The next morning, Hong Fei informed Frank before boarding a plane alone to deliver goods to Big Head's four buyers. Eight days later, he'd serviced three clients, pocketing 150 million while steadily building his energy reserves. So far, none of the customers had retaliated—not that they'd dare air their shameful secrets. The arrangement worked perfectly: they paid, Hong Fei taught them humility. Fair exchange. Only Moscow remained on his itinerary.
The plane touched down twenty minutes early despite thunderous rain. Hong Fei half-expected to find the pilot swigging vodka with one hand while groping a flight attendant with the other. After checking into his hotel and dropping his bags, he checked his watch and headed out immediately.
The Stark Expo's history traced back to Tony's father, Howard Stark. In 1943, Howard launched the "World of Tomorrow" exhibition—the progenitor of every subsequent Stark Expo. That same event introduced a scrawny Steve Rogers to military recruiters, courtesy of his friend James Barnes. Two years later, Bucky vanished from a train, followed shortly by Captain America's disappearance. Howard wouldn't co-found S.H.I.E.L.D.'s precursor until 1949, making Stark Industries older than the intelligence agency itself.
Fury's assessment of Tony had been brutally accurate, yet the genius still swallowed his pride to join the Avengers—a favor Fury, S.H.I.E.L.D., and Howard's ghost should've thanked him for. But whenever Tony Stark made headlines, chaos followed like clockwork. This time, the disruption came from his father's old enemy: Ivan Vanko. No "Whiplash" moniker yet, just a bitter Russian exile plotting revenge alongside his father somewhere in Moscow's sprawl.
Hong Fei wasn't about to knock on every door in the city. But men like Ivan left trails. He took a cab to a nondescript bar where yellowed bulbs cast deliberate shadows across sticky floors. The stench of sweat, tobacco, and cheaper liquor hit him at the threshold. He shouldered through the crowd toward the bar.
An elderly bartender glanced up from polishing a glass. "What'll it be?"
"I need Yegor."
"No Yegor here." The glass kept moving.
"Frank Castle sent me."
The bartender set the glass down, studying Hong Fei with rheumy eyes before shaking his head. "Still no." He reached for the glass again.
Hong Fei smirked and slammed a leather satchel onto the counter. "Think again."
The old man unzipped the bag just enough, then slowly closed it. He tucked the satchel under one arm. "Follow me."
They descended through a floor hatch into a cellar reeking of gun oil. As Yegor lit an oil lamp and stashed the cash in a wall safe, his joints creaked like unoiled hinges. "Who you hunting? But no youngsters—I'm retired, as you see." Every word dripped with deliberate slowness.
Hong Fei knew better. Frank wouldn't have praised the old sniper's reflexes if they'd dulled with age. That steady hand had dropped targets faster than most men could blink.
Frank had originally suggested Yegor as Hong Fei's shooting instructor, though the idea was clearly redundant. "Not a young man," Yegor mused, locking the safe with deliberate slowness. "The father's probably dead or dying by now. The son would be in his forties this year."
"Then I should know him," Hong Fei replied.
"Name."
"Anthony Vanko. Ivan Vanko."
Yegor's eyelids slid shut, his face impassive as he processed the information. "If you want this to go faster, give me more to work with."
"Anthony was a scientist," Hong Fei began. "Worked in the States until they deported him as a spy..."
Yegor's eyes snapped open, cutting Hong Fei off mid-sentence. "What do you want him for?" He paused, then waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. Don't tell me."
He grabbed a notebook and started scribbling. "I know him. Before he got sick, he'd come here to drink. Saw his son too—smart kid, but he took the wrong path. You could tell he had secrets. If I were younger, I might've been tempted to dig into whatever he was hiding."
With a sharp tear, he ripped a page from the notebook and handed it over. Hong Fei glanced at the address scrawled on the paper.
"Once you step out that door," Yegor added, "you don't know me, and I don't know you. Those are the rules." "Don't worry," Hong Fei assured him.
Outside, the biting wind made Hong Fei pull his coat tighter. He flagged down a taxi and handed the driver the address. The city faded into the distance as they drove into a desolate area lined with crumbling, low-rise buildings.
Hong Fei climbed the stairs and paused outside an old, weathered door. Faint noises drifted from inside. He knocked twice. The room fell silent. He knocked again.
"Who is it?" a voice called. Hong Fei didn't answer. He stepped back and kicked the door open, activating Eyes of Death in the same motion. The room was a mess—dirty clothes piled on a sagging sofa, a long-haired man standing in front of it, a toothpick clenched between his teeth and a rifle already raised. To his left was a single bed; to his right, a workbench cluttered with blueprints. A glowing circular object sat beside two unfinished metal whips.
No sign of Anthony. If he wasn't on his deathbed, he was already gone.
Hong Fei flicked his wrist, and two playing cards shot out in quick succession. They embedded themselves into the man's hands with a sharp whistle. The rifle clattered to the floor.
Deactivating Eyes of Death, Hong Fei watched as Ivan stared back, his hands trembling.
"Who are you?"
"For now, a stranger. Soon, your boss."
Ivan spat—whether it was the toothpick or a reaction to Hong Fei's words was unclear.
Hong Fei turned to close the door, looked around again, and smiled. "Are you planning to do something big?"
"Silly Russian," he murmured, stepping further into the room. "Come into the bowl."