"Fuck!"
Henry Stark stared at the cold alloy ceiling above him. The shadowless lamp, which never went out for 24 hours and was so bright it could blind, perfectly expressed his mood today.
His voice was hoarse and weak, as if sandpaper had polished it raw. Yet, it couldn't mask the irritability and disdain in his words.
"Honestly, these guys have no sense of aesthetics. Cold colors, metallic vibes, cramped spaces. Is this a prison or the set of some cheesy sci-fi flick by a third-rate director? There's absolutely no taste.
At least put down some carpets, hang some postmodern paintings—Mark Rothko's color fields would do—to make the prisoners feel less depressed."
He wore a loose white lab coat; the empty sleeves and trouser legs made his already thin, hunger-worn body look even thinner. He lay on a similarly cold metal slab they called a bed, positioned in a stiff, spread-eagle posture. His eyes were empty, his face a mask of despair.
' I'm Henry Stark—the genius of the Stark family, the darling of Wall Street, the king of New York nightclubs, the future... uh, the future billionaire, philanthropist, and playboy.
And now, I'm reduced to complaining about the interior decoration of a terrorist organization. What the hell is this?'
His mind drifted uncontrollably, that had been almost his only pastime for the past week.
'I never thought a dignified transmigrator like me—with a genius brain and a prestigious family background—would end up in such a miserable state.
Where's the aura of royalty they promised? The cheat code? The system? Just give me a system!
What do I have now?
Besides this increasingly handsome face and my richer brother, I have nothing. My face is now almost skeletal from starvation, and I don't have a single penny to spend.'
That's right, a transmigrator.
No one knew this secret except him.
He came from another world—Earth but died in an accident. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself back in his mother Maria's warm womb. He had become Howard Stark's second son and Tony Stark's biological brother—a person who shouldn't exist in this world.
Perhaps it was the fusion of two souls, but his brain in this life was incredibly sharp. He had been a top student in his previous life, and with the Stark family's resources, he was blessed with luck. He skipped grades, self-studied, got admitted to MIT faster than even his genius brother, and graduated with record-breaking results.
After graduating, he didn't go solo; he joined Stark Industries.
In his words, "Why earn money standing up when you can share lying down? Tony, keep working hard, I'm rooting for you!"
Of course, he wasn't wasting time. He gave Tony countless brilliant suggestions—from new energy, artificial intelligence, biotechnology, to the military industry—each one perfectly predicting future technology trends.
Under his guidance, Stark Industries' value soared like a rocket. Tony Stark's name became the global technology community's absolute leader earlier than in the original timeline.
They were so close, they could share the same pants. They studied technology together, partied together, and got drunk surrounded by beautiful women and champagne.
Over time, Henry realized Tony's influence was contagious. His own show-off gene was activated. He became talkative, sharp-tongued, a complainer who loved life, the spitting image of Tony Stark.
Their biggest secret was the Mark Armor they developed in a private experiment at their villa.
With Henry's constant urging and theoretical support, Tony finished the first version years ahead of schedule. They poured endless effort into polishing this gem and planned to unveil it gloriously at the perfect moment.
Everything was fine until recently.
Tony had been invited by the U.S. military to war-torn Afghanistan to promote Stark Industries' latest Jericho missile.
"Hey, Tony, take that suitcase with you," Henry urged before the trip, stuffing a silver suitcase into Tony's luggage.
"Come on, Henry." Tony fixed his tie, smirking at the mirror.
"Who would dare attack Tony Stark? But since you're worried, I'll take the Mark II—I haven't even painted it yet. Silver's nice, but golden red suits me better."
Seeing Tony agree, Henry relaxed. With the Mark Armor, few could harm him.
But he miscalculated the ending.
The next day, Henry attended a top charity gala in New York. The moment he appeared, he became the center of attention. Beautiful women surrounded him like butterflies to nectar, admiring and passionate eyes on him, fueling his vanity.
The gala ended, lights came on, alcohol and hormones thickened the air. Henry, flanked by two blonde beauties, was about to head to a hotel for a deep philosophical discussion on life.
Then, the attack came.
"Wow, gentlemen, the entrance is cliché. Jumping out of a van? Next time, try falling from the sky or bursting out of the ground. More visually impactful."
His subconscious complaint as masked men with automatic rifles surrounded him.
"Happy! My suitcase! The silver one! Hurry!" he shouted to his bodyguard Happy Hogan, who was chasing him.
Happy desperately tried to defend Henry and get the suitcase, but the attackers were trained and tactical. Bullets forced him back, one grazing his arm, blood trailing behind.
Happy cried out in pain, the suitcase dropped, and Henry was grabbed by two big men and shoved into a black van.
As the door shut, Henry saw Happy's anxious, angry face.
"Well done, guys. Kidnapping Stark just capped your career."
Those were his last words before losing consciousness.
When he woke again, he was lying in a bumpy truck. Around him, kidnappers spoke a language he barely understood.
He caught a few key words: "Mercenaries," "Handover," "Hydra."
He jolted awake—these men were just cannon fodder paid for the job. The real customer was Hydra, a fascist remnant thought eradicated after WWII.
Before he could figure out why a playboy like him warranted Hydra's attention, a sharp pain in the back of his neck put him out again.
Opening his eyes a third time, he found himself here, in this hellhole.
One week—an entire week.
He finally understood why he was captured. A Hydra spy inside Stark Industries overheard a conversation about the armor in the lab. A report about "The Stark brothers secretly developing groundbreaking armor" reached a senior Hydra executive's desk.
They wanted the technology.
At first, they tried brainwashing, psychological manipulation, drug injections, hypnosis, but failed.
Henry Stark was mentally tough, as stubborn as a stone in a latrine, foul-smelling and hard. No matter the torture, he refused to give in, even teasing a female researcher in trance.
"Beautiful lady, your eyes shine like Siberian sapphires. When I get out, how about I give you a private island?"
Frustrated, Hydra's executives gave up on brainwashing and decided to use him as a test subject.
Thus began his nightmare.
Serums of strange colors and unknown materials were injected day after day. They raced through his veins, sometimes like burning fire, other times ice cold.
Every day was agonizing—worse than death—as his cells were destroyed and rebuilt repeatedly.
Worse, the bastards barely fed him, only tiny scraps of synthetic nutritional paste far from enough to keep him alive.
A few days ago, a man resembling a low-level boss smiled maliciously as he delivered grim news:
"Mr. Henry Stark, your brother Tony was also attacked in Afghanistan. His fate is unknown. Soon, you two brothers may reunite in heaven or hell."
Henry was stunned.
He was stunned for half a minute before he reverted to complaining instinctively.
'What the hell? Didn't he take the Mark II? Why leave it behind at the hotel? I knew it. Better to hope Happy loses weight than rely on that narcissist.'
No matter how much he complained, worry overwhelmed him like a flood.
He was finished. Tony was in trouble. The Stark family faced extinction.
...
"Well!"
With a long sigh, Henry forced his scattered thoughts back to the present. It was useless to dwell. He was like a fish on a chopping block—too weak to even turn over.
'When will I get out?! I swear, if I make it out, I'll eat vegetarian every day and never touch champagne or beautiful women again... Well, maybe a little champagne, but beautiful women? We'll see.'
The main thing was, when would his cheat arrive? Without it, these inhuman bastards would kill him.
His weak voice trembled with the complaint.
Just then, the heavy metal door scraped open. Expressionless Hydra soldiers entered, lifted him roughly off the slab, and dragged him out.
"Hey, guys, be gentle. This body is precious. If it breaks, you can't afford it. So, what's today's poison? Green or blue? The pink one last time tasted good, like strawberry milkshake."
Henry was dragged like a rag doll but never stopped talking.
The soldiers ignored him and led him down a long corridor. on both sides were cells like his; most were empty, some held people.
Everyone had glazed eyes and haggard faces. Some were dead, discarded like trash.
Henry's heart sank, and his playful smile faded.
They entered a brightly lit laboratory. Several white-coated researchers worked busily at a huge lab table, sophisticated instruments flashing cold light.
He was roughly tied to a cross-shaped test bench, hands and feet shackled firmly with metal cuffs.
"The bosses issued an ultimatum," an elderly researcher said, not looking up from a data tablet.
"This plan is our last chance. If the superhuman serum still fails on him, no need to keep him."
Superhuman serum.
They had gathered multiple serum samples, combining them into what they believed to be their most powerful formula.
They called it—Superman Serum.
"Understood," a young researcher replied with fanatic eyes.
"He is the perfect guinea subject. This time, we will create an upgraded super soldier surpassing Captain America."