The low hum of the gala faded into a distant murmur behind him. Sam remained on the balcony, the cold night air a sharp contrast to the stifling warmth of calculated smiles and veiled threats inside. Doom's words lingered—not spoken like Stark's half-jokes or Hill's veiled probes, but with the weight of a monarch acknowledging a potential rival. Or a potential asset.
AetherLink, full analysis of Victor von Doom. Everything from public records to… less public channels. Focus on technological pursuits, known assets, and psychological profile.
[Processing. Accessing encrypted Latverian diplomatic feeds, cross-referencing with Stark Industries security breaches (unauthorized), and historical data from the Fantastic Four incident. Compiling a threat assessment.]
A stream of classified dossiers scrolled across his vision, invisible to the revelers inside.
Designation: Victor von Doom.
Intellect: Genius-level
Technological expertise: Robotics, energy manipulation, weapons development, dimensional gateways.
Secondary discipline: Confirmed sorcerer. Mastery of arcane sciences.
Resources: Absolute monarch of Latveria. Private army. Advanced Doombot infrastructure.
Psychological profile: Ego monumental. Pathological need for control. Views "free will" as a flawed system.
Sam mused. This wasn't just another opportunist sniffing around new tech, or a bureaucrat jockeying for control. Doom was a paradigm unto himself, a man who refused to be part of anyone else's order.
And he had just sent a signal—subtle, unmistakable—that Sam was now on his board.
He pushed off the balustrade. As he turned to re-enter the fray, his path was deliberately intercepted by a man he'd been waiting for.
"Mr. Jackson. A moment of your time?"
Norman Osborn's smile was a masterpiece of corporate geniality, but it didn't reach his eyes. They were cold, calculating, and held a flicker of something darker, something stretched thin and hungry. He stood with the easy confidence of a man who believed the world was his to manipulate.
"Mr. Osborn," Sam said, matching the false warmth. "I was hoping I'd have the chance to thank you."
Osborn's eyebrow quirked. "Thank me?"
"Of course. If you hadn't let Dr. Connors go, I never would have found such a brilliant mind for my biotech division. His work is… revolutionary." Sam let the compliment hang, watching the minute tightening around Osborn's eyes. He'd just drawn first blood, and they both knew it.
Osborn's smile tightened. "Curt is a visionary. A pity Oscorp's board lacked the stomach for his more… ambitious projects. I'm glad he found a home with someone who appreciates pure science." The subtext was clear: You have my leftovers.
"I appreciate results, Mr. Osborn. And Curt gets them. In fact, the advances we're making in regenerative medicine are staggering. It's a shame Oscorp won't benefit from them." Sam took a sip of his champagne. "But I'm sure you have your own projects to keep you busy
How is the… gliding tech coming along?"
The change in Osborn was instantaneous and terrifyingly subtle. The corporate mask slipped for a nanosecond, and the raw, paranoid aggression beneath shone through. His eyes glinted with a greenish hue that had nothing to do with the ballroom lights. How did this nobody know about that? The project was buried under layers of black-budget secrecy.
He recovered quickly, the smile back in place, but it was now a predatory grimace. "Oscorp is at the forefront of many technologies, Mr. Jackson. Defense, medicine, energy. It's a large playground. But it's always interesting to see a new… enthusiast… join the game." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping, the scent of expensive cologne failing to mask a sudden, acrid smell of chemicals. "Just remember, some toys are too advanced for children. They can break. And broken toys… can be dangerous."
The threat was palpable, laced with a madness that was barely contained. This wasn't the calculated warning of Doom or the suspicious probing of Stark. This was the rattling of a cage from something that had already begun to chew its own leg off.
Sam didn't flinch. He met Osborn's manic gaze with one of utter, glacial calm. "I appreciate the advice. But I don't play with toys, Mr. Osborn. I build foundations. And I've found the most unstable ground often lies under the oldest structures."
He held Osborn's gaze for a second longer, letting the veiled promise—or threat—settle. Then, he gave a polite, dismissive nod. "If you'll excuse me, the Mayor is waving me over. It was… enlightening."
He walked away, leaving Norman Osborn standing alone on the balcony, the pleasant facade completely gone, replaced by a silent, seething rage. Sam could feel the man's hatred like a physical pressure against his back. He had just made a powerful, and utterly unhinged, enemy.
He didn't care. Enemies were a currency he was learning to spend.
He spent another thirty minutes working the room, solidifying alliances with city planners, charming investors, and deftly avoiding any further deep conversations. He had accomplished what he came for. He had shown his face, measured his rivals, and planted his flag.
With a final round of handshakes and smiles, he made his excuses and headed for the main entrance. The press swarmed, shouting questions about HyperCell, the reconstruction, his sudden rise.
"Mr. Jackson! Over here!" "Is it true you're in talks with the Pentagon?" "What's next for Atlas?"
He offered them a few soundbites about innovation and rebuilding America, his voice the perfect blend of humility and ambition. Then, with a final wave, he stepped into his waiting car.
As the door closed, shutting out the noise and the light, the driver pulled away from the curb.
The silent car glided through the canyons of New York, leaving the glittering lights of the gala behind.
"Stop the car," he said, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the engine.
The driver obeyed instantly, pulling over to the curb at the edge of Central Park. The engine died, leaving only the distant sounds of the city.
"Wait here."
Sam stepped out into the cool night air. The park was mostly empty at this hour, a vast, dark expanse under a hazy orange sky. He needed to walk.
The park was quiet, the hum of the city falling away behind him like the closing of a stage curtain. Shadows pooled thick and deep, yet parted for Sam as though they knew whose dominion they belonged to. He walked until even the faint sounds of traffic were swallowed, until all that remained was the steady rhythm of his own breath
He rounded a bend.
A lone figure sat on a bench, looking up at the meager scattering of stars above the light-polluted sky. An old man, wiry and slight, white hair poking from beneath a plain cap. Large glasses. Wrinkled skin mapped by time. A face that was instantly recognizable, not because of notoriety, but because he was everywhere.
Sam stopped, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Now that's a cameo," he said.
The man turned, lips tugging into a warm, familiar grin. "Well, look who it is! The man of the hour! Quite a shindig you threw tonight, son."
Sam didn't answer immediately. He studied him. No heartbeat. No heat signature. No bio-reading of any kind. Just… presence. A fixed point. A constant. The old man looked ordinary, but his existence bent the world around him like gravity.
"You know," Sam said at last, voice calm and deliberate, "most people would call you Stan Lee. But I know better. You're not just the storyteller. You're the hand holding the pen. The One Above All."
The smile broadened, though the eyes behind the glasses glittered with something older than time itself. "Heh. Usually takes them a little longer to figure that out. Guess I shouldn't be surprised, not with you. You've been reading ahead, haven't you?"
"I've always read ahead," Sam replied, walking closer. He leaned against the nearest tree, arms folded, utterly unshaken. "So what is this? The part where God Himself gives me a pep talk? A warning?
The old man chuckled. It was the same laugh that had charmed millions, but now it echoed with the weight of infinity. "Why not all? You're an odd one, Sam. An… edit. A paragraph that wasn't supposed to exist in this chapter. When you popped into this world, I noticed right away. Believe me, I considered grabbing the eraser." He tapped his chest. It made a hollow sound, like knuckles rapping against paper. "A heart attack. A random accident. One less variable messing up my story. Clean, simple."
"And yet here I am."
"And yet here you are," the One Above All agreed, leaning back on the bench. "Because when I reached for the eraser, I found something in the way. That little 'System' of yours. Not mine. Not this multiverse's. Something from… outside. Stitched to you so tight, erasing you would've torn the whole page. Messy. I don't like messy."
Sam smirked. "So you decided to leave me in. An anomaly wandering through your universe."
"I decided to see what kind of story you'd write for yourself," the old man said. His smile shifted, turning knowing. "And you've been… entertaining. Turning fruit into Infinity-lite batteries,Multiplying ginseng? Beating the tar out of an Asgardian executioner with the power of a montage? Turning a pomegranate into an Infinity Stone Lite? Excelsior!"
Sam couldn't help but laugh. The sheer absurdity of the moment—being reviewed by the metaphysical concept of the creator—was perfect. "Glad I could provide entertainment."
It's been a hoot!" Stan agreed. "But it's also causing some… ripples. The big guys are starting to notice. The ones who make sure the multiverse doesn't unravel because someone gets a cute idea."
The old man's demeanor shifted. The warmth dimmed. For an instant, the glasses, the wrinkles, the frailty—all of it fell away. What sat before Sam was infinite and formless, light and void, the concept of creation itself given shape. When he spoke again, the voice shook the air like a fundamental law:
"The Living Tribunal watches. Judgment is not something that arrives, Samuel. It is constant. Every choice you make rewrites equations older than your species. You are not simply powerful. You are disruptive—new physics masquerading as flesh. A law that was never ratified. And if you destabilize the multiverse beyond repair… the red pen comes down."
Most mortals would have dropped to their knees. Sam just exhaled slowly, letting the words wash over him like a storm he had already prepared for. "So I'm on probation."
"You're under observation," the One Above All corrected, though the edge softened back into amusement. "But don't think of it as a threat. Think of it as… feedback. The Tribunal doesn't hate a plot twist. It just hates bad writing. Tell a good story, son. One worth keeping."
He stood, joints creaking in theatrical imitation of age, and pointed a finger at Sam, grinning like the kindly old man once more. "And don't forget—"
Sam finished the line for him, voice steady, lips quirking. "With great power, comes great responsibility."
The grin widened. "Good. You know your lines."
The old man turned and began to walk down the path. He didn't vanish in a flash. He just kept walking, each step fading him further, until he was swallowed by the dark and was simply… gone.
Sam stood there, the sounds of the city returning like background noise in a theater after the credits roll.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face. The restlessness that had hounded him all evening was gone.
He had a universe to play with.