the nearby path.
Dressed in a black jacket and cargo pants, carrying an old tackle bag on his back, he had an upright frame and walked with the steady stride typical of a soldier.
It was Frank Castle, whom he had crossed paths with earlier at the tackle market.
The other man saw him too, pausing briefly before offering a slight nod in greeting. He selected a spot over a dozen meters away, set down his gear, and calmly prepped bait and set up his rod—his movements practiced and crisp, clearly an experienced angler.
Separated by a dozen meters, both watched their rods in silence for a long time, with only the rustling of wind blowing through the reeds around them.
Half an hour passed. Logan's bobber hadn't budged at all, whereas Frank over to the side had already reeled in two bass, each as long as a palm. Tossed into the bucket, they splashed vigorously.
Logan grew a bit restless, pulling out an unlit cigar to hold between his teeth and calling out, "Hey buddy, are my baits off? I haven't gotten a single bite in half an hour, while your bucket's almost overflowing."
Frank looked up at him, his voice low and raspy: "The water layer is deep here; fishy bait won't work, you need grain-scented bait. Your bloodworms are only good for shallows."
"No wonder," Logan clicked his tongue, retracting his rod and grabbing his folding stool to move closer. Without any reserve, he sat down beside him. "So I sat there for half an hour for nothing. You've got great skills, buddy—used to fish often?"
"Spent a long time in the military, so I came to like quiet activities," Frank replied without stopping his hands, baiting the hook and casting it lightly. "Fishing is more interesting than target practice. Fish don't shoot back."
Logan raised his eyebrows; knowing Frank's identity, he wasn't surprised.
"That makes sense," Logan leaned against a tree trunk, watching the bobber on the water. "All that killing and fighting is boring. Quietly fishing is better than anything."
"Mhm." Frank nodded slightly, speaking little but not coming off as cold either.
The two chatted casually like that, touching on bait, fishing spots, and lakeside weather.
Frank was a man of few words, each sentence straightforward. Logan cracked jokes occasionally, and Frank didn't mind, at most twitching the corner of his lips as a quiet smile.
As the sun set, Frank packed up his gear, his bucket full with six big fish.
Logan was less fortunate, catching only a small carp smaller than a hand after half a day, which he ultimately released.
"Not bad, buddy, keeping your talents hidden," Loganremarked in amazement while carrying his empty gear bucket. "Turns out I fished all afternoon just to be your audience."
Frank picked up his bucket, paused for two seconds, and handed over the two largest bass: "Take these."
"Oh, I shouldn't," Logan said politely while his hands honestly took them. "Alright, I won't stand on ceremony then. Next time I'll bring a bottle of good liquor, and we can drink while we fish."
Frank gave a subtle nod without explicitly agreeing or disagreeing, carrying the remaining fish as he turned to leave. His back was straight and his posture steady, soon disappearing down the wooded path.
Carrying the two fish, Logan walked back with Ares on the leash, a faint smile on his lips.
He had planned to just lie low and chill, but excitement kept presenting itself one thing after another.
He reached down to rub Ares's head, chuckling affectionately: "Let's go home and pan-fry some fish for you. Look at you, completely fixated as soon as you see fish."
Ares whined twice, his tail wagging furiously with a swooshing sound.