Tony flipped the two heavy gold coins in his palm, the metal clinking with a sharp, resonant chime that echoed in the cavernous penthouse lab. He stared at the engraved surfaces, the manic energy of a few moments prior cooling into a grim, calculating focus.
"I pulled two last cycle as well," Tony said, his voice stripped of its usual bravado. He looked up at Fox and Wick. "I'm hoping the field this time is slightly less insane."
Fox didn't blink. She stood completely still, perfectly tailored and entirely unimpressed by the staggering wealth surrounding them. "The Dragon Balls."
Tony let out a short breath, turning toward a reinforced wall safe hidden behind a holographic display. He worked the biometric combination, the heavy tumblers thudding into place. When he turned back, the twin amber spheres rested in his hands, their internal, starlit glow casting long shadows across his forearms. He handed them over without ceremony, the transfer feeling like the signing of a very dangerous contract.
Fox pocketed the artifacts smoothly, the lethal lines of her suit swallowing the glowing orbs without a trace. She looked at Tony. "Your wish?"
Tony shook his head, looking down at his empty hands. "Resurrect my parents." He paused. A muscle ticked in his jaw. The silence in the room suddenly felt incredibly dense. "Though I've realized I have a problem—if I actually win, I have to pick one. My father or my mother. I haven't worked that out yet."
He considered it for a moment, a hollow, bitter smile touching the corner of his mouth as he stared at the floor. "Fortunately, I haven't won anything, so it's still theoretical."
Fox offered a single, curt nod. She turned to leave, her heels clicking sharply against the polished concrete. But halfway to the elevator, she stopped. She looked at John Wick, then turned back to Tony. Her dark eyes locked onto his, carrying a sudden, crushing weight.
"Smith wanted me to tell you," Fox said, her voice dropping the professional detachment, leaving only a cold, absolute warning. "This is the last tournament. If there's something you need from it, don't hold anything back."
She and John stepped into the waiting elevator, the glass doors sliding shut before Tony could even part his lips to respond.
Inside the descending glass cage, Fox stared straight ahead at the plunging skyline of Manhattan. She adjusted her lapel, her movements tight. "I went off-script."
"Technically," John said. His deep, gravelly voice vibrated in the small space, a grounding anchor. He kept his eyes on the floor numbers counting down. "We're not supposed to volunteer that. But you're his woman, and you were passing along his words. I don't think he'll object."
"I'll tell him anyway."
Up in the penthouse, Tony stood perfectly still at the floor-to-ceiling window long after they were gone. He let the information settle into his bones like lead.
The last one. He didn't know if that was Smith finally responding to the years of relentless, mounting pressure Tony had applied, or something else entirely—some larger, terrifying calculus the Inspector General was running that Tony wasn't privy to. It didn't really matter. The mechanics were irrelevant. What mattered was the chilling realization that the cosmic luck that had put two Dragon Balls in his hands, not once but twice, was a finite resource. You didn't keep drawing that card forever. The deck was running out.
Tony turned away from the window. He crossed the vast room, his footsteps heavy, and pressed his palm flat against a seemingly seamless panel on the far wall.
Pneumatic locks hissed. The wall slid back, revealing a subterranean vault bathed in stark, clinical white light.
The Mark series suits stood in a perfect, imposing row—a full phalanx of modern armor, each one finished in secondary adamantium. Their matte surfaces caught the light in clean, brutal geometric planes. They were formidable. They were lethal.
But in the center, elevated slightly on a reinforced dais, one suit sat apart from the others.
True adamantium. Tony stared at it. The metal didn't just reflect the light; it seemed to absorb it, radiating an immovable, god-defying density. The military had dragged their feet on the alloy for eighteen agonizing months, claiming supply chain issues and bureaucratic red tape. Tony still wasn't sure if their excuses were genuine or if they were just squeezing him for leverage. It had taken favors he had physically loathed spending, backroom threats, and arrangements that kept him awake at night to finally secure the raw material.
But there it was. A singular, indestructible weapon.
He stood there, staring at the silent titan, the hum of the arc reactor in his chest the only sound in the room.
"Getting self-absorbed?"
Tony didn't flinch. He recognized the soft cadence of the footsteps. Pepper leaned in the doorway of the vault, her arms crossed, a fond, faintly amused expression softening the sharp lines of her corporate attire.
"Third Dragon Ball Tournament," Tony said, his voice sounding entirely too loud in the metallic acoustics of the armory. He didn't look away from the central suit. "I'm not holding anything in reserve this time."
She stepped into the room, the warmth of her presence cutting through the cold, sterile air. She came to stand close beside him, her fingers finding his and intertwining tightly. "You don't have to win it this cycle, Tony. There'll be another one. And the one after that. You'll get there."
Tony squeezed her hand. His gaze remained locked on the true adamantium faceplate. "Fox said this is the last one."
Pepper went entirely quiet. The soft, reassuring smile faded from her lips. She looked from the imposing row of metal suits to the grim, unyielding profile of the man she loved. Her grip on his hand tightened until her knuckles turned white.
"Then do what you can do," she whispered, her voice fierce and unwavering. "That's all."
The Dragon Ball sensor glowed a muted, rhythmic pulse, leading Wenwu and Michael through the chaotic sprawl of midtown Manhattan and straight into the heavily air-conditioned, neon-lit corridors of a high-end shopping mall.
Michael, towering over the afternoon shoppers, glanced around at the luxury storefronts and pretzel stands. The scent of cinnamon and expensive perfume was overpowering. "I assumed she'd be at the Avengers compound. We could have ridden out with Alexei."
"She's seen us," Wenwu said quietly. He didn't break stride, parting the crowd of shoppers with an ancient, invisible gravity that made people subconsciously step out of his path without ever realizing why.
Jessica Jones stood near a brightly lit display window, a heavy shopping bag cutting into her leather-clad shoulder. She watched them approach, her expression a masterclass in cynical exhaustion. She knew Michael—the Paragons' resident werewolf, built like a structural support beam and, bizarrely, possessed of actual, polite manners.
The man next to him, however, she didn't recognize from any of the dossiers Nick Fury had shoved across her desk. And that was a problem. It meant Fury either didn't have a photo of this man, or the spy had deliberately chosen not to share it. Looking at the stranger—the impeccable tailoring, the impossibly still posture, the eyes that looked like they had witnessed the rise and fall of empires—she guessed it was the latter.
After retrieving her Dragon Ball from Fury, she hadn't gone back to the compound to train. The briefing had simply been too much reality to sit with. The previous tournament roster—Thor, an immortal warlord, the actual Eternals, a master of the mystic arts, and Tony Stark—was not a list that made a person want to immediately start hitting a heavy bag. Punching a sand-filled canvas sack felt remarkably stupid when your opponent was a literal god of thunder.
Retail therapy, complete with overpriced boots, had seemed like the only rational, mathematically sound response.
"Michael," she said as they stopped in front of her, leaning her weight onto one hip. "Here for me?"
"Yes, Ms. Jones." Michael gave a polite, measured nod.
Jessica's eyes darted past them, scanning the oblivious teenagers and tourists milling around the concourse. "Is there a case? Something that needs the Avengers involved?"
"Nothing like that." Michael kept his rumbling voice perfectly level, aware of the acoustic bounce in the mall. "We're representatives of the Dragon Ball Tournament organizers. We need to verify a few things with you." He looked around at the heavy foot traffic, his brow furrowing slightly. "Not here, though."
Jessica stared at him, her eyebrows shooting up toward her hairline. "The Paragons are running the tournament?"
"The Paragons aren't the organizers," Wenwu corrected smoothly. His voice wasn't loud, but it possessed a resonant, commanding timbre that immediately demanded absolute attention. He looked around pointedly at a family holding ice cream cones practically standing at their elbows.
Jessica caught herself. Right. Mall. Civilians within earshot. She shifted the heavy shopping bag. "Sorry. My place?"
They followed her out, leaving the aggressively cheerful pop music behind.
The Avengers had set her up in a solid, pre-war apartment building on the Upper West Side. It wasn't something she would have picked for herself—the lobby was a little too clean, the neighbors a little too quiet—but the water pressure was phenomenal, and it was comfortable enough that she hadn't complained.
She unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal a living room that was considerably messier than the lobby. She dropped her bags onto the floor with a heavy thud, swept a leather jacket off one of the mismatched chairs, and gestured vaguely to the small sitting area.
They sat. The air in the room immediately felt three times heavier.
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