The auctioneer's voice rose over the hall, rattling off bids in crisp cadence. Applause broke in waves. Champagne corks popped in the background. To the crowd, tonight was a spectacle. To James, it was just staging. The real prize sat on a fat man's finger, glinting under crystal light.
And sooner or later, someone would bleed for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Black Widow's electric-shock suit was designed for close quarters combat, every circuit in her gauntlets tuned for a disabling blow. Tonight, however, she hadn't worn it. The leather battle gear stayed in its case. Instead she came armed with more subtle tools: slim shock batons disguised as accessories, compact and stealthy. The evening party demanded elegance, not body armor. In her line of work, a good disguise was the first weapon.
Her standard combat uniform—a tight black leather, with glowing wrist bracers sparking with stored voltage—would draw too much attention to herself. James had long been curious about the gauntlets' power source, wondering at the engineering works hidden inside such a small item. But that would have to wait. Tonight was about the alien ring.
The auction above flowed quickly, wine and laughter softening the crowd. The atmosphere was refined, the kind of gathering where fortunes were casually exchanged for prestige. A charity banquet in name, but in truth a theater for the wealthy. The sums involved were small for people of this wealth—mere millions, pocket change for those who collected corporations the way others collected stamps. The real business would happen in the shadows.
She was efficient, professional, and almost invisible when she chose to be. She went unnoticed as she walked through the corridors after dealing with the surveillance wing. The basement vault ahead.
Two guards lingered at the stairwell near the vault. A drunken act, a laugh that belonged to a socialite, and their attention strayed long enough. Her hand flickered; a taser baton cracked once, then twice. Both men slumped into silence. The same way she did the men in the surveillance wing.
The vault door loomed before her. A steel titan of locks and codes. S.H.I.E.L.D. had prepared her for this. Compact gears, micro-drills and electromagnetic breakers, rendered the obstacle a nuisance rather than a wall. She bypassed the tumbler with cold precision.
Inside glimmered the lattice of an infrared grid. A spider's web of light crisscrossing the chamber. To step inside unprepared meant alarms and death.
She exhaled once, slow. High heels slipped off. Fingers found the zipper of her gown, pulling it down with deliberate calm until the fabric slipped around her feet. Beneath her gown, her frame was lean and honed from years of training—muscle hidden by velvet and silk until this moment.
Then came a dance with death.
She twisted, arched, slid low to the ground. A leg rose, bent, then curved under beams that would have burned others alive. Her waist bent like ribbon, her breath still steady. Crawling and rolling, her movements were both art and discipline. No audience and no applause—only silence and the hum of the security lasers.
The far wall waited. A safe embedded in steel, its lock is biometric. She reached between her breasts, drawing out a wafer-thin membrane. A forgery of Gilson Marbury's fingerprint, painstakingly prepared by S.H.I.E.L.D. labs. She pressed it to the scanner. A green light blinked. The vault gave way.
Inside: documents, bonds, and glittering jewels. She searched quickly, yet she didn't find the supposed alien ring.
Her jaw tightened. Anxiety cut through her calm. And then— a sound. The vault door sliding closed. Quiet at first, then louder.
She spun around to a sprint, but the vault door sealed before she could reach it. A final click echoed like a verdict. She was locked inside.
Upstairs, the auction rolled on. James sat at the table, posture casual, though his eyes never strayed far from the crowd. He raised his paddle once, bidding on a diamond hair clip presented by a wealthy donor. The piece was simple, elegant, sparkling beneath the chandeliers. He thought of Mindy instantly.
"Why hasn't Natasha returned?" Stark muttered beside him, tone low enough for only James to hear. "She should've been back by now."
James turned slightly. "She hasn't reported in?"
"Not a whisper." Stark's brow furrowed. "And you—you really don't fancy her? Come on. Have you seriously never seen those bikini shots of hers? That figure—"
James cut him off with a flat glance. "Not my type." His eyes, however, rose to the balcony where Gilson Marbury sat like a king at court.
A guard leaned close to whisper in Marbury's ear. The fat man listened, frowned slightly, then waved the guard away without breaking stride in the auction. No alarm, and no outward concern. James noted every gesture of his.
"He knows," James murmured. "And yet he's not reacting. No sketchy glances, no hint of panic. Which means he's already made his move."
Stark shifted in his chair. "You think she's been found out?"
"I think," James said, "that we don't assume anything. But Marbury isn't stupid. He knows she's here."
The bidding continued, lots passing hands with hollow applause. Wealth changing owners meant little. James kept his face neutral, though his pulse was loud with unease. Natasha was many things—arrogant, cold, and unpredictable—but she never failed at infiltration. Not without interference.
Marbury finally rose when the last gavel fell. Instead of departing, he extended a gracious invitation for all present to join him upstairs. The entertainment hall awaited.
A casino, dressed in velvet and brass. The hum of conversation gave way to the clatter of chips, the soft shuffle of cards. Staff in black suits and red ties moved gracefully between tables.
James scanned the layout. Multiple exits, guarded but discreet. Casino floors were designed to trap attention while maintaining surveillance. Every corner was covered.
Marbury approached with an oily smile. "Mr. Stark. Mr. Gibson. Perhaps you'd be interested in a private game? Something… substantial."
Stark arched a brow, then glanced at James. The decision wasn't his to make.
James leaned back slightly. "Depends. How big is the stake of the game? If it's too small, why bother? Maybe we should just find a few women and enjoy the rest of the night."
Marbury chuckled, unbothered. "Oh, I assure you, gentlemen—it's worth your time. Tonight, the table is graced by players of… significant stature."
James gave a thin smile. "Then lead the way."
They followed him down a short corridor to a side chamber.
A green-felt table dominated the center, six chairs arranged neatly. Four were already filled.
James recognized them from photographs. Business titans, faces stamped across headlines and skyscrapers. Donald Trump, Robert Mercado, David Koch, and Michael Bloomberg. All eyes turned as Marbury gestured toward Stark and James.
"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Mr. Tony Stark and Mr. James Gibson. No introductions needed beyond that."
Tony gave them a casual nod. James's gaze lingered, reading, memorizing. The air in the room was heavy with money and power.
Two seats remained open.
"Strange," James said lightly, "that our host hasn't joined. You bring us here, then sit back and watch us bleed each other dry? That doesn't suit a man of your reputation."
Marbury hesitated. He had planned otherwise. The woman in the vault weighed on his mind. But James's tone was deliberate, provocative. To refuse would mean to offend. An offense tonight would cost more than money.
"…Of course," Marbury said finally. "I'll play as well."
The six men settled in, Stark positioning himself behind James's chair like a shadow.
The dealer entered: a young woman with porcelain skin and hands that looked crafted for the task. She took her place at the table, cards already in her grasp. Her smile was polite, her movements professional.
The game began.