The next morning, a sleek Quinjet sliced silently through the skies over the Middle East.
Inside the cabin, a middle-aged man pointed toward the vast, barren desert outside the window and spoke gravely. "This is the last confirmed location where Tony Stark was seen. The political situation here is... complicated. We can't deploy a large-scale search force, so we'll have to keep this operation quiet. No attention, no mistakes."
Darren nodded solemnly. "Relax, Village Chief. If there's one thing I'm famous for—it's keeping a low profile."
"I'll remind you again," the man sighed, rubbing his temple, "my name is Phil Coulson. Not 'Village Chief.'"
"Don't pretend," Darren said, squinting at him. "You've got the title floating right over your head. Says Village Chief – Beginner's Village plain as day."
Coulson instinctively glanced upward at the empty air above his head, then gave up with a helpless sigh.
He'd read Darren's file. And it was one hell of a read.
Darren, top graduate of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy, had joined the organization just two months ago—and in that short time, he'd shocked everyone with his absurd efficiency and ability.
No matter how dangerous or complex the mission, he always handled it alone. No backup, no retreat plan, no hesitation.
Forty-eight missions in two months.
Success rate: one hundred percent.
Even Coulson—S.H.I.E.L.D.'s unofficial "model employee"—couldn't compete.
That performance had earned Darren a rare fast-track promotion to Level 5 agent—the fastest in S.H.I.E.L.D. history.
But there was a dark side to his brilliance.
Darren had a method. Or rather, a complete lack of restraint.
In one infiltration mission, he'd wiped out an entire enemy base—nearly a hundred soldiers, not even the guard dogs left breathing.
Nick Fury had buried the report instantly.
The death toll was close to that of a small war.
They were S.H.I.E.L.D., not Hydra, for God's sake!
When Fury demanded an explanation, Darren's reply had been perfectly confident:
"No witnesses, no alarms. Isn't that the definition of a perfect infiltration?"
Reasonable.
In a disturbingly "logical" way.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. psychologists' report later diagnosed him with severe delusional tendencies.
To him, the entire world was a massive virtual game.
Everyone else—NPCs.
And he? The only player.
Ordinarily, someone that unstable would've been blacklisted, locked down, and monitored around the clock.
But Fury hadn't done that.
After all, what kind of boss fires the one man singlehandedly keeping the organization's KPI sky-high?
So Fury chose to turn a blind eye.
Literally—since he only had one eye left to close.
Naturally, Coulson wasn't about to question that decision.
"If the plan's all set, I'll notify the pilot to locate a safe landing zone," he said, already turning toward the cockpit.
"No need for that," Darren said with a dismissive wave.
Before Coulson could ask what he meant, Darren casually hit the hatch release button.
"Wait—what are you—! We're hundreds of meters up! You don't even have a parachute—!"
"Wuhuu! Let's fly!"
Before Coulson could stop him, Darren spread his arms wide and dove straight out of the aircraft.
The agent was left gaping, stunned speechless in the cabin.
...
The desert wind howled.
Darren plummeted from the sky, the air roaring past him, tugging at his jacket. The ground rushed up fast—harsh rock and endless dunes expanding in his vision.
But his face was calm. He twisted in midair, rolling into a backward dive, arms spread wide before snapping them inward protectively across his chest.
And just before impact—
Thud!
A large, fluffy haystack appeared out of thin air below him, cushioning his fall. He sank into it with a satisfying bounce and popped right back out, completely unharmed.
[Skill: Leap of Faith]
[Effect: Whenever you fall from a great height, a haystack will appear to catch you, negating all fall damage.]
[Flavor text: "Nothing is true. Everything is permitted."]
A reward from an earlier mission.
Useful, yes—but more importantly, it looked cool as hell.
At this point, Darren found himself itching to jump off anything taller than a chair just to trigger it again.
...
"Alright, where the hell did I land?"
He scanned the horizon—nothing but dunes and desolation. The air shimmered with heat, and the sun burned overhead. No landmarks, no tracks.
"System, track the mission target."
[Target "Tony Stark" marked.]
A golden marker flashed on his minimap.
"Good. Not too far."
He adjusted his course and started jogging toward it.
...
After about half an hour, he reached the edge of a rocky valley surrounded by jagged cliffs.
Crouching low, he peered down into the hollow below.
There, hidden in the basin, was a makeshift camp.
Sandbag fortifications lined the perimeter, coils of barbed wire glinting under the sun. Crates labeled Stark Industries were stacked around the compound, along with fragments of dismantled missiles.
Dozens of armed militants patrolled the camp, rifles slung over their shoulders. At least forty men, maybe more.
And the golden marker pulsed deep within a shadowy cave at the far end of the camp.
"Guarded, narrow access point, limited visibility…" Darren muttered. "Yeah, frontal assault's a no-go. Need another route."
He rubbed his chin. Normally, he'd already be halfway through a massacre by now—but this was a main quest. Better not mess it up before finding the target.
...
Clang. Clang. Clang.
The sound of hammering metal echoed faintly through the dim cave.
Under the flickering light, a man worked tirelessly at a forge.
No, not a blacksmith—the man of iron himself: Tony Stark.
Three months had passed since his capture by a local terrorist group. They'd forced him to build weapons for them—threats, violence, humiliation.
But Tony Stark had never been one to obey.
Tell him east, and he'd march west just to prove a point.
Under the guise of building a missile, he'd been quietly scavenging parts and tools. With the help of fellow captive Dr. Yinsen, he was building something else entirely—a weapon to escape.
An iron suit.
Tony clamped the faceplate in place on the workbench as Yinsen straightened up from the power cell assembly.
"The core's almost ready," Yinsen said. "We just need to integrate the armor and connect the power system."
Tony's voice was low, gravelly, edged with exhaustion. "We don't have much time. They're starting to get suspicious. We move soon."
"I'll handle the final assembly," Yinsen said firmly.
Tony nodded. "Good. Once I clear the entrance, you wait here until it's safe. Then you follow."
The playboy's eyes were sharp now, filled with resolve.
Everything he'd endured had burned the arrogance out of him. Somewhere beneath the soot and scars, Tony Stark had become a man ready to fight for his life.
And he made a quiet vow to himself:
If he made it out alive, he'd never gamble again.
...
The two worked in silence—until a strange thudding sound interrupted them.
It came from below.
A muffled, rhythmic pounding—like someone digging through solid rock.
"What was that?"
Both men froze, exchanging alarmed looks.
Before they could react, the stone floor beneath their feet shimmered—and vanished.
A perfect square hole, one meter wide, appeared out of nowhere.
A head popped up from the darkness below.
Big yellow dog mask.
Eyes bright.
"Found you!"