The middle-aged fat man was frozen in horror by the sight before him. He had seen brutal things before—blood, corpses, even carnage—but never anything this bizarre. The cigar slipped from his trembling hand and hit the floor. Blood had splattered across his cheeks, and his vacant eyes stared at Doom as the armored figure walked calmly toward him.
"This is your last chance, fat man." Doom's voice was cold, steady, almost casual as he took slow steps forward. "Tell me where Kafsky is… now."
The man's lips trembled, his whole body quaking. He wanted to speak, but fear had stolen his voice.
"No need."
The interruption came from beyond the door—a calm, steady voice. The entrance to the lounge creaked open, and a man stepped inside. He was middle-aged, his expression smooth but calculating.
"I'm the one you've been looking for. I am Kafsky," he announced. "If you want to talk, then talk to me."
Kafsky's eyes flicked briefly across the room. His gaze landed on the corpses scattered across the floor, on the smoking bullet holes, and for just an instant, his face twitched. But unlike his terrified subordinate, he recovered quickly, showing no outward panic.
"You want to negotiate? Fine, let's negotiate," Kafsky said with a faint smile. "Your… handiwork is certainly impressive. I don't mind doing business with geniuses—even the ones who don't exactly play by the rules."
He stepped closer, facing Doom directly, his tone smooth and charismatic. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ novel⸺fire.net
"I hear you want weapons. Normally, we don't sell arms to outsiders. But you… you might be an exception. Dealing with a genius can be refreshing. So tell me—how much do you want?"
"All of it."
The smile on Kafsky's face froze, stiff as stone. "…I must have misheard. What did you just say?"
"I said I want everything," Doom replied sharply, his voice clipped with impatience. "Every rifle. Every bullet. Every last weapon in your stockpile—I'll be taking them all."
For a moment, silence filled the room. Then Kafsky let out a sudden burst of laughter, the sound echoing against the walls.
"I don't know how you found this place, or who fed you the intel that I sell weapons," he said between chuckles. "But your sources clearly underestimated me. You have no idea who you're talking to, or the kind of arsenal I control. I could arm an entire nation with what I've got."
"I know," Doom replied, his tone like sharpened steel. "But I never said I planned to pay you. You seem to misunderstand my intent."
The smile vanished from Kafsky's face. His eyes hardened.
"I don't believe you'd dare," he said, his voice low and heavy. "You don't know who I am. You don't know the power I hold in Latveria. I control factories, armies, politicians. Cross me, outsider, and you won't just be fighting me—you'll be declaring war on—"
He never finished the sentence.
A surge of emerald energy erupted from Doom's gauntlet, blasting straight through Kafsky's chest. His eyes widened, disbelief freezing on his face as the life drained out of him. His body crumpled heavily to the floor—lifeless, pathetic, a corpse discarded like a dead dog.
The guards standing behind him were petrified. They had just witnessed the impossible: Kafsky, the most powerful warlord in Latveria—the man who could challenge even the Baron himself—was dead. Just like that.
"This…" Doom said, his voice calm and detached as he surveyed the room. "This is only the beginning."
Meanwhile, at Avengers Tower in New York…
Tony Stark was hunched over his workbench, running yet another full diagnostic on his Genesis Armor. No matter how many times he checked, he couldn't shake the unease gnawing at him. The armor was supposed to be flawless—the pinnacle of his genius. Yet something about it felt… wrong. Off. Like a shadow lurking over him that refused to disperse.
"Sir, all armor parameters remain within optimal range," J.A.R.V.I.S. reported as a holographic display projected the results.
Yes, everything was always "optimal." Every diagnostic came back clean. Every system check showed the Genesis Armor in perfect condition. The armor enhanced his strength, his speed, his very biology. And yet… Stark couldn't ignore the unsettling dissonance he felt every time he wore it.
He leaned over the holograms, brow furrowed. Perfect. Too perfect. Some of the numbers hadn't budged across countless tests—down to the decimal point. No system in the world remained that static. Not even his.
Wait.
No changes? Not even microscopic fluctuations?
Like a thunderbolt, the realization struck him. His eyes widened. He immediately pulled up a comprehensive log of all diagnostic records. Just as he feared—some parameters had remained frozen, identical across multiple scans. Even the decimals.
"This isn't right," Stark muttered. "J.A.R.V.I.S., pull system logs. I want every access record cross-referenced. We've got a bug to squash."
But instead of J.A.R.V.I.S.'s familiar calm voice, an ear-piercing screech filled the lab. Electronic static, jagged and shrill, like nails dragging across a chalkboard.
"J.A.R.V.I.S.?" Stark's voice tightened. "Hey, J, talk to me. What's going on?"
No response.
A cold dread sank into Stark's chest. J.A.R.V.I.S. never crashed. For silence to fall like this… it meant his AI had been compromised. Hijacked. Or worse—shut down.
Panic flared. Stark reached to activate the Genesis Armor manually—but pain lanced through his skull. His vision blurred. His chest tightened. His breath caught in his lungs. He staggered backward, knocking tools and components to the ground as he clutched his temples.
"Ughh—what the hell—"
The world spun. His knees buckled. And then, with a final groan, Tony Stark collapsed onto the cold floor of his lab, the once-great genius reduced to a gasping body sprawled beneath the shadow of his own creation.
--------------
T/N:
Access Advance Chapters on my
P@treon: [email protected]/MPHFics