The first rays of sunlight, sharp and golden, speared through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the private villa nestled on Long Island's Gold Coast. It was precisely eight in the morning, a civilized hour for a man of means, but still early for a man who preferred the midnight silence of his own training.
The ringing of the landline, a jarring, insistent sound in the opulent silence, finally succeeded in dragging him from a deep, restful sleep. The man who sat up was no longer the slight, arrogant teenager of a few years prior.
Zhou Yi was now fully developed, his earlier promised physical perfection realized. His shoulders were broad, his musculature was defined but streamlined—a natural physique capable of sustaining Mach 4 speeds without tearing itself apart. He had the sharp, intense eyes of a self-made man who owned far more than his age implied.
He ran a hand through his dark, slightly messy hair, catching the sunlight, and swung his long legs over the side of the king-sized bed. The simple fact of his return to the villa—his base of operations in the U.S.—meant the quiet period of self-study and power refinement in the Far East was over.
After ten minutes, now clad only in tailored silk pajama bottoms, Zhou Yi stood in the spacious, modern living room, the holographic interface of the voice messaging system floating before him. He tapped the display, and the stream of his forgotten obligations began.
The first voice was his mother's, Zhou Lan. It was warm, yet underlined with the stern authority of a woman who managed both a global career and a prodigiously powerful son.
"Honey, it's Mom. I heard you just touched down from China. I trust your training was enlightening. I'm already en route to the south of France; this industrial espionage case is going to consume me for at least the next four months," her voice was brisk, clearly recorded from a fast-moving location.
"Now, to business: the faculty at Xavier's School reached out. Your sister, Sharice, has been… displaying what they delicately called 'minor conduct issues.' Before your inevitable next sabbatical, I need you to drive out to Staten Island and address this. I will not have my daughter, a talented young woman, ending up on the streets with a crew of disaffected mutant delinquents. Talk to her. Assert your authority. If you have any problems, you know my encrypted channel. Do not fail me, Yi."
Zhou Yi paused the recording, a faint frown crossing his face. Sharice using her powers to sneak out was serious. He knew the X-Men's security was built to be breached only by the most powerful telepaths or shapeshifters. Sharice must be getting dangerously inventive.
He resumed the playback. The second message was instantly recognizable, melodic and deep, laced with a familiar, flirtatious command.
"Yi, it's Ororo. I know you're back. Firstly, the celadon vase you sent from the imperial kilns in Jingdezhen? It is breathtaking. Thank you. A magnificent and thoughtful gesture." Ororo's appreciative tone then shifted, becoming professionally grave.
"However, the real reason for my call is Sharice. She is showing a disturbing pattern of disciplinary infractions. Specifically, she is using her rapidly developing biotic field manipulation to bypass the school's new energy dampeners and security grid. She and a handful of troublemakers are leaving the grounds after curfew.
She continued, "We are worried they are gravitating toward certain dangerous elements in the local mutant underworld. We need a family intervention before we are forced to take restrictive measures. When your schedule permits—and I know your schedule is inflexible—a conversation with Sharice is vital. Let's check in soon, Yi." The message ended with a slight, resonant purr.
The third call was loud, frantic, and unmistakably Tony Stark.
"Hello, dear Yi! Welcome back to the land of the free! I assume those beautiful Chinese girls didn't completely distract you from the true joys of American capitalism. Don't worry, I won't interrupt your perpetual vacation, but I need a solid from you. It's Obadiah. He's gone off the deep end. He wants to sell our entire remaining stock of Jericho prototype missiles to an extremist militant group in the Middle East. God knows what he thinks, besides the profit margin." Tony sounded genuinely stressed, the playboy veneer stripped away.
"I've tried to appeal to his conscience, but this time, he's adamant. He's calling an emergency board meeting to push the deal through. It seems he's already bought off enough minor shareholders to make this a legitimate threat to my ethical stance. I need your vote, man. Your stock is the linchpin. We need to stop this weapons proliferation disaster. I'll be waiting for your answer. ASAP, Yi!"
Zhou Yi rubbed his chin, the weight of three simultaneous, high-stakes responsibilities settling on him. Sharice was family; that was a long-term problem requiring a personal visit. The Obadiah Stane situation was immediate and required his corporate leverage.
He picked up his phone, his mind already calculating the quickest route to Manhattan. He dialed Ororo first, knowing that the most delicate situations required the most charm.
"Hello, Yi. It's early for you. I was beginning to think you'd already purchased your own private star system to meditate in." A pleasant, throaty giggle came through the receiver.
"Ororo, you wound me. The reason I missed you so terribly in China wasn't the lack of five-star accommodations; it was the sheer absence of your voice. I had to call the moment I landed, just to hear it and settle my soul." Zhou Yi's tone was practiced, intimate, and entirely too convincing.
"You, my dear, are entirely too kind, and I suspect you've been breaking the hearts of countless young girls back on the mainland. Now, enough pleasantries. What do you require from the stern headmistress of the Gifted Youth?"
"Require? Only your continued well-being. But if I must be transactional, I heard the troubling news about Sharice. I'll make the trip out to Staten Island, but I won't just talk. I need to understand her mindset, and I may need your specific insights to approach this. I'll swing by this afternoon, perhaps, for a debriefing?"
"Of course, of course. You can brief me on your Chinese martial arts training later. For now, I have a class of hyper-advanced teenagers to keep from turning the gym into a black hole. Find me after 3 PM. Good day, Yi."
Ororo cut the connection cleanly, leaving Zhou Yi with a faint, satisfied smile. Their dynamic was an electric game of push and pull—she needed him, but she never let him forget she was the one holding the line.
Zhou Yi immediately dialed the next number.
"Hello, this is House Stark's automated directory. You have reached JARVIS. How may I be of assistance, Mr. Zhou Yi?"
"JARVIS, is Tony currently in a clean, non-flammable area? If so, patch him through. I'm heading to Manhattan now."
"Certainly, Mr. Zhou Yi. Please hold."
After a short, almost meaningless mechanical pause, Tony's voice blasted through the speaker. "Yi! I thought you were going to disappear into a Himalayan monastery this time! Thank God you picked up."
"If it weren't for your genuinely distressful message, I was contemplating another few weeks of solitude. I stumbled across a Gravimetric Fighting Master in the Tibetan foothills, believe it or not." Zhou Yi replied, walking into his dressing room.
As he spoke, a crisp, charcoal-grey suit jacket lifted from its hanger, floating with precision toward him. He used his subtle telekinetic ability to guide the garment, avoiding the need for a valet.
"Oh, a Martial Master? Fascinating. Let's save the tales of enlightenment for the bar. What's your position on the Obadiah situation? I need a clear indication, buddy."
"My position is simple: you are the visionary, the inventor, and the ethical backbone of Stark Industries. You have the final say. I support you completely."
A massive, relieved sigh came across the line. "Thank you, Yi. With your 6% stake standing with my 42%, we can halt this vote in its tracks. You just saved me from a genuinely horrific moral compromise. I owe you. Big time."
"Tony, you keep saying that, but I still don't get it. Why not just unilaterally veto the missile sale? The patent, the technology, the original design—it's all yours. The original charter states that if the inventor has a moral objection, the board can't force the sale. You don't need my vote; you just need to say no." Zhou Yi effortlessly slid into his suit, the movements fluid and powerful.
"Hey! You know, Obadiah was my father's partner and friend for decades. He kept this company afloat while I was building gadgets in the garage. There's a thing called respect and optics. I need to give him a chance to pull back, emotionally and logically. The veto is the nuclear option, the very last resort. I need to make the case and win the vote first."
Zhou Yi shook his head, a wry smile forming. Tony Stark, the brilliant genius, still shackled by sentiment. "Fair enough. You know what time the meeting starts. If I'm late, you face the music solo."
"The meeting is scheduled for ten AM. With your insane driving skills, you'll be at Stark Tower long before ten. Just don't crash into the Hudson, Speed Demon."
"Ah, the great playboy admires someone else's driving skills? That's a first."
"When I saw you last put your foot down, I decided never to compete with your brand of vehicular insanity. Now seriously, Obadiah's here. I need you to hurry. He's already started his pre-meeting power monologue."
"I'll be there in under thirty minutes. Don't let him lecture you to death."
Zhou Yi grabbed his keys and wallet, leaving the villa through the rear-access garage. Inside sat his vehicle of choice: a heavily modified Tyrannosaurus V-REX—a monstrous, bespoke luxury SUV built for speed, durability, and a driver who felt constrained by physics. It was matte black, armored, and pulsed with the silent promise of illegal velocity.
He slipped behind the wheel, the powerful, naturally aspirated V12 engine thrumming to life with a deep, authoritative growl. The low-frequency rumble was the sound of concentrated power, a fitting sound for the kind of man Zhou Yi had become.
The drive from Long Island to Manhattan, normally a ninety-minute crawl, was transformed. Zhou Yi channeled his hyper-aware neural response speed—the 0.7-millisecond reaction time—into every input.
The traffic signals, the lane changes, the other vehicles—everything moved in a relative slowdown compared to his perception. He wasn't merely driving fast; he was executing a flawless, high-speed ballet, seeing openings that didn't yet exist and exploiting them.
The V-REX devoured the miles, the landscape a blur, its powerful engine echoing the silent, explosive forces contained within its driver.
Meanwhile, inside the ultra-modern headquarters of Stark Industries on Manhattan Island, Tony Stark and Obadiah Stane were walking side-by-side toward the boardroom atop the skyscraper.
Obadiah Stane, a tall, imposing man with a thin mustache and a perpetually patronizing air, was mid-monologue.
"Tony, you've broken my heart this time. Everything I've done, every sacrifice, has been for the prosperity of Stark Enterprises. Why, after all these years, can't you trust my judgment?" Obadiah's sorrowful look was practiced, designed to elicit guilt, treating Tony not as the company CEO, but as a flighty, irresponsible nephew.
"Uncle Obadiah, please," Tony drawled, running a hand through his neatly styled beard.
"I realize the tremendous—the truly catastrophic—economic benefits selling WMDs to terrorists would bring, but a line exists. Just because we're in the weapons business doesn't mean we should be in the war business. The White House would flip, and the fallout would cripple our public profile."
"The White House is pliable! They are put on a short leash by the very people who fund our operations! Do not insult me by pretending you care about their public profile," Obadiah countered with sharp sarcasm.
"Tony, war isn't our fault. We provide the tools. What happens on the ground is the responsibility of the end-user. We are financially obligated to maximize shareholder return."
The two men were still arguing as they entered the massive, highly polished conference room, where several high-level shareholders and decision-makers were already seated. They rose respectfully, acknowledging their leaders.
As the attendees settled, Obadiah paused, placing a heavy, paternal hand on Tony's shoulder. He lowered his voice, the menace barely contained.
"Tony, you must abandon this juvenile moral crusade. Trust that my choice is what is best for the future of Stark Enterprises, and your inheritance. Do not act on your whims today."
Tony shrugged, meeting his gaze with a deceptive lightness. "Of course, of course, Uncle Obadiah. I always make the most profitable decisions."
At that moment, forty minutes past the scheduled start time, the low, earth-shaking rumble of the Tyrannosaurus V-REX echoed up from the subterranean parking garage. The security guards and the secretary who had been anxiously waiting were startled by the sudden, brutal arrival.
Zhou Yi stepped out of the bulletproof V-REX, his charcoal suit perfect, his energy contained. He was met by a familiar face.
"Good morning, Pepper," Zhou Yi greeted the brilliant, efficient blonde. "I never thought Tony would subject his most capable assistant to the purgatory of the sub-levels. I figured he'd keep us separated like inmates and guards."
The beautiful, red-headed Virginia 'Pepper' Potts managed a weary smile. "Mr. Zhou Yi, I was beginning to think you'd been arrested by the NYPD for your entry speed. Tony is already forty minutes into a very tense discussion with Obadiah. They need your vote, and they needed it yesterday."
"Ah, the clever Mr. Zhou Yi considered that eventuality. I'm sure my bribe to the ground-level security—which was, of course, a verbal promise of a raise—has already been delivered to the proper 'guard' for inspection."
"That's the exact problem with your genius," Pepper sighed, shaking her head. "You and Tony are masters of inconvenience."
They rode the elevator to the top floor, the silence of the ascent broken only by the soft whoosh of the high-speed car.
Zhou Yi pushed open the heavy conference room door with a deliberate force that made it swing slightly wider than necessary. He stepped into the tense, hushed room, his confident, imposing adult figure filling the doorway.
"Good morning, everyone," Zhou Yi announced, his voice carrying clearly into the sudden silence. "Whatever you were saying, please assume I'm now part of the conversation. As the third-largest shareholder of Stark Corporation, I believe my voice and my interests must be factored into this discussion."
Obadiah Stane, who had been resting his hands confidently on the table, posturing for Tony, snapped his head around. His eyes widened in genuine, furious surprise.
"You called this… this boy back from his vacation?" Obadiah roared, staring at Tony.
Tony, however, spread his hands in mock innocence. "It wasn't actually me, Obadiah! I swear on the honor of my last invention!" The assembled shareholders exchanged cynical glances—they knew Tony Stark's oath was often as solid as his latest prototype.
Obadiah turned his ire on Zhou Yi, his face contorted in a mask of legalistic fury. "Yi Zhou! This is a formal, emergency shareholder meeting. You are forty-two minutes late! As the initiator of this critical vote, I move to exclude you immediately on grounds of dereliction of duty and severe tardiness! You have no standing!"
Zhou Yi walked slowly to his designated chair, pulling it out with a slight, almost imperceptible surge of telekinesis that made the heavy mahogany slide out smoothly. He sat down, crossing one leg over the other, his expression serene.
"Uncle Obadiah, you seem to forget the company charter. As a shareholder with an ownership interest exceeding 5%, I can arrive at my convenience, and my vote, once cast, is legally binding," Zhou Yi stated calmly. He smiled, a confident, cold flash of teeth.
"You're right, I'm forty-two minutes late. But I'm here now, and you needed my vote to finalize this deal. And now, you won't get it. Let's have the meeting."