What Color Armor Do You Like?
Tony had never told anyone about the chest device that absorbed the shrapnel inching toward his heart.
The only one who knew was Pepper.
And Pepper would never have told Xu Mo.
So how did Xu Mo know?
Tony's eyes widened, darting around the room.
"God, did you install a bug or camera in here? This is not what a good citizen does!"
He swept through the villa, searching every corner.
"Jarvis, check the place for any surveillance."
"Yes, sir," the AI replied smoothly.
Less than a minute later, Jarvis's voice returned.
"Sir, no surveillance devices are connected within the villa."
Tony frowned, unsettled.
On the sofa, Xu Mo watched him with an amused smirk.
"Relax. I don't have any creepy hobbies. I'm not interested in spying on what you do in private. The reason I know about the shrapnel is… this."
Xu Mo flicked his right hand lightly.
The knife and fork from the kitchen drawer flew into the room, suspended mid-air between them, spinning slowly.
It was all part of the cover he had prepared — the illusion that his powers were limited to metal manipulation. A neat parallel to Magneto. The perfect bluff. People would believe it, and it gave him a card to play if his true abilities were ever questioned.
"Wardfa—ke!" Tony blurted, eyes bulging in shock.
"Mutant? Magneto? Are you Erik's illegitimate kid?"
Xu Mo narrowed his eyes. "Careful with your words, Stark. Otherwise this fork might end up lodged in your mouth."
Tony raised both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry! I just got… excited."
Still, the implications burned in Tony's mind. The shrapnel in his bloodstream had always been untouchable. He'd considered Magneto once — the infamous Master of Magnetism — but after the Golden Gate Bridge incident two years ago and Magneto's eventual depowering, that hope died.
Meanwhile, the palladium in his reactor core was already poisoning him, his blood test results worsening by the week. At this rate, three years was the most he could expect before irreparable organ failure.
And now Xu Mo offered a lifeline.
After barely ten seconds of thought, Tony exhaled and nodded.
"Fine. You win. What color armor do you like?"
---
Once the details were set, Tony dragged Xu Mo upstairs into his private medical suite.
Doctors swarmed around them, but Xu Mo frowned.
"This isn't necessary. I'm not planning to reveal my secret to a room full of strangers."
Tony paused. Mutants — or those suspected of being mutants — weren't exactly loved by the public. He understood.
"Everyone out," he ordered, waving the doctors away. Nervously, he lay back on the operating table, licking dry lips.
"Hey, man… are you sure we can do this here? No hospital backup, no crash team?"
Xu Mo smirked. "Relax. I don't joke about this sort of thing. If you die, I lose my armorer. I can't have that. So even for selfish reasons… I won't let anything happen to you."
Tony gave him a crooked grin and a thumbs-up. "You're terrible at pep talks, you know that?"
Once they were alone, Xu Mo went to work.
With fine control, he drew the shrapnel toward a narrow vessel in Tony's arm, tied it off with a tourniquet, and one by one extracted the metallic fragments.
In under a minute, it was done.
Tony blinked in disbelief as Xu Mo dropped several bloody shards of metal into his palm.
"Keep them. A souvenir," Xu Mo said coolly.
He opened the door and gestured to the waiting staff. "You can come in and stop the bleeding."
But his expression shifted as he spotted a familiar figure among the group — someone with a knowing smirk.
Inside, Tony stared at the fragments glittering in his hand, scarcely able to believe it. The pressure in his chest was gone. For the first time in years, he could breathe freely.
As the doctors swarmed in, Tony barked, "Well? Don't just stand there — bandage me!"
One physician moved quickly, disinfecting and cleaning the minor wound.
Another doctor nearby glanced at the exposed vein. "Mr. Stark, if this isn't bandaged immediately—"
Tony stiffened. "What do you mean? Serious?"
The other physicians exchanged puzzled looks. To them, the wound was minor — a superficial vein, already tourniqueted, barely bleeding.
The doctor chuckled. "No, no, you misunderstand. The wound isn't serious. What I meant is… if you don't bandage it quickly, it'll heal on its own."
Tony blinked. Then scowled. "That's not funny. What hospital do you work for? I'll have your license."
The man handed him a card. "Mount Sinai Hospital. Strange. Doctor Stephen Strange."
With that, Strange turned and walked out, unimpressed by the entire scene. A world-renowned surgeon, forced here on administrative orders, only to find himself patching a glorified scratch.
In his mind, it was nothing short of a waste of medical talent.
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