Nighttime, Flushing Meadows–Corona Park, Queens, New York — Stark Expo
The Expo blazed with light, pulsing with crowds drawn by spectacle and science.
Backstage, security had collapsed under the pressure of a frenzied mob. Arms stretched like vines toward the center of attention—Tony Stark, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the hour, radiating practiced charm.
"Excuse me! Coming through!"
Happy Hogan, broad-shouldered and sweating through his collar, shouldered a path like a human icebreaker, using his arms to gently—but firmly—push back overeager fans.
Tony followed, tossing a theatrical kiss to a squealing cluster of admirers.
"I love you, Tony!"
"Marry me, Mr. Stark!"
"Sir! Rumor says you stopped weapons manufacturing because you've built something even deadlier for yourself—care to comment?"
Tony offered a lazy wave but no answer.
After a grueling twenty-minute slog, they finally broke free into a dimly lit service parking lot. Happy exhaled in relief and reached into his pocket for the keys—only to freeze.
Two figures stood before Tony's gleaming silver Audi R8, parked conspicuously sideways across the exit.
One was a striking woman in a burgundy backless gown—flame-haired, poised, radiating authority.
The other was a young man in an indigo Chinese-style changpao, his blue hair catching the ambient glow, his demeanor serene yet out of place amid the urban grit.
Tony arched a brow. Before he could speak, the woman stepped forward with feline grace.
Tony elbowed Happy in the ribs and muttered, "If this comes with the car, I need to know which dealership you bought it from."
Happy, squinting, replied under his breath, "Think it's the headlights—they've got that real gleam, you know? Like liquid chrome."
"…Or maybe it's the hair," Tony mused. "Wait—blue hair? Since when do anime characters show up at my parking lot?"
"…Tony," Happy warned.
The woman stopped a respectful distance away. Her voice, smooth yet commanding, cut through the night:
"Good evening, Mr. Stark."
Tony's signature smirk returned instantly. "Evening, gorgeous. Hate to break it to you, but you outshine every exhibit inside."
She gave a practiced, professional smile. "My name is Agent Marcel. I'm a federal marshal with the U.S. Marshals Service."
Tony's grin faltered. "Ah. So this isn't a fan club meet-and-greet."
"Correct." She produced a sealed document. "You're summoned to appear before the U.S. District Court for the District of Columbia next Thursday at 10 a.m. The hearing concerns your Iron Man technology and its classification under national security protocols."
Happy stepped forward and accepted the summons, handling it like it might detonate.
Tony turned toward his car without a word—only to pause as the blue-haired youth spoke for the first time.
"Good evening, Mr. Stark."
Xingqiu gave a slight, courteous nod.
Tony didn't look at him. "Kid, it's not safe out here this late. Go home before you get mugged—or worse, bored."
He slid into the driver's seat. "Happy. Drive."
The engine purred to life.
Then Xingqiu said, calmly:
"Palladium poisoning isn't incurable. I wonder… would you be interested in a cure?"
The car screeched to a halt.
Tony's leg was halfway into the cabin when he froze. He turned sharply, eyes narrowing in the darkness, pupils tight.
"What did you just say?"
Xingqiu's expression remained placid, his voice clear as chimes. "Precisely what you think I said. I know about the arc reactor. The toxicity. The slow burn in your blood. And yes—I know how to stop it."
Tony's knuckles whitened on the doorframe. Hope and suspicion warred in his gaze. He strode toward Xingqiu, voice low and edged.
"Who are you? Who sent you? SHIELD? Hammer? Osborn?"
Xingqiu glanced around the empty lot, then offered a faint, knowing smile. "Is this truly the place for such a conversation, Mr. Stark? I wouldn't mind—but I suspect you might."
Tony hesitated. A memory surfaced—whispers in boardrooms, hushed rumors among tech elites.
"…Osborn," he said abruptly. "Norman Osborn. Did you have anything to do with what happened to him?"
Xingqiu blinked—genuine surprise flickering across his features. "You've heard of that?"
Tony's eyes narrowed further. The story had spread quietly through the upper echelons of American industry:
Norman Osborn, once ruthless and calculating, had fallen ill with a mysterious condition. Conventional medicine failed. Desperate, he sought help from an "Eastern healer." After taking a strange elixir, he didn't die—he changed.
He began enforcing humane labor policies. Pushed for employee ownership. Canceled exploitative contracts. To his peers, this wasn't recovery—it was madness. A betrayal of capitalist orthodoxy. Several CEOs had already begun plotting to contain "the Osborn anomaly."
Now, standing before this calm, blue-haired stranger, Tony realized:
This wasn't just a fan.
This was a variable he
couldn't compute.
And for the first time in months, the poison in his veins felt… negotiable.
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