[New York City. The Sanctum Sanctorum. The Aftermath.]
Sebastian Michaelis stood in the library, polishing the Relic of the Crimson Bands. He looked unusually tired. His black tailcoat was still torn and scorched from his battle against the shadow demons on Earth-Sinister.
Doctor Strange walked in, levitating a cup of tea into his own hand. "You need a tailor," Strange noted.
"I need a vacation," Sebastian corrected, setting the relic down with a heavy sigh.
Strange looked out the window at the quiet city. "You saved me back there. On the other Earth. You fought off the spirits so I could stop Wanda. I owe you."
"I was protecting my investment," Sebastian replied dismissively, attempting to smooth out his ruined lapels. "If you die, I have to find a new couch."
Strange smiled faintly. "Right. Well, take your vacation. You've earned it. Where does a demon go to relax, anyway?"
Sebastian looked at his reflection in the glass of a display case. He didn't see a hero. He saw a servant without a master.
"I believe," Sebastian said softly, his eyes flashing a dull red, "I will check on the estate. It has been too long since I dusted the Master's legacy."
[Time Jump: Six Months of Shadows]
For six months, Sebastian did not fight witches or multiversal monsters. He fought something far more insidious: corporate greed.
He took his "vacation" in the shadows of Stark Industries. Unseen and unheard, he observed board meetings, audited financial ledgers from the ceiling tiles, and tracked the subtle bleeding of Tony Stark's hidden assets. He watched the corporate vultures circle Pepper Potts, smelling the blood in the water now that the Iron Man was gone.
He learned the name of the biggest vulture of all: Sebastian Shaw.
When the bleeding became a hemorrhage, the demon decided his vacation was officially over.
[New York City. Stark Industries Headquarters. Present Day.]
The Sanctum Sanctorum was quiet, but the mortal world was loud.
Sebastian Michaelis stood in the corner of Pepper Potts' expansive office, wearing a pristine, newly tailored black suit. He was currently brewing a pot of Ceylon tea on a portable induction burner he had brought himself.
Pepper sat behind Tony's old desk, rubbing her temples. She looked exhausted. Holographic financial charts floated in the air, glowing an angry red.
"They're bleeding us dry, Happy," Pepper said to the head of security, who was pacing the floor. "It's not just a hostile takeover. They are specifically targeting Tony's off-the-books R&D facilities. The ones only the board knew about."
"Who has that kind of capital?" Happy asked, throwing his hands up. "We're Stark Industries. We buy countries. Who is buying us?"
"A holding company called the Inner Circle," Pepper pulled up a file. "Owned by Sebastian Shaw. He's a billionaire industrialist. Old money. Ruthless."
Sebastian paused his pouring. He looked at the hologram of Sebastian Shaw—a man with a cruel smile, dressed in a Victorian-style cravat and velvet jacket.
"Mr. Shaw has atrocious taste in neckwear," Sebastian observed, handing Pepper her teacup. "And an even worse sense of boundaries."
"He's throwing a gala tomorrow night at his mansion on the Upper East Side," Pepper sighed, taking a sip. "An 'exclusive gathering' for the global elite. He invited me. He wants to gloat before he forces a board vote to seize Tony's Vault 4."
"Vault 4?" Happy asked.
"Tony's experimental energy weapons," Pepper whispered. "If Shaw gets them, he'll sell them to the highest bidder."
Sebastian's eyes narrowed. The fuchsia light bled into his pupils for a fraction of a second. Tony Stark's weapons. The very things the Master had sacrificed everything to stop producing.
"You are not attending this gala, Mrs. Stark," Sebastian said smoothly, taking the empty cup from her hands.
"I have to, Seb. It's business."
"It is a trap," Sebastian corrected. "These are not mere businessmen. I smell old blood and new arrogance. If you go, they will use leverage against you. Morgan. Or your own life."
Pepper looked at the demon. She had long ago stopped questioning how he knew things. "Then what do we do? We can't just let him take Tony's legacy."
"We will not," Sebastian smiled—a chilling, perfect smile. "The Hellfire Club is hosting a gala. Galas require staff. And as it so happens... I am currently between contracts."
[The Upper East Side. The Hellfire Mansion. The Next Day.]
The mansion was a fortress of marble and mahogany, hidden in plain sight.
In the opulent drawing room, the staff for the evening's gala was being inspected. Dozens of highly trained waiters, valets, and security personnel stood at attention.
Walking down the line was a woman who commanded the room without saying a word. She wore a tailored white corset-suit, a white fur coat draped over her shoulders, and a diamond choker. Her blonde hair was immaculate. Her eyes were ice.
Emma Frost. The White Queen.
"Too slow," Emma said, walking past a muscular security guard. "Too nervous," she pointed at a waiter. "And you... you're planning to steal a silver spoon. You're fired."
The waiter gasped. "How did you—?"
"I know everything," Emma tapped her temple, her eyes flashing briefly with telepathic energy. "I expect perfection. The Black King is hosting the most powerful people on the planet tonight. If you spill a drop of champagne, I will ensure you never work in this city again."
She reached the end of the line.
She stopped.
Standing there was a tall man in a flawlessly tailored butler's tailcoat. His posture was impossible to critique. His white gloves were spotless. He radiated an aura of absolute servitude and quiet lethality.
"And who are you?" Emma asked, narrowing her eyes.
"Sebastian Michaelis, Madam," he bowed perfectly. "I was sent by the elite staffing agency. I specialize in... high-maintenance clientele."
Emma looked him up and down. She was a telepath—one of the strongest in the world. She instinctively reached out to brush against his mind, just to see his surface thoughts. To ensure his loyalty.
She pushed her mind into his.
[The Void]
Emma gasped.
She didn't find thoughts. She didn't find memories of a staffing agency or a nervous human mind.
She found herself standing on the edge of a bottomless abyss. The air smelled of brimstone and burnt sugar. Below her, a sea of black feathers swirled around a massive, terrifying eye that looked back at her with ancient, starving amusement.
Careful, Madam, a voice whispered in the dark, echoing with the screams of a thousand devoured souls. It is impolite to peek into the pantry without asking.
[The Drawing Room]
Emma stumbled backward, her hand flying to her diamond choker. She breathed heavily, her telepathy slamming shut in sheer self-defense.
Sebastian had not moved a millimeter. His smile remained pleasantly neutral.
"Is the temperature of the room to your liking, Miss Frost?" Sebastian asked politely. "You seem flushed."
Emma stared at him. Her heart was hammering. She had encountered powerful mutants before—Xavier, Magneto, even Jean Grey. But this wasn't mutant energy. This was a complete absence of humanity.
"What... what are you?" Emma whispered, ensuring the other staff couldn't hear.
"I am simply one hell of a butler," Sebastian replied, his red eyes glinting in the chandelier light. "I understand you have a gala to host. Shall I oversee the wine selection? The 1945 Romanee-Conti requires proper decanting."
Emma Frost was a survivor. She realized instantly that trying to expose or fight whatever this creature was in the middle of a delicate corporate coup was suicide. But if she could use him...
She composed herself. She straightened her coat.
"Yes," Emma said, her voice dripping with artificial ice. "You will serve the Inner Circle directly tonight in the VIP lounge. Do not disappoint me, Mr. Michaelis."
"I never disappoint," Sebastian bowed.
[The Inner Circle]
The gala was in full swing. Billionaires, politicians, and hidden mutants mingled in the grand ballroom.
In the soundproofed VIP lounge upstairs, Sebastian Shaw sat at a velvet poker table. He was smoking a cigar, laughing with three military generals. Spread across the table were blueprints for Stark Industries' Vault 4.
"By midnight, the board will panic," Shaw blew a ring of smoke. "Potts is too weak to hold them together without Stark. The vote will pass. The weapons are ours."
The doors opened silently.
Sebastian Michaelis walked in, carrying a silver tray with four glasses of Scotch.
"Ah, the new help," Shaw snapped his fingers. "Leave the bottle, English. And keep your ears shut."
"Naturally, Sir," Sebastian murmured.
He moved gracefully around the table, placing the crystal glasses down. As he stepped behind Shaw, his eyes swept over the blueprints. He memorized the encryption codes, the vault locations, and the names of the corrupt board members written in Shaw's ledger in a fraction of a second.
So, Sebastian thought, setting the final glass down. This is the man who thinks he can buy the Master's legacy. Sebastian looked at the back of Shaw's neck. It would be so easy to snap it. To let his claws extend and end this hostile takeover right now.
But across the room, Emma Frost was watching him. She was holding a champagne flute, her eyes locked on the demon, waiting to see his play.
No, Sebastian decided, stepping back into the shadows of the room, folding his hands behind his back. Assassination is too kind for thieves. I will take everything from him first.
[End of Chapter 72]
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