"Bullshit!"
Henry Stark stared at the ceiling, a patchwork of cold, metallic alloys.
And the twenty-four-hour, never-dimming, shadowless lamp that was bright enough to blind someone, letting out his thoughts for the day.
His voice was hoarse and weak, as if rubbed with sandpaper, but it still couldn't mask the frustration and disdain in his words.
"Seriously, these people's aesthetic is a disaster. Cold colours, metal style, confined space—is this a prison or a set for a cheap sci-fi movie directed by some third-rate hack? Absolutely no taste.
They could at least lay a carpet or hang a few postmodern paintings, like Mark Rothko's colour field paintings, just to make the prisoners feel slightly less depressed."
He was wearing a loose white lab coat; the empty sleeves and trouser legs made his body, already emaciated from hunger, look even thinner. He lay on a similarly cold metal slab, which one could generously call a bed, spread out in a standard 'big character' posture, his eyes empty and his face expressing utter despondency.
"I, Henry Stark, the genius of the Stark family, the darling of Wall Street, the king of New York's nightclubs, the future... uh, the future billionaire, philanthropist, and Playboy.
Now I'm reduced to critiquing a terrorist organization's interior design. What the hell is this?"
His thoughts began to drift uncontrollably—this was pretty much his only form of entertainment for the past week.
"To think that a dignified transmigrator like me, with a built-in genius brain and a prominent family background—the ultimate configuration—would end up in such a miserable state today.
What about the promised aura of dominance? What about the golden finger? A system? A Grandpa in the Ring? I'd even settle for a check-in panel!
The result?
Other than this face, which gets handsomer by the day, and my brother, who gets richer by the day, I have nothing. And now? My face is about to become a skull from starvation, and I can't spend a single cent of the money."
That's right, a transmigrator.
This secret was known to no one but himself.
He came from a blue, peaceful planet called Earth and, after an accident, his soul returned from beyond. When he opened his eyes again, he was swimming in the warm womb of his mother, Maria.
He became Howard Stark's second son, Tony Stark's younger brother. A person who shouldn't have existed in this world.
Perhaps it was the golden finger bestowed by fate, but his brain in this life was unbelievably sharp. A high achiever in his past life, he was practically running on cheat codes with the resources of the Stark family added in. He skipped grades, self-studied, and graduated from MIT with record-breaking scores, even more exaggeratedly faster than his equally genius brother.
After graduation, he didn't choose to strike out on his own but joined Stark Industries. As he put it: "Why stand up to earn money when you can lie down and get a share? Tony, you work hard, I'm counting on you!"
Of course, he wasn't really just slacking off. He gave Tony countless outlandish suggestions, from new energy to artificial intelligence, from biotechnology to the military industry, almost every one of them accurately hitting the pulse of future technological development. With his guidance, the market value of Stark Industries soared like a rocket. The name Tony Stark became the absolute leader in the global tech community even earlier than in the original storyline.
The brothers were as close as could be. They studied technology together, attended parties together, and got lost in a life of women and champagne. Over time, Henry realized he had also been corrupted by Tony. Or rather, his innate flamboyant genes were fully activated; he became talkative, sharp-tongued, loved to complain, and enjoyed life—essentially becoming another Tony Stark.
Their biggest secret was the Mark Armor they were secretly developing in their private villa laboratory. With Henry's continuous urging and theoretical support as a 'seer,' Tony had produced the initial version several years ahead of schedule. They poured their hearts and souls into this treasured object, vowing to polish it to its most perfect state before a grand, spectacular worldwide debut at a moment of great anticipation.
Everything was so wonderful until a while ago.
Tony was invited by the US military to war-torn Afghanistan to promote Stark Industries' latest Jericho missile.
"Hey, Tony, listen to me, take that suitcase with you."
Before he left, Henry put a silver suitcase into Tony's luggage.
"Just in case, you know, there are always some blind fools who will be jealous of your talent."
"Come on, Henry," Tony adjusted his tie, looking dapper in the mirror. "Who in this world would dare to attack Tony Stark? However, since you're so worried, I'll reluctantly take this Mark II, which I haven't even had time to paint yet. Honestly, silver is nice, but I still think passionate gold and red suit me better."
Seeing that Tony took his advice, Henry felt relieved. After all, with the Mark Armor, the number of people in the world who could harm him was minimal.
However, he calculated the beginning but not the end.
Tony had just left, and the very next day, Henry was invited to a high-end charity gala in New York. The moment he appeared, he became the centre of attention. Countless long-legged, slender-waisted beauties flocked to him like butterflies to nectar, and the looks of admiration and heat fuelled his vanity.
The banquet ended, the streetlights came on, and alcohol and hormones fermented in the air. Henry was flanked by two hot blonde bombshells, ready to move on to a hotel for a deeper discussion of life's philosophy.
Then, the attack happened.
"Wow, gentlemen, your entrance is quite unique. Jumping out of a van? So, cliché. Next time, I suggest trying a vertical or subterranean entry; it would have more visual impact."
That was his subconscious retort when he was surrounded by a group of masked men carrying automatic rifles.
"Happy! My suitcase! The silver one! Hurry!" he yelled at his bodyguard and driver, Happy Hogan, who was chasing after them.
Happy desperately tried to get the life-saving suitcase to his boss's brother, but the attackers were clearly well-trained and had a definite strategy. Several bullets accurately blocked Happy's path, and one even grazed his arm, drawing a spray of blood. Happy cried out in pain, the suitcase fell to the ground, and Henry was already grabbed by two large men and shoved into a black van.
The moment the door closed, he saw Happy's anxious and angry chubby face.
"Nice job, guys. Kidnapping a Stark—your career has peaked."
That was the last thing he said to the kidnappers before he lost consciousness.
When he woke up again, he found himself lying in the bumpy cargo bay of the van. The surrounding kidnappers were talking in a language he didn't understand. He spent a few minutes catching a few keywords from their conversation: "mercenaries," "handover," and "Hydra."
A jolt of realization instantly sobered Henry.
So, these people were just cannon fodder working for money? The real big client was the fascist remnant that should have been completely eradicated during World War II.
Before he could figure out why a Playboy like himself was worth such a massive effort from Hydra, a sharp pain shot through the back of his neck, and he dramatically passed out again.
When he opened his eyes for the third time, he was in this hellhole.
A week, a whole week.
He finally figured out the reason for his capture. A Hydra spy, embedded in Stark Industries, had inadvertently overheard him and Tony discussing the Armor.
As a result, a report titled, The Stark Brothers Are Secretly Developing a Groundbreaking Individual Combat Armor, landed on the desk of a high-ranking Hydra official.
They wanted the technology.
Initially, they attempted brainwashing. All sorts of psychological suggestions, drug injections, and mental hypnosis were used in rotation, trying to pry open his brain and extract the knowledge within.
But they failed.
Henry's powerful soul, from two lifetimes of experience, was as tough as a rock in a latrine—foul and hard. No matter how much they tortured him, he wouldn't crack, even finding the time to flirt with female researchers while he was mentally disoriented.
"Beautiful, your eyes are stunning, like Siberian sapphires. How about I buy you a private island when I get out?"
Exasperated, the high-ranking Hydra official, seeing that brainwashing was hopeless, simply steeled his heart and decided to use him as a test subject.
"Since his willpower is so strong, let's see if his body can withstand our gift!"
And so, a nightmare began. Serums of various bizarre colours and unknown compositions were injected into his body, one after another. They rampaged through his veins, sometimes burning like fire, sometimes freezing like ice. He struggled in agony every day, his body's cells constantly being destroyed, reorganized, and destroyed again.
Adding insult to injury, these bastards wouldn't feed him! He only got a tiny piece of unpalatable synthetic nutrient paste each day, just enough to keep him alive.
A few days ago, a man who looked like a low-level commander told him some news with a malicious grin.
"Mr. Henry Stark, just a quick update: your brother, Mr. Tony Stark, was also attacked in Afghanistan and is currently presumed dead. I imagine you brothers will be reunited very soon, either in heaven or hell."
Henry was stunned. It took him a full half-minute to regain his instinct to retort.
"What the heck? Didn't he take the Mark II? How did he still end up on this path? Did that guy decide the Armor was too heavy and just ditch it at the hotel? I knew it. Relying on that narcissist to be dependable is like hoping Happy will successfully lose weight."
Complaints aside, a tidal wave of immense worry engulfed him.
He was done for, and Tony was also in trouble. The Stark lineage was about to end!
...
"Ugh!"
With a long sigh, Henry pulled his scattered thoughts back to reality. It was no use thinking about it anymore; he was a fish on a cutting board, struggling to even roll over.
"When can I finally get out of here! I swear, if I get out, I'll eat vegetables every day and never touch champagne or beautiful women again... well, I might still drink a little champagne, and the beautiful women... that depends.
More importantly, when will my golden finger arrive? If it doesn't come soon, these anti-human monsters are going to finish me off."
He grumbled weakly, his voice even trembling slightly.
Just then, the heavy metal door of his cell opened with a screeching sound. A few expressionless Hydra soldiers entered, skilfully lifted him from the metal slab, and dragged him out.
"Hey, guys, go easy. My body is precious; you can't afford to break it. By the way, what good stuff are you injecting me with this time? Green? Or blue? I'm telling you, the pink one last time tasted pretty good, sweet, like a strawberry milkshake."
Henry was dragged along like a rag doll, but his mouth never stopped moving.
The soldiers completely ignored his chatter and took him down a long corridor. Along both sides were cells identical to his, most of them empty, but a few held people. Without exception, those people had vacant eyes, were emaciated, and some were even lifeless, discarded in the corner like trash.
Henry's heart sank, and the joking smile on his face faded slightly.
He was taken into a brightly lit laboratory. Several researchers in white coats were busy around a large experimental table, various precision instruments blinking with cold light. He was roughly strapped to a cross-shaped experimental table, his hands and feet securely held by metal shackles.
"The leader has issued an ultimatum," an older researcher said, not looking up from his data pad. "This project is the final chance. If the Superman Serum still fails to produce the desired effect in him, we have no reason to keep him."
That's right, the Superman Serum. They had combined multiple serum samples to create what they believed to be the most powerful serum. For a better name, they called it—the Superman Serum!