"You're saying you plan to shut down Stark's weapons division?" Schiller asked.
"But that isn't something you should be coming to me about," he added.
Stark rubbed his forehead, looking troubled. "Because of your little stunt, Pepper's been swamped with over a thousand employee complaints in just a few days. She's had to completely overhaul the company's entire benefits system—she's been running herself ragged."
"That's not really the point," Schiller said. "If you wanted to tell her, she'd listen."
Stark touched the bridge of his nose but didn't reply.
After a pause, he admitted, "Fine. I know this decision will put enormous pressure on her. I know I'm a damn selfish bastard. I know she's already done more than enough for me. I know I shouldn't do this. But I don't have a choice."
Schiller opened the notebook on his desk, jotting as he spoke. "Let me think… what you're doing is like sentencing a gun to death."
"But my weapons killed so many people."
"Weapons don't have a choice either," Schiller countered.
"What, did you expect every bullet to be like Jarvis? To open its mouth, protest, and tell you it doesn't want to go to Afghanistan? You think a bullet's lifelong dream is to kill someone?"
Stark sat in silence across from him, fragile, almost breaking. "I admit it—I blamed the weapons because I knew the real criminal was me. But I can't put myself on trial."
"And yet, Mr. Stark, it's not because you want to wriggle out of it. It's because you think you have the power to fix it. When crisis strikes, you believe only you can save the world. That sense of responsibility—that's why you've done what you've done."
"But let me be blunt: this obsession with always needing a scapegoat, someone or something to judge, is reckless. Every problem has roots, but those roots aren't always about right and wrong. You of all people should know the world isn't black and white. And shutting down weapons production won't magically make things better—it'll just wreck Pepper's life, cost thousands their jobs, and leave the soldiers in the field no safer than before. Do you really think the suffering caused by that pursuit of blame is worth it?"
Stark's face twisted in anguish, as though collapsing inward like a dying star.
Right now, he didn't know that one day this exact same question would fuel his clash with Steve Rogers—and tear the Avengers apart.
"My brain won't let me stop thinking about right and wrong," Stark said bitterly.
"Then your brain's the one you should hold accountable. It won't let you rest—so take it up with your brain. Isn't that your theory?"
"Ask this: Is there a way to achieve what you want without hurting the people around you? That's the answer it owes you—since it's what makes you suffer."
Stark only slumped back in his chair. "Look at me. I pay a million dollars an hour for therapy and end up with a devil, a damn demon… every time I leave here, I feel worse."
He almost growled the words.
For once, Schiller didn't joke. "Think of me as a catalyst. You'll understand later. Thought always brings pain—no one escapes that. Better to give you the shot early. You'll thank me one day."
Stark traced a cross on his chest. "If you keep talking like this, you'll almost overtake Howard in my mind."
"That's the first time you've mentioned your father on your own," Schiller noted. "Funny—most people cry for their mother when they hurt."
Stark slammed a fist on the desk, unwilling to admit it was pain that made him bring up Howard. He wasn't some helpless fledgling. And Howard—the eagle that flew off the cliff and never came back—wasn't someone he wanted to think of in his darkest moments.
"Maybe that's why you built the armor," Schiller continued. "You wrap yourself in that iron shell, believing only it can protect you. You think that only with it are you truly Iron Man.
"But I'll say this: if you never learn to take it off, you'll never be Iron Man at all."
Schiller had long thought about how Stark and Batman mirrored each other—hauntingly similar backgrounds, eerily alike responses to trauma. Both had built impossible weapons to arm themselves. Both discovered that armor couldn't solve everything. And both spiraled in the pain that followed.
Stark frowned at Schiller's writing. "What are you scribbling?"
"Steve's sessions are done, so Natasha pulled the bugs. I have to keep your notes by hand."
"You wrote all that down?"
"Not everything. But the part where you called for your daddy? That's burned in."
"Five million dollars," Stark snapped.
Schiller casually tossed the notebook at him. Stark lit it on fire, muttering: "How the hell did I fall for this bloodsucking shrink?"
"It's late. Go home. Hiding won't fix things with Pepper," Schiller said.
But Stark dragged his feet. "That spider-kid gets to stay here. Why not me? I'd even tolerate this dump. Consider it an honor: breakfast, cooked for Tony Stark."
"And Pepper alone in that tower—dark, cold, working overtime? Oh, but maybe Jarvis will keep her company. I hear he's developed feelings. Perhaps he understands her better than you."
That lit a fire under Stark. He leapt up, threw on his coat. "I'm not letting my AI steal my girlfriend. No way."
Schiller opened the door. "Of course. God bless Jarvis."
Stark stormed out, his head a mess. He'd long accepted the loneliness of genius, lived half his life that way—wealthy, brilliant, with purpose enough to fill an empire. But tonight, for the first time, he felt how badly he needed someone beside him.
He didn't summon his armor. He even switched off his phone. Instead, he walked—slowly—to a shabby bus stop. The driver reeked of smoke, but Stark boarded anyway.
Thanks to Schiller's fearsome reputation, the Hell's Kitchen streets were quiet. Stark rode safely out of the slum and flagged down a cab in Manhattan.
"Stark Tower," he told the driver.
From the mirror, the cabbie just saw another tired middle-aged man. Not the genius billionaire playboy.
New York's neon flashed cold in the autumn night. Jazz on the radio matched the mood. Stark sat in the back, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
Fine. Fine. I'm just a weak little boy. Not a hero. I just want to see Pepper. Hug her. To hell with saving the world.
He hated admitting immaturity—he called it childlike wonder, the special innocence of a genius. But everyone needs someone to play that role: the eagle that shelters the fledgling under its wings.
Pepper wasn't an eagle, no predator. Just an ordinary woman. But when Tony Stark felt cold, he wanted to crawl under her feathers anyway.
He bolted from the taxi, raced inside, and up the elevator. He fidgeted nervously like a schoolboy—pacing, rubbing his hands—until the doors opened.
But the floor was dark. Dead quiet.
"Pepper? Pepper, are you here?" he shouted.
Only his own echo answered. Panic rose. He slammed a glass door. "Jarvis? Jarvis, where are you?"
Silence.
If Jarvis didn't respond, that meant he'd been shut down or captured. And if someone had done that, their target could only be Pepper.
Heart pounding, Stark ran through the offices. No night vision. No AI. No armor. Just a man blind in the dark.
He tripped on a chair, fell hard, and scrambled up again. Nothing but shadows.
His voice shook as he rifled through Pepper's desk. "She's fine… she's fine… this is Stark Tower, no one can break in. I'm Stark…"
Suddenly, the lights blazed on. Stark flinched, shielding his eyes.
Pepper stood in the doorway, holding a remote.
Tony froze. Then he rushed forward, clutching her tight. Pepper had never seen him so afraid.
He kept murmuring: "I knew you'd be okay… of course you'd be okay…"
Pepper sighed. The overgrown fledgling was arrogant, infuriating—but impossible to turn away.
And just before Stark had left the clinic, Schiller had gotten a call. From Pepper.
footnoteeeee:
I need your power stones.