Watching Cohen and Pepper standing together in the hall like they were the only two people in the world, Stark felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. The scene hit him harder than any punch, and for a moment, he genuinely questioned why he was even there. He had the sudden, absurd thought that he belonged somewhere else entirely—like under a car, out of sight, out of mind, anywhere but here witnessing this.
The night before, after meeting the old man, something inside him had shifted. It wasn't just the looming shadow of death anymore. He had spent hours lying awake, replaying everything, and in the silence of that long night, he finally understood something he had been too blind to see. Somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, he had fallen in love with Pepper. That realization hit him like a freight train, and once it settled, he made a decision. No matter how little time he had left, he didn't want to die with regrets weighing him down.
But reality didn't care about his plans. Watching Cohen and Pepper walking toward the exit together, smiling like they shared a private world, Stark instinctively searched for somewhere to hide. He ducked behind a flower bed, crouching low like a criminal, his pride nowhere to be found. From his hiding spot, he watched them say goodbye, watched the ease between them, and something twisted painfully in his chest. Then a ridiculous thought hit him, and he nearly choked on it.
Why the hell did he look like the other man in someone else's relationship?
The realization crushed what little composure he had rebuilt. Stark, who had only just started to pull himself together, slumped again into emotional defeat. He let out a long breath and gave up on the whole thing. If this was how it was going to be, then fine—he'd just stay in the corner and play the fool.
This cold, ruthless world clearly had no place for something as fragile as genuine love. If that was the case, then maybe it was better to just let his short, ridiculous life fade out quietly in the middle of a beautiful spring.
Then his thoughts took a sharp turn.
Screw this. Back to the club. Music, lights, noise—anything but this. Who said there weren't people in nightclubs during the day? If he said there were, then there were.
By early morning, Stark woke up buried among a tangled mess of naked bodies. The air was thick with the aftermath of indulgence, and his head throbbed as he forced himself upright. He grabbed a random shirt from the floor, barely managing to pull it on, and staggered out of the club, each step unsteady but determined.
The moment he stepped outside, a voice called out from behind him.
"Stark, wanna make a deal?"
He turned around slowly, already knowing who it was. The same old man stood there, exactly as before, as if he had been waiting all along. Last time, Stark had refused without hesitation. This time, something in him didn't resist.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice rough but steady.
The old man's smile widened slightly, and his eyes glinted with something ancient and unsettling. "Your… soul."
Stark paused, caught off guard despite himself. For a brief moment, silence stretched between them. Then the old man spoke again, his tone smooth and persuasive.
"By tomorrow morning, you'll be as healthy as a wild horse. This world—this beautiful playground—will still be yours to enjoy. All you have to do is make a decision."
He pulled out an aged parchment from within his coat, the paper worn but unmistakably significant. "All it takes is your signature."
Stark stared at it, his gaze flickering with hesitation, conflict, and something darker. Then he took a deep breath, the kind that came from a place of resignation rather than courage.
"I don't think I've got anything left to lose," he said quietly.
Above them, lightning tore across the sky, illuminating everything in stark white. In that flash, the silhouette of a man and the shadow of something with horns merged together as if they had always been one.
A distant rumble followed.
By the time the sound faded, Stark's sports car was already speeding away into the distance, disappearing at the end of the street. The old man remained where he stood, his smile deepening as his gaze drifted toward the towering skyline.
"Let's see," he murmured softly, "who the next soul named Anger will be…"
…..
In the backyard of Emma Church, Cohen sat across from Stark, the two of them facing each other in a quiet, almost peaceful setting. Stark had brought a box of strawberries with him, setting it casually on the table between them. For a split second, Cohen's expression froze, something flickering in his eyes before he masked it.
"You just came from seeing Pepper, didn't you?" Cohen asked, his tone light but pointed.
Stark's gaze sharpened slightly as he looked back at him. "Seems like you and her are closer than I thought."
Cohen rolled his eyes internally, resisting the urge to snap. Instead, he leaned back and replied dryly, "If you just came from her place, then I guess these are the strawberries she didn't want, so you're dumping them on me."
Stark's thoughts churned. He had only just seen Pepper—how the hell did Cohen know that? The suspicion hit him instantly, sharp and unpleasant.
This bastard's really trying to steal my girl.
Cohen, meanwhile, watched Stark's shifting expression and caught onto something else entirely. There was a difference in Stark today, something subtle but unmistakable. His aura felt… altered, heavier, like something inside him had changed fundamentally.
Hasn't SHIELD figured out how to deal with the palladium poisoning yet? Or is Fury deliberately letting him suffer to push him further?
"Stark," Cohen said, cutting through the silence, "what exactly do you want from me? Don't tell me you came here just to repay a favor."
Stark didn't answer immediately. He sat there for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully, before finally speaking.
"I'm interested in the Avengers you've put together."
Cohen frowned slightly, the response catching him off guard. Something about this felt off. Stark joining the Avengers? That didn't line up with anything he expected. A guy like Stark, with his background and resources, didn't usually play second fiddle.
"You want to join?" Cohen asked.
"No."
Stark shook his head without hesitation. "I agree with what you're doing. New York is my home too, and it deserves to be protected. I want to contribute—but not by joining your team."
He leaned forward slightly, his tone gaining a hint of enthusiasm. "You've got all kinds of people in the Avengers. Different abilities, different combat styles, different needs. I can design and build custom combat equipment for each of them. Consider it my way of supporting you."
Cohen let out a small laugh and leaned back in his chair, clearly amused. "The equipment you're talking about… wouldn't happen to include Iron Man armor, would it?"
Stark met his gaze directly. "You want one?"
"Of course."
"Too bad," Stark replied without missing a beat. "That's not on the table."
Cohen shook his head with a grin. "Then forget it. Your stuff's too expensive anyway, and most of my guys are rough around the edges. They're not exactly used to high-end tech."
Stark shrugged, not pressing the issue further. "Just a suggestion. Whether you take it or not is up to you."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out an elegant invitation, placing it on the table. "Stark Industries is hosting a major product launch in a few days. You're welcome to attend."
He smirked slightly as he added, "There'll be a party afterward. I've invited a lot of very… ambitious young models and actresses. You might find it interesting."
With that, he slipped on his sunglasses and stood up, preparing to leave. Just as he took a step forward, he paused, something clearly lingering on his mind.
"I saw the sapphire necklace you gave Pepper," he said casually, though there was a subtle edge to his voice. "It's nice."
He let out a short breath, almost like a quiet self-mockery. "Funny thing is, I've been with her all this time and never thought to give her something like that. So I fixed that."
Cohen raised an eyebrow slightly but didn't interrupt.
"I ordered a few pieces," Stark continued. "Sapphires, rubies, emeralds. She can pick whatever she wants. And they're all bigger than yours."
Cohen stared at him for a second, then gave him a thumbs-up with a helpless smile. "Pepper's lucky to have you."
…..
Cohen didn't dwell much on Stark's visit. He had far more pressing issues to deal with, and lately, trouble seemed to follow him like a shadow.
As the Avengers grew stronger and their influence spread, it didn't go unnoticed. In fact, it made certain people deeply uncomfortable. Power like that couldn't exist unchecked—not in the eyes of those who thrived on control.
Representatives from the military, the CIA, the Senate, and the House had started making frequent trips to the White House. Every few days, they gathered, arguing, negotiating, and pushing their own agendas, all with one goal in mind—getting control over the Avengers.
Cohen had been dragged into multiple hearings, forced to sit through endless questioning sessions. Groups of officials surrounded him, firing off question after question, probing, testing, trying to box him in.
It was exhausting.
His patience wore thinner with each session, and the irritation built steadily. He started keeping a mental list of names, marking every face, every voice. Meeting people, remembering people, deciding what to do about people—it became a daily routine.
The Brotherhood of Assassins' task list kept growing thicker.
This whole "hero" thing was turning into a complete headache. The irony wasn't lost on him—this kind of life was nowhere near worth it.
Good thing he was just playing the part.
That monotonous, frustrating routine finally broke when something far more interesting appeared.
A skull wreathed in flames.
Johnny Blaze—the Ghost Rider.
Another so-called hero with a tragic story, bound by forces far beyond his control. His transformation into Ghost Rider was tied directly to Mephisto and his rebellious son, Blackheart. A family feud dragged into the human world, with Johnny caught in the middle.
At the center of it all was the Saint Venganza Contract.
That was the real prize.
And Cohen wanted it.
He had no shortage of interest in Hell's power structure—Mephisto, Blackheart, and even the lesser demons like the wind demon and the shadowy ink-like entity. All of it fascinated him, not out of curiosity, but calculation.
If he was going to carry out his plan to bomb Hell, he needed to know exactly what he was dealing with.
Finding Johnny Blaze wasn't difficult. A simple call, a bit of pressure, and the location was handed over. The man was sitting in a police station, still trying to make sense of what he had become.
Tracking down the cemetery was just as easy. Ghost Rider had been there the night before, and following the trail left behind was trivial.
By evening, Cohen had gathered a small group—Wolverine, Colossus, Storm, and a few others—and they went straight to the station. Johnny was taken without much resistance, more confused than anything else, and soon they were on the road.
Inside the car, Johnny sat beside Cohen, clearly uneasy. He had heard of the Avengers, but this wasn't exactly how he imagined meeting them.
Cohen glanced at him briefly before speaking. "You've felt the power inside you, right? What's it like?"
Johnny hesitated, searching for the right words. "It's… not good. It feels wrong. Really wrong."
Cohen nodded slightly. "That's normal. The real question is what you're going to do with it. Are you going to be a hero, or just… nothing?"
Johnny blinked, caught off guard. A hero? That wasn't something he had ever seriously considered. To him, this power was a curse, not a gift.
"A hero?" he repeated, uncertain.
Cohen leaned back slightly, his tone calm but firm. "That power you've got is strong. Strong enough to judge evil, to keep the world in check. But power like that always comes with a price."
He paused for a moment, then added, "Ever heard the phrase—great power comes with great responsibility? If you choose to be a good person, that power won't lift you up. It'll weigh you down."
The words hit Johnny harder than he expected. Responsibility. Shackles. The idea settled deep in his mind, unsettling and heavy.
Cohen watched him process it, then continued, "If you decide to go down that path, then here's my first piece of advice—stay away from your girlfriend, Roxanne."
Johnny stiffened immediately. "What? Why?"
"I've seen plenty of people like you," Cohen said evenly. "People with power, people who want to save the world. And no matter how careful they are, it always spills over onto the people around them."
He glanced out the window briefly before continuing. "You want to know what happens? Some lose their uncles. Some lose their aunts. Some lose the people they love. Some lose their best friends."
His voice didn't rise, didn't dramatize anything. It was calm, almost indifferent.
"Fate doesn't get fooled. If you're going to be a hero, then you're also going to be alone."
Johnny fell silent, the weight of those words pressing down on him. The idea twisted inside his chest, suffocating.
So being a hero meant losing everything?
He clenched his fists slightly, struggling with the thought. This wasn't what he wanted. This wasn't the life he had asked for.
After a long pause, he finally spoke again, his voice quieter this time. "Mr. Cohen… is there any way to get rid of this… this power?"
Cohen's lips curved slightly into a faint smile. "I think… there might be."
Johnny's eyes lit up instantly. "Then we should—"
"Relax," Cohen cut in calmly. "The sun's still up. Your power hasn't fully awakened yet. Just wait."
Johnny nodded, though his mind was still racing.
A sharp screech of brakes cut through the air as the car came to a stop. They had arrived at a cemetery, one Johnny immediately recognized. He had been here before.
Cohen stepped out, leading the group toward an old priest waiting among the graves.
The moment they approached, Cohen spoke first, getting straight to the point.
"Old knight, hand over the contract. You don't want Blackheart getting his hands on it, do you?"
If Johnny hadn't been standing there, the old man might have reacted very differently. But even after a tense exchange, even after Cohen identified himself as an Avenger, the priest remained unmoved.
"This is a matter between Heaven and Hell," he said firmly. "It has nothing to do with people like you."
Cohen sighed, then pulled Johnny forward. "This is the new Ghost Rider. You still don't trust him? He was chosen by Mephisto himself."
But the old man only shook his head, refusing again.
Cohen let out another sigh, clearly annoyed but not surprised. "Fine. Keep the contract."
He paused, then added casually, "But I need a small favor."
The old priest hesitated. "What is it?"
Cohen smiled slightly.
"Where's your tool shed? I need to borrow a shovel."
The old man's expression changed instantly.
....
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