The aftermath of battle left a hollow silence in Tony's villa. The windows rattled faintly as if the earth itself still carried the echo of the Iron Monger's fall. Smoke rose far away, sirens in the distance, but inside the mansion everything seemed… unnaturally quiet.
Tony slumped into one of his chairs, the silver-blue glow of the newly seated arc reactor pulsing faintly through his undershirt. His face was tight with exhaustion, eyes rimmed red from adrenaline and the sudden crash that followed it. He didn't speak, not immediately—there was too much rattling around in his head. The betrayal, the fight, Obadiah's expression as life drained from him.
Brendon stood a little apart, arms crossed, his glasses reflecting shifting streams of AEGIS' interface. He didn't look shaken. If anything, he looked grounded, deliberate. Like he had expected this end all along.
"Spectre, ping him," Brendon said calmly.
The AI obeyed instantly. A faint ripple in the air, like the house itself had twitched, followed.
Tony frowned. "Who exactly are we inviting to the afterparty? Please tell me it's not another long-lost uncle who wants to stab me in the back."
Brendon just smirked. "Close. Someone who thinks he's the one pulling strings."
The front door clicked open without the courtesy of a knock. Two black-suited figures entered first, scanning the place with professional efficiency, and then a man in a leather trench coat followed. His presence was immediate, commanding—the type that could silence a room without saying a word.
Nick Fury.
Tony blinked once, twice, then let out a low whistle. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Eyepatch himself. I didn't know Halloween came early."
Fury ignored the jab. His good eye flicked over the wreckage in the living room, the faint smell of burnt metal clinging to the air, and finally settled on Brendon. "You called." His tone wasn't a question.
Brendon inclined his head, cool and deliberate. "I did."
Tony leaned back, spreading his arms across the chair like he owned the whole damn conversation. "Hold on. Before we get into mystery guest hour—who the hell are you, exactly? I've seen the acronym SHIELD floating around, usually attached to my dad's old projects, but faces? Nothing. And here you are, walking into my house like you pay rent."
Fury's gaze sharpened slightly. "The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Your father was one of the founding contributors—helped set the framework after the war. We've been working in the shadows ever since, keeping threats contained that most people don't even want to believe exist."
Tony rubbed a hand over his jaw, trying to look unimpressed, though the slight flicker in his eyes betrayed interest. "Great. Another secret club Dad never told me about. He really did love his Easter eggs."
Brendon cut in before Fury could continue. His tone was casual, but his words dropped like weights onto the floor. "He's not here because of your father's resume. He's here because you just fought your business partner in a mech suit in the middle of Los Angeles. Fury has a plan to keep it under wraps. I figured it was best we all sit down before decisions get made without you."
Tony stiffened at the phrasing. "Excuse me?" He turned to Fury, voice hardening. "Is that true?"
Fury's silence was answer enough.
Brendon stepped forward, unhurried, and pulled a chair around so he could sit directly across from Tony. He laced his fingers together, elbows on his knees, leaning in like a mentor ready to give a lecture. "Let's not waste time. We both know Obadiah's little stunt tonight will draw eyes—government, press, maybe worse. Fury here has two options he's about to pitch you, so I'll make it easy."
He raised one finger. "Option one: the fight tonight? Officially it was a rogue prototype. A dangerous machine out of control. You, Tony Stark, happened to design a security measure—a bodyguard suit—to stop it. This keeps you slightly distanced. Allows you to deny, delay, keep the world at arm's length. But eventually, the mask slips. Someone will connect the dots."
Another finger lifted. "Option two: you step out and claim it. Own it. Iron Man. No masks, no excuses. Yes, it paints a target on your back, but it also lets you leverage the technology. You can build Stark Industries back up on your terms. Clean energy, defense reformation, and it gives Nirvana"—he gestured vaguely to himself—"a partner with actual teeth. It's messy, but it's yours."
Tony stared at him, speechless for the first time in hours. He hadn't expected Brendon to throw it out so bluntly. And he definitely hadn't expected the quiet confidence—the way Brendon said it like he already knew which choice Tony would lean toward.
"Funny," Tony muttered finally, "you talk like you're the one writing the script."
Brendon shrugged. "Someone has to. Otherwise, Fury here does it for you."
Tony's eyes flicked to Fury, then back to Brendon. "And what makes you think you're qualified?"
"Because while Fury has one eye on the board," Brendon replied smoothly, "I've had two on him."
He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a small black card onto the coffee table. Glossy. Sleek. The word Spectre embossed in faint silver lines.
Tony raised a brow. Fury's jaw tightened a fraction.
Brendon leaned back, casual again, like the move hadn't just changed the room's temperature. "You're not the only one with surveillance toys. SHIELD thinks it's invisible, but I prefer to know who's watching my friends." His gaze cut briefly to Tony, a silent underline.
The tension was palpable. Fury finally exhaled, slow and deliberate, and straightened his coat. "I don't like being anticipated."
"You'll get used to it," Brendon said.
Tony ran a hand through his hair, groaning. "Okay, okay, time out. So we've got cloak-and-dagger Nick Fury wanting to sanitize the news cycle, we've got Brendon here apparently pulling double duty as my unsolicited life coach and tech savant, and me, sitting in the middle, wondering when I signed up for this soap opera."
Fury's voice cut cleanly across the sarcasm. "This isn't about soap operas, Stark. This is about global security. You just put a weapon in the open that changes the balance of power. Whether you admit it or not, the whole world will be watching."
Tony's expression darkened at the word weapon. He looked down at the glow of the arc reactor in his chest, then back up with a sharpness that hadn't been there before. "It's not a weapon. Not anymore. Not if I can help it."
Brendon nodded once. "Then you already know your answer."
Tony met his eyes. Something unspoken passed between them—recognition, maybe even trust. He didn't say the words yet, but the decision was forming.
Fury broke the moment with a clipped tone. "It's your call, Stark. But whichever way you go, there will be consequences."
He stepped toward the door, his agents moving in sync with him. At the threshold, he paused, looking back at Brendon. "You like playing shadows. Just remember, shadows cut both ways."
Brendon's lips quirked. "Good thing I don't mind the dark."
Fury left without another word, the door shutting with a soft click.
The silence that followed was heavier than before. Tony leaned back, staring at the ceiling, then let out a bark of laughter that was more tired than amused. "Well. That was a hell of a Tuesday."
Brendon didn't smile. "It's only going to get harder from here."
"Yeah," Tony muttered, running a hand over his chest. His voice dropped, quieter now. "But for once… maybe that's the point."