The boardroom of Stark Industries was usually a place of controlled ego. Today, it was a funeral parlor.
The expansive glass walls overlooked Los Angeles, but the blinds were drawn, casting long, fractured shadows across the mahogany table. The stock ticker on the far wall was a bleeding line of red, plummeting faster than it had since the crash of '29.
"Stark Industries is down forty points since the news broke," a board member muttered, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Forty points. If we don't issue a statement declaring a transition of leadership, the shareholders are going to riot."
"They're already rioting," another snapped. "Tony Stark is gone. The military has been combing those mountains for weeks. Nothing. Just sand and shell casings."
At the head of the table sat Obadiah Stane. He played the part of the grieving mentor perfectly slumped shoulders, head in his hands, a heaviness in his voice that sounded genuinely crushed.
"We have to be realistic," Obadiah said, his voice bitter. "Tony... he was like a son to me. But the company? The company is his legacy. We can't let it die with him. We need to stabilize the market. We need to file the injunction for interim CEO control."
The room murmured in agreement. It was the logical move. The cold, corporate move.
I sat at the opposite end of the table, silent.
I hadn't spoken since the meeting began. I was dressed in black, my hands folded calmly on the polished wood. To them, I looked like a man in shock. In reality, I was the only one in the room who was actually breathing.
"The injunction requires a vote," Obadiah continued, glancing at me. His eyes were sad, but beneath the sadness, I saw the shark. He smelled blood in the water. "Adrian. You hold the proxy for the family trust. You know Tony would want the company protected."
The room turned to me. The weight of billions of dollars hung in the air.
I didn't blink. I simply picked up the glass of water in front of me and took a slow sip.
"Protected," I repeated, my voice soft but carrying effortlessly to the back of the room. "Is that what we're calling it, Obadiah?"
Obadiah frowned, the mask slipping just a fraction. "Excuse me?"
"Tony has been missing for thirty-two days," I said. "The military protocol for a high-value asset retrieval is ninety days before a status change to 'Presumed Dead'. You're filing for control on day thirty-two."
"Because the stock is tanking!" the sweaty board member interjected.
I turned my head slowly to look at him. I didn't glare. I didn't raise my voice. I just... looked.
For a split second, the air in the room grew heavy. It wasn't magic, not overtly. It was the weight of a creature that had stared down immortals when this man's ancestors were still painting in caves. The biological instinct to freeze in the presence of a predator kicked in. The man's mouth snapped shut, his face paling as he sank back into his chair.
I turned back to Obadiah.
"We wait," I said.
Obadiah leaned forward, his voice hardening. "Adrian, be reasonable. We are bleeding money. The board has a fiduciary duty..."
"Article 4, Section C of the Stark Industries charter," I interrupted, reciting the clause from memory. "In the event of the CEO's disappearance, executive power remains with the acting board unless a majority shareholder vetoes the transition. I hold forty-nine percent. Tony holds fifty-one. Since Tony isn't here to vote, my vote is the only one that matters."
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence.
Obadiah's jaw tightened. He knew the bylaws better than anyone, but he hadn't expected me to use them. He had expected the "reclusive artist" to crumble under pressure.
"You're gambling with the company's future," Obadiah said, his voice low and dangerous. "If he doesn't come back..."
"He will," I said.
It wasn't a hope. It was a statement of fact.
I stood up. The movement was fluid, too graceful for a boardroom. "As long as there is no body, Tony Stark is the CEO of this company. Anyone who attempts to undermine his position while he is fighting for his life will answer to me. And unlike Tony... I am not distracted."
I held Obadiah's gaze. For a moment, the older man looked like he wanted to argue, to leverage his influence, to scream. But he looked into my eyes, really looked and saw something that made him hesitate. He saw a wall he couldn't climb.
"Meeting adjourned," I said.
I walked out of the room without looking back.
Later that night.
My penthouse was quiet. Too quiet.
I stood on the balcony, looking out at the lights of Los Angeles. Somewhere, thousands of miles away in a dark cave in Kunar, Tony was forging metal. He was hammering out his salvation on an anvil, sparks flying into his face, desperation fueling every strike.
He was suffering.
I could feel the faint tether of the blood I'd given him. It was weak, flickering like a candle in a storm. He was in pain. He was scared. He was starving.
My hand tightened on the railing, the metal groaning under the pressure.
It would be so easy. I could step off this ledge, disappear into a mist of blood, and be in that cave in ten minutes. I could slaughter the Ten Rings before they even raised their rifles. I could bring him home tonight. He could be sleeping in his own bed, safe, warm, and whole.
But if I did that... Iron Man dies.
If I save him, he remains Tony Stark, the merchant of death. The man who sells missiles and sleeps soundly. He needed the cave. He needed Yinsen. He needed to see the holes in his own legacy so he could decide to fill them.
"Forgive me, Tony," I whispered to the wind.
I let go of the railing. The metal retained the imprint of my fingers.
I turned back to the empty apartment. The wait continued. I would hold the wolves at bay here in the city of angels. He just had to survive the demons in the desert.