The giant OLED television—easily eighty inches, set flush into a minimalist slate wall—flashed with the logo of The Maxwell Report, a snarky late-night show hosted by America's favorite smirking cynic: Reed Maxwell.
Tonight's show was already well into its monologue.
"So, Stark Industries—you may have heard of them—decided this week to stop making weapons. Yes, because that's what you want from a company that made its billions off building boom sticks: a sudden crisis of conscience."
The audience laughed. Reed continued, gesturing dramatically.
"Tony Stark walks out of a desert cave, announces he's turning off the war machine, and the stock market responded with the grace of a drunk toddler on rollerblades. Their stock fell faster than a Stark drone with a bad battery."
More laughter.
Glenn snorted, picking up another cracker. "He's not wrong. That stock dipped harder than an Oreo cookie. Maybe I should start to buy some."
Illyana, curled up on the matching loveseat in the corner, looked up from her tablet. She wore silk lounge pants and a tank top, barefoot, her platinum hair twisted into a loose braid. "They really thought turning off the faucet wouldn't make anyone notice? Who's doing PR for Stark Industries—an intern with a dream and a death wish?"
"Probably Obadiah's cousin from Connecticut," Glenn replied dryly, smoke trailing from his lips. "You know the type. Always sweating. Wears a Bluetooth even in the bathroom."
Onscreen, Maxwell rolled footage of Tony's press conference.
"I saw young Tony standing there in that press room like he was auditioning to be the next Dalai Lama of Silicon Valley. You could smell the guilt through the screen. Or maybe that was just the sweat from Obadiah Stane two rows back."
The crowd roared again. The camera panned to a mock image of Stane with cartoon dollar signs replacing his eyes and an 'ERROR: CAPITALISM NOT FOUND' message across the bottom.
Illyana chuckled. "He does kind of look like a malfunctioning Mr. Clean."
"Except Mr. Clean never tried to sell Jericho missiles to both sides of a war," Glenn said, popping another cracker into his mouth. "Say what you will, Tony's stunt has made my week more entertaining."
Illyana tilted her head. "You think he's serious? About changing things?"
Glenn leaned back, letting the smoke from his cigarette twist toward the ceiling. "Oh, I think he means it. The question is whether the boardroom vultures and suit-jockeys will let him survive it."
Illyana arched a brow. "You expecting a coup?"
"Please," he smirked. "They're a weapons manufacturer. Everything in that building is literally designed for betrayal."
Maxwell was now showing a graph of Stark Industries' plummeting stock.
"This graph looks like the EKG of a man being told he's just been laid off by email. Stark's stock dropped harder than a TikTok career after one apology video."
Glenn burst into laughter. "I'd actually watch that chart if it had a laugh track."
Illyana rolled her eyes. "You've been holed up too long. We need to get out."
He nodded, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Speaking of which... we've got that party coming up. Stark's way of saying 'I'm fine, ignore the trauma.'"
"Cocktail party?" Illyana asked, already scrolling through dress ideas on her tablet.
"Cocktail dresses. Sharp suits. And maybe some discreet weapons. We've got a party to attend. I need a new suit and a tie. The non-usual kind and you, young lady" he said, pointing at her with the cigarette, "need a new cocktail dress."
She looked up at him. "Really? Are we going to have a grand entrance?"
He took a drag, exhaled, and smirked. "That depends on the hors d'oeuvres."
He continued, "It's going to be crawling with people pretending they don't know who's buying the drinks. Might as well show up and remind them that some shadows wear suits just fine."
She smirked. "You're going to cause a scene. We'll be in the limelight you know."
"My presence itself always cause scenes. And I'm practically allergic to normal entrances."
They both laughed, the lighthearted tone a strange contrast to the underlying tension that filled the room.
---
The day had long begun to lean into dusk when Glenn and Illyana slipped into the city's underbelly. Los Angeles, for all its glamour and sunshine, had its shadows—and the shadows were where killers did business. The light of day was a distraction in their line of work. It was the murmur of streetlamps and neon, the low hum of night traffic, that marked the beginning of serious dealings.
Glenn walked a step ahead, as always. His boots pressed firmly against the cracked concrete of an alleyway in downtown LA that smelled faintly of ozone and engine grease. He was dressed simply, in black jeans and a loose charcoal jacket that fluttered like a crow's wing when he turned corners. Illyana kept close, watching the way he moved—deliberate, confident, like someone who knew that every eye in the shadows was watching him buy he didn't care.
"This way," he said without looking back.
The city's haze blurred neon signs into soft halos as he moved past a noodle stand and down the alley behind an old jazz club. A red door, paint chipped and weathered by time, waited beneath a flickering security camera.
He knocked twice. Then once. Then three short raps.
Thud thud! Thud! Thud thud thud!
The door opened without a sound.
Inside, the air was dry and sterile, smelling faintly of gun oil and ozone. A hallway of concrete and steel led him down two stories to a vault door etched with a barely perceptible ouroboros. The man who opened it wore a three-piece suit with tactical cuts in the seams — the kind of tailoring that allowed for a quick draw without wrinkling the fabric.
"Mr. Handyman," he said with a nod. "Welcome to Argento's."
"May I offer a sampling of the new 'imports'?"
Glenn nodded once. "Suits please. Something we can breathe in and bleed in."
The vendor gave a low chuckle, gliding a panel aside to reveal racks of suits and dresses, shimmering faintly under the LED lighting. "All hand-stitched. Kevlar-titanium weave. Italian wool overlay. For gentlemen and ladies of refined violence."
Glenn stepped forward first. "I want a custom made."
"But of course, Mr. Handyman. This way, please."
He was led behind a sleek curtain to a private fitting room where he face a large mirror. While appreciating his looks, the vendor started to get his measurements.
"Tell me Mr. Handyman, is this a formal event or a social affair?" The vendor asked.
"Social."
"And is this for day or evening?"
"Evening."
"In what style?"
"Italian."
"How many buttons?"
"Two."
"Trousers?"
"Tapered."
"How about the lining?"
"...Tactical."
Illyana was starting to get bored waiting for almost an hour when Glenn emerged wearing a midnight black suit. The lines were sharp, the cut immaculate, but there was strength in its silhouette. He adjusted the collar, moved his arms in a few practiced motions. It didn't tug. It flexed with him.
"Tungsten-threaded lapels," the vendor noted. "Absorbs impact. Inner layer will stop rifle fire at close range."
Illyana watched him appraise himself in the mirror. He didn't look impressed—he rarely did—but there was a quiet satisfaction in his silence.
"Took you long enough. You dress like a woman." She snorted.
"Worth it." Glenn grinned in satisfaction. Then he turned to the vendor and asked. "Can you do a rush order?"
"Certainly. Would you like us to send your orders same place?"
"Sure!"
Illyana was surprised when he heard that. She leaned forward towards Glenn and whispered.
"Aren't you worried they will snitch our address to some underground organization?"
"Oh that? Don't worry, they are very professional. They won't last this long if they couldn't keep their mouth shut. Besides, they are welcome you try." Glenn smirked.
"Oh! Would be fun if someone dumb enough try."
The vendor couldn't help but wiped a sweat on his forward when he heard their conversation.
Then it was her turn.
The vendor gestured. "Young lady, if you would."
She was shown a selection of dresses beside the suits—elegant, sleek, but each one deceptively armored. She selected a sleeveless crimson number with a high slit, reinforced stitching woven along the seams.
She stepped into the fitting room. When she emerged, Glenn's eyes met hers with a slight raise of his brow.
"Looks like trouble," he said.
"Feels like armor," she replied.
The vendor clapped softly. "A perfect match. Dress and death, hand in hand."
"I like the choker."
Illyana responded with a glare and a blush on her cheeks.
"What? I'm sensing someone is having a colorful imagination." Glenn teased.
After picking up their dress, the vendor asked.
"Would you like a tasting? We have a new specialty on the menu. Fresh from Austria."
Glenn thought for a moment and said, "Sure, might as well pick up a new toy."
They were guided next into another room.
Inside, the air was dry and sterile, smelling faintly of gun oil and ozone. A hallway of concrete and steel led him down two stories to a vault door etched with a barely perceptible ouroboros. The man who opened it wore a three-piece suit with tactical cuts in the seams — the kind of tailoring that allowed for a quick draw without wrinkling the fabric.
Glenn said nothing. The man gestured, and the vault opened to reveal a sanctum of weapons — dimly lit, immaculate, and silent as a graveyard of gods. Unlike Illyana, Glenn browsed with intent.
Rows of display cases lined the walls, each item suspended in anti-static magnetic fields. Pistols, carbines, knives forged with Damascus steel, and even suppressed grenade launchers. Glenn walked slowly, like a curator in a museum of death.
The concierge followed him. "Looking for anything… discreet or devastating?"
Glenn stopped before a tiered platform that displayed a modified pistol with obsidian black finish and tungsten accents. The placard read:
Taran Tactical x ZEV Tech Glock 34 — "Phantom Edge"
Caliber: 9mm +P
Custom Threaded Match Barrel
Agency Arms Trigger System
RMR Mount with Trijicon SRO Red Dot Sight
Compensator: Parker Mountain Machine Ultra Slim
Magazine: 24-Round Extended, Flared Magwell
Suppressor Compatibility: Yes
Effective Range: 75m with <1.5 MOA grouping
Muzzle Flip: Reduced by 40%
"That one," Glenn said.
"Engineered for precision and speed," the concierge noted. "Slide-milled for reduced weight, red-dot zeroed to 25 meters. It tracks like a scalpel. With the comp and trigger tune, it fires smoother than a whisper."
Glenn picked it up. It felt like it belonged in his hand. Not heavy, not light — just right. He racked the slide. Smooth. Balanced. It was a pistol built for killers who didn't miss.
He holstered it in a side rig the concierge handed him — leather molded with Kevlar mesh.
"Ammo?" Glenn asked.
"Subsonic 147 grain hollow points. Armor-piercing frangibles. Or, if you prefer something exotic…," he unlocked a drawer and slid out a box marked with a stylized cobra. "These are 9mm 'ViperRounds' — polymer-coated bullets with delayed fragment cores. Silent, but loud on impact."
Glenn nodded once. "Two boxes. No, make it ten."
He walked to another alcove — a table laid with tactical knives and suppressors. He picked a slimline titanium blade from Bastinelli Creations, the kind that fit between ribs like it was made for it, and a Dead Air Odessa-9 suppressor to match the Glock.
The concierge watched. "Will that be all?"
Glenn slid a black metal chip across the counter — no names, no numbers. Just a circular logo with trangle at the center etched in red. A hard currency in the underworld aside from cash.
"That'll cover it," the concierge said, bowing his head.
The room was cathedral-like in its reverence. Weapons were displayed like priceless artifacts—each one embedded in custom velvet trays or mounted against obsidian backlit walls. The vendor walked beside Glenn as he moved through the collection.
As far as Glenn concerned, he doesn't need a gun when he fights or kill during the mission. He can just wipe the floor by using shave, finger gun and tempest kick. Him, having a gun was just a matter of convenience and efficiency. It isn't efficient to use a baseball bat to kill a fly. Might as well minimize the effort since he have Yassop's gun mastery to use. Besides, he liked to keep his skills as his trump cards and let his enemies underestimate him. Specially now that he was in the limelight, revealed under prying eyes of SHIELD and the organization hidden beneath.
Meanwhile, Illyana watched with shining eyes but didn't approach. Though it looked cool browsing weapons like that, she didn't need a weapon because she already have one.
As Glenn and Illyana was about to step out, the concierge bidded them a warm farewell.
"Mr. Handyman, sir. "
Glenn stopped and glanced back.
"Do enjoy your party."
-