The mansion on East 78th Street had become a fortress of silence in the weeks following Jennifer's return from Greenland. She moved through its rooms like a ghost—methodical, watchful, always one step ahead of the city's chaos.
Marvel 1 stood in the garage on its cradle, reactor at 5 days and counting down. The arc reactor's hum had become a constant reminder: finite power in an infinite world. She needed a solution. Fast.
The thief came at 1:43 a.m.
She was in the rooftop greenhouse, cleaning the silenced 9mm under the soft glow of grow lights, when the first alert pinged her earpiece. Motion sensor in the garden wall—north side, near the ivy-covered trellis.
A single figure scaling the stone, black-clad, backpack slung low. Amateur hour. No thermal signature for advanced gear, no drones. Just a desperate man with a crowbar and bad luck.
Jennifer set the pistol down, rose silently, and moved to the security feed on her tablet. The intruder dropped into the garden, crouched low, eyes scanning the house. He wore a ski mask, but the way he moved—hesitant, glancing at windows—told her everything.
This wasn't a pro. This was someone who'd heard rumors: rich girl with no visible job, big house, easy target. Word traveled fast in the underworld after the last twenty thieves vanished without a trace.
She let him get close.
He picked the side door lock—sloppy, but effective. The door creaked open. Jennifer waited in the foyer shadows, crossbow slung across her back, pistol holstered. The thief stepped inside, flashlight beam sweeping the marble floors. He whispered to himself, "Holy shit, this place is loaded."
She stepped forward, voice low. "You picked the wrong house."
He spun, flashlight blinding himself for a second. Jennifer moved faster—tackled him to the ground, knee in his back, pistol muzzle pressed to the base of his skull. He grunted, tried to buck her off. She drove an elbow into his kidney. He went limp, gasping.
"Hands behind your back," she said. "Now."
He complied, trembling. She zip-tied his wrists with restraints from her kit, then gagged him with duct tape from the utility drawer. No screams. No alarms. Just the faint tick of the grandfather clock in the hall.
She dragged him to the basement, concrete room she'd converted into a secure holding space after the last incident. Fluorescent lights buzzed on. She shoved him into a metal chair bolted to the floor, secured his ankles. He stared up at her, eyes wide above the gag, tears mixing with sweat.
Jennifer paced once, then stopped. "You came for money. You'll get something else."
She left him there, bound and gagged, and went upstairs to the garage. Marvel 1 waited, reactor glowing faintly blue. She opened the chest plate—careful, practiced movements—and extracted the arc reactor.
The miniature device came free with a soft hiss, cables disconnecting. The suit powered down completely, HUD dark, thrusters silent. Five days left anyway. Might as well end it early.
She carried the reactor to the basement. The thief's eyes widened at the glowing device in her hands.
"I'm going to need a conduit," she said calmly. "You'll do."
She knew about Mephisto. Not from books or rumors—from the future she'd glimpsed in the web series. Ironheart. Riri Williams. The deal in the shadows. Mephisto was real here. Canon. A Hell-Lord who traded in souls for power, bargains sealed in blood and desperation.
Nobody else knew—not Tony, not SHIELD, not even the demons themselves suspected she knew the script. But knowledge was leverage. And she needed infinite power.
She cleared the basement floor, pushing crates aside. She drew a circle in chalk—symbols she'd memorized from fragmented MCU lore and dark-web occult forums she'd browsed in Greenland's hotel Wi-Fi. Pentagram inverted, sigils for binding and summoning. Candles at five points—black wax, lit with a match. The thief struggled against his bonds, muffled noises behind the gag.
Jennifer knelt at the circle's edge, placed the arc reactor in the center like an offering. She drew a knife—simple, sharp—from her boot. The thief's eyes bulged.
"I'm not going to kill you," she said. "Not yet."
She sliced her palm—shallow cut, blood dripping onto the chalk lines. The symbols flared red for a second, then settled. She spoke the words she'd rehearsed in her mind, voice steady:
"Mephisto, Lord of Lies, Prince of Darkness, Dealer in Souls. I call you by the old names. By the blood of the willing and the unwilling. By the power I offer in exchange for what I seek. Come forth."
Silence.
Then the air thickened. Heat rose despite the basement's chill. The candles flared high, flames turning crimson. The thief whimpered.
A shape coalesced in the circle—tall, red-skinned, horns curling back, eyes like burning coals. Mephisto. Not the cartoonish devil from old paintings. This was sleek, tailored suit over infernal muscle, smile sharp as obsidian.
"Well," he purred, voice like silk over gravel. "A mortal who knows my name. And calls me properly. How… refreshing."
Jennifer stood, knife still in hand. "I know what you are. I know what you can do."
Mephisto tilted his head, studying her. "And I know you. Jennifer Marie Hale. Killer. Builder of iron. You've spilled blood before. But this…" He glanced at the bound thief. "This is new. A sacrifice?"
"The thief came for my money. He'll pay with more than that."
Mephisto laughed—low, amused. "I like ambition. What do you want?"
"Infinite power for my armor." She gestured to the arc reactor in the center. "No more limits. No more countdown. Eternal energy. The reactor as conduit, the suit as vessel."
"And in return?"
She nodded toward the thief. "His body. His soul. Unwilling, but here. Take them both."
The thief thrashed, chair scraping concrete. Mephisto circled the bound man slowly, savoring the fear.
"Souls are currency," Mephisto said. "But a fresh one, taken in terror? Delicious. And you know the rules—blood must be spilled, will must be broken. But you've done your homework."
Jennifer didn't flinch. "Do we have a deal?"
Mephisto stopped behind the thief, placed clawed hands on his shoulders. The man screamed behind the gag—muffled, desperate.
"Deal," Mephisto said.
He leaned in, whispered something in the thief's ear. The man's eyes rolled back. Black smoke poured from his mouth, nose, ears—his soul ripping free.
The body convulsed, then slumped. Mephisto inhaled the smoke like fine wine, eyes glowing brighter.
"Done," he said. "The soul is mine. The body… well, it's empty now."
He gestured. The corpse slumped forward, lifeless. Jennifer watched as Mephisto placed one hand on the arc reactor.
Crimson energy flowed into it—dark, pulsing. The device glowed brighter, then shifted: blue core threaded with red veins, infinite loop of hellfire and palladium.
"Your armor will never falter again," Mephisto said. "Power without end. But remember, every gift has a price. And I collect in time."
Jennifer nodded.
Mephisto smiled wider. "It was a pleasure doing business with you, Jennifer Hale. I'll see you again soon."
Smoke coiled around him. He vanished in a flash of brimstone, leaving only the scent of sulfur and scorched chalk.
Silence returned.
Jennifer stared at the empty circle. The thief's body—now a husk—slumped in the chair. She untied it, dragged it to the incinerator chute she'd installed after the last twenty. The furnace roared to life. Flames consumed flesh and bone. Nothing left.
She carried the modified arc reactor upstairs to the garage. Marvel 1 waited, chest plate open. She slotted the reactor in. It clicked home. The suit hummed to life—HUD flaring, thrusters warming, repulsors glowing crimson-edged blue.
Infinite power.
She closed the chest plate. The armor sealed. She stepped back, watching the cradle lights pulse steadily. No countdown. No warning. Just endless energy.
She exhaled.
The city waited outside. Criminals. Threats. Opportunities.
She had just traded a soul for supremacy.
And Mephisto had promised he'd return.
Jennifer smiled, cold, unbreakable.
Let him come.