Stark Industries is a hive. Too many people in pressed suits, too many phones buzzing with bad news, too many interns like me trying to blend into the wallpaper. The whole place is still vibrating from Tony Stark's bombshell. No more weapons.
Some call it visionary. Others mutter it's suicide.
I call it awkward coffee breaks where nobody looks each other in the eye.
The whispers sit low in my chest as I badge in, quiet for once. Like they're waiting.
I drift where I shouldn't, half following instinct, half following curiosity. A door that should be closed is propped with a cart, and I slip inside.
The room hums like a heartbeat. Machines ring the walls, arms pivot over a skeletal frame, screens bloom with blue schematics. In the middle, Tony Stark is talking with his hands.
"No, that's not balance, that's chaos. I said stabilization, not—hey! Don't sass me with the numbers, I built you." He waves at a robot like it just insulted his mother.
The whispers don't hiss here. They exhale, slow and approving.
Tony notices me mid-rant, blinks, then points a wrench at me. "Clipboard. Intern. You saw nothing."
"Right," I say.
"This is a revolutionary waste management system. Trash is the future. Congratulations, you're part of history."
"Congratulations," I echo.
He grins like I gave the right answer. One of the bots zaps him in the elbow. He swears, whacks it with the wrench, and laughs. The sound fills the room, bright and real. For one second, the whispers warm in my chest, like they approve of him.
Then Obadiah walks in.
"Tony." Smooth voice, iron underneath. "Investors are waiting."
"Tell them to recycle." Tony doesn't look up.
Obadiah smiles at me instead. Wide. Too wide. "Jordan. Good to see you working hard."
The whispers spike like a blade on glass.
"Coffee run," I mutter, and slip out before I suffocate.
The city is louder that evening.
It's the kind of noise that isn't sound so much as vibration — honks, footsteps, the shuffle of a million people pressing against each other to survive. The whispers don't wait. They tug sharp, insistent, until I'm weaving through Midtown streets with my stomach knotted.
At first, I think it's another mugging. Another accident. Then I hear the groan.
Metal on metal.
I turn the corner and my breath stutters.
A construction crane, tall as a god, is tilting. Its load, steel beams in a bundled sling, swings hard as the cable frays. The whole arm shudders. The crowd on the sidewalk stares up too long before anyone runs.
And then the cable snaps.
The beams drop, screaming through air, tearing scaffolding from a nearby building. The first crash punches through parked cars. The ground shakes. People scatter in blind panic. Someone trips. Someone screams for their child.
The whispers shove me forward like a wave.
I sprint, lungs burning. A woman is frozen in the street, staring up as a section of scaffolding buckles above her. I throw my hand up. Light bursts, wider than ever before, a golden shove that slams the steel sideways into the road instead of her skull.
It doesn't stop.
A taxi veers to miss the falling beams and crashes into a lamppost. Fire spits from the hood. The driver slams his fists on the wheel, dazed.
I stagger toward it, light spilling from my fingertips without asking. I grab the hood with one glowing hand and shove. The fire dies under the force, sparks snuffed like candles.
"Move!" I yell, dragging the driver out. He stumbles into the arms of a bystander.
Another scream. I spin.
The scaffolding is peeling off the building like ribs, raining glass and debris. A group of people are huddled against the storefront with nowhere to run. The whispers roar in my head.
I raise both hands this time. The light doesn't blast out clean. It swells, builds, a dome of gold between the falling steel and the crowd. The impact rattles through my bones. The shield holds.
For a heartbeat.
Then it cracks.
The weight is too much. My arms shake, my knees buckle, my vision goes white at the edges. I can hear people shouting behind me, pressing into each other. I want to let go. I want to collapse.
The whispers scream one word through the haze.
Hold.
I scream back at them and push harder. The glow surges bright enough to blind. The steel bounces sideways, crashing into the street with a quake that splits pavement. Dust billows like smoke.
The shield shatters. So do my legs. I drop to my knees, gasping, arms trembling as the light gutters out.
But the people are alive.
Slowly, they move. First one, then a dozen. Wide eyes, hands grabbing mine, pulling me up. Words tumble out. "Thank you, God, thank you, what are you, how did you do that?"
Phones are up. Cameras are on. The whole street is staring.
I rip free and stumble into the nearest alley, every nerve on fire. My chest heaves, my hands ache, my head is full of ringing. I brace against the wall until the world stops tilting.
The whispers don't crow. They don't gloat. They hum steady, patient, like they knew this was inevitable.
Back in my apartment, I collapse on the bed without even stripping off my dust-caked clothes. My notebook waits on the desk, open to the tree. Roots thicker. Branches wider. The margins crowded with the same four words, and the new one I added yesterday.
Balance.Choice.Tree.Remembered.Cost.
My hand shakes when I write a sixth.
Seen.
I drop the pen. My whole body aches like I've been beaten. But worse than the bruises, worse than the exhaustion, is the truth I can't dodge anymore.
Today wasn't a secret.
Today the city saw me.
And it won't forget.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Someone finally notices him