The afternoon ran on rails. 02 hammered 20–21's hands into something useful. 03 tuned 22–23's reloads until the clicks sang. 04 bounced 24–25. 05 turned 26–27 into metronomes.
Upstairs, 01 watched the window as 07 and 08 shadow-boxed and 09 paced. I finished my third soda while helicopter footage replayed our street brawl, with anchors shouting "war" as if their ratings depended on it.
A new knock—loud, cocky, like the door belonged to him. 01 looked my way.
"Oh, I know that one," I said. "Open it."
Tony Stark walked in—wearing a sharp suit, sunglasses, and a smirk. He surveyed the room, silently counted, and raised an eyebrow.
Last time I was here, you had, what, about a dozen? Now it looks like you're managing an NFL team.
"Correction," I said. "Twenty-seven. Want a roster?"
He pushed the shades aside and truly looked. Veterans first, then rookies copying their mentors. He exhaled, almost like a laugh.
"Coulson's having a panic attack," Tony said.
"That's his default."
"Fury calls this an unregistered private army."
"Unregistered—sure. Private army—no. Family."
"Call it what you want. The world sees soldiers."
"The world sees results," I said. "Fisk is off balance. Streets are quieter. If S.H.I.E.L.D. can't love that, not my problem."
He sat with his legs crossed, observing the crowded, deteriorating lounge. "I see logistics—food, gear, ammo, housing. Do you really think pizza is a long-term plan?"
"It's been working. Delivery guys hate me, but I tip."
"You're insane," he said, "and I kind of love it. Which is why I'm here."
He flashed his phone. Zeros. A lot of them.
"I'm transferring funds," he said. "Enough that your guys don't have to fight over the last breadstick."
I whistled. "And I assumed you only invest in buildings bearing your name."
"Call it an investment," Tony said. "I don't like surprises. Right now, you're the biggest one in New York. If I can't stop you—and honestly, I probably can't—I'd prefer to guide you in the right direction. Sponsor the family."
"How much?"
"Five million to start. More if you don't burn it all on pizza."
"Five mil buys a lot of soda."
"Don't push it."
"If I say yes, what do you want?"
"Nothing formal," he said. "Keep Fisk down. Keep the streets cleaner than S.H.I.E.L.D. does. And don't aim your giants at me."
"Easy. Iron Man does Iron Man. I do Spartans. Lanes stay separate."
"For now." He stood. "Money's moving. Use it wisely."
"Or not," I said. "Either way—fun."
"You're insane."
"Working, though."
He left. The door clicked shut. Twenty-seven Spartans waited. I raised my can.
"Good news. We're rich. Stark bought pizza for life."
Tough crowd—no response. Yet, internally, I was already reimagining the world.