"For this device, I've spent nearly six hundred million dollars. No normal person would fund a project like this—but now, I'm donating it to MIT free of charge."
Tony slowly stepped out from the stage set.
"MIT's mission has always been to generate and preserve knowledge, and to apply that knowledge to meet the world's greatest challenges. So, I've established this scholarship."
He paced across the stage at an unhurried pace. In front of him stood a massive teleprompter screen, scrolling through his prepared remarks.
"Starting now, any student who meets the criteria will have equal access to funding from Stark Industries. All your research projects can apply—once approved, you'll receive financial support. No strings attached. No taxes."
Tony's announcement drew thunderous applause and cheers from the audience. This fund was essentially free money—especially for research projects that had struggled to secure backing.
At MIT, most research projects relied on private capital. The school itself provided limited funding, so researchers or project leads usually had to seek sponsors on their own. But those investors were often exploitative, offering little money while attaching a mountain of conditions—sometimes turning researchers into unpaid labor.
Now, with Stark Industries establishing a dedicated fund, they no longer had to worry about money. They could focus entirely on their work. Who wouldn't be excited?
"Next, Miss Pepper Potts will introduce the details of the program."
With that, Tony wrapped up and stepped off the stage.
Backstage, a bald, overeager sycophant trailed behind Tony, chattering nonstop until Tony's patience finally snapped.
"Stop. Excuse me—I need to step away for a moment."
The irritation in Tony's voice was unmistakable. The man awkwardly smiled, clearly picking up on the hint—after all, Tony was the one signing the checks.
Tony walked alone to the elevator in the hallway, planning to head up to the rooftop for some air. At that moment, a middle-aged Black woman stepped up beside him, also waiting.
An awkward silence fell. Anyone who knew Tony understood—he had never been good at social interactions. In the past, he wouldn't even share an elevator with strangers.
"You've done a good thing for those young people," the woman said first.
"Oh… sure. It's nothing, really."
Tony shrugged indifferently, not even looking at her.
"From what I've seen, generosity is often rooted in guilt. But then again—when you have money… a few mistakes don't seem to matter, do they?"
Her words struck a nerve. Tony immediately glanced at her, forced a polite smile, and pressed the elevator button.
"Going up?" he asked awkwardly.
The woman didn't answer. Instead, she reached into her handbag. Instantly, Tony grabbed her wrist.
"What are you doing?!"
She frowned at him.
"Sorry. Occupational hazard."
Tony let out a breath. Ever since becoming Iron Man, he had developed a reflexive wariness toward strangers. Without his armor, he was just a regular man—if she pulled out a gun and emptied a magazine into him, that would be the end of him.
The woman pulled her hand free.
"I work in congressional human resources. I'm not a famous capitalist like you, but this job lets me support my son. And I'm proud that he became someone useful."
As she spoke of her son, her eyes began to redden.
With a sharp motion, she pulled out a photograph and slapped it against Tony's chest.
"His name was Charlie Spencer. You killed him. In Sokovia."
Her voice trembled with emotion. She had witnessed her son's death with her own eyes—helpless to do anything.
"Maybe to superheroes like you, it's nothing. You don't even know the names of the people who die."
Her tone turned cold.
"You think you're fighting for us? For ordinary people? No—you're fighting for yourselves. So tell me, who's going to avenge my son, Mr. Stark?"
"He's dead. And it's all your fault."
With that, she turned and walked away without another glance.
Tony stood frozen, the photo still in his hand, lost in thought—until Karl came looking for him.
"Hey… what's wrong?"
On the rooftop, the two sat atop a metal pipe frame. Karl could tell immediately that something was off.
"Do you think what we're doing is right?"
Tony looked up at the night sky. It was unusually clear—the stars visible even in the city.
"What do you mean?"
Karl frowned, not quite following.
"Just now…"
Tony recounted what had happened.
"So tell me—are we so-called superheroes saving people… or killing them?"
Karl let out a short laugh and looked up at the sky as well.
"You can't save everyone, Tony. Not me, not Steve, not any of us. No one can save everyone in a disaster. We're not gods. All we can do is save as many people as possible. The rest… even we can't help."
He sighed. He had never truly wanted to save the world—only to protect the people close to him. As for everyone else, he neither cared nor concerned himself.
"But we have hurt people. People have been injured—or killed—because of us."
A sense of helplessness welled up inside Tony.
"They didn't die because of us," Karl said calmly. "They died because of the criminals. Without us, the death toll in New York—or Sokovia—would've been far worse. It's because we were there that casualties were kept under control."
His words were cold—almost devoid of compassion. But the truth often was.
Karl didn't care. They had saved countless lives. In the Battle of New York, without them, Loki might have conquered Earth—or the nuke would've wiped out the entire city. In Sokovia, without them, the whole country—and possibly half the planet—would've been annihilated.
So to Karl, the dead were not a burden. They didn't weigh on his conscience.
It was like that famous dilemma: two railway tracks—one with a single person tied to it, the other with several. A train is coming. Who do you save?
To Karl, the answer was simple. Normally, he'd choose the many.
But if that one person was someone he cared about?
Then even if the other track held the entire world—
He would still choose the one.
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