Tony all but fled.
He strode quickly through the noisy crowd, heading straight for the bar. His fingers tapped a rhythmic beat on the smooth countertop, trying to dispel the inexplicable agitation in his chest.
"A martini. Shaken, not stirred," he told the bartender, his voice carrying a barely perceptible rasp.
The cold glass in his hand sent a chill spreading through his fingertips, but it couldn't cool the heat raging inside him. He leaned against the bar, his gaze traveling over the sea of heads toward the distant terrace.
Pepper was standing there. The evening breeze gently rustled her long hair as she held a glass of champagne, her figure looking a little lonely under the brilliant lights.
He had just screwed everything up.
Just as he mustered the courage to go and explain things, a familiar yet troublesome voice sounded beside him.
"I never thought I'd see the day Tony Stark was drowning his sorrows alone."
Tony turned his head and saw Christine Everhart, a reporter for *Vanity Fair* and a woman with whom he'd once had a brief fling. She was dressed in a sharp business suit today, her eyes keen and a professional smile on her lips—a smile that held an undisguised edge.
"Christine," Tony said, raising his glass and slipping back into his usual devil-may-care persona. "I thought you'd have blacklisted me from your celebrity anecdotes by now."
"That depends on whether you've provided explosive enough material." Christine ignored his banter. She pulled a stack of photos from her clutch and slapped them down on the bar. The sound wasn't loud, but it hit Tony's ears like a clap of thunder.
"Like this, for instance. Explosive enough for you?"
Tony's gaze fell on the photos, and the smile on his face froze instantly.
The background of the photos was a windswept desert, a place he knew all too well—Gulmira. Several armed militants were unloading crates stamped with the Stark Industries logo from a truck. A close-up in one photo clearly showed the body of a Jericho missile, the very 'masterpiece' he had last demonstrated in Afghanistan.
And another photo made his heart clench.
A small, thin child stood beside a pile of munitions, curiously touching a shell. The word "STARK" on it was painfully conspicuous under the camera's lens.
"My source in Gulmira took these photos," Christine's voice was cold and clear, like a scalpel precisely dissecting the psychological defenses Tony had just erected. "Right after you announced you were shutting down the weapons division. The Ten Rings, they're using all of Stark Industries' latest weapons."
Tony didn't speak. He just stared intently at the photos.
The party music, the laughter of the crowd, all seemed to recede into an infinite, blurry distance. All he could hear was the dull hum of the Arc Reactor in his own chest.
Shame, anger, and a nauseating sense of betrayal washed over him like a tidal wave.
He had seen the power of those weapons firsthand; the hole in his chest was the best proof. He thought that by shutting down the weapons division, he could wash away some of his sins. But now it seemed he was just a self-deceiving clown.
"Stark Industries has been dealing with those terrorists all along, Tony," Christine pressed on, her voice laced with a hint of pity, but more of a reporter's coldness. "While you were their captive, your life hanging by a thread. Your company, using the weapons you invented, armed the very people who almost killed you. Isn't that ironic?"
Tony's head snapped up, all traces of levity gone from his eyes. He grabbed the stack of photos, turned without a word, pushed through the crowd, and walked straight toward a man laughing and chatting with several high-ranking military officials.
Obadiah Stane.
"Obie," Tony interrupted their conversation, his voice dangerously low. "A word."
Obadiah paused for a moment, then smiled and excused himself to the others, following Tony to a quiet corner.
"What's wrong, Tony? You look terrible," Obadiah asked with concern, his fatherly expression now looking utterly false to Tony.
Tony wasted no time, throwing the photos down in front of him.
"What is this?"
Obadiah glanced down at the photos, his expression unchanging. Not even a flicker of surprise. He simply pushed the photos back calmly.
"Tony, I know this is hard for you to accept. But this is how the world works."
"Works? That's your explanation?" Tony's voice rose, unable to control it. "My weapons, in the hands of terrorists, slaughtering innocent civilians! This is how Stark Industries works?"
"It was to protect you, Tony!" Obadiah's voice suddenly rose too, his face contorted in a look of anguish. "After you were kidnapped, the board was in chaos, everyone wanted to push you out! It was me, I was the one who stabilized them! I filed an injunction to keep you out of the board's decisions, to keep you from being bothered by this dirty work, to protect you!"
An injunction…
So that was it.
Tony felt the blood run cold in his veins.
The injunction that had kept him from meddling in company affairs, that had ostracized him like an outsider, had come from the hands of the very man he saw as a father.
All his confusion found its answer in that moment.
Why his resolution to shut down the weapons division had met with so much resistance.
Why the company's weapons were continuously flowing into the black market.
Why Obadiah, just when he needed support the most, always pushed him away in the name of "protection."
Trust, in that instant, completely crumbled, shattered into dust.
"So, this was all you." Tony's voice became calm, eerily so. The emotion drained from his brown eyes, leaving nothing but a bottomless chill.
Obadiah didn't seem to notice this deadly calm. He patted Tony's shoulder and said earnestly, "Tony, you're a genius. Your world should be one of invention and creation. Leave these dirty dealings to me. Trust me, it's for the good of the company, and for your own good."
With that, he turned and walked away, his back as steady as ever, as if he truly were the reliable elder who shielded Tony from all storms.
Tony stood alone, the whole world spinning around him.
His mind was in turmoil, a cacophony of Obadiah's hypocritical words and Christine's cold voice.
Just then, his smartwatch vibrated gently. A reminder from Paul popped up on the screen, with just two words.
"Pepper, terrace."
Right. Pepper.
He was jolted back to reality, looking up toward the terrace. That figure was still there, looking so fragile in the night wind.
He should have gone over.
He should have explained, apologized, tried to fix the fledgling possibility between them that he himself had just crushed.
But now, he couldn't.
Not before he had personally purged the sins within Stark Industries, not before he made those who deserved it pay the price, did he have any right to speak of feelings.
Tony pulled his gaze away, taking one last look at the hypocritical faces and clinking glasses in the ballroom.
He turned and began to walk towards the main entrance.
This time, there was no desperation or escape in his retreat, only an undeniable resolve.
The evening wind caught the corner of his suit jacket, lifting it like a war banner about to raise a storm.
He was going home.
He was going to his workshop.
Some debts had to be repaid with iron and fire.