The deposit arrived before dinner. One moment I'm carefully rationing soda like a treasure, and the next I'm looking at zeros and laughing.
"Five million," I told the veterans. "Courtesy of Tony Stark. We're rich."
They didn't twitch. I grinned wider. "You'll care when you see the cart."
Space came first. Ten floors and three basements used to feel roomy. With twenty-seven Spartans? Shoe box. Rooms cramped. Bunks squeaked. Kitchen cried.
I called contractors. Crew One took one look at my lobby full of silent giants and left. Crew Two lasted ten minutes before inventing emergencies. Crew Three stayed—double pay, plus I told the Spartans to stop glaring.
Walls came down up top—tiny rooms turned into proper dorms. Wiring redone. Floors reinforced. Doors replaced with something that didn't whine. Contractors dragged out junk; Spartans carried in steel bunks like they were pillows.
"Better," I said, soda in hand. "Beds that don't sound haunted."
07–08 walked two bunks up a flight without blinking. Ten shouldered three mattresses. 20–21 mirrored 02 like shadows carrying crates.
Next is the kitchen. We've stopped treating takeout as a food group. We replaced old appliances with industrial ovens, walk-in refrigerators, and extended counter space. The delivery workers saw twenty-seven Spartans and appeared a year older; I signed off and let them leave.
"Gourmet now," I told the veterans. "Domino's can rest."
Basement One is a gym equipped with the heaviest gear on the market, and then some. Custom bars, reinforced racks, and machines designed for Olympians, tuned for extreme performance. 05 took charge, and during 26–27, they learned new meanings of "rep." This time, the gear remained unbent.
"Finally," I said. "No more buying new bars weekly."
Basement Two—range. Expanded from three fragile lanes to ten, featuring reinforced walls, proper ventilation, and moving targets. Crates of new pistols and rifles were available. 03 practiced drills; 22 and 23 initially struggled before gaining a steady rhythm; 14's shots slowly approached the center.
"Look at that," I told 14. "Ceiling's safe today."
Basement Three—armory. Stark's funds have been converted into rows of lockers, shelves stocked with durable, human-grade weapons, vests, helmets, and knives. While not yet Stark technology, there is plenty of it. Items 04 and 09 are distributed, checked, and then relocated on.
"This," I said, hands on hips. "What we were missing. Bare hands are a choice now."
The rest went into a spine for the building—cameras, alarms, reinforced gates. Common areas widened. Lounges with couches that didn't groan. Tables that didn't die under armor. A rooftop platform strong enough for drills, sparring, or silence.
By the end of the week, the place resembled a fortress rather than a forgotten ruin. I loved it.
Dinner marked the opening of the new kitchen—trays of grilled meat, pasta, bread, and fresh vegetables. Long tables filled the room. The veterans ate steadily, like metronomes. The rookies devoured everything like black holes. I leaned back, taking it all in.
"Real food, real beds, real gear," I said. "All thanks to Stark's wallet. Someone remind me to send a card."
Silence. I laughed anyway.
Later, I was on the new rooftop with 01, watching the city lights burn steadily and brightly.
"Not bad," I said. "When I moved in, this place was a wreck. Now it's a fortress—big enough for all of you, strong enough for anyone."
01 said nothing. He didn't have to.
"Yeah," I said, sipping soda, grinning into the wind. "This is home."