The night in Austria was a canvas of wet asphalt and bleeding neon, the air thick with the smell of damp soot and unspoken secrets.
Agent Sharon Carter was currently tasting the copper tang of her own mortality.
Misinformation, the word was a bitter curse in her mind, a professional sin for which she was now paying in blood. Her mission had been a surgical shadow: a clean interception of a mid-level weapons broker. Instead, she had walked directly into a furnace. Two rival syndicates had chosen the exact same moment, the exact same alleyway, to settle a bloody dispute. The narrow passage had turned into a slaughterhouse, and she was caught in the abattoir.
Sharon sprinted through the labyrinthine streets, her boots splashing in iridescent puddles. She clutched her side, feeling the hot slickness of her own blood soaking through the advanced weave of her tactical gear. Her vision was beginning to fray at the edges threatening to swallow the flickering lights of the city. She burst out of the alley and onto the main road, her momentum carrying her forward, and with a fleshy thud, slammed hard into the side of a stationary black luxury sedan.
The impact sent her sprawling onto the wet asphalt, the rough surface scraping her cheek.
"Sir," a professional voice barked from within the tinted glass of the car. "A woman has fallen into our path."
The rear door clicked open. An impeccably dressed bodyguard stepped out, his eyes sweeping the rooftops and shadowed doorways with a hawk's lethal precision. But before he could react, a sharp crack-crack-crack distinct from the earlier firefight, shredded the car's front tire. Sparks danced like angry spirits in the rain as slugs ricocheted off the wheel rim.
"Sir, we must move," the bodyguard urged, his hand blurring as he drew a sidearm, positioning his body to shield the open door. "A gang conflict has breached the street."
Then, the rear passenger emerged. He was an old man, he stepped out with the rooted dignity of an old oak tree. His suit was dark, his hair a shock of silver, and his eyes held the calm of a man who had seen the world and found it wanting. This was the patriarch of the Spencer family, Edward Spencer. Aryan's grandfather.
"Very well," the old man said softly, his voice a surprising baritone, a calm island in the storm of chaos. Then, his gaze fell upon the wounded girl struggling on the pavement. "Check on her."
Sharon forced her eyes open, her fingers twitching toward a holster that was no longer there, lost somewhere in the bloody alley.
"Peace, child," the old man said, his voice a soothing balm against the roar of the rain and the distant pop of gunfire. "My bodyguard will escort us out of here and we have already called for help."
At that exact moment, a muzzle flashed from a darkened second-story window across the street. Sharon's combat-honed instincts processed it all in a sliver of a second. The bullet was aimed straight for the heart of the kind old man who had stopped to help her. If I don't move, he dies. With the last of her strength, she shifted her weight, a final act of instinctive duty, pushing herself half-upright and into the bullet's path. The lead tore into her shoulder with a concussive force, and the world finally went black.
Sharon woke to a world of clinical white. The smell of antiseptic was a cold weight in her lungs. The door to her private hospital room creaked open. The old man entered, carrying a bouquet of lilies so vibrant they seemed too colorful for such a pale room.
"You are awake," he said warmly, a genuine smile touching his eyes. "You were shot protecting a stranger. I took the liberty of bringing you here to heal."
"Thank you, sir," she whispered, the words scratching her throat.
"You are the same age as my grandson," the old man said, taking a seat by her bedside. They spoke for hours. She wove a web of careful lies about being an FBI agent on a botched surveillance mission, while he spoke of a life built on honor and the heavy burden of legacy. Before he left, he pressed an elegant business card into her hand. "If you ever tire of a life that requires your blood in payment, my company's doors are always open. My grandson... he is a lonely boy. He could use a friend."
Years passed. The old man was laid in the earth. At the funeral, Sharon watched from the shadows, a silent observer paying a silent debt. She saw Aryan Spencer. He had the eyes of a drowning man, hollow and glass-bright with drink. He clutched a whiskey flask like it was a life raft. He looked like a ruin.
But then, he vanished for a week, totally isolating himself from the world. When he finally returned, he had learned how to hide his grief, appearing calm and composed once again.
She applied for the position of his executive secretary. She just wanted to help him navigate the heavy grief of losing his grandfather.
"Sir, your documents are prepared," she said now, standing in his office, her voice a perfect mask of professional deference.
"Thank you, Sharon," Aryan replied, his voice as cold and clear as the glass walls of his office.
She watched him, her mind a fortress of caution and calculation. He was a puzzle, wrapped in the enigma of his grandfather's legacy. Maybe, she thought, feeling a flicker of the kindness the old man had once shown her, she could help him pull through the darkness of his loss.
———-
In the heights of Malibu, the air in Tony Stark's workshop felt thin, as if the oxygen were being systematically consumed by the blue glow of his holographic displays.
"Sir," JARVIS reported, its voice a digital counterpoint to the storm in Tony's chest. "The inventory reconciliation is complete. In the last fiscal year, thirty percent more weaponry was delivered to international conflict zones than was officially commissioned by the Department of Defense. Furthermore, forty percent of our monthly Jericho missile production remains... unaccounted for."
Tony's jaw tightened until the bone ached. "Who authorized the codes for these shipments, JARVIS."
"The authorization codes for these shadow shipments, overriding all standard protocols and routing manifests, were issued by Mr. Obadiah Stane."
The name hit Tony harder than any physical blow ever could. Obie. The man who had been his compass when Howard's death had left him adrift in a sea of grief and alcohol. The man who had practically raised him.
"Not yet," Tony whispered to the glowing screens, a desperate denial warring with the hard data. "If Obadiah has done this, I have to know why. I have to know how deep the rot goes."
He summoned Pepper Potts. When she entered, her expression a mixture of concern and exasperation, he handed her a slim hard drive. "Pepper... I need you to slip this into Obadiah's desktop in his office. It will copy everything. Do it quietly."
She looked at him, her eyes searching his bloodshot gaze, seeing the frantic energy buzzing just beneath his skin. "Tony... what is happening to you? You look like you haven't slept in a week."
"I'm just checking the foundations," he said, turning back to the glowing screens, unable to meet her worried gaze. He didn't tell her that he was checking to see if his entire life had been built on a lie.
———-
In the ancestral hall of Wakanda, the air was cool and heavy with the scent of burning sacred herbs. King T'Chaka sat upon the elegant throne, his eyes fixed on his son, T'Challa.
"The Dora Milaje say your strength has grown beyond measure. Have you consumed the Heart-Shaped Herb before your time?" the King asked, his voice a powerful rumble.
"No, Baba," T'Challa replied, meeting his father's gaze. "This power came from... elsewhere."
At T'Challa's request, the guards and advisors filed out, leaving father and son in a silence that felt as heavy as history itself. T'Challa spoke of the Castle of Mysteries. He spoke of the grey fog and the being on the throne who made him feel smaller than an ant in the shadow of a mountain. He described the fifty-five million dollars that had bought him a strength that eclipsed the legends of their ancestors, a power that felt both like a gift.
T'Chaka listened gravely, his hands resting on his knees, his expression unchanging. "There are mysteries in this world beyond the borders of Wakanda," he said finally, his voice resonating with the wisdom of generations. "In my youth, I sought them. Sorcerers in the East, spirits of the desert. I found only silence and charlatans. What you have found may be a blessing…."
The old King leaned forward, his eyes boring into his son's. "Be cautious, my son. If this 'The Fool' can grant such strength so easily, what does he intend to do with those who wield it?"
T'Challa bowed his head in respect. "I will remember, Baba. I will watch the horizon."
———-
Pietro stood like a marble statue in the corner of their cold apartment, his worry a palpable thing etched into the sharp lines of his face. He watched his sister, who sat on the edge of her cot, her eyes closed. He was miles away from the true conversation, the one now occurring in the silent sanctuary of Wanda's mind.
The voice of "The World" resonated within her. He bestowing upon her the forbidden knowledge, the secret vibrations of intent required to pierce the veil between their world and the Grey Realm.
Wanda felt the Castle of Mysteries as a place she could reach. Standing on a stairway of pure thought, suspended above the squalor of her physical reality, she took a deep breath, and her voice rose, carrying a weight that made the very air in the room vibrate.
"The Fool that doesn't belong to this era..."
"The Mysterious Ruler above the gray fog..."
"The King of Yellow and Black who wields good luck..."
"The True Creator who embodies luck, deception, and fate..."
Wanda used the honorific to connect with 'The World'. To Pietro, nothing seemed to change, but in her mind, a clear link opened. It was like a silent phone call. She was communicating directly without saying a word out loud. Pietro stood right next to her, completely unaware that the conversation was even taking place.
"Have you reached a decision?" Aryan's voice spoke in her mind.
Wanda felt that unexplainable sense of familiarity again, just like the last time, but she pushed it down, keeping her thoughts guarded. "You're very persistent," she replied mentally. "I've talked it over with Pietro. We aren't interested in being anyone's weapons anymore."
"I am not looking for weapons," Aryan's voice was soft, but the weight of it felt like a promise. "I am looking to provide a sanctuary for people the world is trying to break. You deserve better than this rubble."
Wanda hesitated. In her mind, the decision was already made, but she wasn't ready to give him the satisfaction of a soft answer. "We have decided to accept your offer," she said, her mental tone clipped. "But don't think this means we trust you completely yet."
"Trust is earned, not given," Aryan replied, and she could almost sense a genuine smile in his voice. "That is a fair start. My people are already moving across the borders. They will find you both and bring you home."