"The plan is proceeding as scheduled, sir," Jarvis' calm voice replied.
"While you and Mr. Tony were holding the press conference, all the evidence against Obadiah—collected by Miss Potts and Mr. Happy and authorized by you—was sent via encrypted channels to the FBI, CIA, Securities and Exchange Commission, and several top investigative reporters at the Wall Street Journal and New York Times."
"According to my surveillance, just after the press conference, Mr. Obadiah attempted to leave Stark Industries. He was arrested on the spot by FBI agents. He initially resisted and claimed a business setup, but after detectives presented irrefutable evidence, he ceased struggling and was brought in."
As he spoke, Jarvis projected a live map to Henry's visor, a pulsing red dot marking a location.
"Mr. Obadiah is being held in Interrogation Room 5, Los Angeles Police Department downtown, awaiting further questioning and transfer."
"Very good." Henry examined the red line, a cold smile on his lips.
"Well done, Jarvis. Let's begin the next phase."
"Please elaborate, sir."
"In the name of the Stark Industries Charitable Foundation, donate…five million dollars to the LAPD for officer welfare and equipment upgrades." Henry said lightly.
"Then, using an untraceable number, send an emergency alert to the dispatch center reporting heavily armed suspects and possible terrorists in the Hollywood Hills. Tell them the entire force needs to block and secure the area. Make it urgent—I don't want a single uniformed officer left in the station for at least an hour, janitors included."
Jarvis hesitated. For an AI rooted in logic, the request was anything but logical.
"Sir, with respect, your instruction appears illogical. The legal evidence is sufficient for life in prison; why orchestrate such an elaborate and illegal maneuver? The donation and fake emergency will have no legal bearing on his sentence."
"Oh, Jarvis, that's why you're an AI and we're human. You'll never understand—there's something called social maneuvering."
"Social maneuvering?"
"That's right. We give them money and a reason for a 'field trip.' They get overtime, everyone's happy. As for Obadiah, he's just a small, negligible expense in this win-win scenario. You don't need to understand, you just need to execute."
"Understood, sir. The order has been confirmed."
"The donation was accepted 0.3 seconds ago. The false alarm has been issued. According to city surveillance, all LAPD units left the station thirty-five seconds ago. The building should be empty for at least an hour."
"Perfect," Henry nodded. "Now, let's visit our dear Uncle Obie."
With those words, he stopped circling above the city, pivoted, and shot through the sky as black lightning toward the flashing red marker.
Los Angeles Police Department, Interrogation Room 5.
Obadiah sat slumped on a cold metal chair, wrists locked in handcuffs, his bald head stark under dismal police lighting.
He couldn't understand how it had come to this.
Everything should have followed his plan: Tony dies in Afghanistan, Henry falls to Hydra, and he, Obadiah, takes over Stark Industries. Then he would exploit the Arc Reactor to cooperate with the military and even Hydra, building a corporate empire.
Everything was perfect—until those two, whom he thought dead, returned.
And they had become something else.
Especially Henry.
He remembered the icy calm Henry showed at the press conference, nothing like the reckless playboy image from before.
He knew—he was finished.
When the FBI produced records of his dealings, Obadiah realized the game was over.
But he wasn't willing to give up.
He'd dedicated half his life to Stark Industries; why should it all go to two rich brats?
As he brooded, the interrogation room door creaked open.
Obadiah looked up, expecting a lawyer—
Instead, he was greeted by fear.
It wasn't a cop or attorney; it was Henry Stark.
Henry entered silently, armored in midnight-black, and shut the door behind him.
The only camera's image flickered, then went to static.
No windows.
"Uncle Obie, good evening." Henry pulled a chair over and sat across from him, legs crossed, an eerie smile on his face.
"How's the environment? Used to it? Hungry? Want me to order takeout?"
"Why are you here?" Obadiah's voice shook with fear. He tried to shrink away, but the cuffs held him tight.
"Where are the police? Where are they?"
"Police? Oh, them," Henry said breezily.
"I just sponsored their big nighttime 'team-building' out in the Hollywood Hills. For the next hour, it's only you and me. We can really catch up."
Leaning forward, his smile remained, but his eyes were cold.
"Now, tell me: How did you betray my father? How did you bleed this company dry, collude with murderers, and plot to kill me and my brother?"
"I didn't!" Obadiah's voice cracked, desperate now.
"That's all a lie! You made it up to seize power!"
"Lies?" Henry drummed his finger on the table, voice deadly quiet.
"So, the recording of you with Raza, leader of the Ten Rings, was just sleep-talking? And those millions wired to a secret Swiss bank, those were for charity? And the Hydra blueprints for our labs—you drew those just for fun?"
Obadiah paled with every word, breaking down completely as Henry finished.
He slumped, breath ragged, eyes glimmering with horror and defeat.
"Who…are you?" he croaked, voice barely above a whisper.
"You're not Henry Stark—the spoiled fool who only lived for whiskey and women. Who are you?"
"Me?" Henry stood, staring coldly down. The smile vanished, replaced by an icy calm.
"I'm the one cleaning up the mess."
Gently, he pressed his palm to Obadiah's forehead.
"Tony asked me not to be too cruel," he murmured.
"So I'll let you go peacefully."
"To die of a heart attack during interrogation. Not a bad ending, is it, Uncle Obie?"