"Damn it!"
Henry Stark glared up at the ceiling above him, a patchwork of cold, unfeeling metal panels.
And the operating light above, blazing nonstop twenty-four hours a day, shining so bright it could blind someone, added a bitter irony to his thoughts.
His voice was hoarse and weak, like sandpaper scraping across his throat, yet it couldn't hide the irritation and contempt behind his words.
"Honestly… these people have the taste of a disaster. Cold colors, metallic vibes, enclosed spaces—what is this? A prison, or the set of some third-rate sci-fi movie shot by a hack director? Not an ounce of style."
"Couldn't even throw down a rug or hang a few pieces of postmodern art… maybe a Rothko color field painting? Anything to make the prisoners feel a little less crushed."
He wore an oversized white lab coat. The empty sleeves and pant legs made his already thin, starved frame look even more fragile.
He lay sprawled on a similarly cold metal slab—if you could even call it a bed—arms and legs spread, eyes hollow, expression entirely devoid of hope.
"I, Henry Stark… genius of the Stark family, darling of Wall Street, king of New York nightlife, future… uh, future billionaire, philanthropist, and playboy.
And now… I'm reduced to critiquing the interior decoration of a terrorist organization. What kind of nonsense is this?"
His thoughts began drifting, uncontrollable, because this was pretty much the only entertainment he'd had all week.
"Who would have thought that a proper transmigrator like me, with a genius brain and a prestigious family background… would end up in such a miserable situation?
Where's the aura of dominance I was supposed to have? Where's my golden finger? System? Grandpa? Hell, I'd even settle for a panel I could check in on!
And the result?
All I have is this increasingly handsome face and a brother who keeps getting richer. My body's starving itself into a skeleton, and I can't even spend a dime of his money."
Yes. A transmigrator.
A secret that, aside from him, no one knew.
He had come from a peaceful, blue planet, and in some accident, his soul had returned to the void. When he opened his eyes again, he was already swimming in the warm, safe womb of his mother, Maria.
He had become Howard Stark's second son—Tony Stark's younger brother.
Someone who, by all rights, shouldn't exist in this world.
Perhaps it was a gift from the heavens, but in this life, his brain worked unbelievably well.
A top student in his previous life, combined with the resources of the Stark family, he had basically broken the system.
He skipped grades, self-studied, and faster than even his equally brilliant older brother, he got into MIT—and graduated with record-breaking results.
After graduation, he didn't strike out on his own. Instead, he joined Stark Industries.
In his own words:
> "Why stand to earn money when you can lie down and share the profits? Tony, go crush it—I believe in you!"
Of course, he wasn't just slacking off.
He had given Tony countless wild and imaginative suggestions: from new energy to AI, from biotech to military tech. Every one of them hit the pulse of future technological trends.
Under his guidance, Stark Industries' market value shot up like a rocket.
The name Tony Stark became the absolute leader of the global tech world, even earlier than in the original timeline.
The brothers' relationship was close enough to "share pants," so to speak.
They researched tech together, attended parties together, and drowned themselves in champagne and beautiful women.
Over time, Henry realized he had been corrupted by Tony's influence—or rather, his own innate flair for mischief had been fully activated: sharp-tongued, sarcastic, obsessed with teasing and enjoying life… he had essentially become another Tony Stark.
Their biggest secret? The Mark Armor, secretly developed in the private lab of their mansion.
With Henry's constant push and prophetic insights, Tony had created the first prototype years ahead of schedule.
They poured their hearts into the project, vowing to perfect it before unveiling it to the world at a spectacular, highly anticipated moment.
Everything was going beautifully—until recently.
The U.S. military had invited Tony to war-torn Afghanistan to promote Stark Industries' latest Jericho missile.
"Hey, Tony. Listen to me. Take that briefcase with you."
Before departure, Henry slipped a silver briefcase into Tony's luggage.
"Just in case. You know, some jealous fool might try to make trouble."
"Relax, Henry," Tony said, adjusting his tie and looking at himself in the mirror with his usual cocky grin.
"Who in the world would dare attack Tony Stark? But… seeing as you're so worried, I'll reluctantly bring along the Mark II, even though I didn't have time to paint it yet.
Honestly, silver's nice, but I still think a fiery gold-red suits me better."
Seeing Tony listen, Henry relaxed.
After all, with the Mark Armor in play, very few in this world could actually hurt him.
Yet, while he had predicted the beginning… he hadn't predicted the ending.
...
The moment Tony left, the next day Henry was invited to a top-tier charity gala in New York.
The instant he stepped into the room, all eyes were on him.
Countless long-legged, slender-waisted beauties fluttered around him like bees drawn to honey, their looks ranging from adoration to raw desire—feeding his vanity in ways that made him practically glow.
As the gala wound down and the city lights came alive, alcohol and hormones thickened the air.
Henry had a blonde bombshell on each arm, ready to transition to a hotel for a more… in-depth discussion of life's philosophies.
Then, the attack happened.
"Wow, gentlemen, that's quite the entrance. Jumping out of a van? How cliché. Next time, I suggest dropping from the sky… or bursting through the floor. Way more dramatic."
He muttered this instinctively as a group of masked men wielding automatic rifles surrounded him.
"Happy! My briefcase! The silver one! Quick!" he shouted to his ever-persistent bodyguard and driver, Happy Hogan, chasing close behind.
Happy risked life and limb trying to get the briefcase—the one containing a potential lifeline—into the hands of his boss's little brother. But the attackers were clearly well-trained, tactical, and precise.
Bullets flew, cutting off Happy's path. One grazed his arm, spraying blood.
Happy cried out in pain, the briefcase slipping from his grasp, while Henry was hoisted roughly by two men into a black cargo van.
As the doors slammed shut, he caught one last glimpse of Happy's flustered, angry face.
"Nice work, boys. Kidnapping a Stark. Consider your career peaked."
That was Henry's final comment before losing consciousness.
When he woke again, he was lying in the bumping cargo van.
Around him, the kidnappers were speaking in a language he couldn't understand.
It took him a few minutes, but he picked out several key words:
"Mercenaries… handoff… Hydra."
A jolt ran through him—he was suddenly fully awake.
So this group was just disposable cannon fodder for hire?
The real client was a leftover fascist remnant that should have been wiped out in World War II?
Before he could figure out why a playboy like him was worth Hydra's attention, pain struck the back of his neck, and he lost consciousness again—spectacularly.
When he opened his eyes for the third time, he was in this hellish place.
One whole week. Seven days.
Finally, he understood why he had been captured.
A Hydra spy had infiltrated Stark Industries and inadvertently overheard Henry and Tony discussing the armor.
A report titled "The Stark Brothers Are Secretly Developing a Game-Changing Personal Armor" landed on the desk of a Hydra executive.
They wanted the tech.
At first, they tried brainwashing.
Psychological cues, injections, hypnotic techniques—they tried everything to pry open his mind and extract the knowledge.
But they failed.
Henry's soul, shaped by two lifetimes, was tough as a stone in a latrine—stinking and unyielding.
No matter what they did, he didn't give in. He even had time to flirt with female researchers while semi-conscious.
"Wow, your eyes… like Siberian sapphires. When I get out, how about I gift you a private island?"
Frustrated and seeing brainwashing was hopeless, the Hydra higher-ups went cold-blooded. They decided to turn him into a test subject.
"If his willpower is that strong, let's see if his body can handle our… gift."
Thus began a nightmare.
Vials of strange-colored, unknown-serum were injected into his veins—one after another.
They rampaged through his bloodstream, sometimes burning like fire, sometimes freezing like ice.
Every day, he suffered excruciating pain as his cells were destroyed, rebuilt, then destroyed again.
As if that wasn't enough, they didn't feed him properly! Just tiny, barely edible nutritional paste, enough to keep him alive by a thread.
A few days ago, a petty-looking thug with a sadistic grin delivered some news:
"Mr. Henry Stark, by the way… your brother, Tony Stark, was also attacked in Afghanistan. Status unknown. I suppose you two will soon reunite… in heaven or hell."
Henry froze.
Half a minute later, his sarcastic instincts returned.
"What the hell? He brought the Mark II, didn't he? How does he end up in this mess anyway? Did that narcissist leave it at the hotel because it was too heavy? I should've known… trusting him is less reliable than expecting Happy to lose weight."
Jokes aside, worry crashed over him like a tidal wave.
He was done for. Tony was in danger. The Stark line might just end here.
"…Sigh."
He let out a long breath, trying to rein in his spiraling thoughts.
Thinking wouldn't help. Right now, he was a sitting duck—barely able to turn over.
"When the hell can I get out of here? I swear, if I survive this, I'll eat vegetarian every day, never touch champagne or women again… uh, maybe a little champagne, and the women… we'll see.
Most importantly—where's my golden finger? If it doesn't show up soon, these anti-human bastards are going to play me to death."
He complained weakly, his voice trembling slightly.
At that moment, the heavy metal door of the cell screeched open.
Several expressionless Hydra soldiers entered, efficiently hauling him from the slab and dragging him down the corridor.
"Hey, boys, easy! This body's precious—you break it, you can't pay. So… what are you injecting me with this time? Green? Blue? Last time, pink… tasted good, like a strawberry milkshake."
Henry, dragged like a ragdoll, never stopped talking.
The soldiers ignored his chatter completely, leading him down a long corridor.
Rows of cells lined each side, identical to his own. Most were empty; a few contained prisoners.
All of them looked hollow-eyed, emaciated; some were already dead, discarded like trash in the corners.
Henry's grin faded slightly at the sight.
They brought him into a brightly lit lab.
Several researchers in white coats busied themselves around a massive experimental table, instruments gleaming with cold light.
Henry was roughly strapped onto a cross-shaped testing platform, his hands and feet shackled in metal cuffs.
"The leader has issued the final order," an older researcher said without looking up from his data pad.
"This is the last chance. If the Superman Serum still doesn't produce the expected effect, there's no reason to keep him alive."
Superman Serum.
They had combined multiple serum samples into what they believed was the strongest concoction.
For clarity, they called it—Superman Serum.
"Understood," replied a younger researcher, eyes glinting with fanaticism.
"He carries the Stark family's superior genes. He's the perfect test subject. This time, we will create an upgraded super-soldier—even surpassing Captain America!"