"Tony Stark… you will pay for everything!"
With the doors shattered open, arcs of electricity crackled violently through the air. Ivan Vanko stood there like a force of destruction, twin electric whips humming with lethal energy in his hands, his entire presence screaming danger.
Faced with something like this—
A normal person's first instinct would be to call for help.
Tony Stark was, at his core, still human.
So he did exactly that.
"…Help!"
But almost immediately, he realized how pointless that was.
The man was already standing right in front of him.
Which meant—
Everyone outside had either fled or been taken down.
And this was a Formula 1 event in Monaco—
Not a S.W.A.T. headquarters.
Who exactly was going to come save him?
"Pepper!"
Even as danger loomed, Tony instinctively shouted her name. The chaos from the hall had already reached his ears, and more than anything, he needed to know if she was safe.
"Tony, I'm okay! He's here for you—are you alright?"
Pepper's voice came from behind Ivan, her figure appearing through the gaps between his massive frame. She was shaken, but unharmed.
"I'm fine. Get out of here—now! Leave immediately!"
The two exchanged words back and forth, like something out of an emotional drama.
Peter watched the scene with visible discomfort.
If I weren't controlling the situation…
You'd have been whipped to death already, and you're still flirting?
"Hey," Peter cut in lazily, gesturing toward Ivan, "don't you think you're being a little disrespectful to our terrorist friend here? This is hardly the time for a heartfelt reunion."
He pointed at Ivan, who had been standing ominously silent since bursting in.
"And look at his chest. Doesn't that seem familiar?"
A faint smile appeared.
"He's got an Arc Reactor too. And I'd bet he knows how to build an Iron Man suit."
Ivan wasn't just waving around whips.
What he wore was a crude exoskeleton—primitive, but functional. The weight of the metal whips alone would've been difficult for a normal human to wield effectively without mechanical assistance.
His weapon system was connected to a power-assisted frame.
The principle itself wasn't complicated.
Motion amplification. Mechanical linkage.
Compared to the Arc Reactor—
It was elementary.
After Peter pointed it out, Tony's gaze snapped to Ivan's chest.
Even at a glance—
It was unmistakable.
The structure.
The energy output.
The design philosophy.
His pupils shrank.
"...No way."
Tony inhaled sharply.
For the first time, genuine shock overtook him.
Someone else—
Had replicated his technology.
But before he could process it further—
Ivan moved.
"Listen, kid…" Tony said suddenly, his tone shifting. "This one's on me. He's here for me. I'll hold him off—buy you time."
His expression hardened.
"You're young. You've got a future. Don't waste it here."
For a brief moment—
Tony Stark stopped being Iron Man.
And simply became a man.
"Run!"
With a shout, he charged forward—
Straight toward the electrified whip.
Toward certain death.
But—
He didn't make it.
An invisible force yanked him backward, stopping him in place.
A gust of wind rushed past him.
Peter had already moved.
"That's… unexpectedly touching," Peter muttered, stepping forward.
He had already released his control over Ivan.
But it didn't matter.
Even without telekinesis—
Even without any abilities—
Peter's physical strength alone, honed through the Spider-Man physique, was more than enough.
Ivan Vanko—
Wasn't even close.
Force equals mass multiplied by acceleration.
And Peter—
Had both.
In a single instant, he closed the distance.
His leg snapped upward.
Boom.
A clean, precise kick.
Size 43 leather shoe—
Driving straight into Ivan's chest.
The impact was devastating.
A sickening crack echoed as bone shattered, and the Arc Reactor was driven inward, embedding itself violently into Ivan's chest cavity.
There was no dramatic flight.
No exaggerated motion.
Ivan didn't even move.
His body trembled once—
And then collapsed.
Silence followed.
To an untrained eye, it was just a dull thud.
But to anyone with true understanding—
This was mastery.
Kicking a two-hundred-pound man off his feet was already impressive.
Killing him with a single strike—
Without visible displacement?
That was something else entirely.
In martial arts circles, there was a phrase for this level of precision:
"Strike like hanging a painting."
Clean.
Effortless.
Absolute.
A level only true masters could achieve.
But for Peter—
This was simply the result of control.
With power rivaling the Hulk, precision wasn't optional—it was necessary.
Without it, even something as simple as intimacy could turn deadly.
So he had trained.
Studied martial arts.
Learned anatomy.
Perfected control.
And somewhere along the way—
He had quietly stepped into the realm of masters.
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T/N:
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