Night had fallen over the Stark Malibu mansion, stripping away the clamor of the day. All that remained was the monotonous rhythm of waves crashing against the rocks below.
Inside the workshop, Tony Stark was slumped in a plush sofa, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Ice cubes clinked in the amber liquid. On the massive wall screen, financial news played on mute, its screen dominated by plunging red lines that tracked the freefall of Stark Industries' stock price.
The air was thick with an aura of defeat.
"Market cap down thirty-seven billion dollars, and still falling. All the major investment banks are downgrading their ratings, and the media is calling it 'the darkest day in Stark Industries' history.'" Paul's voice was placid as he spoke from the console opposite Tony, where he was unhurriedly sipping a glass of warm milk.
His calm was a stark contrast to Tony's agitation.
Tony didn't turn around. He just tilted his head back and threw back a large mouthful of liquor, his Adam's apple bobbing as the fiery liquid burned its way down his throat. "Are you gloating, kid?"
"No, I'm calculating my consultation fee." Paul put down his glass and swiveled around, his gaze clear as he met Tony's. "I helped you foresee this crisis, which saved you from being tongue-tied at the press conference when they asked about the stock price. And while the way you ultimately handled it was… very Tony Stark, my warning was instrumental."
"Warning?" Tony scoffed, turning to fix his fourteen-year-old son with a scrutinizing glare. "You just got lucky with your guess. Anyone with half a brain could have figured out the consequences of shutting down the weapons division."
"Is that so?" Paul stood up, walked over to the holographic display table, and with a light tap of his fingers, pulled up several data models.
"This is the profit growth curve for the Stark Industries weapons division over the past ten years. This is the projected demand for arms in emerging global markets. And this one… this is the cash flow from all the overseas arms sales contracts signed by Obadiah Stane in the last five years… though most of it is encrypted."
Paul's voice echoed in the spacious workshop. "Shutting down the weapons division is painful in the short term, but in the long run, it frees you from a massive quagmire. A quagmire that would not only ruin the company's reputation but also drag you personally into endless trouble. For instance, why are the weapons you sold to the US military ending up in the hands of terrorists?"
Tony's expression darkened instantly.
He stared at the complex data streams, the drunken haze in his eyes evaporating. This level of analysis was far beyond a simple 'guess' from a fourteen-year-old. It spoke of immense data-processing power and an uncanny business acumen.
"How much do you want?" Tony's voice was hoarse.
Paul held up seven fingers.
"Seven hundred thousand?" Tony raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the number.
Paul shook his head. He gestured a seven again, and then one more time.
"Seven point seven seven… million dollars," he said, enunciating each word, a hint of boyish cunning on his face. "I've done the math. This amount, plus the tech licensing fee for Baymax for the next year, is just enough to launch my 'Little Treasury' project."
"That's extortion!" Tony nearly jumped out of his seat.
"No, it's a value exchange." Paul looked utterly innocent. "I'm providing you with future trend analysis that will help you stabilize morale and rebuild market confidence. The price is very fair. What you need most right now is a story to convince the board and Wall Street, isn't it?"
He paused, pointing to the cute image of Baymax on the screen.
"I've already given you the protagonist of your story. Now, let me tell you the ending." Paul's eyes grew profound. "In the next decade, the company with the highest market cap in the world won't be an arms dealer, nor an energy giant. It will be a leader in the healthcare industry. Baymax is just the beginning. Stark Industries' stock price will recover, and it will reach heights you've never imagined."
Tony stared hard at Paul, as if trying to find a crack in his facade.
But the young face held nothing but a certainty that belied his age.
After a long moment, Tony deflated back into the sofa and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "J.A.R.V.I.S., transfer seven point seven seven million dollars to Paul Stark."
"Of course, sir. I should inform you, however, that this expenditure will cause your personal liquid assets to fall below the cautionary threshold." J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice was as calm as ever.
"Shut up!" Tony roared.
Paul looked at the transfer notification on his phone and smiled with satisfaction. This money was the first lever he would use to move the future. With it, Pepper could quietly build a solid line of defense for him—and for Tony—in the capital markets.
A sense of security, sometimes, is just a long string of numbers in a bank account.
Having settled his finances, Paul's gaze fell on a glass box in the corner of the workshop. Inside it rested a round, metallic device, covered in scratches and somewhat crude in its construction—the first Arc Reactor Tony had brought back from the cave.
On the glass base, a line was engraved: [Proof that Tony Stark has a heart].
"A gift from Pepper?" Paul asked, though he already knew the answer.
Tony's expression softened instantly. He picked up the box, his fingertips gently tracing the cool surface of the glass, and said nothing.
"She's a good woman," Paul said, walking over to his side. "Better than all the cover girls you've ever dated combined."
"…I know," Tony's voice was low.
"Then what are you waiting for?" Paul called him out mercilessly. "For some Wall Street finance bro to sweep her off her feet, so you can race over in your sports car and crash the wedding? Please, that only happens in movies. In reality, you'll just get an invitation."
Tony's face darkened. "This is none of your business."
"How is it not my business?" Paul raised his voice. "You're my dad, and Pepper's the only one I'll ever approve of as a 'stepmom.' If you two break up, who am I supposed to complain to? Besides, that thing in your chest is running out of power, isn't it? The palladium poisoning… don't think I can't see the symptoms."
The words struck a nerve.
He subconsciously touched his chest, where the cold touch of metal beneath his skin and the faint, burning ache were constant reminders of his own fragility.
He hadn't told anyone about this. He didn't want anyone to see his weakness, especially not Pepper.
"Are you planning to hide it from her forever?" Paul's tone was aggressive. "Or is it that the great playboy doesn't dare show his true, vulnerable self to a woman? You don't even have the courage to let her help you change the reactor?"
"I…" Tony opened his mouth but found he had no rebuttal.
Yeah. He could charge into a terrorist base in his armor, he could announce the closure of his weapons division in front of the whole world, but he didn't have the courage to let Pepper Potts see the gruesome scar on his chest and the device that was keeping him alive.
He was afraid.
Afraid of the look in her eyes when she saw it. Would it be sympathy? Pity? Or… fear?
"You're afraid she'll leave you?" Paul said, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Tony's silence was a tacit admission.
"You're such an idiot." Paul sighed and patted his shoulder. "A woman willing to engrave something as cheesy as 'Proof that Tony Stark has a heart' on a gift—do you really think she's going to care whether you have an iron gizmo in your chest or a piece of flesh missing?"
"Tomorrow, call her over." Paul's tone brooked no argument. "Let her help you swap in the new reactor. That's an order."
Tony was stunned. In his forty-plus years of life, it was the first time a fourteen-year-old had ever given him an order.
But surprisingly, he wasn't angry.
It was as if the tightly locked door in his heart had been violently kicked open by the kid, letting in a sliver of light.
Yeah, maybe… maybe I can try.
"Alright." He nodded with difficulty, as if it took all his strength. "Tomorrow… you have to help me."
He still didn't have the confidence to face Pepper alone.
"Me?" Paul immediately took a step back, waving his hands dismissively. "No way. I'm not doing it. I'm a minor. A 'surgery' scene full of pink, romantic bubbles is no place for me. Too sappy."
"Then you…" Tony started, getting anxious.
"Don't worry." A mysterious smile touched the corner of Paul's lips. "I won't be there myself, but I'll prepare the perfect 'surgical assistant' for you. I guarantee it'll be more professional than me, more thoughtful, and better at setting the mood."
As he spoke, he rapidly typed on his wrist-mounted computer, pulling up a hidden design schematic. On it, the sleek, high-tech silhouette of a robot was faintly visible, but its color… seemed a bit too vibrant.
Before Tony could get a clear look, Paul closed the projection.
"Anyway, just wait for the surprise tomorrow." Paul stretched and yawned, heading for the door. "And by the way, that seven-point-seven-seven million I gave you isn't for buying booze. I want to see it turned into Stark Industries stock on the capital market. The more, the better."
With that, he left the workshop without a backward glance, leaving Tony alone on the sofa, staring at the glass box, lost in thought.
A surprise?
Tony looked down at the reactor in his chest, then thought about the potential scene tomorrow. For the first time, his feelings were this complicated.
A mix of nervousness and anticipation.
Meanwhile, back in his room, Paul gazed at the pink robot schematic on his wrist computer, a mischievous, triumphant grin spreading across his face.
*Dad, if you want to woo Pepper, you have to give her a decent gift, right?*
*Since you're too embarrassed, your son will just have to give you a little push.*
*As for the upcoming 'surprise,' I hope Pepper likes it.*
He tapped the 'Begin Fabrication' button. A blue light flared in the corner of the room, and a robotic arm began to operate silently.
Outside, the storm seemed to have passed, but everyone knew that a much larger undercurrent was just beginning to stir.