The skyline of New York flickered dimly against the tempered glass walls of Glenn's penthouse, the city humming like a restless machine far below. Inside, everything was quiet except for the low hum of the surround speakers and the flicker of the wall-mounted TV screen. A buttery orange hue cast by the television danced along the steel and matte-black decor of the room.
Glenn lounged on the long leather couch with his legs propped over one of the armrests, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn resting lazily on his stomach. His cigarette glowed faintly as he exhaled a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his eyes narrowing with amusement.
Beside him, Illyana sat cross-legged with her elbow planted on the couch and her chin resting on her palm. She was barefoot, dressed in a tank top and loose pajama pants, radiating that air of danger mixed with youthful irreverence that seemed permanent with her. Her long blonde hair was tied up in a messy bun, but her eyes were sharp and amused.
On screen, Tony Stark was seated inside the congressional hearing chamber. The camera panned across several stern-faced senators, glaring with barely disguised hostility at the billionaire genius. Senator Stern, in particular, was leaning forward aggressively, spouting what he clearly thought were righteous proclamations of justice and national interest. "You can't keep this technology to yourself, Mr. Stark. It's a weapon."
Illyana scoffed and snorted. "Oh please, look at that guy. He looks like a constipated turtle."
Glenn chuckled. "More like a middle-school principal who just found out one of his students hacked the school network and made him the background wallpaper."
On screen, Tony responded smoothly, his voice a symphony of snark and confidence. "I am Iron Man. The suit and I are one. To turn over the Iron Man suit would be to turn over myself, which is tantamount to indentured servitude or prostitution, depending on what state you're in."
Illyana leaned forward, eyes lighting up. "He really just said that!"
Glenn burst into a laugh, his cigarette bouncing from the corner of his mouth. "Goddamn, Tony. Subtle as a nuclear warhead in a snowball fight."
The hearing descended further into chaos. Stark hacked the projector, displaying live feed clips from failed attempts by other countries and private contractors trying to mimic the Iron Man suit. One disastrous test showed a suit wearer twisting awkwardly, the machine contorting and snapping the user's spine. Another cut to a more violent malfunction, a suit simply detonating like a failed prototype firework.
Glenn laughed harder, gripping his stomach. "And here we have the U.S. government's hypocrisy at it's finest. Look at the senator's face flashing from greed to embarrassment, hahaha. Brilliant!"
Illyana wiped tears from her eyes. "They actually tried duct-taping a microwave to a guy's back and called it 'Next-Gen Armor'?"
Tony's face was nonchalant as he delivered his coup de grace: "You want my property? You can't have it. But I did you a big favor. I've successfully privatized world peace."
The room exploded in groans and outrage, but Tony simply stood and walked off with his trademark smirk.
Glenn whistled. "Mic dropped. Someone get that man a Pulitzer...or a scotch. Maybe both."
Illyana turned her head toward him, grinning. "You know, you two have a similar energy. Reckless, sarcastic, borderline insane."
"Thanks, I try," Glenn said with mock modesty, blowing out a smoke ring that drifted lazily toward the ceiling. "He's got the suit. I've got the... well, the everything else."
Illyana laughed and tossed a pillow at him. Glenn caught it mid-air without even glancing.
"So," she said, nestling back into the couch, "how long until the feds realize they're never winning against guys like you and Stark?"
"Yana," Glenn said, drawing on his cigarette again, "that's the beauty of it. They already know. They're just too stubborn to admit it."
And as Tony Stark disappeared off the screen, walking away from the chaos he'd just orchestrated with effortless charisma, Glenn raised his glass of whiskey toward the TV.
"To the clowns, chaos, and flipping the bird to bureaucracy," he toasted.
Illyana clinked her soda can against his glass.
"Long may the circus continue," she said.
The screen faded into a commercial, but neither of them moved. The city beyond pulsed with life, and inside that penthouse, two equally enigmatic forces of nature just shared a laugh over popcorn and televised anarchy.
And in that brief moment, the world outside—filled with monsters, governments, conspiracies, and shadows—could wait.
———
The warm Malibu sun glistened across the shoreline just outside the sprawling glass-and-steel masterpiece that was Tony Stark's estate. Inside, however, a storm of change brewed, cloaked in the usual sarcasm and ego that cloaked Tony like a second skin. With the Senate hearing behind him, the headlines buzzing about his defiance, and the government's failure to claim the Iron Man suit, Tony was no closer to solving his most pressing issue—his imminent death.
Jarvis' voice echoed calmly through the mansion. "Sir, may I remind you that your palladium levels are now at 39% toxicity."
"Not now, Jarvis," Tony muttered, setting down an empty glass of his latest spinach-and-spirulina concoction. His eyes drifted toward the sea, then slowly settled back on the gleaming arc reactor embedded in his chest.
With the weight of his secret gnawing at him, Tony decided it was time for a change—not to save himself, but to ensure everything he built wouldn't collapse under the weight of his ego. If he had to die, he wanted to leave a legacy secured in competent hands.
So, later that morning, he summoned Pepper Potts to the main living area. She arrived, clipboard in hand, already multitasking between coordinating charity events and solving Stark Industries' PR nightmares post-hearing.
"Tony, I have ten minutes. Can we make it snappy?"
Tony gave her a lopsided smile. "Perfect. That's all I need."
She narrowed her eyes at the grin. "You're planning something."
"Always. But this one's good. Pepper, I'm making you CEO of Stark Industries. Effective immediately."
Pepper blinked. "What? Really?"
"You heard me. You're the only person I trust. You practically run the company already. Might as well make it official."
"Tony, you can't just—"
"I can. I did. The board will grumble, but they'll fall in line. You know how to handle them better than I do anyway."
Pepper looked stunned, her grip on the clipboard tightening. "This isn't just about the company. What's going on, Tony?"
He offered a dazzling smile, the kind that masked the sheer panic in his bloodstream. "I'm just evolving."
Before she could press him further, a knock came at the door. Jarvis announced: "Miss Natalie Rushman is here for her interview."
Pepper furrowed her brow. "Interview? I didn't schedule any—"
"I did," Tony said, hopping off the couch with an irritating amount of energy. "You need an assistant, and I took the liberty."
Standing at the door was a statuesque redhead with a folder under her arm and a composed smile. "Miss Rushman, from Legal," she said smoothly.
Pepper looked her over, unsure. "Legal?"
"I have a background in litigation, fluent in Latin, French, Russian, and a black belt in several martial arts."
Tony arched a brow. "Damn—I want one."
Pepper rolled her eyes and gestured. "Come on in."
Tony watched Natalie as she walked, almost predatory in her grace. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something about her presence felt like the click of a trap springing shut—quiet, invisible, and inevitable.
What Tony didn't know, what neither of them could have guessed, was that 'Natalie Rushman' was not who she claimed to be. Behind that polished demeanor was Natasha Romanoff, codename: Black Widow, on a covert assignment from none other than Nick Fury.
Back in Washington, D.C., inside a quiet S.H.I.E.L.D. monitoring room, Director Nick Fury sat with his arms crossed, watching the live security feed from Stark Industries.
"She's in," reported Agent Coulson.
"Keep her there. Stark's running out of time," Fury muttered. "But knowing him, he won't ask for help until he's two breaths from flatlining."
Days passed.
Natalie integrated seamlessly into the company, proving herself as both hyper-competent and remarkably discreet. Her presence unsettled Happy Hogan, who couldn't stop trying to spar with her in the gym—and losing every time. Pepper, despite initial skepticism, found herself impressed.
Meanwhile, Tony became increasingly detached. His nights were longer, his days a blur. Despite his cocky exterior, Pepper began to notice the shadows under his eyes, the slightly trembling hands he tried to hide.
"Tony, are you okay?" she asked one night while reviewing financial documents in his office.
"Never better," he quipped. "How's CEO life? Gotten any death threats yet?"
"A few. Comes with the job."
They smiled, but the silence that followed was heavy. Pepper knew something was wrong. But Tony, ever the showman, refused to let the curtains fall.
Elsewhere, Natasha quietly accessed the lab's logs, the reactor schematics, and Tony's blood toxicity reports. She sent everything directly to Fury. The prognosis wasn't good.
Fury's response was short: "He'll need our help sooner than he thinks. Stay close."
Natasha replied, "Already am."
———
The Mediterranean sun was already working overtime, pouring down in shimmering golden sheets over the sleek, glittering city of Monaco. From the balcony of their suite in the Hôtel de Paris, Glenn had been watching the sea sparkle like liquid sapphire, its calm surface betraying none of the chaos that the day would eventually bring.
Behind him, Illyana stood in front of the full-length mirror, her long blonde hair catching the sunlight as she fixed the straps of her black dress. She was in no rush; her movements were deliberate, unhurried, and just a touch dramatic—like a cat stretching because it knows you're watching.
"You ready?" Glenn asked, though his tone suggested he was in no hurry either. He had one hand in his pocket and the other holding a small cup of espresso he'd gotten from room service earlier. The scent of it still clung to him.
Illyana's eyes flicked to the mirror, meeting his reflection with the faintest smirk. "For the race? Or for whatever circus Stark is about to turn it into?"
Glenn chuckled under his breath, setting the cup aside and adjusting the cuffs of his charcoal-gray suit. "How do you know? Though I'm putting money on circus being the safer bet."
"Well, he was always in danger remember? Not hard to predict."
"Ohh, right." Glenn chuckled.
They made their way down through the lavish lobby, passing other well-dressed guests and the occasional paparazzi trying to catch glimpses of anyone remotely famous. Outside, the streets were alive with a buzz that only the Monaco Grand Prix could generate—supercars purring like big cats, camera shutters clicking in rapid bursts, and the low, constant hum of an eager crowd.
Glenn and Illyana's car was waiting, a black Bentley with tinted windows. The driver—someone Glenn had vetted himself—held the door open without a word. They slid in, and soon enough the city began rolling by outside in slow motion, framed by palm trees, luxury storefronts, and banners for the Grand Prix flapping in the breeze.
—
The paddock area was a different world entirely—organized chaos, the scent of motor oil in the air, the deep growl of engines warming up in the distance. Photographers and reporters swarmed like bees, chasing after drivers, celebrities, and corporate sponsors.
It didn't take long for Glenn to spot Tony Stark. The man was unmistakable—sunglasses, smirk, and an energy that was equal parts "I own this place" and "watch me do something stupid."
Pepper Potts was there too, poised and professional as always, though the faint lines around her eyes hinted at the exhaustion of dealing with Stark 24/7. Standing beside her was a new face: Natalie Rushman—at least, that's what her ID badge said. Glenn recognized the posture instantly. This was no ordinary secretary. She moved like someone who'd been trained in multiple forms of martial arts, even in heels.
"Glenn! You made it!" Tony's voice cut through the noise as he stepped forward, flashing that trademark grin. "Monaco just got about 200% more interesting."
"Flattery this early in the day?" Glenn replied, his tone dry. "You must be buttering me up for something."
Tony ignored that, turning his attention to Illyana with a smoothness that was both effortless and deliberate. "Long time no see, Illyana. Stark Industries policy says I should probably try to steal you away for corporate espionage purposes, but I'm feeling generous today."
Illyana smirked. "You wouldn't be able to afford me."
Glenn laughed outright at that, while Pepper gave a small, approving nod, as if silently appreciating anyone who could verbally spar with Tony.
The event was supposed to be straightforward—watch the race, shake a few hands, then head off to whatever charity gala Stark had on his schedule. But Glenn had known Tony long enough to know that "straightforward" and "Stark" were mutually exclusive concepts.
It happened quickly—too quickly for anyone to stop him. One moment Tony was greeting the press, the next he was walking toward the pit lane, stripping off his jacket and grabbing a racing helmet from one of the crew.
Pepper was immediately in his path. "What are you doing?"
"I'm driving," Tony replied simply, like he was announcing he was going to the store for milk.
"You don't even have a license for—"
"International waters, baby. Well, international asphalt. Same thing." He grinned, already moving past her.
From the sidelines, Glenn watched through his Ray-Ban sunglasses with mild amusement. "And there it is," he murmured to Illyana.
She tilted her head. "You're not going to stop him?"
Glenn shook his head. "Stopping Stark from doing something reckless is like trying to stop the tide. Better to just prepare for the waves."
"By the way, did you notice something like black veins on his neck?"
"Yep! Bright as day!"
"What's up with that?"
"Oh nothing much, he's dying."
Illyana was stunned on both the fact that Tony is dying and how Glenn non-chalantly said it like it was nothing.
"Are you going to save him?"
"Maybe, if he ask. But that guy was too proud to ask for help unless there's no way out."
"But—"
"Don't worry, he won't die. I'm sure he will call me in desperate moments."
"Do you have a cure for that?"
"I do actually. The question is, what price he's willing to pay." Glenn smirked.
The race began with all the spectacle you'd expect—engines roaring, tires screeching, the crowd roaring back. Tony's car wasn't just fast; it was dominant, weaving through competitors with the precision of someone who thought physics was just a suggestion.
And then the tone of the day shifted.
From a service gate, a man stepped onto the track, wearing what looked like a crude, makeshift exoskeleton. Long, electrified whips hung from his hands, sparking and crackling with lethal energy. Glenn's eyes narrowed and recognized him instantly.
"Illyana," he said in a tone that was suddenly all business.
"I see him." Her gaze locked on Vanko like a predator sizing up prey.
"Don't interfere, he's one of our own. Let him experience how inevitable of a failure his revenge was. That stubborn old fool thinks he can kill Tony with a Star Wars whip. Who does he think he is...Dennis from Yuyu Hakusho?"
"Who?"
"Nevermind...Gen Z now a days." Glenn muttered.
Illyana rolled her eyes and ignored his grumble. "How did you find him?"
"Found him and his father in Moscow. His dad and Tony's dad used to partner up to create the first arc reactor but due to business politics, Anton Vanko was kicked out by Tony's dad."
"Tony's life is full of drama." Illyana scoffed.
"Indeed." Glenn chuckled.
The man—Ivan Vanko—didn't just walk onto the track; he claimed it, slicing his whips into the tarmac, sending sparks flying and forcing cars to spin out or crash entirely. The crowd's cheers turned into screams, panic rippling through the stands.
Tony's car came into view, and Vanko swung the whips again, metal singing in protest as sparks danced across the air. Glenn could already see the play-by-play unfolding in his head: Stark would survive, but the situation was about to get messy.