Tony Stark's Point of View
Tony Stark leaned back in his plush seat, stretching his legs in the spacious cabin of his private jet as they cruised above the Atlantic. Across from him sat Pepper, busy tapping away on her tablet as she reviewed some final details.
Next to her, Happy was dozing lightly, his head bobbing slightly with the rhythm of the jet's hum. Natalie Rushman, a smoking hot red head, their newest addition to the team, sat by the window, focused but with an eye out for any signal from her boss.
Pepper glanced up, catching Tony's eye as she continued her update. "Oscorp acquisition is officially finalized. We should see stock reactions by the end of next week, though investors are already responding. Only Hammer Industries remains as a real competitor in the special weapons sector."
Tony gave a wry smile, chuckling as he crossed his arms. "Please, keep them around for the entertainment. Can you imagine the government trying to accuse me of monopolizing the market? Hammer's barely holding onto his company as it is, so competing with him is like competing with my shadow."
Pepper raised an eyebrow. "Oh, is that why you bought Oscorp? Just to play god over the market?"
Tony leaned forward, his smile turning more thoughtful. "No. I bought Oscorp because Norman Osborn's failing health was causing investor panic. That's usually when someone like Hammer swoops in, trying to grab tech he barely understands. And thanks to some good old-fashioned snooping by Jarvis, I found out Oscorp had failed to deliver on their latest government contract. They were working on a single-man stealth aerial transport system: an exoskeleton suit for a soldier and a glider capable of handling a heavier weapons payload. It's not quite Iron Man, but it's the closest anyone's come."
Pepper smirked. "So you're telling me this wasn't just about showing off?"
Tony shrugged, letting a sly grin slide across his face. "Well, it doesn't hurt. But mainly, I bought it to keep it out of Hammer's slimy hands. I'd hate to see what kind of disaster he'd cause if he got hold of tech even half as sophisticated as Iron Man."
Pepper sighed, a smile tugging at her lips as she closed her tablet. "You're insufferable."
Just then, the pilot's voice crackled through the intercom. "Mr. Stark, we're preparing to land in Monaco. Estimated arrival in ten minutes."
Tony grinned, rubbing his hands together. "Perfect. I feel like I could use a bit of R&R. And maybe a few laps on the track. Monaco's not just about gambling, you know."
Pepper rolled her eyes. "Somehow, I doubt you're here just for the racing."
Tony winked at her, his eyes glinting with mischief. "Guess you'll just have to find out."
---
Part 2: Peter Parker's Point of View
The midnight air was thick and stagnant, clinging to Peter as he crouched in the shadows, his hood pulled low over his face. His gaze fixed on the Dodge Ram parked under the streetlight, its sleek body glistening like a beast waiting to strike. In the driver's seat sat Rheshetnikov Pavlovich, a hulking figure with a thick gold chain around his neck, his gaze predatory as he scanned the scantily clad women walking the streets.
Peter's jaw tightened. He remembered the police report he'd read about the woman who had stumbled out onto the street, bloodied and broken, only to be run down by a car as she tried to escape. She had been beaten senseless by her pimp—a man with a long list of charges that had never stuck. Pavlovich. The man sitting right in front of him.
A seasoned thug in the Russian mob, Pavlovich had built his reputation on violence. Assault, drug distribution, sexual battery—Peter had seen the list of his crimes. He could hear the smug satisfaction in Pavlovich's voice as he'd walked out of court each time, knowing he was untouchable. The police couldn't touch him, but Peter could.
Peter stood, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie as he sauntered down the street toward the car. He was close enough to see Pavlovich tapping on his phone, eyes flicking up and down the block in between. With a slow movement, Peter took a piece of galvanized pipe from his pocket and dragged it along the side of the truck, scratching the paint in a long, jagged line.
The screech of metal on metal caught Pavlovich's attention instantly. He whipped around, fury blazing in his eyes as he swung open the car door. "What the fuck are you doing?" he bellowed, in a heavy Russian accent.
Peter didn't answer. Instead, he gave Pavlovich a slow, mocking look over his shoulder and with all due disrespect, raised his middle finger, letting the gesture speak for itself.
Rage contorted Pavlovich's face, and without another word, he pulled a gun from his jacket, aiming it at Peter. But Peter was already moving, darting down a nearby alleyway, his footsteps echoing in the darkness. Pavlovich followed, charging after him, his shouts growing louder as he pursued Peter into the shadows.
Peter's heart raced, but he wasn't afraid. Quite the opposite. He was calm, focused, his senses heightened. As Pavlovich rounded the corner, Peter stepped out from behind a dumpster, the Sanguineista dagger gleaming in his hand. With one swift, brutal movement, Peter drove the blade into Pavlovich's throat, his other hand grabbing the thug's wrist, twisting it until he heard a sickening crack and the gun clattered to the ground.
Pavlovich's eyes widened in terror, his body jerking as he tried to pull away, but Peter held him firm, the blade driving deeper as he whispered softly, "Go ahead, Steven… devour."
The crimson glow from the dagger pulsed, growing brighter as it began to absorb Pavlovich's life force, his essence. Peter watched, unflinching, as the man's features twisted in horror and agony, his face paling as his very life was siphoned away into the blade. Slowly, Pavlovich's body began to wither, his skin graying, his eyes sinking into their sockets.
The process was grotesque, but Peter felt no remorse, only a cold satisfaction as he watched Pavlovich fade into a lifeless husk, his soul consumed by the blade. With a final, silent breath, Pavlovich crumbled, leaving nothing but ash scattered across the dirty alley floor.
Peter released his grip on the dagger, watching as it shrank back to its original size, the once-ivory blade now a deep, crimson hue. It had absorbed the essence, the power that would fuel his next ritual. He gave a short nod, satisfied, before turning and slipping back into the shadows.
---
Later, in Peter's Bedroom
Back at the Brant house, Peter lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as memories of the last few months washed over him. It had been four months since Flash had vanished. He recalled watching Flash's parents on the news, their tearful pleas for information on their son's disappearance.
There was even a half-million-dollar reward for his return. The hypocrisy disgusted him. How many times had those same parents turned a blind eye to their son's cruelty, to the monster he was? Now they paraded his memory as if he were some saint. Peter almost laughed at the thought.
He could still see Flash's face in his mind, that look of terror as the dagger had drained the life from him. And tonight, he'd seen the same look in Pavlovich's eyes, the same dread that his other targets had shown as they realized their fate. Each one had been a criminal, someone the system couldn't or wouldn't touch. Peter was simply doing what needed to be done.
And the rewards had been practical, too. After disposing of each target, he'd taken whatever money they had on them. It was only fair, he reasoned, given that they wouldn't be needing it anymore. He'd used that cash to upgrade his laptop, which he now used to hack into police databases with ease. It had been a simple matter of leaving a "Bermuda vacation raffle" flyer by the police precinct's front desk. The worm embedded in the link had given him access to the database by creating a backdoor.
Each life the blade claimed added a new layer of crimson, staining the once-ivory blade until it was nearly a solid, blood-red. But when he used the essence stored within, it would revert to its original state, ready to be filled again. He understood the blade's hunger, its need to feed. It was the same hunger he felt deep within himself.
His thoughts drifted to the artifacts he'd created. The first had been a simple ring. It had been a test, a way to see if the gauntlet's power could be harnessed to affect the world around him. And it had worked. When he wore the ring, people struggled to remember him, his image slipping from their minds as soon as he was out of sight. Even in videos and photographs, his face appeared blurred, unrecognizable. He'd tested it repeatedly, ensuring its effectiveness.
But now, he was after something more significant. The Elixir of Potential. He didn't know exactly what it would do, but he had deciphered its ingredients and knew it required an immense amount of essence to create. He had been patient, gathering the necessary components and storing the essence in the gauntlet, waiting for the right moment