Tony Stark hadn't slept properly since Leipzig.
The compound in upstate New York felt more like a mausoleum than a headquarters these days—echoing halls, half-finished projects gathering dust, the faint hum of servers the only constant sound. Rhodey was still in physical therapy, Vision drifted like a ghost, Happy kept the perimeter tight. Pepper visited when she could, but even she couldn't fill the silence left by the people who used to fill these rooms.
Tony sat in his private lab at 3:47 a.m., holographic displays floating around him like accusing witnesses. The Accords file was open again—redacted clauses glowing in crimson. He swiped it away, pulled up the Leipzig footage instead. Frame by frame: Steve's shield against his repulsor, Bucky's haunted eyes, the kid in red-and-blue webbing circles like an over-caffeinated spider.
And in the background—always in the goddamn background—those black drones.
They weren't SHIELD. Weren't military. Weren't even Stark tech knockoffs. They appeared at exactly the right moments: EMP glitch on T'Challa's suit, warning ping to the kid's comms, supply drops that kept the civilian-adjacent zones clear even though no one had called them in.
Tony leaned back, rubbing his arc reactor scar through his shirt. "FRIDAY, run the signature again."
"Already did, boss. Same result. Proprietary encryption layer, quantum-resistant, origin masked through six shell companies. All trace back to KaneTech LLC, Queens-based, founded 2011 by one Alexander Kane."
Tony snorted. "Kid's barely old enough to drink and he's running shadow ops on my battlefield?"
"Twenty-one. MIT graduate. Net worth estimated north of $200 million. Company specializes in disaster-response drones and predictive AI. Public mission statement: 'Protecting the unprotected.' No criminal record. No registered enhanced status under the Accords."
Tony stared at the holographic profile that appeared: young face, dark hair, calm eyes that looked older than twenty-one. No social media. No flashy lifestyle. Just quiet, compounding success.
"FRIDAY, pull every public interaction KaneTech has had with first responders since 2012."
Data streamed in—firefighter testimonials, Red Cross reports, grainy helmet-cam clips of drones dropping med-kits into collapsed structures during the Battle of New York cleanup, Ultron aftermath, even Sokovia relief drops. Always anonymous. Always effective. Always minimizing loss.
Tony's jaw tightened. "He was there. During New York. During Sokovia. During Leipzig. Every time the Avengers were busy punching each other or aliens, this kid was playing guardian angel in the background."
"Probability of direct involvement in multiple global incidents: 89%. Probability of meta-knowledge or enhanced predictive capability: 76%. No confirmed powers on record."
Tony laughed—short, bitter. "Of course not. He's too smart for that."
He pulled up a live satellite feed of Queens. KaneTech's main office was a nondescript warehouse conversion—nothing flashy. But Tony knew better. Understated was the new ostentatious.
He opened a secure line—personal, not through SHIELD channels. Dialed the burner number he'd pulled from a leaked Hydra intercept (the kid had been dropping breadcrumbs there too, apparently).
It rang twice.
Then a calm, even voice answered. No greeting. Just: "Stark."
Tony leaned forward. "Kane. You've got balls answering an unknown number at four in the morning."
"Figured you'd call eventually." Alex's tone was neutral, almost polite. "You're not subtle when you're curious."
Tony barked a laugh. "Touché. So let's cut the crap. You've been playing shadow support for years. New York. Sokovia. Leipzig. Those drones aren't coincidence. You're either enhanced, precog, or you've got the best crystal ball money can buy."
Silence for a beat. Then: "I'm good at patterns. And I hate unnecessary body counts."
Tony's eyes narrowed. "You could've joined up. Registered. Worked with us."
"I don't do sides. Not when both are right and both are wrong."
Tony rubbed his face. "That's a luxury most of us don't have."
"I know." Alex's voice softened—just a fraction. "I watched the footage. Leipzig. Siberia. You're carrying a lot."
Tony stiffened. "Don't psychoanalyze me, kid."
"I'm not. I'm just saying… you don't have to carry it alone."
A long pause. Tony stared at the holo of Alex's profile—young, steady, no ego.
"You sent the Zemo file to Rogers," Tony said quietly. Not a question.
"I sent pieces to people who needed them. Neutral distribution."
Tony exhaled. "You're either the most dangerous neutral party alive… or the only sane one left."
"Could be both."
Another beat.
Then Tony asked the question that had been burning since he first noticed the drones: "Why? What's in it for you?"
Alex answered without hesitation. "I lost people once. In another life. I'm not losing more if I can help it. Not civilians. Not friends. Not… anyone who matters."
Tony stared at the holo. Something in the kid's tone—quiet, resolute—hit like a memory of his own younger self, before the cave, before the suit.
"You're in love," Tony said suddenly. Not mocking. Just recognition.
A soft exhale on the other end. "Yeah. I am."
Tony nodded to himself. "Good. Hold onto that. The world's going to try to take it from you."
"I know."
Silence again—comfortable this time.
Then Tony said: "If you ever need a lab. Or a suit. Or just someone who gets what it's like to build something to protect what's yours… you've got my number now."
Alex's voice came back lighter. "Appreciated. But I've got my own suit in the works."
Tony grinned despite himself. "Of course you do."
The call ended.
Tony sat back, staring at the darkened holo.
FRIDAY spoke softly: "Shall I add Alexander Kane to priority contacts, boss?"
Tony thought about it. Then: "Yeah. And keep an eye on him. Not surveillance. Just… awareness."
"Understood."
Tony stood, walked to the window overlooking the dark compound grounds.
Somewhere in Queens, a twenty-one-year-old with too much on his shoulders was probably holding the girl he loved, trying to pretend the world wasn't cracking.
Tony raised an invisible glass.
"To the kids who still believe in saving people," he muttered.
Then he turned back to his workbench.
The fracture wasn't healed.
But for the first time since Siberia, Tony didn't feel entirely alone in trying to hold it together.
(Word count: 1005)