In the days that followed, Daniel officially became Tony Stark's live-in bodyguard, showing up at the Malibu cliffside mansion every morning like clockwork.
Tony had originally rolled his eyes at the idea.
That changed two nights ago when a mob of deranged day-traders (driven suicidal by Stark stock's free-fall) cut through the laughable security gates, stormed the living room swinging meat cleavers, and screamed they were going to turn "little Tony" into soup stock.
If Daniel hadn't dropped from the ceiling like some vengeful god and folded all six of them into pretzels, Tony would've been singing soprano for the rest of his life.
From that day on, Tony became the most cooperative billionaire on the planet. He practically begged Daniel to stick around.
Money he had. Little Tony only had one.
"Daniel, your 'investors' have been released without charges. You can keep playing undercover."
"Roger that, Village Chief."
"It's Coulson."
"Sure thing, Village Chief. Catch you later, Village Chief."
Daniel hung up on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s most patient agent without a shred of guilt.
Yes, those "investors" were Level-7 actors on Fury's payroll. Normal civilians don't waltz into Tony Stark's house with kitchen knives.
Their performance was Oscar-worthy. Tony still flinched whenever he heard the word "cleaver."
Right now, Daniel was sprawled across a ten-thousand-dollar Italian leather couch that doubled as a guest bed, feet on the armrest, flipping channels with one hand and demolishing a pepperoni pizza with the other.
He looked like he owned the place. Because at the moment, he basically did.
Tony trudged upstairs from the workshop, reeking of arc-reactor coolant and sleepless nights, just in time to watch Daniel steal his dinner.
"That's my pizza, you freeloader!"
Tony snatched the biggest slice and bit half of it in one savage chomp.
Daniel didn't even blink. "Mark III finished?"
"Obviously," Tony said through a mouthful, then muttered, "If those lunatics hadn't interrupted my suiting-up sequence the other day, I'd have handled it myself."
Daniel snorted. "Real life doesn't come with transformation BGM, genius. Nobody waits politely while you pose."
"I'm working on the instant-deploy problem!"
Tony swallowed the rest of the slice, wiped grease on his jeans, and suddenly got serious.
"I need a favor."
"Shoot."
"Remember those Stark weapons caches you turned into fireworks in the desert?"
"How could I forget? You ran so fast I thought your arc reactor was a jet engine."
Tony's eye twitched. "…Focus. I think someone inside the company is still selling under the table. I need you to break into my office at headquarters, plug this into my private terminal, and download the last six months of shipping manifests."
He tossed Daniel a sleek silver USB.
"Why not go yourself? It's literally your name on the building."
"Because the board slapped me with a restraining order after I shut down weapons manufacturing. If I show up, security drags me out by the arc reactor. Pepper's already on their radar—I'm not putting her in the crosshairs."
Daniel stared. "…So I'm expendable. Got it."
New York, Stark Tower lobby.
Daniel stepped through the revolving doors into a river of suits and lanyards. Security was tight—retinal scanners, armed guards, the works.
Tony's private office sat at the top. Only one elevator went all the way up, and it logged every passenger.
Too many eyes. A direct ride was impossible.
Daniel sighed, ducked into the first-floor men's room, locked a stall, and pulled a skin-toned silicone mask from inventory.
[Item: Disguise Mask – Obadiah Stane ver.]
He stretched it over his face. The material melted against his skin like cold wax, then rippled. Thirty seconds later, Obadiah Stane stared back from the phone camera.
A quick clip of the bow-tie voice changer on his collar completed the set.
Daniel stepped out, shoulders squared, chin high.
"Afternoon, Mr. Stane!"
Employees froze mid-stride and greeted him with nervous respect.
Daniel gave them the warmest, most condescending smile in Stane's arsenal.
"Afternoon, everyone. Splendid work as always."
People blinked. Mr. Stane… being nice? Was the apocalypse coming?
Daniel cleared his throat and let Stane's gravelly baritone roll out.
"Since you're all so dedicated, I know I can count on you to stay late tonight. Voluntary overtime—because you love this company as much as I do."
The lobby went dead silent.
Employees: "???"