Tony Stark stood behind the podium and looked out over a room full of men and women who had arrived expecting damage control.
They got honesty instead.
Reporters packed the hall shoulder to shoulder. Executives from Stark Industries sat in the front rows with the fixed expressions of people who had spent the last hour praying their employer would act like an adult for once. Obadiah Stane wore concern the way some men wore cologne, generously and with bad intent.
Tony rested both hands on the podium and spoke without his usual grin.
"I saw young American soldiers killed by the very weapons I created to defend them."
The room went still.
Even the people who already knew Tony Stark could be reckless had not expected that line to arrive first and land like a hammer.
Tony looked across the room and kept going.
"I became part of a system with zero accountability."
Stane, like the rest, was waiting.
Tony barely glanced in his direction.
"I had my eyes opened. I came back from that cave, realising I have more to offer this world than just making things that blow up. So, effective immediately, Stark Industries is shutting down the weapons manufacturing division."
Silence held for half a heartbeat longer.
Then the room exploded.
Questions crashed over each other. Voices rose. Chairs moved. Someone near the back nearly shouted over the rest. Stane half rose and forced himself not to complete the movement. Tony stepped away from the podium, clearly done, while the press still tried to claw more words out of him.
--
Miles away, Lucius watched the conference from the comfort of the St. Regis Royal Suite and smiled.
The line had landed exactly as he had hoped it would. Tony had not merely embarrassed his own company. He had taken a blowtorch to the whole machinery that fed on him.
"Well done, Playboy. One little speech and half of your board probably needed fresh trousers"
When Stark left the podium and the journalists began howling like a kennel full of underfed mutts, Lucius rose from the armchair, switched the television off, and crossed to the bedroom.
Now there was something useful to do.
He chose a dark formal suit, cut close and expensive enough to make receptionists respectful before their brains caught up. White shirt, dark tie, polished shoes. He checked himself in the mirror once, approved the result, and left the hotel under the watchful gaze of Clint sitting at the lobby.
-
Goldman Sachs did not function like the sort of bank where one wandered in, asked for shares, and got directed to a smiling clerk with a pen on a chain. The Midtown office he entered had security, reception, glass, tailored suits, and the sort of quiet that existed only in places where entire lives could be rearranged with signatures.
A receptionist looked up as he approached.
"Good afternoon, sir. How may we help?"
Lucius placed one gloved hand lightly on the desk.
"I would like to open a private investment account and place a substantial order in Stark Industries."
The receptionist's expression stayed professional. Her eyes sharpened.
"May I ask the approximate size of the order, sir?"
Lucius gave her a pleasant smile.
"Two hundred and seventy million dollars."
That got the smallest pause.
"Of course, sir. May I have your name?"
"Lucius Noctis."
Recognition flickered across her face and vanished almost at once. Not the full story, just enough of the recent news cycle to know she was looking at a man who had made several federal institutions very unhappy.
She picked up the phone, spoke quietly to someone upstairs, then rose.
"If you would come with me, Mr Noctis."
He was taken to a conference room rather than a public desk, which made sense. Men did not turn up asking for that amount in stock order unless they either had the money or needed professional treatment.
Five minutes later, two people entered. The older of the pair introduced himself as Daniel Mercer, a managing director from private wealth. The second was a younger woman named Evelyn Hart from the equities execution side. Mercer wore the controlled smile of a man who had spent years speaking to rich eccentrics without ever once asking how they had become rich.
He sat opposite Lucius, folded his hands, and got to the point.
"I understand you wish to establish a relationship with us and purchase a significant position in Stark Industries."
"I do."
Mercer inclined his head slightly.
"We can help with that. Before we discuss execution, we need to establish the account properly. Identification, tax status, beneficial ownership, source of funds, and trading instructions. We will also need to understand your objective. Are you looking for a passive position, a strategic stake, or a short-term trade on the market reaction?"
Lucius appreciated the directness.
"I want as much Stark Industries stock as two hundred and seventy million dollars can buy without advertising my hand more than necessary. You may call it a strategic position. The source of funds is private business revenue. The money is in cash."
Hart had been making notes. At the last sentence, her pen stopped for a fraction.
Mercer remained calm.
"In your residence?"
"In my hotel suite."
Mercer looked at him for a moment, then chose his next words with care.
"We cannot execute an order of this size against physical cash sitting in a hotel room on your say so, Mr Noctis. We can, however, open the account today, complete the compliance review, arrange a secured collection and count through an approved cash logistics contractor, and accept your order instructions subject to verification of funds. Once the cash has been authenticated and credited, our trading desk can work the order."
Lucius leaned back.
"That is close enough."
Hart spoke for the first time. Her tone was precise and quick, the voice of someone who trusted numbers more than people.
"If you aim to build the position efficiently, we would not advise one market order. The announcement will move the stock, and size like yours will worsen the fill if we go at it bluntly. We can stage the purchase through the session and work within limits. If you want every dollar deployed, we will still reserve a small amount for commissions and fees unless you are comfortable slightly overfunding."
Lucius nodded once.
"Use the full amount less whatever operational costs are unavoidable. Keep the buying disciplined. I am investing, not announcing a mating display."
For the first time, Hart looked faintly amused.
Mercer placed a slim folder on the table and opened it.
"Then let us begin properly."
The next half hour belonged to forms, identification, signatures, and a number of questions designed to satisfy both regulators and people in expensive buildings who disliked unexplained mountains of cash. Lucius produced identification, gave them the St. Regis as his temporary address, named his business activities in broad but defensible language, and signed where required. Mercer asked twice about the source of wealth. Lucius answered twice that it derived from high-value private cash sales in the wellness and speciality performance market.
That phrasing pleased the banker more than the truth would have.
When the basic paperwork was done, Mercer closed the folder.
"We will need a source of funds declaration and a formal receipt process for the cash. Given the amount, I will have a compliance officer present, a cash handling team, armed transport, and hotel security notified in advance. The collection can take place this evening if you are available."
"I am."
Hart slid a single page towards him.
"This is the trading instruction sheet. We will hold it pending funding. You can give us discretion to execute as principal or agent across the market, with a price cap or without one."
Lucius read it carefully.
"Set a cap high enough not to choke the order but low enough to stop anyone robbing me because they smelled urgency."
Hart named a figure based on the current dislocation after Tony's announcement and the size they expected to work. Lucius considered it, then signed.
Mercer rose.
"We will be at the St. Regis at seven this evening, Mr Noctis. Our team will identify itself at the reception. We will bring counting equipment, documentation, and security. Once funds are verified, your order will be live for execution at tomorrow's opening."
Lucius stood with him and left the building with his future purchase arranged and several Goldman employees already beginning what would no doubt become the most interesting compliance conversation of their week.
The streets were still full of the aftershock from Tony's press conference. Drivers had the radio on. Pedestrians were talking. One man outside a newsstand was waving a paper around as if Stark had personally resigned from civilisation. Lucius enjoyed all of it on principle.
He returned to the St. Regis in the afternoon and crossed the lobby at an easy pace.
Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton were there.
They sat in a corner arrangement clearly designed for wealthy people to pretend they were not waiting for anyone. Barton had already decided this assignment deserved abandonment on moral and practical grounds. Natasha looked like the sort of woman who could turn stubbornness into an art form if given enough time and an inconvenient target.
Lucius caught both of their eyes as he passed and gave them the same smile he had once given Hill and Coulson.
Pleasant, bright and entirely without warmth.
He kept walking.
Behind him, Clint watched the lift doors close and exhaled through his nose.
"He knows exactly who we are."
Natasha leaned back without taking her eyes off the lift indicator.
"He knew before today."
Clint rubbed a thumb along the edge of his coffee cup.
"I really want off this assignment, Nat." He kept his voice low and flat. "He has unknown powers, he's already wrecked enough of SHIELD's month, and the minute we found that note in the office, this operation stopped being surveillance and started being a joke with us being the punchline."
Natasha turned her head towards him.
"That operation failed. This one doesn't have to."
Clint gave her a look.
"We're still SHIELD."
"Not tomorrow." She set her cup down. "Tomorrow we are Natasha and Clint. No badges, no director and no masks. Just a conversation."
Clint considered that and failed to look convinced.
"He hates the organisation, not you personally," she added.
"How comforting."
"It should be."
She rose, smoothed her skirt, and nodded towards the reception desk. Clint followed because that was easier than arguing with Romanoff when she had already moved to the next stage.
The butler received them with polished courtesy and a notebook already open.
"Mr Noctis is not receiving unannounced visitors this afternoon."
Natasha offered a small smile. "Understood. Please register two names for tomorrow. Natasha Romanoff and Clint Barton. We would appreciate the opportunity to speak with him, purely in a personal capacity."
The butler wrote both names down without reaction, though his expression suggested he would rather not be blamed for either of them.
"I shall pass the request on, madam."
"That's all I ask."
Clint said nothing until they were away from the desk.
Then he glanced at her.
"You really think that'll work?"
Natasha shrugged lightly.
"At the very least, he now has the option to refuse us deliberately instead of by habit."
"That is not a sentence that fills me with hope."
Upstairs, Lucius had already stopped caring about them.
He was in the jacuzzi with Bob open in his hands, warm water around him, steam rising just enough to be tolerable, with a bottle of expensive champagne within reach. After taking a sip, he grimaced. What was the point of drinking this sparkling water, he asked himself while looking for a new product to twist Fury's knickers.
Strengthening Potion.
Increase strength, agility, endurance, and healing by fivefold for thirty minutes.
Ingredients: beetroot, apples, and honey.
Lucius smiled. That was offensively cheap.
A potion like that would have been worth absurd money to half the private market he already serviced, and even more to the sort of men who enjoyed paying others to shoot things on their behalf.
He dismissed Bob, rose from the water, dried off, and got dressed. Then he vanished from the suite and spent the next two hours acquiring ingredients in bulk from a wide enough spread of suppliers that nobody sensible could map the full pattern.
When he returned, his inventory was heavy with produce, honey, and enough raw material to brew thousands of units.
He crossed to the suite's kitchen, whistling under his breath and scanned the rooms with his senses again. It became a habit to check if he was being spied on.
He got to work.
Four pots went on the hob. Two for LSP and LHP. Another two for stamina potions. Batch after batch was stashed into his inventory. He worked with the calm focus of a man doing holy work for entirely unholy reasons. He hoped his potions would cause strokes all over the Triskelion.
Hours passed, then his butler knocked and stepped in just far enough to be proper.
"Mr Noctis, the gentlemen from Goldman Sachs have arrived."
He moved into the suite's main hall, sent the butler to inform them to come in ten minutes and began taking cash out of inventory.
Brick after brick, bale after bale, stack after stack.
By the time the Goldman team entered, escorted by their own security, hotel security, and the sort of discreet tension large sums created automatically, the room already looked like a private treasury with expensive wallpaper.
Mercer came in first. Hart was with him, along with a compliance officer, two cash logistics supervisors, armed guards, and hotel personnel, trying very hard to act as if this was not the single most absurd collection job they had seen in years.
Portable counting machines were carried in and set up across folding tables with practised speed. There were over twenty of them. Extension leads followed. Cameras were placed to record the process from multiple angles. Case numbers were logged. Seal tags were checked in front of witnesses.
Mercer looked at the cash, then back at Lucius.
"You were not exaggerating."
Lucius almost looked offended.
"I rarely do so in financial matters."
The counting began.
Losing that much cash in one evening felt rude, but at least it was being converted into something more respectable than notes in a hole.
The machines ate through notes at mechanical speed while staff rotated bundles, checked straps, tested samples for authenticity, and logged every sealed batch. Each unit could process roughly one thousand eight hundred banknotes a minute. At that rate, one million dollars passed through the machines in about three minutes. The sound built into a constant dry rush of paper, rollers, quiet instructions, and numbers being called out for reconciliation.
Lucius watched from an armchair with a drink in hand and the butler standing behind him. His mind was already chewing on ways to make SHIELD suffer more.