The man on the cot was a paradox of iron and fragility. Ho Yinsen had seen many broken men in his life—soldiers, civilians, idealists ground down by the relentless machinery of war. But this one was different. Tony Stark, the world-famous merchant of death, was as physically broken as any of them, yet the true damage, Yinsen suspected, was somewhere deeper.
He gently checked the dressing around the crude electromagnet in Stark's chest. The device was a brutal, desperate piece of engineering, a testament to the genius even a near-death experience couldn't extinguish. The wound was clean, for now. The shrapnel was stable. The body, at least, was holding.
The mind, however, was a different story.
For two days, Stark had drifted in a feverish, agitated state, his muttering a chaotic tapestry of nonsense. Yinsen, a polyglot, could pick out the English words, but they formed no cohesive whole. *"Stones," he would whisper, his hands clenching. "Thanos." The name was spoken with a venomous dread that felt ancient. And then there was the other name, the one that came with a soft, aching tenderness that seemed utterly alien on the face of the arrogant billionaire. "Morgan."
Yinsen adjusted the thin blanket. He was a doctor, and his diagnosis was clear: a complete psychotic break from reality, brought on by extreme physical and psychological trauma. The names, the talk of cosmic threats—they were the mind's desperate attempt to build a narrative around a horror it could not otherwise process. His job was to treat the patient. Keep him hydrated. Keep the wound from getting infected. And, most importantly, keep him calm enough not to attract the violent attention of their captors.
Suddenly, Stark's eyes snapped open. The feverish haze was gone. They were sharp, lucid, and filled with a desperate, terrifying clarity. He grabbed Yinsen's arm, his grip surprisingly strong.
"You died," Stark rasped, his voice a dry crackle. "You died saving me. I remember."
Yinsen froze. This was not the rambling of a fever. This was a statement of absolute, unshakeable fact. The conviction in Stark's eyes was a physical force. It was the look of a man who had not just imagined an event, but had witnessed it, mourned it, and carried its weight for years. For the first time, a sliver of doubt, sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, cut through Yinsen's diagnosis. This was something more than madness. He made a choice.
He did not argue. He did not placate. He simply met Stark's gaze and held it.
Then, with his free hand, he gently pulled back the collar of his own worn shirt, revealing the angry, puckered scar on his shoulder—a deep furrow where a piece of shrapnel from the initial convoy attack had torn through flesh and muscle.
"We all have scars from that day, Tony," Yinsen said, his voice soft and even. "Some are just easier to see than others."
He let the silence hang in the air, a bridge between two broken men in a dark place. He saw the tension in Stark's shoulders ease, just a fraction. He saw the frantic terror in his eyes recede, replaced by a flicker of exhausted confusion.
Yinsen reached for the small, tin bowl of clean water he had saved. He held it out to Stark. It was an offering. An act of trust.
"Now," he said, his voice a quiet invitation. "Tell me your story. Tell me about the scars I can't see."