The raging fire swallowed the cave whole, flames climbing the rock walls and devouring everything inside. Heat distorted the air, turning the space into a furnace as Stark stood there, watching it all burn.
Every corpse. Every weapon. Every crate stamped with the Stark Industries logo.
He made sure nothing remained.
The blaze reflected in his eyes, bright and unwavering. In that moment, something inside him shifted. It wasn't just destruction—it felt like cleansing, like he was burning away everything that had led him here.
Purification. Transformation.
Cohen watched quietly from the side, reading the change in Stark's expression with ease. There was no need to ask. The decision had already been made.
Stark Industries' weapons division was finished.
Now came the part that really mattered.
The timing.
Stark returns—stock surges. Then he announces the shutdown—stock crashes. A perfect rise and fall, compressed into a few precious hours.
That window was everything.
The three of them left the cave in an old, battered convertible jeep. Stark's armor had already served its purpose, and carrying it would've been more trouble than it was worth, so they burned it with everything else.
The sun hung high overhead, relentless and scorching. The jeep tore across the desert, wheels kicking up thick clouds of sand that trailed behind them like smoke.
Stark didn't react at first. It wasn't until grit coated his face and filled his mouth that he finally snapped.
"Are you serious?" he shouted, spitting sand. "This is what you're using to rescue me? No helicopter? No armored vehicle? Not even a damn Hummer with AC?"
Cohen let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head slightly.
"Stark, you've been stuck in that cave. You don't realize how much things have changed out here."
He kept his eyes on the road as he spoke.
"The military stopped looking for you a long time ago. If I hadn't shown up, even if you escaped, you'd probably die out here before anyone found you."
Stark's expression stiffened. "What happened?"
"Judgment."
The word hung in the air.
"Your military got put on trial," Cohen continued casually. "And it didn't go well. Their 'godhood' cracked. Now everyone's circling—enemies, so-called allies, even the scavengers hiding in the shadows."
Stark frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"A few nights ago," Cohen said, tone steady, "something hit from above. Two major bases—gone. Three thousand soldiers wiped out."
He clicked his tongue lightly.
"The scene? Hell on earth."
The jeep bounced over uneven ground as he continued.
"There's all kinds of rumors. The President nearly snapped when he saw the footage. Vice President practically lost control of himself. And that five-sided building back home? They called it a 'Day of Mourning.'"
He glanced at Stark through the rearview mirror.
"They're already talking about pulling out of Afghanistan."
Stark sat there, stunned.
It had only been a few days.
A few days.
And the balance of power had shifted this much?
"Who did it?" he asked quietly. "Russia? Some other global power stepping in?"
Cohen shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Rumor says it was a devil. Huge, monstrous, voice like thunder, face like something out of a nightmare."
He shrugged lightly.
"Makes you wonder what your soldiers did to deserve that."
Stark didn't respond.
Hours later, they passed the remains of Baghlan.
What used to be a base was now nothing but scorched earth, blackened and silent. The destruction stretched out in a perfect radius, as if the land itself had been erased.
Stark stared at it, the weight of reality finally settling in.
Was this… the beginning of decline?
…
After reaching Kandahar International Airport, Stark wasted no time. He contacted Pepper Potts, arranged a private flight, and prepared to leave immediately.
The news of his survival spread fast.
Back in New York, the reaction was immediate.
Stark Industries stock, which had been dropping steadily, surged upward like it had been injected with adrenaline. Investors rushed in, betting on the return of the genius who built the empire.
Cohen had already moved.
The day before, he'd instructed David to close all short positions. One hundred twenty million dollars had turned into five hundred forty million.
A clean win.
Without hesitation, he reinvested everything into Stark Industries stock.
On the flight back, he issued the next set of instructions.
Sell at the peak.
Then short it again.
Today was going to be brutal for the market.
But for him?
It was harvest season.
…
The plane touched down at John F. Kennedy International Airport.
The moment the door opened—
Cohen's eyes widened.
Agents.
Dozens of them.
Fully armed, organized into distinct groups, each representing a different agency. Their presence was overwhelming, suffocating.
For a split second, a thought flashed through his mind.
Did I get exposed?
Then he spotted a familiar face.
Jasper Sitwell.
S.H.I.E.L.D. was here too.
Before he could process further, voices started firing off one after another.
"Stark, CIA. You're a suspect in the Day of Mourning. Cooperate."
"FBI. Same charges. Step forward."
"Department of Homeland Security. You're under investigation."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. You are strongly connected to the incident. Comply immediately."
Amid the sea of suits and weapons, a lone NYPD officer stood slightly off to the side, clearly outmatched but trying his best to stay composed.
"Mr. Stark… NYPD. Please cooperate with our investigation."
The contrast was almost absurd.
Cohen blinked.
What the hell is this lineup?
Beside him, Stark was equally stunned. Ethan looked between the agents, completely lost.
Cohen leaned closer to Stark, lowering his voice.
"Just a suggestion," he muttered. "The NYPD option looks… safer."
Stark shot him a glare before stepping forward, anger already building.
"Alright," he said sharply, addressing the crowd. "Someone explain why I'm being treated like a criminal. What does this 'Day of Mourning' have to do with me?"
The agents exchanged glances.
Finally, Sitwell stepped forward.
"Mr. Stark," he began, "Baghlan Air Base was destroyed by Jericho missiles. Three were produced for testing. One was used. Two remained."
He paused briefly.
"Control of those missiles was never transferred to the military due to your… incident."
Stark's jaw tightened.
"That means," Sitwell continued, "you are the only individual capable of launching them."
Silence.
Then Stark exploded.
"You're saying I had an 'incident'?" he snapped. "I was kidnapped. Locked in a cave. Beaten, starved—while every single one of you failed to find me!"
His voice rose, raw and furious.
"And now I come back, and you're blaming me for your own screw-ups? Are you kidding me?!"
Sitwell didn't back down.
"The Jericho missile is your design. It's difficult to believe anyone could operate it without your authorization."
Stark laughed harshly.
"That's because I'm smarter than all of you. If you can't figure it out, that's your problem—not proof I did anything!"
He turned, grabbing Ethan's shoulder.
"I've been with him the whole time. Ethan's my witness."
For a moment, the agents hesitated.
Then one of them spoke.
"Mr. Ethan, you are also a suspect. Please cooperate."
"F—!"
Stark's face flushed red, veins standing out along his neck.
"You parasites!" he shouted. "Every last one of you! Living off taxpayers and calling it justice? I'll sue all of you. I'll spend a billion dollars if I have to—I swear I'll bury you!"