Right after answering the phone, a clear, professional female voice sounded on the other end of the line:
"Hello, is this Mr. Morgan?"
"Yes, this is he," Arthur replied, adjusting the device against his ear.
"This is Virginia Potts, current secretary to the CEO of Stark Industries."
Arthur froze for a moment. The name, crisp and unmistakable, struck him instantly as familiar. It wasn't just Virginia Potts — it was Pepper Potts, the famous secretary and, in many circles, Tony Stark's right hand.
(Pepper? But why on earth would she be calling me?)
"What can I do for you, Ms. Potts?"
"Actually, this isn't for me. Tony Stark personally asked me to contact you. He would like to invite you to his private party being held tonight."
Arthur raised an eyebrow, releasing a faint sigh inwardly.
(So that's it… an invitation to one of Tony Stark's legendary parties.)
He almost laughed. Saying "no" never even crossed his mind — after all, turning down an evening of free food, drinks, and entertainment courtesy of Stark would be nothing short of heresy.
"Of course, it would be my pleasure. What time?"
"Seven o'clock this evening. Would you like us to send a car to pick you up?"
Arthur shook his head, though he knew Pepper couldn't see it.
"No, thank you. There's no need, I can make my own way there."
On the other side, he heard a muffled groan, followed by a slightly anxious male voice:
"Let me go pick him up, Pepper!"
Arthur blinked, confused, until he heard the immediate rebuke:
"Happy! That's rude!"
An awkward silence stretched across the line before Pepper's voice returned, polite but firm:
"My apologies, Mr. Morgan. That was just… a fan of yours, a little too enthusiastic."
Arthur chuckled lightly. "Don't worry about it. I'll see you later."
"Wonderful. We'll be expecting you. Goodbye for now, Mr. Morgan."
The call ended. Arthur glanced at the clock on the living room wall and muttered:
"I still have time… maybe a quick nap before I get ready."
But as he walked toward his bedroom, his body thrummed with restless energy. Rest felt nearly impossible. A crooked smile tugged at his lips.
"A nap, huh? Better turn that into training."
He headed for the backyard. The late afternoon sky was clear, bathed in a soft golden glow, while the cool breeze brushed against his skin. Arthur slipped off his shirt, revealing the physique shaped by relentless training ever since he had gained that power. His body craved movement.
Drawing a deep breath, he closed his eyes and assumed a fighting stance. Feet planted, fists raised, his body loose yet poised to explode.
The first punch was simple, direct. But the force behind it was so intense that the air cracked with a sharp pop, scattering dust and dry leaves across the yard. More strikes followed in quick succession: rapid jabs, crushing straights, precise crosses, uppercuts that made the air whistle. Each blow sliced the space like invisible whips.
Arthur shifted the rhythm. His footwork grew agile, echoing the base of Muay Thai. Low kicks, swift knees, sharp elbows. Each impact against the reinforced wooden post rang out like hammer blows.
"Faster… stronger… sharper," he muttered between ragged breaths.
The spinning kicks of Taekwondo came next, each arc fluid and precise, his body moving as though performing a dance on an unseen stage. The wind from his movements swept the ground, leaving deep impressions where his feet struck.
The makeshift training post shook under the onslaught. Cracks began to spread across the wood, while faint red stains from Arthur's fists marked the steel beneath. Sweat poured down his body in streams, but he didn't stop. There was something cathartic in this release — as if each strike was more than training, it was liberation.
'One more time!' he roared, unleashing a devastating final combination of punches and kicks.
The post shuddered violently, nearly splitting apart, before Arthur finally stopped. His shoulders rose and fell with heavy breaths, muscles still pulsing with energy. With steady steps, he walked to a small table, grabbed his water bottle, and drank deeply.
"Alright… now I've earned a shower and a fine suit for that party," he murmured with a lone smile.
He picked up his shirt from the ground, wiped the sweat from his face, and returned inside the mansion, ready to prepare for the evening.
---
Meanwhile, across town, at Stark Industries…
Pepper Potts ended the call and shot a sharp glare at the burly Happy Hogan.
"Sorry, Pepper," he mumbled, embarrassed.
She said nothing, only sighed deeply before turning her eyes to the man on the couch. Tony Stark, holding a mirror, was examining faint red marks on his face.
"Tony, the guest list is already finalized."
"These reporters are insane, Pepper," he grumbled. "One of them practically shoved the microphone down my throat. Trust me, it wasn't pleasant."
Happy couldn't resist a jab: "Given how you used to treat certain actresses, I figured you'd be used to things going into your mouth."
A deadly silence fell over the room. Both Tony and Pepper stared at him simultaneously.
"Uh… I think my car's out of gas. I'd better deal with that," Happy blurted, nearly bolting from the room.
Pepper rolled her eyes. Tony cleared his throat. "You do know that was… before, right? Way before."
"Tony…" Pepper sighed, weary of pointless arguments. "I'm going to get changed. I need time for makeup."
"Sure, sure. I'll wait. And… hey, could you help me pick out a suit later?"
She paused at the doorway, glanced sideways at him, and gave a small smile. "Be grateful I still bother."
Tony reached out as if to stop her, but the calm, artificial voice of JARVIS filled the room:
[Sir, Miss Potts has already left. It's time for your chlorophyll supplement.]
"Thanks, JARVIS," Tony replied, setting down the mirror.
[You're welcome, sir. Though perhaps you should also heed my other advice.]
Tony raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
[Regarding the experiment with alternative elements. I have yet to discover anything capable of replacing palladium.]
Tony's gaze drifted to the small reactor on his desk.
As JARVIS continued his report, Tony pulled a small device from beneath the desk. Pressing his thumb against a slot, he winced at the brief sting.
A string of percentages flashed across the display.
[9%! ]
"Good news, JARVIS," Tony said with a smirk. "We've still got some time to enjoy ourselves."
But JARVIS poured cold water on the thought:
[Sir, continued use of the Iron Man armor will accelerate palladium poisoning.]
[Unfortunately, what keeps you alive is also killing you.]
[I strongly recommend you cease using the armor until a viable alternative element is found.]
"Alright, enough of that. Where's my chlorophyll, JARVIS?"
[On the table, sir.]
Tony grabbed the vial and sighed, hiding — beneath his usual arrogance — the weight of a truth he couldn't ignore: every time he donned the armor, death crept closer.
---
(End of chapter)
A/N: Final version of the chapter