"The plan is proceeding as scheduled, sir." Jarvis's voice was as calm as ever.
"While you and Mr. Tony were holding the press conference, I transmitted all the incriminating evidence on Obadiah—previously authorized by you and gathered by Miss Pepper Potts and Mr. Happy—through encrypted channels. Copies were sent to the FBI, CIA, the Securities and Exchange Commission, as well as several senior investigative journalists from The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times."
"According to surveillance feedback, two hours ago, right after the press conference ended, Mr. Obadiah attempted to leave Stark Tower but was apprehended on the spot by FBI agents.
He resisted violently at first, claiming it was a corporate conspiracy, but after being confronted with overwhelming evidence, he gave up and was forcibly taken away."
As Jarvis spoke, a real-time map projected from Henry's armor chestplate, a flashing red dot marking the location.
"Currently, Mr. Obadiah is being held in Interrogation Room 5 of the LAPD Central Precinct, awaiting further questioning and transfer."
"Excellent." Henry gazed at the red dot, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold smile.
"Well done, Jarvis. Now, onto the second phase of the plan."
"Your orders, sir?"
"In the name of the Stark Industries Charity Foundation, immediately donate… let's say five million dollars to the LAPD Central Precinct, designated as funding for officer benefits and equipment upgrades," Henry said casually.
"Then, use an untraceable number to place an emergency call to their dispatch. Report that a heavily armed group—suspected terrorists—has been spotted in the Hollywood Hills. Demand immediate lockdown and full mobilization of police resources.
And remember, make it sound urgent. For the next hour, I don't want to see a single uniformed officer in that precinct—not even a janitor."
Jarvis paused briefly.
For an AI built on logic, the order was contradictory and irrational.
"Sir, with all due respect, this directive seems illogical," Jarvis said, his voice tinged with confusion.
"We've already provided enough evidence to guarantee him a life sentence. Why resort to such elaborate and illegal measures? The donation and the false alarm won't legally inflict any further punishment."
"Oh, Jarvis, my dear old friend." Henry chuckled.
"That's the difference between you and us humans. There's something you'll never understand—it's called human relations."
"Human relations?"
"Exactly. We give them money, we give them a reason to take a little night drive, and they get overtime pay. They're happy, I'm happy. That's what we call a win-win. As for that bald bastard? He's just the negligible cost of this arrangement. You don't need to understand. Just do as I say."
"Understood, sir. Executing now." Though Jarvis failed to grasp the reasoning, he obeyed faithfully.
"The donation cleared 0.3 seconds ago. The false alert has been issued. According to city surveillance, all LAPD patrol cars departed 35 seconds ago. The precinct will remain empty for the next hour."
"Perfect." Henry nodded with satisfaction. "Now, let's go pay our dear Uncle Obie a little visit."
The words had barely left his mouth when his figure blurred into a streak of black lightning, shooting toward the flashing red dot on the map!
---
LAPD Central Precinct. Interrogation Room 5.
Obadiah sat slumped in a cold metal chair, wrists bound by cuffs that bit into his skin.
The glaring light above made his bald head shine even harsher in the sterile room.
He couldn't understand.
How had everything come to this?
Everything should have gone according to his plan.
Tony dies in Afghanistan. Henry eliminated by Hydra. He would then naturally inherit Stark Industries.
With the arc reactor tech, he'd forge deeper ties with the military—even Hydra—and build an empire of his own.
Everything was supposed to be perfect.
Until those two damned brats—who should have been dead—suddenly came back.
Not only did they return, they were stronger than ever.
Especially Henry.
Obadiah could still remember his calm, poised demeanor at the press conference—so different from his old playboy image.
That was when he knew. He was finished.
When the FBI agents revealed the records of his secret arms deals, he realized everything was over.
But he refused to accept it!
He had devoted half his life to Stark Industries—why should everything in the end belong to those spoiled brats who only knew how to squander money?
As bitterness consumed him, plotting how to leverage his connections and lawyers for one last desperate fight, the interrogation room door creaked open.
Obadiah raised his head, expecting his attorney.
But when he saw who it was, his face twisted in fear.
It wasn't a cop. It wasn't a lawyer.
It was Henry Stark.
Clad in pitch-black armor, he slipped silently into the room, shutting the door behind him.
The interrogation room had no windows. The sole surveillance camera flickered once as he entered, then went dead with static.
"Good evening, Uncle Obie." Henry dragged a chair forward, crossed his legs, and sat down leisurely, a smile on his face.
"How's the place treating you? Comfortable? Want me to order you takeout? I bet you haven't had dinner yet."
"Why are you here?" Obadiah's voice trembled with fear. He tried to recoil, but the cuffs held him fast.
"And the police? Where are they?"
"The police? Oh, them." Henry said offhandedly.
"I just sponsored them a little night excursion to the Hollywood Hills. Team-building exercise. So for the next hour, it's just you and me. Plenty of time for a nice chat."
He leaned forward, his smile bright but his eyes ice-cold.
"Let's talk about how you betrayed my father's trust. How you hollowed out the company step by step. How you colluded with terrorists. And how you plotted to kill me and my brother."
"I didn't!" Obadiah roared, his bravado crumbling under fear.
"It's all lies! Lies you two cooked up to seize power!"
"Lies?" Henry chuckled, tapping a finger on the table.
"Then the recorded calls between you and Raza of the Ten Rings—were those sleep-talking? The secret offshore account in Switzerland—was that for charity? And the files you handed Hydra, the schematics of Stark's underground labs—were those just doodles?"
With every word Henry spoke, Obadiah's face grew paler.
By the time Henry finished, Obadiah's defenses collapsed completely.
He slumped in the chair, gasping heavily, eyes full of despair.
"Who the hell are you?" he rasped, voice raw.
"You're not Henry Stark, the useless playboy. Who are you really?"
"Me?" Henry rose, towering over him. The smile vanished, replaced with cold indifference.
"I'm the one here to clean house."
He pressed a hand gently against Obadiah's forehead.
"Tony told me not to make you suffer too much," he said softly.
"So, I'll let you go peacefully."
"Heart attack during interrogation. Died suddenly. I think that's a fine ending, don't you… Uncle Obie?"