3

❚ PLAY WITH FIRE ❚

An abandoned shack stood desolate in a remote pocket of Afghanistan, veiled beyond the rolling dunes of sand and shadow. It crouched beneath the weight of time, weathered and skeletal, its decaying wooden frame held together more by stubbornness than strength. Cobwebs clung to every crevice like remnants of forgotten prayers, swaying faintly in the desert breeze that slipped through the cracks. Though the night was frigid, the air within the shack felt suffocating—stale, heavy, and strangely hot, as if the very walls had absorbed the scorching breath of the Sahara and refused to let it go.

The single window, boarded unevenly, bore an old, shredded curtain that hung limp and dust-laden. Foreign liquid dripped from the low-hanging ceiling, staining the warped floorboards below. Somewhere in the oppressive stillness, a distant faucet gave away its slow death, the rhythmic plinking of water echoing faintly like a ghost's heartbeat.

The air stank of mold and decaying paper, and darkness coiled in the corners like a lurking predator. In the midst of it all sat an elderly man, tall and slender, his posture composed, though his surroundings were not. He occupied a crooked wooden chair near the far wall, his callused hands methodically smoothing out the wrinkles of his faded brown suit—an outfit once fine, now dulled by hardship. His eider-white hair circled the rim of his scalp, the crown of his head left bare and gleaming beneath the meager lamplight. A Grecian nose and solemn features gave him a face that could deceive others into mistaking him for an Oriental scholar. But here, in this desolate place, he was not merely a man of appearances—he was a respected surgeon, revered in his distant village. His name was Ho Yinsen.

Suddenly, the door slammed open with a violent crack.

Several men surged into the room, their movements brisk and brutal. The flickering light caught the glint of weaponry—assault rifles of varying models strapped across their backs, gleaming bolo knives secured to their belts and backs. Their uniforms, once formal, were now faded and frayed. Ragged scarves hung loosely around their necks, stained with sweat and grit, remnants of a war without a name.

Trailing behind them came the last figure—a hulking man whose arms cradled the limp form of a woman.

Maria Antoinette Stark—barely clothed, barely conscious.

The brunette genius lay still, her body curled against his chest in a pitiful sprawl of limbs and vulnerability. Her once-pristine lingerie was now a mockery of its former elegance, sullied by dust and sweat. Yinsen's brow furrowed as he observed her condition, but he held his tongue.

Behind the man came three women. Each of them wore confidence like armor, their presence loud despite their silence. They did not acknowledge Yinsen, not at first.

The tallest of the trio, a blonde with taffy-toned spandex and olive-toned skin, was the first to speak—her voice low, mocking, and spoken in a dialect Yinsen understood.

"For someone labeled a genius, she's remarkably stupid," the woman remarked coldly, nodding toward the man holding Toni.

The man offered no reply. He strode to the stained sofa bed in the corner and unceremoniously dropped Toni's unconscious form. Her body landed with a dull thud that seemed to echo longer than it should have in the cramped space.

The blonde's attire—black cargo pants tucked into heavy combat boots—only emphasized the effortless menace she radiated. Her name was Wendy Conrad, known more commonly by her alias: Bombshell. A juggling and explosives specialist, she was infamous for her silver wristbands, capable of emitting controlled fire blasts, and a deadly assortment of hand grenades and smoke bombs. Her beauty was undeniable, but it was laced with violence.

"Nobody can resist us, Dy," came a musical laugh, delicate and airy like a siren's lullaby.

The second woman moved with a dancer's grace, her candy-colored curls bouncing with every step. She was pale as porcelain, with a slender frame and eyes like pools of ink—black and unreadable. A beauty mark sat just beneath her plush lips, perfectly placed, as if painted by a romantic poet. She wore a teal chiffon blouse, its deep V-neck revealing the swell of her chest, paired with tailored black pants and simple kitten heels.

She addressed Yinsen directly now. "Isn't that right, old man?"

Yinsen remained still for a moment, then offered a small, tight smile. "Of course," he murmured.

This was Adele Racine, known by her alias: Muse. Unlike Bombshell, Adele was not a combatant—but her weapon was far subtler. Her voice, her presence, her allure could shatter defenses far more effectively than brute force. She was beautiful, yes—but dangerous in ways that could not be measured by steel or gunpowder.

Yinsen's gaze flicked briefly between them, then back to Toni, whose features remained slack in unconsciousness.

The third woman entered with no pretense, her voice a sharp rasp that cut through the air.

"You," she barked, jabbing a finger toward Yinsen. Then, with a swift motion, she pointed to Toni. "Cover her. Now."

Her commanding tone brokered no room for delay. Yinsen obeyed, removing his long jacket and stepping toward the injured woman.

This woman was Tanya Sealy, more fearfully referred to as Black Mamba. Her raven-black hair spilled over her shoulders like a curtain of ink. She wore a form-fitting black crop top with emerald lining that shimmered in the dim light, paired with matching jogger pants. Her jade-green eyes narrowed as Yinsen draped his coat over Toni's exposed figure. Her body bore no tolerance for weakness, and her presence left no question as to who was in control.

With slow precision, Tanya dropped a pair of steel handcuffs onto the floor. The sound rang sharp and final. She kicked them toward Yinsen.

"Put that on her," she commanded.

Adele, still loitering near the door, linked her arm with Tanya's in jest.

"You fancy the Stark girl, Tany? I don't blame you—she's very pretty."

Tanya scoffed and pulled away.

"I don't like idiots," she snapped, turning her back. "Her mind is depressing to read."

With a wave of her hand, she gestured for the others to follow.

As she exited, the men followed in obedient silence. Adele, visibly irked by the rebuff, raised her hand with faux indifference, examining her nails as she muttered under her breath, "She reminds me of my ex-husband."

Bombshell smirked and trailed behind her, securing the door with a loud, echoing click.

Yinsen stood alone once more.

He turned toward Toni. The girl was unconscious, her breath shallow and uneven. Her face, once the image of refined brilliance and beauty, was now marred by grime and bruising. Cuts scattered across her limbs like reminders of cruelty. Carefully, he buttoned the rest of his jacket over her frame, securing her modesty with gentle hands.

A tight knot formed in his chest.

Why had they waited so long to cover her?

His brows drew together in quiet disapproval.

Still, he allowed himself the smallest exhale of relief. With the three women present, he felt certain the men had not dared cross a line. Not physically. Not yet.

He adjusted the handcuffs so they would not bite into her wrists, ensuring their placement was secure but not cruel. Earlier, he had briefly considered faking the cuffing—providing her a means to escape. But with Tanya nearby, any deception would have been impossible. The woman read lies as if they were printed on paper.

The lamp flickered once, then died.

Yinsen sighed.

Darkness claimed the room again. Moving with quiet urgency, he rose from the chair and began to search for another source of light.

The night was far from over.

And in this cursed place, even silence could bleed.

* * *

Toni shivered, her limbs twitching in restless defiance against the fevered dream that clutched her unconscious mind. A sheen of sweat glazed her forehead, trickling down her temples like beads of glass. Her body writhed in protest beneath Yinsen's coat, caught in the throes of something far more painful than the visible bruises on her skin. Yinsen, seated nearby, observed quietly, his brows knitting in solemn recognition.

She was not simply dreaming.

She was reliving a nightmare.

Her lips parted in a hushed gasp. A faint whimper escaped her throat as her fingers curled inward, clenching the worn fabric beneath her. In her mind, she was no longer in a crumbling shack in Afghanistan. She was seventeen again—barely more than a girl—and the world around her had shattered.

She stood in a tight, suffocating circle, surrounded not by comfort, but by vultures cloaked in the guise of reporters. Their backs were turned, their murmurs carried like static on a broken radio. None of them faced her, none met her eyes. She was caged in their ring, trapped in a liminal space where grief could find no release.

Above her, the sky was an ominous slate, weighed down by charcoal clouds and silent thunder. The air was dense with mourning. Even the willow trees swayed mockingly, their gnarled branches curving inward like twisted arms meant to suffocate rather than soothe. The world had turned its back on her, just as fate had. She looked out of place in her heavy mourning attire—darker and more formal than modern grief demanded. Her slender frame trembled under the burden of her loss, a delicate glass sculpture on the verge of shattering.

To her left, a man's voice spoke with unnatural poise. "The tragedy took place on a dirt road in Long Island..."

To her right, a woman's voice completed the thought. "...and now, the Stark girl is left alone."

The words cut through her like shards of ice, cruel in their objectivity.

She sniffled, her nose congested from unshed tears. In front of her stood a bald reporter, close enough to touch, yet she barely acknowledged his presence. His voice droned, clinical and detached, "Stark Industries is under threat now that its CEO, Howa—"

A hand, warm and steady, came to rest upon her shoulder.

"Toni," said a familiar voice, gentle as a lullaby.

Without glancing up, she leaned her head against Pepper Potts's shoulder, seeking solace not in words, but in touch.

A single tear traced the curve of her cheek. "I never even got to say sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking beneath the weight of her remorse.

Pepper's arms enveloped her in a firm, unwavering embrace, and Toni clung to her, melting into the comfort like a child seeking refuge from a storm. Her tears fell freely now, spilling over each time she blinked—liquid evidence of the regret she had long refused to acknowledge.

It haunted her. The final argument. The pride she clung to like armor. The sharp words she'd thrown at her father before slamming the door, the silence she maintained during their departure. She should have apologized. She should have said I love you. She should have told them to drive safe.

If only she had said those things—maybe they would still be alive. Maybe she wouldn't be standing here, in front of two polished gravestones, aching in a way she couldn't describe.

This was her fault.

Her jaw clenched. "It's all my fault," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Pepper continued to rub her back, though her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She, too, was speechless. Grief silenced even the strongest among them.

Behind the two women, Happy Hogan stood watch. His broad frame blocked the onlookers from closing in. He said nothing—there were no words sufficient for the sorrow that consumed them. His lips pressed into a hard line, and he lowered his eyes out of respect, allowing his silence to speak for him.

Eventually, Toni pulled away from Pepper's embrace. Her voice came out soft, hoarse from weeping, but determined.

"I need a moment."

Pepper nodded, understanding without question.

Toni walked slowly toward the burial site, her heels crunching against the gravel. Her hands trembled as she approached the gravestones, and her electric-blue eyes scanned the engraved names with disbelief, as if reading them again would make them vanish.

Howard Anthony Stark. Maria Collins Stark.

She stared. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, trembling breaths.

She shook her head.

When the news first reached her—of the car crash, of the faulty brakes—she had refused to accept it. Denial had shielded her for a time. But standing here now, confronted with the cold, immovable truth etched in granite, that shield crumbled.

Faulty brakes, they had said.

Faulty?

Her father, Howard Stark—the same man who designed world-changing technology, who engineered safety protocols with paranoid precision—he had died in a preventable car accident?

She wiped her nose with the back of her hand, her mind flooding with memories: her mother humming in the kitchen, her father tinkering late into the night, the scent of oil and jasmine filling their home. Gone. All of it.

Cameras flashed behind her. The sound of shutters clicking had become a dirge in its own right—soulless, cruel.

"Alright, that's enough!"

A voice broke through the noise—stern, commanding.

Toni turned slightly, eyes finding one of her father's trusted business partners striding toward the reporters. His face was lined with disdain as he waved them away. "A little respect goes a long way. Give her space."

The crowd gradually dispersed, shamed into silence. In the distance, Pepper and Happy stood in the parking lot, watching over her.

Happy's voice drifted toward Pepper in a hushed murmur. "Are you sure it's alright to leave her there with him?"

The man—still suited, still smiling—approached Toni slowly. He opened his arms and wrapped them around her in a practiced embrace, but her body did not respond. She stood stiffly, as though disconnected from her own skin.

He reached up and slipped his sunglasses onto her face, concealing her red-rimmed eyes. Then he tightened his grip on her shoulders, leaning in close. His smile remained, but it didn't reach his eyes. The warmth in his expression was forced—hollow. Calculated.

"You should go home now," he murmured.

Toni did not answer.

She simply stood there, her limbs heavy, her heart gutted, and her soul drifting somewhere far beyond the cemetery gates.

* * *

She awoke to a sharp, biting sensation—first a tug, then a wrenching pull from something cold and unyielding.

Steel.

The chill of it burned against her skin.

Her eyes snapped open.

At first, the world around her was shapeless, bathed in a haze of blue light that glared too brightly against the darkness she had been cocooned in. Her breathing hitched, and instinct jolted her upright, pain flaring down her spine like a sudden crack of lightning.

She blinked, once. Twice.

Then the shapes took form.

Toni's breath left her in a ragged exhale as she scanned the dim chamber. The only source of illumination came from a narrow shaft of light sneaking in through the splintered boards of a window to her right. Dust hung thick in the air, glistening faintly in the sliver of daylight. The walls around her were wooden, warped with time and rot. The air reeked of mildew and musk.

"Where am I?" she murmured to no one, her voice hoarse, threadbare from thirst and exhaustion.

She tried to rise. The motion was abrupt—instinctive—but the handcuffs around her wrists caught, jerking her down again with an audible clang. Her body collapsed back against the worn mattress beneath her.

"What the—" she gasped, teeth clenching as she yanked once more with sheer brute force.

The chains clinked taut, unyielding.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," said a voice—low, measured, and strangely warm, though it trembled with age.

Her head whipped toward the sound, breath catching in her throat.

A silhouette stood at the edge of the shadows—darker than the gloom itself.

Toni raised her arms, bound at the wrists, and held them up accusingly. "Did you do this?" she demanded, her voice tinged with a blend of disbelief and rage.

A soft chuckle followed. The figure stirred, and as he took a step forward, the floorboards groaned beneath his weight.

He was tall—taller than she expected.

His footsteps approached slowly, deliberately. "I can assure you, Miss Stark," the voice intoned, now clearer, closer, "I meant no harm."

He leaned in, just enough for his presence to cast a longer shadow over her.

Toni recoiled.

"There it is," he muttered, almost to himself.

Then, wordlessly, he bent down to retrieve something from the floor. The clinking sound returned—metal brushing against wood—and a moment later, the sharp flick of a match igniting cut through the silence.

A sudden burst of flame flared to life.

Toni turned her face away instinctively, momentarily blinded. A halo of light illuminated the space—flickering orange and gold—revealing more of the decrepit attic she had been confined to. The rafters above her were riddled with cobwebs, some of which clung to her hair and shoulders. She coughed, brushing them away, the musty stench now almost suffocating.

"I mean no harm," he repeated gently.

She turned toward him.

The man was elderly, his face etched with time and softened by lines of wisdom. Grey hair crowned his head in a sparse ring, while his eyes—deep, thin, and brown—regarded her with an unnerving patience. When he smiled, his face creased with warmth. He held the lantern aloft, then placed it on a rickety wooden chair beside him before lowering himself into the other seat.

Toni held up her bound wrists again. "Did you do this?" she asked, more calmly now, though suspicion coiled tightly in her chest.

There was no one else in the room. It was only logical to assume he was responsible.

"Not without reason," the man admitted. He moved slowly, his body betraying stiffness in every motion as he leaned forward with effort. His shirt, once white, was now the color of old parchment—moth-eaten at the seams, with frayed threads escaping near his elbows.

"Although I'm not surprised you don't remember me," he added, glancing at her with a mild smile. "You were intoxicated when we first met."

Her brow arched, lips parting slightly. "I'm sorry, but do enlighten me," she said, adjusting her posture despite the discomfort searing at her wrists. "How exactly did we meet?"

She was sure she had never seen this man before in her life.

Even more certain that she hadn't slept with him.

Toni had rules about her escapades. She didn't flirt with men significantly younger than her—or older men who bore a resemblance to her father's generation. That boundary was immovable.

"So I'm pretty sure we didn't..." She paused, then gestured vaguely, giving a shrug and a suggestive huff. "You know. That."

The old man blinked, clearly confused, before bursting into amused laughter. The sound echoed through the attic, genuine and almost grandfatherly.

"Oh, heavens no, Miss Stark. I am a married man. Happily so," he said, though the wistful smile that followed was tinged with something else—something Toni couldn't quite place. "My wife is a good woman. And I'm blessed with two children. One of them is even named after your nickname."

Toni's gaze softened for a moment, only to narrow again with renewed confusion.

"I'm certain you're not my father," she said slowly, her voice measured. "He died ten years ago."

"Ah yes... Howard," the man replied, his smile returning as he gazed into the past. "We met once. Berlin, if I recall. A long time ago."

Toni's eyes widened slightly. She stared at him, silently cursing the whirlwind her mind was becoming.

No shit, Sherlock.

Still, she said nothing aloud.

The man seemed to drift off for a moment, lost in a memory that no longer concerned her. Realizing the conversation was going nowhere, Toni turned her attention back to the boarded window. She squinted, scanning the floor beneath her, her mind working fast.

If he wouldn't help her—if he couldn't—then she would have to help herself.

One way or another, she would find a way out.

 * * *

"My name is Ho Yinsen."

The sound of the name struck her like the echo of a forgotten note.

Toni froze.

The chains around her wrists stilled, her fingers relaxing as her breath caught in her throat. Her brow furrowed. She blinked—once, twice—as if trying to clear the fog from a memory she had long discarded. And then, as though summoned by the name alone, a distant recollection stirred in the corners of her mind.

It was insignificant at the time—just another night, another social event steeped in vanity—but the images began to flicker back to her with quiet persistence.

She was twenty-three.

The night air had been laced with the scent of cologne, wine, and ego. Photographers crowded the exits, their flashing bulbs igniting the sidewalk with blinding light as journalists and celebrities intermingled with eccentric scientists and world-renowned thinkers. It had been the close of a high-profile international science convention, and Toni Stark—draped in elegance, Ray-Bans shielding her electric blue eyes—had been one of its brightest stars.

The building behind her loomed like a modern cathedral of intellect. Its glass façade gleamed under moonlight, reflecting the restless dance of paparazzi as they captured the comings and goings of those fortunate enough to be invited. Even the great Stan Lee had graced the event, laughing warmly among fellow visionaries.

Toni's gait had been purposeful, confident, her heels tapping a staccato rhythm against the pavement. The lenses of her sunglasses masked the boredom in her gaze, concealing both disdain for the reporters and a trace of amusement at her fellow geniuses now lingering outside, fumbling for their rides like commoners at a high school dance.

A woman with a pixie cut stepped abruptly into her path. Her lips curled with practiced flirtation.

"Hey, Toni, remember me?" she purred, biting her lip as though the gesture alone might revive a connection that never truly existed.

Toni's nose flared.

This bitch, she thought.

"Sure don't," she replied curtly, not breaking stride as she stepped cleanly around her, the dismissiveness in her tone as sharp as glass.

She was nearly at the limousine when Happy moved to open the passenger door.

But before she could duck into the comfort of leather seats and silence, she was intercepted.

"Toni," a familiar voice called after her.

She sighed audibly, her head rolling back just slightly.

Rhodey.

He was jogging toward her, exasperation etched into his face. "I told you to wait. I wanted to introduce you to a couple of people I think you might actually be interested in."

She turned toward him slowly, removing her sunglasses just enough to let him see her eyes roll.

"I swear to God, Rhodey, if this is another 'Toni, you need to collaborate more' stunt, I'm tired—and I'm not in the mood for sex."

Her voice was sharp, teasing, though laced with fatigue.

Rhodey sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers.

"That's not what I'm talking about."

Before she could respond, she noticed movement from the corner of her eye. Two figures approached—one, a tall man with silver threaded through his dark hair and a measured, composed stride. Beside him walked a young woman, perhaps around Toni's own age, with a refined grace that suggested she was more than just an assistant.

Rhodey turned Toni gently by the shoulders and faced her toward them.

"I'm sorry, Doctor Yinsen," he said with an apologetic smile, "but this is the friend I wanted you to meet."

And there it was.

A name that had slipped through the cracks of her memory, now rushing back like water behind a broken dam.

Doctor Yinsen.

She had offered only a cursory handshake back then. Her mind had already been elsewhere—on deadlines, on inventions, on the next big contract that needed her attention. He had spoken with warmth, humility, even admiration, but she had filed him away with the rest: a stranger in a sea of introductions.

Now, years later, in a rotting attic thousands of miles from home, she found herself face to face with the man again—this time as her keeper, not a passing acquaintance.

The contrast was jarring.

Her gaze returned to the present. The dim lamplight flickered in the corners of the room. Yinsen sat hunched slightly in the wooden chair across from her, his weathered face lit with the quiet glow of memory.

Toni blinked again.

The fragments of the past slowly settled into place like ash falling after an explosion.

This was no longer a vague recollection.

It was real.

And suddenly, the weight of the moment pressed heavily upon her chest.

* * *

The sound of water splashing gently into a basin pulled her back into consciousness. Reality returned not with a jolt, but a slow, suffocating crawl. The cold iron wrapped around her wrists still bit into her skin, a cruel reminder that the nightmare had not ended—it had merely changed its setting.

Yinsen moved quietly across the room, now lit more generously by the lantern he had hung from a rusted hook at the center of the ceiling. The soft glow cast their silhouettes in long shadows, like ghosts stretching along the wooden walls. With methodical precision, he regarded himself in a cracked mirror nailed loosely to one of the beams. In his hand, a dull razor. He lifted it and began to shave the graying sideburns that clung stubbornly to the edges of his worn face.

"Do you remember now?" he asked, tapping the razor gently against the rim of the basin, the motion sending discarded strands of hair floating into the water.

His reflection stared back at him—scruffy, tired, resigned.

Toni gritted her teeth. Her mind spun like clockwork, trying to piece together fragments of clarity. Her wrists twisted once more against the metal cuffs.

"If you're not the one who tied me up," she said, voice sharp and low, "then why aren't you in the same state I am?"

It was a valid question, one she delivered with precision.

Yinsen paused, the blade hovering just beneath his jaw. He tilted his head to the side, glancing toward his neck as he shaved a clean line.

"I've been here nearly seven years," he replied, the weight of his words pressing against the still air. "They took me from my family and locked me away. But I have a skill they need, so they don't bind me—not physically."

Her eyes narrowed at the word.

They.

It struck her like a dagger.

Her breath hitched, and a cold tide of dread crawled up her throat. She studied him, her body going rigid as the implication settled in. Her mind ran through a dozen names and faces—competitors, enemies, arms dealers, warlords. She had made more enemies than allies in her lifetime, but none that she had feared like this.

Not when she was helpless.

Not when she was at their mercy.

Before she could voice another question, a new voice answered in her place.

"My apologies for not introducing myself earlier."

Toni's head snapped toward the sound.

A man emerged from the shadows with the ease of someone accustomed to owning the room. Bald and tall, he carried himself with an air of command, his hands neatly folded behind his back. His uniform was dull and worn—military in design, though stripped of any honor. A dusty scarf was knotted around his neck despite the stagnant warmth in the air.

His eyes raked over her, unapologetically.

"But I wanted you to meet your new companion properly," he continued, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. "He'll be your sole company for... let's say, forever."

Toni lifted her chin with unflinching defiance, eyes blazing.

"Fuck you," she spat.

Had her hands been free, she might've offered him more than just words.

Yinsen's eyes widened, startled by the boldness in her tone, but she didn't care. She was a Stark, after all.

Raza's hand moved faster than she could react.

The slap resounded like gunfire in the confined space.

Toni's head snapped to the side, her vision swimming. A sharp sting exploded across her cheek. She tasted copper before she felt it—blood trickling from her nose, warm and bitter. Her eyes watered, not from pain, but from fury. It wasn't the first time she had been hit.

It was, however, the first time she was helpless to respond.

Raza's hand gripped her jaw, forcing her face back toward him. His breath reeked of tobacco and cruelty.

"Be careful, now," he cooed mockingly, his tone slithering. "Wouldn't want to ruin that pretty face of yours, would we?"

He leaned closer, and before she could jerk away, his tongue dragged slowly across her cheek.

Disgust crawled up her spine.

Without hesitation, Toni spat—blood and saliva splattering his face in a burst of red defiance.

Raza froze.

For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, slowly, he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes narrowing. His smirk remained, but the amusement in it had curdled. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked, hard.

She screamed.

Yinsen lowered his head, shame bleeding into every line of his face. He did not speak. He did not try to stop them. He simply followed as they dragged her out of the shack.

Two guards seized him by the arms when he stepped outside, shoving him forward.

Toni stumbled across the sand, her mind still reeling from the assault. She blinked in disbelief as she finally saw where they had been held. A makeshift compound surrounded by nothing but sand and cacti. No cities. No towers. No people.

Just the endless expanse of a golden hell.

Her hope withered at the sight.

They were nowhere.

Nowhere Rhodey could find.

Nowhere anyone would even think to look.

Raza's grin spread wider, predator-like. With a shove, he pushed her forward, and she fell to the ground, sand biting at her skin. Calmly, he pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit it, the flame flaring briefly in the dying light.

"Go ahead," he said, exhaling smoke. "Run."

Toni met Yinsen's gaze. Her heart thundered in her chest. She knew it was a trap. Every part of her logic screamed it. But survival didn't answer to logic. It answered to instinct.

She turned and ran.

Yinsen watched, his face tense. He had expected it, of course. He had even hoped she would make the attempt. But the speed with which she fled surprised him.

One of the guards stepped beside Raza.

Without looking, Raza gave a simple nod.

The man turned his head and barked a single command.

Behind the pickup truck, another man raised a shoulder-fired weapon.

Toni's body ached, but she didn't slow. The desert heat bore down on her. Her legs burned. Her lungs begged. Still, she kept running. She didn't know where she was going. It didn't matter. Anywhere was better than here.

No one chased her.

And that was what frightened her most.

Her knees buckled.

She collapsed into the sand, her body trembling from adrenaline and fear. Sweat poured down her face. Her arms gave out beneath her, and she caught herself on her elbows, gasping. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Then she heard it.

Pop.

Her eyes widened.

The missile landed a few feet away.

On its shell, a familiar white insignia gleamed beneath the dust and heat.

Stark Industries.

Time stopped.

The warhead beeped softly, counting down her demise.

With a strangled cry, Toni rolled to her side, dragging herself behind a nearby boulder, shielding her body just as the explosion tore through the sand.

The shockwave thundered across the desert, a plume of fire and ash rising high into the sky.

Back at the camp, the soldiers watched impassively.

When the dust settled, her body lay several meters from the impact zone, limp and bloodied.

Raza approached the carnage, his expression unreadable. At his side, Yinsen was frozen in horror, his teeth clenched, his heart pounding. He couldn't look.

"Would you look at that," Raza muttered with perverse delight, nudging a pebble with the tip of his boot. "The bitch survives."

He dropped the cigarette from his lips and ground it beneath his heel, extinguishing its flame.

Then, turning to Yinsen, he issued a simple command.

"Fix her."

Yinsen swallowed the hard lump forming in his throat as the guards escorted him away from the blast site. The weight of what he had just witnessed clung to his chest like wet cloth. Behind him, one of Raza's men carried Toni Stark's limp, bloodied body in his arms—her skin marred, her breathing shallow, but somehow, impossibly, she was still alive.

They were ushered into a new location—no longer the crumbling shack surrounded by sand and cactus, but a vast, echoing cave sealed tightly behind iron doors and layers of silence. Here, the shadows were deeper. The air, though warmer than before, held the scent of damp earth and cold steel. The walls whispered of things long forgotten—pain, loss, and secrets carved into stone.

Toni's body was unceremoniously placed atop a steel medical cot in the center of the room. Her wrists were bound in restraints once more, metal biting into already-torn flesh. The moment Raza departed to tend to other matters, Yinsen's fingers twitched nervously as he slid on a pair of latex gloves that had long since lost their elasticity. A loud snap echoed in the space as the glove tightened around his wrist. He moved to the tray of surgical tools laid out beside him. They gleamed under the carbide lamp like small, glinting instruments of judgment.

He hesitated over the scalpel.

Two guards stood behind him, arms crossed, unmoving sentinels next to the iron door. Their presence was a constant reminder: he was not here to choose. He was here to obey.

Yinsen's heart sank as he examined the woman before him. Bruised. Bloodied. Shirt torn and stained. His eyes tightened when he noticed the worst of it—small metallic shards embedded across her torso, with a dangerous concentration near her chest. They glittered like shrapnel stars. Some had pierced deep into her flesh, others lodged just beneath the skin.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes. And then, with soft breath and muttered prayer, he steadied his hands.

There was no anesthesia.

He began the procedure in silence.

Midway through, she regained consciousness.

Her body convulsed, writhing in pain. Screams ripped from her throat, guttural and raw. The guards rushed forward, seizing her limbs to restrain her. She thrashed against their grip, agony and instinct blinding her. Then came a sickening crack as one of the guards slammed the butt of his rifle against the side of her head.

She went still.

And Yinsen went cold.

The operation lasted hours. The recovery took days. The wait for her to return to herself felt like a lifetime.

When Toni finally woke, it was not gentle.

Her eyes snapped open, and her skull pounded as if a hammer had been driven through the center of her mind. But the pain in her chest—that was worse. It was sharp, foreign. A deep, constant pull as if something had been sewn into her very heartbeat.

For several moments, she couldn't breathe. The air around her felt thick, like drowning in heat and silence. Then, her vision adjusted.

It wasn't a dream.

It hadn't been a dream.

The cold walls. The iron door. The scent of disinfectant mixed with dust. The shadows in the corners. And Yinsen, sitting a few feet away, watching her with a mixture of guarded sympathy and bitter resignation.

Her wrists were unbound now. A nasal stent helped her breathe. Her shredded clothes had been replaced by a black tank top and loose jogging pants. But what caught her attention—what seized her attention—was the weight on her chest. She shifted, and something pulled.

Pain flared like a knife.

Her hand flew instinctively to her chest. Her eyes widened in horror.

Thick wires led from a bulky device strapped directly over her sternum—connected to a car battery humming faintly beside the cot. The device embedded in her skin glowed faintly, surrounded by fresh scabs and the angry red of trauma.

She screamed.

The wires yanked taut.

Yinsen stood. "Careful—"

But she was already moving, tearing the bandages away, desperate to see. What she revealed was a horror her mind wasn't ready to process.

A hole. A real hole. Just above her breasts, hidden beneath blood and bandages, the grotesque shape of metal embedded into her body.

"What the hell did you do to me?" she hissed, her voice low but razor-sharp.

Yinsen exhaled through his nose, head tilting to one side. "What did I do?" he asked softly.

He approached, gently draping an Army surplus blanket over her shoulders. "What I did," he said, reaching for a worn pair of sandals and tossing them toward the edge of the cot, "was save your life."

Toni's lips twisted in disbelief. She glanced down at the grotesque contraption pulsing in her chest, then back up.

"Save me?" she repeated bitterly. "Should I say thank you?"

Her voice cracked. Rage, shame, and despair clashed behind her eyes. No mirrors were needed. She knew what she had become. Scars crawled across her skin like cruel reminders. The hole in her chest was not just physical—it was existential.

"You should've killed me instead."

Yinsen sighed, the exhaustion in his face deepening. "If you had died in that explosion, your wish would've been granted." He placed a dented steel mug on the table beside her, the steam from its contents curling upward like mist. "But you didn't."

Toni turned her head sharply. "How the fuck did they get my weapons?" she asked, venom rising in her throat.

She slipped her feet into the sandals and, with effort, lifted the heavy car battery with one arm. Propping it beside herself, she slowly walked toward the nearby wheelbarrow-turned-seat and sank down beside the fire.

She leaned forward, one hand stretched toward the heat, the other clutching the blanket tightly around her shoulders. Her fingers curled, fists forming. Her blue eyes—once electric—now resembled the deep, unforgiving color of a stormy ocean.

The fire crackled.

Silence fell like dust.

The cave, warmer than the shack, had its own discomforts. A massive steel door loomed in the far wall, faded olive-green, unyielding. Its rusted surface reflected the flickering light. A surveillance camera blinked red in the upper corner. She had seen it earlier. She no longer cared.

Escape was impossible.

Light flickered against the carbide lamps bolted into the stone. Every corner of the room glowed with an eerie stillness. Yinsen approached her slowly, lifting the mug again.

"Drink," he said. "You need to replenish your energy."

Her lips parted. Her tongue was dry, her throat aching.

She almost took the mug—then stopped herself, suspicion flaring in her chest. "Don't you think it would be easy to poison someone when they're half-dead and barely conscious?"

"Fair enough," she muttered, taking the mug anyway. The warmth spread across her palms, unfamiliar and comforting in equal measure. She took a sip—thick, bitter cocoa. The flavor sparked a memory she refused to follow.

She licked her cracked lips and exhaled. "What do you think they want? Money?"

Yinsen remained quiet, eyes reflecting the flame.

"I doubt it," he murmured. "If they wanted a ransom, they would have demanded it the moment you woke up."

She looked down at the mug. Her fingers trembled slightly—bruised, cut, unrecognizable.

"What brings you here, Yinsen?"

He smiled faintly but didn't answer at first. Instead, he returned to the steel table and began organizing his medical tools, some of them chipped, others stained by time and rust.

"You didn't like what you saw out there, did you?"

Toni turned her head slowly. Her eyes locked on the bloodstained forceps in his hand.

"I didn't either," he said, his voice lower now. "Those weapons destroyed my village."

His knuckles whitened around the metal.

"I've thought of escaping many times, but it's impossible. The soldiers—merciless. Efficient. Relentless." He closed his eyes for a moment. "But what you saw out there, Miss Stark... that's your legacy."

He dropped the instrument with a clatter.

"Your life's work, in the hands of murderers."

He turned to face her fully.

"Is that how you want to be remembered? Is this the final act of the great Toni Stark?"

His voice sharpened.

"Or are you going to do something about it?"

She laughed, the sound hollow and cold. "Why should I? They'll kill me. Or kill you. Or I'll drop dead in a few days from this," she gestured to the device in her chest. "We don't even know what they want."

As if summoned by her words, the heavy locks on the steel door clicked open. The hinges groaned. The giant wheel in its center turned with a mechanical groan.

Toni stood slowly. Yinsen raised his hands. She mirrored him without question.

Raza entered, flanked by two guards.

Before their captors could speak, Yinsen leaned close and whispered beneath his breath.

"Then this," he said, "is going to be a very important week for you."

* * *

He was worried—deeply, maddeningly so.

It had been two and a half months since she vanished.

Two and a half months since Toni Stark, his best friend, confidante, and the Department of Defense's most valuable intellectual asset, had disappeared without a trace. No ransom demand. No leads. Only silence. A vacuum where her brilliance once resided.

But worry wasn't enough to describe what he felt.

He was terrified.

Not just because of who she was—but because she had been taken on his watch. Barely an hour after their last phone conversation. The memory haunted him like an open wound—her voice, calm but laced with exhaustion, echoing in his mind.

He couldn't forget it.

He couldn't forgive himself.

To make matters worse, he couldn't recall the faces of the women Toni had been with during her late-night session. He had seen them only briefly—blurs of lipstick, heels, and laughter in the background of a fuzzy video call. Faces that, at the time, seemed irrelevant.

Now, those faces were everything.

He didn't have proof.

But he knew.

He knew those girls were responsible. And if they had harmed her—if they had touched even a single strand of her hair—there would be no protocol in existence that could restrain him.

The tension aboard the USS Gerald R. Ford was as palpable as the ocean mist it rode upon.

"There's a PR firestorm brewing over this," the general said, his voice clipped, his tone practiced in the art of measured control. "Right now, the best way to serve our country is to let the FBI handle the investigation while you manage the press."

His eyes flicked toward a nearby sailor gathering classified files. The carrier's steel-gray walls reflected light from tall, reinforced windows—designed more for function than aesthetics. Glass relights in the solid metal doors let natural light pour through in deliberate shafts, illuminating polished floors and unspoken tension.

Rhodey stood beside the general, his jaw tight, his gaze following the same line of sight. The sun outside did little to warm the cold, clenched feeling in his chest.

Then, with his hands folded neatly behind his back, the general spoke again—this time without looking at him.

"How come her A.I. didn't alert the authorities sooner?"

Rhodey blinked, caught momentarily off guard by the shift in subject. He cleared his throat.

"The tech department says it was dismantled," he answered swiftly. "And when the systems were rebooted—overriding the programmed security delay—it triggered the emergency alert and contacted the authorities."

He didn't wait for a follow-up.

Instead, he pressed on with urgency. "Toni Stark isn't just a friend. She's the Department of Defense's top-tier intellectual asset. We're talking about a mind irreplaceable in five lifetimes."

His tone was firm now, his stare locked onto the general's profile. His words hung in the air like smoke—undeniable, lingering.

The general finally turned, assessing him with unreadable eyes.

A beat of silence passed.

"It's duly noted, Colonel," he said, and with that, he turned and began walking. "But we need you here."

Rhodey remained still for a second longer, fighting the fire rising in his chest. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and followed.

"As much as it pains me to admit," the general added, his voice quieting as they moved down the corridor, "it's not lost on me that Stark is a lifelong friend."

Rhodey said nothing.

The admission didn't soften the blow. Orders were orders. And he, above all else, was known for following them.

Still, that didn't mean he agreed with them.

The deeper they descended through the decks of the ship, the more the hum of machinery and quiet shuffle of soldiers became white noise. The Gerald R. Ford never ceased to impress—a city adrift at sea, equipped with everything from cutting-edge weapons labs to a mobile trauma unit that rivaled any metropolitan hospital.

Now, they walked the corridors of its medical complex: a full-scale infirmary outfitted with an operating room, a 3-bed intensive care unit, a 2-bed emergency trauma wing, and a 41-bed hospital ward. Even now, the clinical scent of antiseptics clung faintly to the recycled air, reminding everyone aboard of both the ship's promise and its purpose.

They passed a group of uniformed personnel on lunch break, seated in rows, trading jokes and half-eaten ration packs. One soldier, leaning against the wall with headphones in, didn't notice their approach.

They stopped.

Rhodey let out a quiet breath and stepped forward. "I'll handle it, sir."

The general gave a small nod and waited.

Rhodey approached the soldier with silent steps.

The young man stood abruptly, startled, and immediately saluted, the music still faintly audible from his earpiece.

Rhodey didn't return the salute but acknowledged it with a brief nod. He glanced at the nametag stitched into the fabric of the soldier's chest, then addressed him evenly.

"Sergeant Wilson."

The sergeant's eyes sharpened.

"Sir," he responded, yanking the earbud from his ear.

Rhodey kept his expression neutral, though something in his posture shifted—his stance straightening, his shoulders setting a little firmer.

Behind his composed demeanor, however, one thought echoed over and over:

We are running out of time.

https://youtu.be/np02phdwrwk

C R E D I T S

gandertales or "Samael" as the first chapter editor
V or "Violet" as the second chapter editor
pennyloppy or "Alison" as the chapter proofreader