Leo looked intently at the woman before him. Her burgundy, wavy hair, the confident set of her shoulders, and the cool, professional gleam in her emerald eyes were textbook perfect for her current alias, 'Natalie Rushman.' But all Leo could see was the memory of a desolate, rocky cliffside.
The image of Black Widow, tired but resolute, leaping off Vormir replayed vividly in his mind's eye, a loop of silent, profound grief.
"Let me go, it's okay."
Those were the last words the Black Widow—Natasha Romanoff, the Avenger, the spy, the only female member of the original six—had ever spoken to the world she had fought so hard to save. She was the first superhero to die, a sacrifice made in the silent, empty void of space for a stone that would save billions.
Her death, in its quiet, selfless finality, had always brought a lump to Leo's throat, even after watching Avengers: Endgame countless times.
In Natasha's deeply guarded heart, S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers weren't just affiliations; they were her entire world, her found family, her home. They gave meaning to a life that had started drenched in red.
He remembered the haunting scene after the time heist. Everyone else had gathered at the quantum tunnel's exit, desperate and relieved, but she was missing. Tony, ever the pragmatist trying to understand the emotional landscape, asked, "Does she have family?"
"That means us," was Steve Rogers' simple, heartbreaking answer.
If Nebula hadn't synchronized the time-travel information, Leo suspected that the quiet, unknown sacrifice on a barren rock would have been the ending Natasha most wanted—an ending she would have willingly traded her life for. Her sacrifice was not for applause or public recognition.
She was all alone. No family name to carry on, no lover to mourn her, and her final resting place was on a dead star, Vormir, countless light-years away from Earth. Her existence was a paradox: a ghost in the shadows who died in the silence of the past, so that others could have a future. Compared to Iron Man's heroic, loud, and public sacrifice, her death was too quiet, too contained, occurring in a past moment that could not be changed.
She was too lonely.
Thinking about all this—the weight of her future, her fate, her profound isolation—actual tears began to well up in Leo's eyes, blurring the edges of the boxing ring and the woman standing a few feet away.
Natasha, who had been focused on her primary target, Tony Stark, immediately shifted her attention to the young boy. She was trained to spot anomalies, and a powerful, unknown child suddenly looking teary-eyed while staring at her was definitely an anomaly.
Who is this child? Why is there zero information on him? And why on earth does he look like he's about to cry?
"How are you?" Natasha finally asked, her tone flat, masking her internal confusion.
Leo blinked, bringing himself back to the present. He saw the beautiful, highly dangerous figure in front of him and quickly shook his head, running a hand over his face to discreetly wipe away the moisture.
"Sorry, Miss Rushman, my mind has been wandering a lot lately," Leo apologized softly, patting his head. He recognized the danger: knowing the plot so intimately, he could easily mistake the present, living characters for their future, tragic selves. This wasn't a good habit; it was compromising his focus and needed to be changed immediately.
He decided to distract himself by focusing on her current role. "How do you spell your last name, Natalie?"
Natasha, whose attention was still primarily focused on Tony, naturally turned her head slightly to answer. "R-U-S-H-M-A-N."
Tony, meanwhile, had already pulled up the smart desktop computer screen embedded in his workshop wall and began Googling her alias.
Leo didn't give her another moment of peace. He snapped out of his funk and, without warning, threw a lightning-fast, powerful punch, aiming directly for Natasha's abdomen.
I might be small, but I am not weak. His Iron Bones were almost halfway to completion, and his strength was frightening.
Even though Natasha was a world-class assassin and always maintained a state of high alert, the threat from the small child was a seismic shock. She had mentally logged Leo as a smart, powerful kid—maybe a low-level threat—but she never expected to feel such a huge, overwhelming threat from a boy who was only 1.4 meters tall.
The primal danger left her no time for logical thought. Her deeply ingrained fighting instincts kicked in instantly. She didn't block; she redirected. Her hand shot out, not to deflect the blow, but to grab Leo's incoming fist. She used his powerful momentum against him, leaping into the air, spinning her body, and attempting to lock her leg joints around Leo's head. The plan was to use her powerful downward momentum and weight, combined with the leverage of the hold, to slam her opponent to the mat, then finish the fight with a quick joint lock to knock him unconscious.
The resulting scene was hilariously, embarrassingly illogical.
Even though Natasha's legs were perfectly clamped around Leo's head, Leo did not fall down. The sheer power of his Immovable Body—a latent buffer granted by his Iron Bones—gave him a tremendous ability to resist forced falls or momentum-based takedowns.
Even with the powerful inertia of the move and the full force of Natasha's body weight pressing down on Leo's neck and head, his feet remained unnervingly, impossibly planted on the ground.
So, Natasha didn't execute a takedown; she ended up clinging awkwardly to a stationary Leo, her position making no sense whatsoever.
This bizarre physical stalemate surprised Pepper, who was watching from the sidelines, as well as Tony, who was distracted by a series of model photos of 'Natalie Rushman' he had found on the internet.
"OMG!" Pepper cried out in alarm, her hands flying to her mouth. Both she and Tony rushed toward the ring.
Natasha hadn't planned for this outcome, but the palpable, almost chilling threat of Leo's stopped punch still lingered in her mind. She executed a smooth backflip, landing gracefully a few feet away, straightening her shirt, and staring at Leo with a heightened sense of vigilance. This boy was a genuine, high-level unknown factor in her mission; even Nick Fury hadn't provided any data on his existence.
Tony stepped forward and helped Natasha, who certainly didn't need the help, up from the mat. "Natalie, are you alright? Leo, weren't you being careful? You can't use all your strength on people who aren't in suits!"
Leo, still standing in the ring, glanced at Tony with a look of pure, comedic speechlessness. He used too much strength? I stopped my punch a foot short of her stomach!
Tony's concern was, of course, entirely for the beautiful woman. He hadn't been with a woman since returning from Afghanistan, and the tension was clearly palpable.
Natasha, remembering her role, didn't waste the opportunity. She pulled a printed contract from her clipboard and handed it to Tony. "Mr. Stark, now that the formalities are over, I need your fingerprint for the employment contract."
"You are very composed and mature for someone who just tried to break a child's neck, Natalie," Tony quipped, trying to maintain his flirtatious banter.
"I mean, your fingerprint, Mr. Stark. The contract is digital but needs physical confirmation," she repeated, maintaining perfect composure.
"Okay," Tony said, pressing his thumb onto the contract with slight embarrassment, officially activating the contract.
Tony pointed to the still-fresh fingerprint on the contract and said to Pepper, with a triumphant smirk. "There, boss. Your new assistant is officially hired."
Pepper managed a thin smile, accepting the inevitable.
"Is there anything else, Mr. Stark?" Natasha asked, moving back into her professional assistant role.
"It's alright, Miss Rushman, thank you very much. I will brief you later," Pepper interjected quickly, emphasizing her authority.
Natasha nodded. She didn't linger, turning to walk away. But before exiting the door, she paused, turning back for a brief moment to look at Leo—the mysterious, powerful young man who had resisted her signature takedown move. Her eyes held a deep, unreadable assessment.
Tony and Pepper stood side by side, watching her departing figure.
"I want this one," Tony said to Pepper with childish enthusiasm.
"No," Pepper replied instantly, already exhausted by the new arrangement.
Leo walked over to the two of them. Pepper immediately turned to him.
"Leo, are you alright? Did you get hurt?" she asked, genuine motherly concern in her voice.
"Nobody can hurt him, Pepper. He's a little monster, remember? She's the one whose spine is probably out of alignment," Tony said with a loud laugh.
Two days later, Leo found himself in the extravagant chaos of Monaco.
He stepped out of the sleek, chauffeured Rolls-Royce, Happy Hogan still behind the wheel, his face set in a grim expression. The Mark V briefcase armor, Tony's emergency backup, was tucked securely into the car's trunk, guarded fiercely by Happy—after all, Happy was one of the few people Tony still truly trusted with his life.
The air was electric with the roar of engines and the chatter of the international elite.
Upon entering the opulent hotel lobby, Natasha, already in a stunning, low-cut red evening dress designed to distract and disarm, immediately approached them.
She offered a perfect, practiced smile. "Mr. Stark, was your journey smooth? I've already handled the security briefing."
"Smooth? Great, actually, and it's truly nice to see you again. You look absolutely stunning, Natalie," Tony replied, his eyes running over her attire.
A photographer from the Monaco Motor Speedway Club rushed up to capture the arrival of the famous playboy and his beautiful new assistant. Pepper, standing rigidly next to Tony, forced a dazzling, professional smile through gritted teeth.
"Tony, when exactly did you hire her?" she whispered fiercely, keeping the smile locked on her face for the camera.
"What? You made me do this, CEO Potts," Tony whispered back.
"Made you do what?"
"Smile and look at the camera, darling." Tony gave a polite, thousand-watt grin to the photographer.
"You've fallen completely into your old habits again, Tony. Less than twenty-four hours on the job," Pepper said, sounding genuinely annoyed.
"Natalie, what's the schedule look like for tonight?" Tony asked, ignoring Pepper.
"You have a mandatory sponsors' dinner party at 9:30, Mr. Stark."
"Great. I'll be sure to arrive fashionably late at 11 o'clock sharp."
Leo slipped away from the tense trio and settled at the nearest bar. He ordered a Coke, keeping his eyes on the crowd. His eyes, now enhanced by the initial stages of the Iron Bones, swept the room, looking for any sign of a known face.
'Let me see. Has Ivan Vanko arrived yet? The confrontation is supposed to happen soon. I need to be close.'
Ivan Vanko, fueled by hatred and the memory of his father's betrayal, had spent every last dime of his savings to secure a ticket to the Monaco Grand Prix. He had known Tony Stark would be attending in person, and this was his chance.
He had been planning this ambush for weeks, even killing a minor technician and stealing his maintenance coveralls to gain unrestricted access to the track's infrastructure. For him, the time for justice—a bloody, public, final form of justice—was now. He would kill Tony Stark right here, in front of the world that idolized him.
Leo scanned the large lobby area again but failed to spot Ivan. However, he did see a different familiar face weaving through the crowd: the aggressive female reporter, Christine Everhart, who was currently entangled with Justin Hammer.
Leo sipped his cola, watching the interaction with detached amusement. Hammer was visibly desperate. His military contracts had been shredded after the humiliating Senate hearing, and he was now trying to corner Tony in public to beg for a spot at the upcoming Stark Industrial Exposition.
Tony showed absolutely no mercy to his rival. He cornered Hammer with a quick, brutal line. "Justin, if you ever invent something actually usable, I will personally reserve an entire showroom floor for you. Until then, you can pay for a ticket like everyone else."
Hammer was left utterly embarrassed in front of the press and the reporters, his desperation hanging in the air.
Meanwhile, Tony, feeling the pressure, excused himself and ducked into the hotel bathroom. He pulled out his lipstick-sized blood detector. The urge was pathological, a ritual of dread. He pressed his thumb against the groove.
The number that flashed back was a brutal indictment of his denial: Blood Toxicity: 53%.
Tony stared at the screen, the number leaving him feeling strangely numb and utterly hopeless. Half of his life, his internal self, was poisoned. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror, seeing a man living on borrowed time.
An impulsive, self-destructive idea popped into his head—a true Tony Stark move. If I'm going out, I'm going out with a bang. I need a rush. He walked out of the bathroom, his eyes blazing with reckless abandon.
"Happy! Get the suit ready. And Pepper, tell the Grand Prix officials the rules just changed. I'm going to race."