New York City. Rikers Island Maximum Security Penitentiary.
The heavy titanium security doors ground open, releasing a stale mix of rusted iron and industrial disinfectant into the cold air.
Obadiah Stane walked out in an expensive black suit, clutching a small plastic bag with his personal effects. His face was blank. His hair had turned thinner and whiter during his short stay in federal prison. The arrogant fat on his face had sagged, leaving him gaunt and unhealthy. But deep in his bloodshot eyes, there was no relief—only cold, venomous ruthlessness.
A heavily armored black military SUV waited at the curb. The tinted rear window rolled down, revealing the scarred face of General Slocum from the Departnt of Defense.
"Mr. Stane. It's been a while," the general said in his raspy, no-nonsense voice. "Get in. We have business to discuss."
Obadiah's cracked lips curled into a cold smile. He climbed into the SUV. The vehicle pulled away from the prison and rged into New York traffic.
"I thought you Pentagon types were going to let rot in that cell before rembering my na," Obadiah sneered. He poured himself a large glass of whiskey from the mini-bar and took a deep gulp. "What happened? Tony shut down the weapons division and now you have no toys to play with?"
"Enough, Stane," General Slocum cut in, his face darkening. "Tony Stark has gone off the rails. He closed the weapons division, refused all military cooperation, and canceled every outstanding order. Our operations in Afghanistan and the Middle East are already suffering."
He leaned forward. "We pulled strings to get you paroled and dropped most of the treason charges. In return, you will help us develop a weapons system superior to Stark's Iron Man armor. You know Stark Industries' technology better than anyone."
Obadiah's grip tightened on the glass until his knuckles turned white. Pure hatred burned in his eyes.
For over thirty years he had built Stark Industries. He had manipulated the board, crushed competitors, and kept the empire running after Howard's death. Then that ungrateful brat had shut down the weapons division with one press conference and sent him to prison.
Now the military was handing him a loaded gun.
"I want full access to Sector 16 labs and unlimited Departnt of Defense resources," Obadiah said, eyes gleaming with sinister intent. "Give what I need, and I'll not only build sothing far more powerful than Stark's armor — I'll help you take back Stark Industries and restore it as the Pentagon's primary supplier."
General Slocum studied the ruthless look in Stane's eyes and nodded with satisfaction. He extended his hand.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Stane."
"The pleasure is mine, General."
As they shook hands, Obadiah's smile was ice-cold.
Tony… did you really think sending to prison ant you won? The ga has only just begun.
anwhile, in the underground biology laboratory at Columbia University…
The lab was in ruins.
Overturned benches, shattered glassware, spilled chemicals, and chaotic notes covered the walls. Only the neural-interface prosthetic schematic Mira had drawn the day before remained untouched in the corner.
Dr. Curt Connors sat slumped against the concrete wall, his empty left sleeve hanging limply at his side. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with despair.
The final test report glowed on the monitor above him:
[RESULT: ZERO LIMB REGENERATION EFFECT.] [RESULT: ZERO CROSS-SPECIES GENE FUSION REACTION DETECTED.]
He had lost.
After more than a decade of obsessive work, he had injected the final version of the Lizard Serum last night. He had waited in the dark for the pain, the regeneration, the miracle.
Nothing happened.
The stump remained unchanged. No mutation. No regeneration. The serum had done nothing.
Soone had tampered with it.
Peter? Gwen? Or… that silver-haired girl who had visited the lab only once — Mira Vale?
Dr. Connors slowly stood up and staggered to the whiteboard. He brushed his trembling fingers across the clean lines of the cybernetic schematic Mira had drawn.
Her words from yesterday echoed in his mind:
Biological regeneration is dangerous and unpredictable. Advanced cybernetic prosthetics are safer and more controllable.
He knew the diagram was not fantasy. With his expertise in biological neurology and her algorithms, this design could beco reality. A chanical arm that might even surpass a natural limb in strength and function.
But accepting it ant admitting his life's work had been a failure.
His hand clenched into a fist against the whiteboard as despair and a fragile new hope warred inside him.
At Midtown High School, during morning break…
Peter slumped over his desk, anxiety written across his face. He had called Dr. Connors repeatedly until his phone died, but it always went straight to voicemail.
Gwen sat beside him, frowning as she flipped through Connors' old research papers.
"I still can't reach him," Peter said, dropping his phone. "The university says he hasn't shown up for two days and the lab is locked from the inside. Mira… do you think sothing happened to him?"
I sat by the window, fingers idly tracing the edge of my notebook. Outwardly I looked calm, but my consciousness had already dived deep into the data stream.
[Builder. Locate Dr. Connors and check his status.]
The response ca instantly. Connors was inside the sealed Columbia lab. His vitals were stable, but his emotional state was highly unstable.
I synced the lab's CCTV feed. The trashed room and Connors staring desperately at my diagram appeared in my HUD.
As expected. He had injected the serum. Fortunately, my modifications had worked.
[Continue monitoring him. Alert if anything changes.]
Just as I prepared to disconnect, the Builder issued a priority alert:
[Obadiah Stane was released from Rikers Island fifteen minutes ago. General Slocum personally extracted him using a classified federal parole warrant.]
My heart skipped a beat. I sat up straight, eyes wide.
What?!
I had given Pepper ironclad evidence. How was Stane out? And with military backing?
The Builder quickly filled in the details: Stane had made a deal. The Pentagon would give him full support to develop weapons superior to the Iron Man armor. In exchange, he would help them retake Stark Industries.
Stane was already back at Stark Industries headquarters.
This was a major problem. The Iron Monger threat had returned — and now it had the full weight of the U.S. military behind it.
I issued rapid orders: maximum surveillance on Stane, monitor all Pentagon communications, and install a hidden backdoor in J.A.R.V.I.S. for ergency alerts.
The Builder also updated on the Mirror Sea. The hidden dinsional base was fully established — research facilities, ship docks, nuclear power, and defensive systems all online.
Looking at the 3D model of the massive Siren fortress floating in the isolated Mirror Sea, I felt the tension ease slightly.
I was no longer fighting this tiline alone.
"Mira? Hey, Mira?"
Peter's worried voice pulled back. Both he and Gwen were staring at with concern.
"Sorry," I said, offering a reassuring smile. "I was just thinking. Maybe Dr. Connors locked himself in to focus on research and forgot his phone."
"Even so, two days is too long," Peter said. "Let's go check the lab after school. I won't be able to relax until we do."
"Agreed," I nodded.
I needed to see what choice Dr. Connors would make.
What I didn't know was that at that exact mont, in the top-floor CEO office at Stark Industries…
Obadiah Stane sat behind Tony's desk, holding a thick classified dossier. A cruel smile played on his lips.
The cover read: PROJECT: IRON MONGER — ADVANCED ARMOR MASS-PRODUCTION INITIATIVE.
Attached were high-resolution photos and analysis reports of Breaker II from the Harlem incident.
Obadiah stared at the images of the silver-haired cha girl, greed burning in his eyes.
Tony's tin can armor was nothing compared to this power. If he could find her, kill her, and reverse-engineer the technology…
He would beco the most powerful man on the planet.
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