Max marched toward his father's study, gripping the doorknob with apprehension and curiosity.
As he entered, the atmosphere shifted—heavy, hushed, and filled with significance.
The room felt slightly intimidating, cloaked in dim lighting with beams of sunlight filtering through thick curtains.
It mirrored Max's unease as he crossed the threshold into a space once ruled by his father—a room steeped in history, intellect, and quiet authority.
He swallowed hard, his eyes scanning the surroundings. The study reflected the Knight household's wealth and legacy.
Dark mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound volumes. A large oak desk sat at the centre, cluttered with documents, framed family photos, and vintage collectables.
One shelf showcased several awards, their metal surfaces glinting faintly in the light.
The faint scent of aged paper and polished wood filled the air, wrapping Max in an invisible shroud of responsibility.
Emotions churned within him as he lingered on each detail. This wasn't just a study—it was a monument.
A symbol of the burden passed down through generations. Now, that burden was his.
His body reacted instinctively, his chest tightening under the invisible weight of inheritance.
Approaching the desk, Max gently ran his fingertips across its smooth surface.
Family photos, old letters, and heirlooms lay scattered—tokens preserved not just for memory but also for those meant to shoulder the legacy and its choices.
Though the room held an old-world charm, it wasn't without modern touches.
A sleek computer rested on the desk, a subtle nod to Arthur Knight's belief that tradition and progress must coexist.
Max moved toward the bookshelves, curiosity stirring within him. He wondered what the collection might reveal about his father's interests and philosophies.
He'd always seen Arthur Knight as a figure of strength, but perhaps this room held a deeper understanding of the man.
The books spanned philosophical treatises, scientific journals, and publications by renowned researchers.
One shelf in particular caught Max's eye—prominently displaying works by Howard Stark, a name that echoed like thunder across the Marvel Universe.
The shadow of Howard Stark loomed over everything.
As Max flipped through a few volumes and skimmed titles, he reflected on the man's towering contributions—from contributions to the super-soldier serum and founding S.H.I.E.L.D. to pioneering research on the Tesseract.
Publicly, people remembered him mostly for his role in the atomic bomb contribution, but that was only a sliver of his legacy.
Max mused on Stark's influence in science and warfare.
The sheer number of patents and publications under his name made it clear—Howard's genius shaped a company that rivalled even the most capable minds.
If not for someone as extraordinary as Tony Stark, his legacy might have remained unmatched for decades.
His thoughts drifted deeper.
'Iron Man was born from the arc reactor Howard envisioned,' Max thought. 'And even the new element Tony created—Howard had already dreamed of it, just trapped by the limits of his era. The man was building flying cars in World War II, for god's sake.'
He chuckled, half in disbelief.
"What a man. If someone had tweeted against him back in my past life, the entire scientific community might've started a boycott."
Shaking his head with a wry smile, Max let out a soft laugh.
Howard Stark's brilliance was impossible to ignore, and as Max stood there, surrounded by the weight of his inheritance, he felt the stirrings of inspiration.
From the scattered research papers and unfamiliar names of brilliant scientists, Max realised something:
This Marvel world had far more depth, danger, and opportunity than anything his past life had offered.
Turning away from the shelves, Max found himself standing before a cabinet filled with documents—family holdings, financial records, and notes on his father's business dealings.
They weren't hidden in a vault or behind biometric locks. These weren't secrets; they were public trails, anyone clever enough could follow.
In one compartment, he found a Glock pistol with two magazines.
It wasn't surprising—it was America, after all. But lacking expertise, Max decided to leave it untouched.
Then, his gaze landed on a small, locked safe in the corner.
It required a key or password—neither of which he had. Perhaps the family lawyer or Martha might know how to access it.
As he flipped through the records, a pattern began to emerge.
Arthur Knight had a clear, deliberate interest in technology. Whether driven by ambition or a long-term vision for the family's future, it was obvious that tech had been his focus.
After gathering everything he could for now, Max sighed, fatigue beginning to creep in.
His eyes wandered to the large chair behind the desk—the seat of power his father once occupied. A symbol of command. Now, it was his.
He could almost picture his father sitting there, calm and resolute, offering a silent nod of approval. Passing the torch.
Taking a deep breath, Max sat down.
To his surprise, comfort settled over him like a gentle tide. For the first time since entering the room, he felt grounded.
The study had revealed much about Arthur Knight and the Knight legacy, but more than that, it reminded Max of the long road ahead.
Now, all he needed was for the lawyer to arrive and lay out the financials, properties, and holdings. Only then could he chart a course forward.
His thoughts drifted again as his gaze fell upon a framed photograph on the desk.
It was of him as a ten-year-old, flanked by his parents. All three are smiling, bright, genuine, and full of life.
He picked it up carefully, his fingers brushing the glass.
To his surprise, tears welled up and slid silently down his cheeks.
He didn't know if they were his or borrowed from the body he now inhabited, but he didn't stop them.
Sometimes, the dam had to break.
To stay whole, you had to let the pieces fall where they may.
Max, a man who had once endured the corporate grind under a tyrannical boss, understood the importance of emotional control.
This was no different—just another kind of pressure.
He wiped his face, then traced the edges of the photo with a trembling hand.
Leaning back into the chair, a strange mixture of calm and determination filled him. His eyes grew heavy. And slowly, he drifted into a light sleep.
In his dreams, warmth enveloped him.
He felt their presence—his family, not gone but waiting—hands gently caressing his head, holding him in a tender, reassuring embrace.
….
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