A week went by.
Sam's private lab was quiet now, really quiet, almost too quiet compared to the crazy storm of power that had happened in it a few days ago. The OmniCodex Scanner just sat dormant on the stand.The faint, tattoo-like pattern of the Worldbreaker's Decree was invisible on his forearm.The shadows in the lab weren't moving like they had been either. Before, they would bend and twist in weird ways, like they had a mind of their own, but now they were just shadows, boring and normal. All the power he had, the crazy, dangerous stuff, was being held back, pressed down inside him so no one could see it.
He stood before a full-length mirror, staring at himself. He was wearing a tuxedo, black and shiny, and he was fixing the little cufflinks at his wrists. The suit looked expensive, the kind of thing only rich or important people would wear….. he is kinda rich now.
He looked every inch the successful, ambitious CEO: handsome, confident, with a glint of calculated charm in his eyes.
AetherLink, Sam thought, though he didn't say it out loud.
In front of the mirror, a hologram blinked into existence, but only he could see it. It floated there, kind of glowing, showing him what was going on at the gala. The venue was the Grand Ballroom of the New York Public Library, which had been restored recently and looked really fancy. Outside, limousines were pulling up one after another, dropping off rich and important people. Cameras were flashing so much it almost looked like a storm of light.
"All systems operational," the AI's voice said inside his head, calm but also kind of cold. "The Aegis Core shows no one is trying to hack in. All the surveillance countermeasures are active.
Sam nodded once. Good. Then he asked about the guests.
"Nick Fury isn't here," the AI said. "But Phil Coulson is. He's by the champagne fountain, talking to the Deputy Mayor.
"Tony Stark came seven minutes ago with Pepper Potts. He's at the bar, entertaining people. He's looked at the entrance eleven times, waiting for you to show up."
"Victoria Snow is here too, surrounded by a bunch of planners and investors."
"Richard Vance from Vista Verde is here and won't stop talking about the HyperCell."
"No mutants or supernatural threats detected. Everything is secure
"Call the driver," Sam said in his head, not bothering to move his lips.
"Understood," the AI answered right away. "The driver has been notified. The vehicle will be ready at the front entrance in two minutes."
Sam gave the mirror one last glance. His tuxedo looked sharp. He straightened the collar again even though it didn't really need it. Then he turned, his shoes making soft tapping sounds on the polished lab floor.
The door slid open with a hiss,and he stepped into the hallway.The lights flickered slightly as he passed.His footsteps echoed faintly while he walked, steady and calm, heading for the elevator.
By the time the elevator doors closed in front of him, the AI spoke again. "The car is waiting."
The black car was waiting at the curb when Sam stepped outside. It wasn't just any car, though. It was a long, sleek limousine, shiny enough that the streetlights reflected off its surface like water. The windows were tinted so dark you couldn't see inside at all, which made it look even more important. The driver, dressed in the standard black suit and cap, rushed to open the back door the moment Sam appeared.
"Good evening, sir," the driver said politely.
Sam didn't answer, just nodded and slid into the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of a new car and cologne, with a little hint of something electronic too, probably from the AI systems built into it. The lights in the ceiling glowed softly, almost too fancy for a car, and there was more than enough room for him to stretch out.
The ride to the New York Public Library didn't take long, though the traffic outside seemed endless, filled with other limos and black SUVs. Sam barely looked out the window, only catching glimpses of the glowing city, the neon signs, and the occasional person pointing toward his car like it was something special.
When they finally pulled up in front of the Grand Ballroom entrance, the scene was chaotic. Bright flashes exploded one after another as photographers crowded the walkway. Reporters shouted over each other, holding microphones out like weapons. "Mr. Jackson! Over here!" "Sam! How does it feel to be hosting the biggest event of the season?" "What's next for HyperCell?"
The driver opened his door, and Sam stepped out slowly, on purpose, letting the crowd get their perfect shot. The cameras went wild, and for a moment the whole world seemed to freeze in the blinding white of flashbulbs. People called his name again and again, but Sam just gave them the same smile he had practiced in the mirror, saying nothing, moving forward as though they weren't even there.
Heads turned. Conversations faltered. The aura he projected, even veiled, was magnetic. It wasn't just his looks. He was the man of the hour, and the room knew it the instant he stepped in.
A waiter drifted toward him, tray trembling slightly under its load of champagne flutes. Sam plucked one with practiced ease, offering a faint nod before letting his gaze sweep the crowd.
He barely made it three steps before a familiar voice cut through the din.
"Mr. Jackson. I was beginning to think you'd abandoned your own party."
Victoria Snow had detached herself from a circle of financiers like a hawk breaking from its perch. Her gown was sharp, severe black that clung like armor, her smile polite but her eyes all calculation.
"Commissioner Snow," Sam said smoothly, raising his glass. "A good architect is never late. He arrives when the foundation is ready to be laid."
Her brow arched slightly. "That's clever. But you didn't answer the question. What foundation are you laying tonight?"
Sam clinked his glass lightly against hers. "The kind that holds."
"Which is?" she pressed, sipping without breaking eye contact.
"Results," he said simply, then tilted his head toward Richard Vance, who was enthusiastically showing a small crowd the Red Hook depot's power metrics on a tablet. "See? The city's rebuilding faster than anyone expected. Proof speaks louder than speeches."
Victoria's smile tightened just enough to register. "Proof can be arranged. So can appearances. I suppose tonight we'll find out which one you're selling."
Sam returned the smile. "Then let's hope the market knows how to tell the difference."
Before Victoria could reply, a new voice cut in, rich with sarcasm and charm.
"Well, well. So you're the phantom who's been making my arc reactor look like a triple-A battery."
Tony Stark slid effortlessly into their circle, glass of whiskey in hand. Pepper followed a step behind, her smile polite, warmer than his, but laced with quiet apology.
"Tony," she said under her breath, a subtle warning.
"What? It's a compliment. Kind of." Stark's eyes flicked over Sam, measuring, dissecting. "Sam Jackson, right? From frying rice to rewriting the power grid. That's not just a glow-up, that's a career miracle. You gotta give me the name of your coach—or your genie."
Sam met his gaze, expression unreadable. "The market demanded innovation, Mr. Stark. I simply provided it."
Tony smirked, swirling the ice in his glass. "Neutral tone, no tells. You're good. But let me guess—HyperCell doesn't just run on charisma and fancy cufflinks. What's under the hood?"
"Enough," Pepper said, sharper now. She leaned toward Sam with a softer tone. "Please forgive him. He's been… restless without a new project to tear apart."
Sam's smile barely curved. "Curiosity is healthy. As long as it doesn't become reckless."
That earned him a raised eyebrow from Stark, who looked like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or argue. "Oh, I like you," Tony muttered, finally taking a sip.
Victoria, who had been silent through the exchange, folded her arms. "And I thought I asked pointed questions."
Sam lifted his champagne flute in a casual toast. "Then by all means, let's keep them coming. I wouldn't want the night to get… boring."
"Innovation is one thing. A quantum leap in condensed energy physics is another," Stark countered, the smile never leaving his face though his tone edged sharper. "Your people must be geniuses. Patel and Reynolds, right? I'd love to pick their brains. Compare notes."
"I'm sure they'd be flattered," Sam replied, his voice smooth but flat. It wasn't an answer, and Stark knew it. "Unfortunately, they're busy ushering in the future. As I imagine you are—cleaning up the past."
The jab landed. Stark's smile held, but the faint tension in his jaw betrayed him.
Pepper stepped in before the moment could harden further. "The work you're doing is incredible, Mr. Jackson. Truly. It's exactly what the city needs right now."
Sam inclined his head politely. "Thank you, Ms. Potts. We aim to be… useful." His gaze slid back to Stark, and in that brief silence the message was clear: I build. You destroy. Which one matters more here?
The moment was broken by the arrival of a woman with a severe, composed expression. Deputy Director Maria Hill. Her eyes moved over him like she was reading a briefing report.
"Mr. Jackson. Maria Hill, Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division." Her tone was clipped, efficient, and she extended her hand with a soldier's precision. The grip was firm, quick, no wasted motion. "We've been monitoring your company's progress. Your efficiency in the reconstruction is… notable."
"Just doing our part, Deputy Director," Sam replied. His posture shifted—subtle, deliberate—projecting pride tempered by the faint nervousness of a civilian unaccustomed to scrutiny from someone like her.
"We all have to pull together after what happened."
"Indeed." Hill's eyes stayed locked on his, steady and unblinking. "In the wake of recent events, it's become a priority to know where powerful new tools are being developed. And who is wielding them."
"The only hands my tools are in," Sam said, layering his words with earnest conviction, "are the ones rebuilding this city. We're not interested in anything else. That's the only 'strategy' I believe in."
For just an instant, something flickered in her eyes. Not belief, not disbelief, but the calculation of someone updating a mental file. Either he was telling the truth—or he was very good at pretending to.
Hill gave a short, decisive nod. "A commendable priority. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Jackson. I expect this won't be our last conversation."
And then she was gone, vanishing back into the flow of the crowd as seamlessly as she had arrived.
Stark let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Hill. Now that's the major leagues. No charm, no banter, just facts and pressure. He raised his glass in mock salute. "Welcome to prime time. Try not to get audited."
Sam turned his head just enough to look at him, his voice dropping with a sudden, dangerous calm. "I have no intention of being audited, Mr. Stark." The faint chill in his tone made both Stark and Pepper still. "I intend to set the standards."
The air between them tightened, a subtle weight that lingered even as Sam's expression smoothed into the polite confidence of the host once more
The weight of the words made Stark pause. Even Pepper stilled, her warning glance not quite masking unease.
Sam left them there, turning toward a cluster of investors who were eager for his attention.
For the next hour he worked the room, weaving charm and calculation. He was gracious, witty, visionary—enough technical jargon to impress the engineers, enough business acumen to dazzle the financiers.
And then he felt it.
A presence brushing against his mind, light but unmistakable. Curious. Probing. Not hostile, but vast.
AetherLink whispered at once: Signal isolated. Source located: balcony, east wing. Facial recognition—98% match. Victor von Doom.Diplomatic envoy. Psionic activity detected.
Sam didn't need to turn. But he did. Two fresh glasses of champagne in hand, he approached the balcony.
Doom stood alone, overlooking the glittering hall. His suit was immaculate, his posture effortless. Where Stark radiated bravado, Doom emanated authority.
Sam offered him a glass. "A bit crowded in there, isn't it?"
Doom regarded the champagne, then Sam. He did not take it.
"A gathering of ants marveling at a grain of sugar," he said, his voice low, accented, carrying the weight of a man who never spoke lightly. "They see the prize, but not the architect."
"And do you?" Sam asked, setting the untouched glass on the balustrade.
Doom's gaze swept the hall below. "I see a man who understands that power is not seized but constructed. You did not fight. You gathered the pieces after the battle and began shaping them. That is not conquest. That is rulership."
"It's the only approach that leaves something standing when the smoke clears."
Doom finally turned, eyes locking on Sam's. For the briefest instant, Sam felt the crushing pressure of a mind that had stared into the abyss and refused to blink.
"A sentiment Doom appreciates," he said at last. "Your technology is… interesting. Not the crude hammer of a warrior, but the precise scalpel of a ruler."
"It's a tool," Sam said evenly. "Its purpose is defined by the hand that wields it."
"Exactly." Doom's lips curved into a faint smile. "Be certain you remain that hand, Mr. Jackson. The world is very good at breaking its best tools. And Latveria… is always interested in stable investments."
With a slight nod, Doom turned and slipped into the shadows, vanishing without ceremony.
Sam stood alone on the balcony, the two full glasses of champagne beside him. He looked out over the city he was slowly, methodically making his own
He picked up his own glass and took a sip. The champagne was crisp, cold, and tasted like victory.
The party was a success. But the real game had just begun.