"Sir, your private account has received an email from a stranger," Jarvis notified.
"A stranger has my private address?" Tony took a sip of water. "Name?"
"Morin," Jarvis replied.
"Pfft!" Tony spat the water out. "Isn't he our employee?"
"Sir, there is no matching name or identification in our current, former, or pending employee records."
"...Right." Tony paused. He hadn't actually processed Morin's hiring. Too much had happened after his return, and he never told Jarvis or Pepper.
"Sir, would you like to add him to the Stark Industries payroll?"
"Add him," Tony said. "Position... Photographer. What did he send? Put it up."
"The subject line is somewhat concerning," Jarvis commented as the screen appeared.
[SHOCKING! FOR ONLY ONE MILLION DOLLARS, YOU CAN SAVE YOUR OWN LIFE!]
Tony stared.
"...He's really obsessed with one million, isn't he?"
Oh. Right.
He still hadn't paid the last million.
Tony remembered. Not his fault. A million dollars to him was like a hundred bucks to a normal person. Easy to forget.
"Is it just a video?" Tony asked, pressing play.
"Yes, sir."
The video lasted three seconds.
That was enough.
Tony's face drained of color.
Two familiar figures filled the frame.
His uncle, Obadiah Stane.
And the bald leader of the terrorists.
Why were they together?
What kind of deal had they made?
The conclusion formed almost instantly.
Obadiah Stane was the mole.
Tony's itinerary was top-level classified. A billionaire, a national-level weapons genius, traveling to an Air Force base in Afghanistan-this wasn't information that leaked easily. Only a handful of people knew.
And that was the problem.
They were all power players.
Who didn't have secrets?
Who would allow investigators to dig through their lives without resistance? Even the innocent would block it-out of pride, fear, or to avoid being framed.
The investigation had stalled the moment it began.
Between Morin's earlier hints and the attack on Jarvis, Tony had been mentally prepared.
But he didn't expect a three-second clip to shatter the deadlock.
This photographer was worth every penny.
Except-
A heavier question surfaced.
How did Morin film this?
Secret recording?
Before he could think further, a second email arrived.
"Finished watching? If you're done, pay up! Pay for the rest of the video! My account is *****..."
Tony went silent.
"...Is he that desperate for money?" Tony muttered. With a face like that, he could probably live off his looks alone.
"Would you like me to investigate the gentleman's bank records, sir?" Jarvis offered.
"No, that's rude." Tony paused. "...Okay, fine. Let me see."
"Sir, it is already displayed."
The projection appeared instantly.
Jarvis had clearly started the moment Tony spoke.
As expected of the one who knew him best.
"Doesn't he still have money?" Tony frowned.
Three million.
Wait.
Three million?
Tony froze.
That was the three million Morin earned from selling Tony's videos.
Jarvis had even helpfully labeled each source-lottery winnings, property sales, and more. On the surface, it was airtight. Even Tony couldn't find a flaw immediately.
But coincidence didn't need proof.
"Whatever," Tony said. "Transfer him two million."
Watching his experience points jump by another two hundred, Morin-an honest businessman-delivered the goods.
A second later, Tony received the full video.
And right after the transaction-
"I didn't say this was exclusive... did I?" Morin thought.
"...Yeah. Definitely didn't."
So, a second later-
Inside a moving car, Obadiah Stane swirled a glass of red wine, his expression dark.
His phone rang.
"Obadiah Stane speaking." He frowned at the unfamiliar number but answered. This was his private line.
"I'm a photographer," a deep, synthesized voice said. "I'd like to make a deal."
"A photographer?" Obadiah immediately thought of paparazzi. "What? Gossip?"
"No gossip. A different kind of video." The voice chuckled. "Do you remember the one from a few days ago?"
Obadiah straightened, his face hardening. "What are you talking about?"
"I dislike riddles," the voice said calmly. "I filmed that video. And now I have another. You're a smart man, Mr. Stane. Why don't you guess what's in it?"
Obadiah's expression shifted rapidly.
The bald leader.
The interrogation.
The man had refused to talk-even with death staring him in the face.
That alone had unsettled Obadiah.
What kind of person made someone like that keep silent?
It had to be someone higher up. Much higher.
Obadiah filled in the blanks himself.
"I don't know what you mean," he said evenly.
He was a titan of industry. Negotiation was second nature.
Never show fear. Never lose composure.
Only then could you control the table.
"The content is simple," the voice said. "Two bald men. A tent. A conversation about a suit of armor. Sounds interesting, doesn't it?"
A pause.
"I've sent you a snippet. Watch it. Then we'll discuss price."
The call ended.
Obadiah's pupils shrank.
Impossible.
He opened the email.
Three seconds.
Crystal clear.
His face. The bald leader.
No ambiguity.
The phone rang again.
"I assume you've seen it," the voice said pleasantly. "You recognize my skills now, don't you?"
"Who the hell are you?!" Obadiah snapped, his composure shattering.
The clip was short.
But it was enough.
A blade hanging over his heart.
If this reached Tony, everything would end the moment Obadiah returned to the U.S.
Everything.
"I told you," the voice said lightly. "I'm just a photographer. Slightly better than average. Lucky enough to catch big moments."
"If I go down, you're coming with me!" Obadiah roared.
"I'll admit the man you killed was one of ours," Morin said casually. "But how does that hurt me? You don't know who I am. We wanted higher pay. You refused. So now we're cutting off your escape route."
A lie.
But Obadiah didn't know that.
"You're ruthless!"
"Thank you. Though compared to you, I'm a novice. Not everyone can target the nephew they watched grow up."
"He never listens!" Obadiah exploded. "Reckless. Wasteful. In his eyes, I'm nothing!"
"Not interested in villain monologues," Morin said flatly. "Shall we talk business?"
"One hundred million dollars. I guarantee exclusivity."
"You're dreaming!" Obadiah hissed. "Even if I pay, you won't destroy it!"
"You'll have to trust my integrity," Morin replied. "No trust, no business."
A pause.
"And let's be honest," his voice softened. "You can only gamble now. If you don't pay, Tony will have the full video before your plane lands."
"Then I'll disappear," Obadiah sneered.
"If you have the courage," Morin said indifferently. "A fugitive life. Hunted. Shortened. Living in shadows."
A beat.
"That wasn't your dream, was it?"
"Damn it!" Obadiah cursed. "I don't have that kind of liquid cash. One million."
"Deal."
The instant agreement stunned him.
It felt wrong.
Like slashing a price by ninety-nine percent and having the seller agree immediately.
Moments later, an account number arrived.
Obadiah sent the code through a secure channel and transferred the money.
"Transaction complete," Morin said cheerfully. "The video and confirmation of destruction have been sent. Until next time."
Obadiah checked the files.
The tent conversation.
A hand crushing a memory card.
He didn't believe it for a second.
"I agree to your terms," Obadiah messaged the contact. "I'll join. I want protection and a place to hide."
"One condition," he added. "Catch this photographer. Use the account number."
Right now, his hatred for Morin burned hotter than his resentment toward Tony.
"Welcome, Mr. Obadiah Stane," the reply came quickly. "Your plane will crash mid-air. No body recovered. New identity. New life."
"What organization is this?" Obadiah asked.
"Now," the reply said, "it's our organization."
"I can't tell you the name yet."
"But you may know our motto."
The message arrived instantly.
"Cut off one head, two more shall take its place."