Before I can dwell too long on Torunn's ever-growing stockpile of divine weapons—or her deep-cut anime references—the energy in the room shifts.
Subtle at first. Then unmistakable.
The background murmur dips. Heads turn. A ripple of attention moves like a wave across the banquet hall.
And just like that, every high-profile figure in the room is suddenly focused in one direction.
Which means only one thing.
Morgan Stark has arrived.
And, of course, she makes an entrance.
Draped in a high-fashion gown that looks like it just stepped off a Paris runway—expensive but effortless, the kind of thing that whispers "yeah, I just threw this on"—she strides into the room like she owns it.
Because, in a way, she does.
It's not just that she's beautiful—though she is, with those sharp, dangerous features that carry just enough of her father's mischief to make people nervous.
It's that she's Morgan Stark.
The woman who turned her last name into a brand so massive it makes "Stark" mean more than just Iron Man.
She's a celebrity's celebrity.
A billionaire heiress. A media mogul. The type of person who casually has three hundred million followers on Instagram.
For reference? That's three times what I have.
And I actually save lives.
But that's what happens when you're the daughter of the man who saved the universe.
Tony Stark:
The genius.
The billionaire.
The man who put on the gauntlet, snapped his fingers, and erased Thanos from existence.
The one who gave up everything so everyone else could have a second chance.
And Morgan?
She's what's left behind.
Not just a legacy, but a mirror—reflecting all the brilliance, chaos, pressure, and impossible expectations her father left in his wake.
The funny part?
She doesn't even want to be a full-time hero.
Morgan likes being rich.
She likes power. Luxury. Control.
She likes boardrooms, gala premieres, and closed-door negotiations that decide the fate of entire industries.
Being a hero? That's pressure.
That's sacrifice.
That's waking up at 3 a.m. to chase a villain across rooftops because it's the right thing to do.
Too much of her dad's legacy for her taste.
Oh, she plays the part.She's got her own Ironheart-class armor—or as she calls it, the MorgAmour series, a naming nod to her dad's old Mark models. Custom-built from the ground up using her proprietary Pico-Tech systems. Not a hand-me-down. Not a retrofit. Fully self-designed. And in today's tech climate? It's damn near revolutionary.
Even Reed Richards let out a low whistle the moment he saw the schematic. She'd swung by the Baxter Building to consult with Valeria on a power distribution node, and by the time she left, half the lab was still arguing over how she got the compression lattice to hold stable at that scale.
She swoops in during world-ending events, fights just long enough to go viral, and then dips before clean-up starts.
The public thinks she's an Avenger.
She's not.
Barely a part-timer.
And as much as I appreciate the backup?
It drives me insane that she lets people believe she's one of us.
And somehow—somehow—she's monetized it.
She runs a hero vlog.
I wish I was joking.
A full-blown, high-production-value channel with over 400 million subscribers—where she breaks down mid-fight commentary, drops behind-the-scenes footage from the Avengers compound, and hosts Suit-Up Saturdays like it's a luxury brand launch.
It's the biggest thing on the internet.
Some of her videos break a billion views, multiple times.
Let me say that again: a billion.
Meanwhile, I lead the Avengers. I save lives weekly—sometimes daily. Citywide threats, planetary disasters—I handle them before breakfast.
And I can't even get verified on half my platforms without her help.
But the public eats it up.
Why?
Because she donates a stupid amount of money to charity.
So instead of being called out for turning superhero work into a cash cow, Morgan gets branded a philanthropic icon.
A hybrid of Iron Man and Oprah.
A billionaire with a conscience.
A savior with a PR team.
The headlines call it revolutionary.
The truth? It's brilliant optics. Even better tax strategy.
Huge write-offs. Corporate shields. Emotional leverage.
And none of that is even her biggest hustle.
Morgan almost destroyed the entire phone industry.
A few years ago, she announced plans to release her own StarkTech smartphone line. The specs? Ridiculous. Stark-grade AI, quantum encryption, next-gen AR, zero-lag neural syncing—the kind of tech that would've left Apple and every other company begging for mercy.
And they did.
Apple execs showed up to her office and begged her not to tank the market.
I'm talking actual groveling. Blank checks. "Please, Miss Stark, don't nuke our ecosystem" levels of desperation.
So what did she do?
She made a deal.
Now she partners with Apple under a staggeringly lucrative agreement to produce the Ironheart Series—sleek, ultra-advanced, borderline alien in design, and exclusively branded through her division of Stark Industries.
The phones are everywhere.
Of course they are.
They're sleeker, smarter, and frankly cooler than anything Earth should reasonably have. And yes—Morgan Stark made them.
But she didn't stop at revolutionizing personal tech. No, Morgan doesn't just dip her toes into industries—she cannonballs in, swan dives, and occasionally does a backflip for flair.
Take fashion: she patented a line of adaptive smart-fiber wear. Clothes that change texture, color, and thermal output on command. High fashion meets high tech. Half of Paris Fashion Week last year looked like it came straight out of a Wakandan concept sketch.
And movies? That's where it gets ridiculous.
She launched her own studio branch—not to compete with Hollywood, but to revive every show she liked that got canceled mid-season. If it ended on a cliffhanger because of bad marketing or some exec's ego? Morgan brought it back. Greenlit a sequel. Resurrected the fandom. All because she felt like it.
She treats TV adaptation the way Japan treats anime: passion projects first, logic second. She even goes full necromancer on failed streaming shows, scooping up the rights, funding new seasons, and then licensing them right back to the original platform—because, in her words, "I don't feel like making a streaming service. Too much effort."
This from the woman who almost destroyed the phone industry by accident.
Her movie division? Technically it's an investment company, not a production house—but every now and then, if a rejected script lands in her inbox and she likes it, she'll bankroll it just to see what happens.
She also funds indie creators through something called the Stark Grant—handed out at film festivals with zero strings attached. Full creative control. No studio interference. If it bombs? That's their problem.
She's not in it for the return.
She's in it because she can afford to throw money into the sun and feel nothing.
No shareholders. No board. Just Morgan, a bank account the size of a small GDP, and vibes.
Just vibes. Because when you're Morgan Stark, billionaire heiress and chaos engine, the empire runs on impulse—and somehow, it still turns a profit.
And I'm still out here getting shot at.
Leading real missions.
Trying not to get civilians flattened during kaiju invasions.
Somehow, she gets away with filming it and making a profit.
Must be nice.
Meanwhile, I'm out here sweating diplomacy in a room full of super-powered lobbyists and senators who think they understand how the world works because they read one SHIELD debrief from the '90s.
I exhaled slowly, the hum still quiet beneath my skin.
And that's when I noticed Viking Barbie again.
Torunn had returned to my side a few minutes ago, like nothing had happened—just casually appeared with a drink in one hand and a flask of actual Asgardian liquor in the other.
No words. No explanation. Just vibes and contraband.
She poured a splash of the real stuff into her glass, mixing it into whatever watered-down cocktail this event was trying to pass off as "premium," and took a slow sip like a chaos goddess critiquing mid-shelf Midgardian nonsense.
She was already smirking before Morgan came into the room. The energy dipped. Conversations quieted. Heads started to turn.
"You feel that?" she murmured, just as the collective attention in the ballroom redirected to the far end of the hall.
I did.
"Look who finally showed up," I mutter, just as Torunn follows my gaze.
Her smirk grows instantly. "Fashionably late, as always. Classic Stark entrance."
She lifts her glass slightly, like she's toasting Morgan from across the room. "Always gotta make 'em wait before stealing the whole damn show."
"Yup," I reply, without even blinking. "Right on cue."
Across the room, Morgan Stark has arrived.
And of course, she makes an entrance.
She doesn't just walk in—she takes over the space.
The moment her heels hit marble, conversations dip, eyes track, and every man with an inflated ego suddenly remembers how to shut the hell up.
And then?
She ignores all of them.
She moves through the crowd like she's parting the Red Sea, brushing past billionaires, politicians, and generals without so much as a glance—the exact same way Torunn did not ten minutes ago.
And that? That's hilarious to me.
Because now?
Now I have two of the most jaw-droppingly, absurdly powerful women in the room walking straight toward me…
...while every overpriced-suit-wearing man in this hall is left holding his overpriced drink, wondering what the hell makes me so special.
Morgan doesn't slow down.
Her gown is runway-level couture—something impossible and effortless, the kind of thing that costs more than a mid-sized sedan but still says, "I might fight an alien later."
Her walk? Confident. Calculated. Designed to own the floor without trying.
She's not even looking at anyone else—but every camera in the room would swear she was looking straight at them.
Torunn takes another sip of her newly enhanced drink, smirking like she already knows what's coming.
Morgan catches my eye from across the room, flashes her billion-dollar grin, and makes a beeline for us.
Of course she does.
And I can feel the death stares.
Because let's be real—I'm a Black man in a room full of legacy-backed, hedge fund-having, polo-at-yale-playing, Rolex-wearing power players.
You already know what kind of room this is.
I don't even have to say it.
But I kinda do.
Old money. White money. Whisper-soft racism with a watch collection.
The kind of guys whose family trees have their own law firms.
The kind who smile at me like I'm the entertainment and the security detail—at the same time.
And here I am: standing between a literal Asgardian goddess and Morgan Stark in full billionaire mode, like I just broke into one of their country club fantasies and rewrote the ending.
...and two of the most stunning, unapproachable white women in the entire damn building just walked past every single one of them to stand next to me.
These men are not built to process that.
It's like a psychic gut-punch to the ego of every Harvard-and-Hamptons finance bro in a hundred-foot radius.
I can feel the microaggressions warming up in their throats.
Their internal monologues are practically screaming:
"Why him?"
"This motherfucker."
"Of all people... him?"
"First they took sports, now they're taking our women?"
"He's not even wearing a Rolex."
And yeah—normally, I'd assume that being the leader of the Avengers, and one of the most powerful people on the planet, and the guy who can literally reverse collateral damage with gravity and electricity might earn me a little credit.
But no.
Because in rooms like this?
Power only counts if it looks the way they're used to.
Old money. Military rank. Boardroom domination.
I don't have a generational name.
I don't have a hedge fund.
I don't have a private jet with a name like "Aurora" or "The Integrity Falcon."
To them, I'm just a Black guy with powers.
A particularly useful one, sure.
But not someone who should be standing between an Asgardian goddess and a Stark heiress like I'm the damn protagonist of their least favorite Netflix series.
And I know—I know—at least one of them is two seconds away from muttering something about "genetics" in that Fox-News-meets-country-club tone that feels like a compliment and a slur at the same time.
Meanwhile?
I'm just here, Black as hell, sipping my drink, flanked by an Asgardian warrior princess and a billionaire princess, wondering how long it'll take before one of these guys pulls out a stress ball to cope.
To be fair, just because I live in a universe where mutants exist doesn't mean racism packed up and left the building. Powers didn't magically erase prejudice.
It's 2043, and yeah—humanity's made some progress. But race? That's not something time alone fixes. That's generational. Cultural. Systemic. You don't undo over 500 years of racial bias with several decades of legislation and diversity panels, especially when people still find new ways to divide themselves every time the old ones start losing steam.
So yeah, maybe we've got aliens walking around Times Square and magical creatures at the zoo. But people still clutch their wallets when they see a Black guy in a hoodie. They still mispronounce names that aren't Anglo. They still smile too widely while asking what part of the country you're "really" from.
In other words? Prejudice didn't die—it just learned how to code-switch.
And sometimes, I wonder if regular humans resent mutants even more because the lines blur too easily. Like, if you've already been taught to fear someone for the color of their skin, how hard is it to add their gene code to the list?
Now people don't just judge you by your race—they judge you by your DNA.
Double the prejudice. Double the fun.
Progress.
It's like the universe said, "You know what systemic inequality needs? Variants."
Because sure, they'll march for mutant rights on Monday, then still clutch their pearls when I walk by on Tuesday.
Classic.
Sometimes I wonder how Black folks really feel about mutants in this world. Like—honestly, deep down.
Do they see us as part of the same fight?
Or are they side-eyeing us like, "You just got here. We've been carrying this weight for centuries."
Because let's be real—we've lived the "feared and hated" story since long before it came with glowing eyes and cool powers.
Mutants got headlines and debates in Congress. We got redlines, stop-and-frisks, and a legacy of being told to "calm down" or risk everything.
They built schools in Westchester to protect gifted kids.
We got underfunded buildings and metal detectors.
So when people talk about mutant oppression like it's some new injustice?
I don't get mad.
I just get tired.
Especially because I'm not just Black.
I'm a mutant, too.
Double the fear. Double the target. Double the code people try to read before deciding if they trust me—or want me gone.
And the wildest part?
Most days, I'm not even sure which part of me they hate more
Morgan finally reaches us, her grin gleaming, her eyes already twinkling with whatever chaos she's about to drag me into.
Torunn doesn't flinch.
She just watches the whole thing unfold with that same smirk—the one that says, I don't have to say it. You already know what this looks like.
I sigh.
Not because of them—well, okay, not just because of them—but because while all eyes are on this little triangle we've formed, mine are on the rest of the room.
Or rather, my senses are.
See, it's not hearing in the traditional sense. It's something weirder.
The human ear picks up vibrations in the air—normal sound waves. But my body? It's attuned to more than that. Somewhere between the electromagnetic awareness that courses through my nervous system and the gravity field sensitivity baked into whatever genetic cocktail gave me these powers, I've learned to listen to the static under the noise.
Everything in this room—every earpiece, every encrypted commlink, every nervous whisper over a vibranium-plated champagne flute—carries a signature. A subtle electromagnetic footprint. Phones, watches, augmented implants, even the audio pulses from secure conference nodes. Most of it's meant to be inaudible. But when you're built like a living antenna with finely tuned field perception? You can pick it up.
And right now?
There's a lot of garbage in the signal.A senator is whispering near the perimeter—smug and hushed—talking about Torunn like she's some dangerous artifact instead of a person. Something about "half-gods" needing jurisdictional limits if they're going to "frequent human territory." Mixed in, of course, are the occasional sexualized comments about her body.Two suits from a defense contractor are arguing over patent rights for a new containment protocol they "borrowed" from old S.H.I.E.L.D. data—one that, unsurprisingly, just so happens to disproportionately target mutants.
I don't need to hear every word to know the vibe.
I hear the energy shift. Feel the distortion in the room like ripples in water. Intent, anger, fear—they all carry a current.
Morgan notices my jaw tighten. She notices everything.
She narrows her eyes like a cat spotting the exact moment the laser pointer moves.
"Okay, no," she says, aiming a perfectly manicured finger right at my face. "You just heard something interesting.
I sigh.
This is my life.
I smirk, shaking my head as my attention shifts back to Morgan and Torunn.
Torunn doesn't even look up as she takes another measured sip of her drink. "His mind wandered. Again."Morgan taps her chin, feigning deep thought. "Where'd your brain run off to this time? Diplomatic crises? Superhuman policy loopholes? Oh—wait—were you secretly calculating how many senators in this room are scared of Torunn and also kinda want her number?
I exhale, slow and unamused. "Jesus, Morgan, you are insufferable."
She beams. "It's part of my charm."
"Strange charm," Torunn murmurs.
Morgan flicks her hair like she's in a perfume ad. "That's what makes me iconic."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "What makes you a menace is bringing your damn celebrity friends into the Avengers compound without clearance."
She gasps, clutching her chest with theatrical horror. "Excuse me? That's an exaggeration."
Torunn arches a brow. "You had a reality show host in the war room last week."
Morgan scoffs. "He's a critically acclaimed documentarian."
"He went viral for eating gold-covered steak," I say flatly.
"Exactly. Culture," she fires back, unbothered. "And he was filming exclusive footage for my behind-the-scenes Hero Life vlog series. People love that stuff."
"You love that stuff," I correct.
Torunn nods solemnly. "Your actions disturb the sanctity of the stronghold."
Morgan gives her a look. "Okay, Viking Barbie, dial it back."
I cross my arms, giving her a look. "Not as dramatic as you sneaking into the compound without a keycard."
She just grins—smug, unbothered, completely unapologetic. "Please. I practically pay the light bill. You think a locked door's gonna stop me?"
Then she shrugs, tossing a wink my way. "It's not breaking in if I bankroll half the upgrades."
Torunn takes another sip of her drink, deadpan. "You are both idiots."
I sigh, because of course I do. Honestly, I should've seen it coming. The only reason Morgan can stroll into Avengers HQ like it's her weekend timeshare is because, well… she kind of does own part of it. She wasn't wrong. Her name might not be on the team roster, but her tech runs half the building, and her funding covers the other half.
Most of our infrastructure is still Stark-built.
Which makes sense, given the current structure of the Avengers.
Once upon a time—before my time, obviously—the Avengers operated under S.H.I.E.L.D. Government-backed. U.S.-controlled. On paper, it all sounded clean and official. But that illusion didn't last.
Hydra was embedded deep in S.H.I.E.L.D., rotting it from the inside. Once that secret came out, the whole system collapsed. The Avengers became independent by necessity—no more oversight, no more government leash.
That freedom worked… for a while.
Until the collateral damage piled up. Cities leveled. Sovereign borders crossed. No accountability. No chain of command. S.H.I.E.L.D. had at least provided the illusion of structure—without it, the Avengers were walking liability cases.
Then Sokovia happened.
And the Sokovia Accords followed. Political fallout. Global debates. Finger-pointing.
Then came Thanos—and everything after that made the rest look like warm-ups.
Disaster stacked on the last like a cosmic warning sign, until it became clear that tying the world's strongest defenders to a single flag was a bad idea waiting to explode.
And it did.
After Endgame, the message was clear: putting god-tier firepower under the control of any one government was asking for disaster. The Sokovia Accords? Well-intentioned, maybe—but in practice, they were a bureaucratic leash slapped on a world that was already on fire.When Thanos snapped half of existence out of reality, nobody gave a damn about registration laws anymore—they just wanted to make sure something like that could never happen again. That's why the restrictions eased—at least enough for us to actually do our jobs when it counts.
So the Avengers were rebuilt—from the ground up.
Not under S.H.I.E.L.D.—that ship sank the moment Hydra hijacked the wheel. Not under any single flag, either. That kind of control only works until it doesn't.
Now! We're a semi-autonomous, multinational peacekeeping force. No borders. No politics. Just a mission.We're backed by a coalition of private allies—Wakanda, a few old-world royals, even Krakoa, surprisingly enough—and yes, even people like Morgan Stark.
It's not perfect. But it means that when the sky cracks open or something claws its way out of the Negative Zone, we don't have to wait on clearance codes or wade through red tape before throwing a punch.
We've got funding.
We've got tech.
And we don't answer to any single government anymore.
But we also don't have automatic jurisdiction.
No instant military backup.
No diplomatic immunity if we screw up.
Everything we do is a negotiation.
When the Avengers went quiet post-Endgame, the world didn't stop spinning. It adapted—awkwardly, aggressively. Governments scrambled to fill the power vacuum.
S.W.O.R.D. and S.A.B.E.R. expanded to handle off-world threats and extraterrestrial diplomacy. Damage Control, once a cleanup crew, started acting like a borderline paramilitary force—seizing tech, enforcing containment zones, and regulating superhuman activity under the guise of "infrastructure protection."
Meanwhile, private firms launched their own enhanced soldier programs, backed by think tanks and defense contracts. Some used ex-HYDRA tech. Some used black-market alien biotech. All of them claimed to be "the next Avengers."
They weren't.
And that's when Nick Fury returned.
Silently. Strategically. Fury pulled strings, spoke to the right people, and eventually got in Sam Wilson's ear—the new Captain America, and the one person the public still trusted.
Fury's mission? Rebuild the Avengers.
Not just as a team, but as a legitimate, globally recognized emergency response force.
With the help of She-Hulk and a team of international legal experts, they created the framework: an organization that could operate across borders—under strict but reasonable conditions.
We are not military.
We are not law enforcement.
We are not vigilantes.
We're something in between.
We step in when:
—A national or international authority formally requests our help.
—A global-level threat emerges: alien invasion, multiversal breach, you name it.
—A disaster occurs where delay would mean catastrophic loss of life.
In the United States, we have more fway more flexibility thanks to a special jurisdictional clause. Agencies like the FBI, CIA, and Homeland all have their own enhanced response teams, but when things spiral?
They call us.
When an off-the-grid enhanced goes nuclear in the middle of a downtown skyline.
When a genetically engineered kaiju breaks out of a black-site lab and heads for a populated coast.
When a mutant trafficking syndicate surfaces with ties to extradimensional buyers.
When a black-market superdrug turns gang turf wars into powered warzones.
Because when things spiral past what a task force can contain—and even the superhumans on a federal payroll get overwhelmed—
they need the ones who've done this before.
They call the Avengers.
But it comes with strings.
We coordinate with federal agents.
We follow de-escalation protocols.
We don't get involved in domestic operations unless requested.
We are empowered—but not above accountability.
And that's why I'm here, at this godforsaken banquet summit, shaking hands with diplomats and smiling at people who don't trust me, while Morgan sneaks reality influencers into the war room and vlogs about her "hero aesthetic."
I should probably do something about that.
Later.
She nudges me again, eyes gleaming. "So? When are you gonna accept the truth?"
I sigh. "What truth is that?"
"That deep down…" She leans in, flashing that billion-dollar Stark grin, "you love having me at the compound."
Torunn lets out a low snort. "This is delusion."
Morgan waves her off. "No, this is self-awareness. The brand needs me."
I narrow my eyes. "The brand needs you to stop bringing influencers into my goddamn war room."
She shrugs. "Fine, no more influencers in the war room."
I nod. "Or the training facility."
Her eyes widen in mock horror. "But the lighting in there is immaculate!"
"Morgan."
She groans dramatically. "You take all the fun out of things."
Then she grins again, impossibly pleased with herself. "So... does this mean I'm officially an Avenger now?"
I rubbed the bridge of my nose, already exhausted.
"This woman is going to kill me," I muttered, more to myself than anyone.
Then, louder: "Are you ever gonna use your suit for actual hero work? Or are you just gonna keep treating it like your personal luxury jet with legal flight clearance?"
Morgan didn't miss a beat. "Excuse you—first of all, it's called the Ironheart suit. There's no man in this armor, thank you very much. Misgender my tech again and I swear—"
Torunn laughed—loudly enough to turn a few heads across the banquet hall.
"Bitch, stop lying!" she cackled.
Morgan's eye twitched. "Oh, okay. I see the Asgardian liquor finally kicked in. Calling me a bitch and a liar in the same breath? Real classy."
Torunn stepped forward, towering slightly over Morgan thanks to the height gods smiling upon her. She leaned in with a half-drunk smirk and said with total, unshaken confidence:
"What are you gonna do about it, dwarf?"
Morgan didn't flinch. She just sipped her drink, eyes locked.
"After this summit," Morgan said, narrowing her eyes with a smirk, "you and I., Training room. Let's go a few rounds, Viking Barbie."
Torunn tilted her head, grin widening. "Please. Without that fancy armor, you're just a tiny rich girl with good Wi-Fi."
Morgan didn't blink. "Good thing I trained in five forms of martial arts while you were busy smithing away on your weapons."
I swear, watching these two is like seeing two apex predators sniff each other for weakness, only to find they both just really like the smell of chaos.
They live for this.
Torunn and Morgan are elite-tier trash talkers—the kind of women who treat verbal sparring like a competitive sport. And when two all-stars recognize each other?
Game on.
Problem is, to anyone outside the circle, it probably looked like a fight was about to break out in the middle of a political banquet.
So I stepped in.
"Ladies, ladies," I said, hands up, grinning. "Ease up on the mutual roasting. You're both terrifyingly beautiful, okay? Let's all take a breath."
In perfect, deadpan unison, they turned to me and said:
"Oh, please, with your 'you're both beautiful' nonsense, Max."
I rolled my eyes. "See? This is why I don't pay for couples therapy."
They laughed—loud, genuine, the tension deflating around us like someone popped the drama balloon. I could still feel eyes on us from across the room, but at least now we didn't look like we were about to flip a table.
Not yet, anyway.
Out of nowhere, Torunn slapped her drink down on the ground and declared, with the slurred confidence of a goddess three cocktails deep with spike asgardian liqour,
"Fuck a sparring session—let's go band for band!"
I damn near choked on my champagne.
Was she really about to start a who's richer contest with Morgan Stark?
Morgan arched an eyebrow, flipped her hair, and let out a scoff that could've cut glass.
"Please. My bank account's longer than your full Asgardian name—in full Norse pronunciation and all."
Torunn didn't blink. She just sipped her drink and smirked.
"You're talking to royalty, Stark. I've got a planet's GDP backing me. Technically, New Asgard's economy is me."
Morgan didn't miss a beat.
"That doesn't count. You're not running New Asgard's books—you're out here mood-swinging swords while your royal allowance hits on the first of every month."
Torunn tilted her head, intrigued.
Morgan leaned in, voice just low enough to land the jab.
"You don't even do your own taxes."
Torunn narrowed her eyes.
Morgan, not done, swirled her drink like it was part of her villain arc.
"Meanwhile, I fund R&D for exo-limb tech, bankroll three private space startups, and literally just bought the rights to a photonic engine because it sounded fun. My net worth makes your GDP look like an Etsy shop run by Valkyrie interns."
That almost got her.
But Torunn just gave a long blink, then calmly said:
"I forge weapons that can kill gods."
And just like that, the room tilted.
She swirled her drink and kept going.
"Every weapon I craft is soul-bound, rune-laced, and made from materials half this galaxy can't pronounce. Uru. Bloodstone. Stardust from dying stars. I don't sell swords—I shape legacies. You buy assets. I create relics that future of a whole species and race."
Morgan opened her mouth.
Torunn raised a finger.
"And before you ask—no, you can't patent divine craftsmanship."
Morgan blinked, quiet for once.
"…Okay, that was kinda hard."
I raised both hands. "Ladies. You're both offensively rich and spiritually exhausting. Can we maybe not turn the Superhuman Summit banquet into a personal episode of Shark Tank: Pantheon Edition?"
They turned in perfect sync and said:
"Stay out of this, broke boy."
I blinked.
Fair enough.
Across the ballroom, the hum of conversation rolled on—polished, diplomatic, carefully curated. But I could feel the undercurrents. Eyes flicked our way. Whispers shifted in our direction. There were people here who didn't know what to make of us—power wrapped in elegance, sarcasm in heels, and runes.
And me?
Just trying to hold it all together after getting called broke in front of a room full of diplomats, tech CEOs, interagency defense directors, and metahuman rights activists. Kinda hurt my feelings, honestly—I mean, I've got bread too.