The evening sky above Los Angeles shimmered with the last amber light of sunset, casting long shadows across the metallic curves of the Walt Disney Concert Hall. Designed with swooping lines of stainless steel, it looked almost like it had been sculpted from sound itself. And tonight, it stood bathed in golden uplighting, red carpet rolled down its grand staircase as luxury cars purred to a halt before its doors.
It was the third annual Stark Industries Benefit Gala for the Firefighter Family Fund—a cause Tony Stark had supported ever since the company began producing advanced safety equipment for first responders. Though the gesture seemed noble, many suspected it was half penance, half publicity. Either way, it was a big night.
High-profile guests from politics, entertainment, and tech brushed shoulders in the sprawling atrium. A jazz quartet played in the background while waiters weaved through the throng, carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and champagne.
At the front gate, behind a line of luxury cars and red carpet flashbulbs, Glenn stood quietly among the onlookers. He wore a midnight black suit, sharply tailored but modest by comparison to the extravagant peacocking of those inside. Beside him were his partner in crime, Illyana, wearing her crimson tactical gown. A few security guards eyed him uncertainly, glancing occasionally at a digital guest list in their hands.
Just then, an old man turned from the front of the reception line, directly looked Glenn in the eye, and winked. With a mischievous smile, Stan Lee or TOAA pressed a single finger to his lips in a universal hush gesture, then disappeared into the crowd like a ghost in velvet.
Glenn dropped the cigarette his holding when he saw him. He was dumbfounded to see him again while lurking in the shadows. He couldn't help but laughed how mischievous this powerful guy is. The last time he saw him was when they were being bulldozed by truck-kun.
Illyana noticed this and asked him, "Why are you laughing?"
"Oh? I just saw a mischievous acquaintance in the crowd."
"Hmmm? One of your clients who hired you before?"
"Sort of, he's the reason why I'm here, why I became like this."
"Oh?"
Then they saw Tony Stark descended from his signature Audi R8, dressed in a sharp, black tuxedo and a smirk that could slice glass. He gave a quick wave to the photographers, posed briefly, then strode confidently into the concert hall.
Inside, he was greeted with applause, polite nods, and murmurs of admiration. People who'd once mocked his recklessness now wanted to be seen at his parties. But Tony had learned to read their faces—the difference between awe and calculation.
Agent Phil Coulson was already inside, observing from near the bar. Dressed in a conservative suit and holding a glass of water, he moved through the crowd like a shadow. He spotted Tony almost immediately.
"Mr. Stark," Coulson said, intercepting him with practiced calm. "Phil Coulson. I represent the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."
Tony barely slowed. "You really need a new acronym. That one doesn't exactly roll off the tongue."
"We're working on it. Listen, I know this must be a trying time for you, but we need to debrief you. There's still a lot of unanswered questions, and time can be a factor with these things. Let's just put something in the books." Coulson replied, handing over a sleek, embossed card.
"How about the 24th at 7:00 P.M. at Stark Industries?" Coulson continued to ask.
Tony accepted it with a casual glance, already half-distracted. His eyes were drawn up to the mezzanine, where a figure emerged onto the staircase.
Pepper Potts, in a floor-length silver dress that shimmered like moonlight, descended slowly. Conversations dulled around her. Eyes turned. Tony blinked, momentarily forgetting Coulson.
"Excuse me," he muttered, brushing past the agent.
Coulson gave a small sigh. "That went about how I expected."
Tony met Pepper halfway up the stairs.
"You look—wow."
"That's the second time you've used that line this month," she replied, but her smile was genuine.
"It's because you keep outdoing yourself," he said, offering his arm. She took it.
As they descended together, the buzz of the event resumed. Champagne corks popped. A string quartet began a soft rendition of Gershwin.
Then the air shifted.
At the top of the main staircase, a tall figure appeared, dressed in a dark coat, his eyes scanning the room with slow, deliberate calculation. It was Glenn. The Handyman in the flesh.
He descended without flourish, but the change in the room was palpable. Conversations slowed. People turned to each other, whispering. A senator leaned toward a CEO, eyebrows raised.
"That's the Handyman."
"What's he doing here?"
"I thought he only showed up during black-ops deployments."
A diplomatic attaché visibly stiffened. One whispered, "Did something happen?"
Then Glenn raised a glass toward the nearest cluster of onlookers.
"Not in an official business," he said dryly. "Just attending."
A few tense shoulders visibly relaxed. Nervous laughter followed. Even Agent Coulson, from across the room, allowed himself a small breath of relief. Behind him, a SHIELD agent murmured, "We thought it was an extraction."
Obadiah Stane, standing near the central bar with a circle of donors, turned to see what the fuss was. When he saw Glenn, his face tensed. For a moment, rage flickered in his eyes—but it passed quickly, replaced by a mask of composed civility.
He raised a glass toward Glenn in mock respect and the latter just responded with a nod.
Phil Coulson approached Glenn a few minutes later.
"Mr. Handyman," he said politely, "Didn't expect to see you here."
"You say that like it's a problem."
"Not at all," Coulson said smoothly. "Just... unexpected."
Glenn took a slow sip of scotch. "So the reason why you're here...is SHIELD recruiting now?"
Coulson smirked. "Always. You know how valuable someone like you would be to our operations."
"Valuable? Maybe. But I prefer to stay unregistered."
"Not even curious?" Coulson asked, offering a small data chip.
Glenn didn't touch it. "I don't work for organizations. You already know that, right?"
Coulson inclined his head respectfully. "That's a shame."
Glenn just responded with a shrugged and said, "It is...I'm just not the type take an order from just anyone."
"But you are taking clients."
"That's different, it's a transaction where both parties are on equal terms. There's no superior to answer to. If I don't like the mission, then....they can fuck off."
"Aren't you afraid that someone might get offended by your style of handling things?"
"Look, I'm not begging them to hire me. It's the other way around. Besides, they know what will happen if they do anything stupid. Some of them learned that lesson the hard way."
"Sigh, well in any case Mr. Handyman, in case you change your mind, you know I'm just around. "
"Yep, I can spot you from a mile away like gold shining among the heads.."
"Or if you find something that can reduce hairfall." Coulson said.
Glenn's brow raised in surprise turning to look at the loyal agent, only to find him serious.
"Is this a commission?"
"No, I will pay for it."
"You know what, you are my favorite among the brooding SHIELD agents I've encountered so far so, consider it a professional courtesy, I'll keep an eye out for you." Glenn replied.
"Thanks."
They stood in silence for a beat before Coulson politely bid his farewell and walked away, leaving Glenn to the quiet hum of polite society.
Later that evening, with the main program in progress and most guests seated around white-linen tables, Tony caught Obadiah near one of the dressing rooms backstage. The band played loud enough to cover their hushed conversation.
"I know what you've been doing," Tony said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Obadiah's expression was neutral. "This isn't the place."
"Exactly. Which makes it perfect."
"You've been digging where you shouldn't, Tony. The board doesn't appreciate it."
Tony leaned closer. "I'm the board."
Obadiah chuckled softly, with no humor. "You think this is still your company?"
"I know where the weapons are going. You think I wouldn't find out?"
"You don't understand how the world works. You never have."
"And you think selling to enemies makes you smarter?"
"It makes me rich. And it keeps us relevant."
Tony shook his head. "You'll burn everything down for another fiscal quarter."
Obadiah stepped closer, menacingly calm. "Be careful, Tony. The people in this room don't forgive easily."
"And I don't scare easily."
From the far wall, Glenn observed them. He wasn't close enough to hear every word, but he didn't need to. His eyes caught everything—the body language, the tension, the inevitable shift in balance.
As the evening closed with a final speech from Tony—charming, charitable, and laced with subtle jabs—attendees began filtering out to waiting limos. The buzz of the night lingered, but behind every smile was unease.
In the parking structure, Coulson made one last approach.
"Offer still stands," he said as Glenn stepped toward a matte black SUV.
Glenn paused. "Maybe next lifetime."
Coulson watched him go, then turned back toward the concert hall.
Inside, Tony stood alone near the back of the stage, looking out through the glass panels toward the city skyline. He was thinking about what he learned from the reporter who approached him earlier. Gulmira, a town where Yinsen came from was destroyed by the terrorists using his own manufactured weapons.
"You really don't know who to trust anymore, do you?" came Pepper's voice.
Tony exhaled. "Nope. But I'm getting better at reading the liars."
Behind them, the empty stage whispered with echoes of applause long since faded.
The party was over.
But the real performance had just begun.
--
A few day after the party.
The desert heat was relentless, unforgiving in its silence. Dust coiled through the air like whispers of the dead, and the wind carried a hint of ash, of metal scorched by the sun. In a far-flung outpost of the Ten Rings, once a crucible of terror, now a wreckage of ambition, the ruins of Tony Stark's prison were still scorched with the memory of fire and escape.
Raza, leader no longer, stood with a forced air of dignity amidst the wreckage. Bandages crossed his face, a testament to the burns he barely survived. He leaned on a cane, one leg dragging ever so slightly, his pride more injured than his body. His eyes were sharp, wary, as he watched the convoy approach—black SUVs, armored and dustless. A foreign intrusion in the land of warlords and hidden agendas.
From the middle SUV, Obadiah Stane emerged.
Imposing, impeccable.... and still bald.
He adjusted his coat, casually inspecting the horizon, then approached Raza without a hint of urgency. Soldiers—mercenaries clad in matte black—flanked him, weapons holstered but ready.
"Raza," Obadiah said, voice smooth like polished steel. "What a lovely neighborhood you've built."
Raza sneered, though the corner of his mouth twitched in pain. "You came a long way, Stane. I take it you're not here to negotiate."
"No, no. You see, when you fail to kill a man I need dead, it becomes less about negotiation and more about... cleanup."
Raza reached for his pistol, instinctive, proud.
But the mercenaries were faster.
Three pulled their weapons. Four bodies dropped—Raza's last loyal men—before Raza's hand even brushed the leather holster.
He froze.
Obadiah tsked and pulled a sonic device from his pocket.
"Now, let's not embarrass ourselves further."
He activated it.
The paralyzing whine filled the air. Raza's muscles seized, his cane clattering to the ground as he stood frozen like a statue trapped mid-collapse.
Obadiah stepped closer, leaned down, and whispered, "The suit. The cave. The man. You underestimated all of it. And now I get to finish what you couldn't begin to understand."
Behind him, a tarp was yanked from the back of one truck. The twisted remains of Tony Stark's Mark I armor gleamed in the sun.
"Your legacy," Obadiah said. "Reduced to scrap. Mine will be... forged in fire."
Without another word, Obadiah turned and left. One of his men raised a suppressed pistol and ended Raza's story.
A single shot.
The desert reclaimed its silence.