His fingers tapped rhythmically on the table, making a ticking sound.
Whatever had happened, whoever the opponent was, he had to get back the Winter Soldier and the serum.
That was decades of HYDRA's hard work, the key to his future plans.
...
Stark Villa.
The morning sun shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows into the living room, casting warm spots of light on the floor.
Bucky Barnes was asleep in the guest room bed; this was the first time in seventy years he had truly slept.
There was no bone-chilling cold of the cryo-chamber, no drug injections before missions, no whispers of brainwashing programs in his mind.
There was only the soft mattress, the warm quilt, and the occasional chirping of birds outside the window.
Howard had helped him reattach that mechanical left arm; after all, he was awake now, and there was no need to be too wary of him. It was inconvenient to be missing a hand, after all.
Howard and Maria were also resting. Last night's ordeal had exhausted their energy. Although Mavuika's treatment had stabilized their injuries, the psychological shock would take time to heal.
Only Tony Stark had barely slept all night.
He was sitting in the Villa's study, which was Howard's private space, filled with books, blueprints, models, and various scientific instruments.
Tony rarely came in—not because he didn't want to, but because he felt it was too "Howard," full of his father's imprint and expectations.
But now, he sat at his father's desk, his fingers gently brushing over the smooth mahogany surface.
On the desk was an old photo taken during World War II. Young Howard Stark and Steve Rogers were standing together, with members of the Howling Commandos beside them, and Bucky Barnes was among them, smiling brightly.
Tony stared at that photo for a long time.
He had always known his father's work was risky; S.H.I.E.L.D. was not a charity, but an intelligence organization dealing with global security threats.
But he had never truly understood what that risk meant until last night, until he saw his parents in such a sorry state, and until he heard that the assassin known as the "Winter Soldier" had almost succeeded.
"If Mavuika had arrived a few seconds later..." Tony muttered to himself, leaving the hypothesis unfinished.
He dared not think about it.
Tony Stark had always considered himself a genius. He was smart, wealthy, young, and had everything an ordinary person dreamed of.
He designed weapons, drove sports cars, attended parties, and dated models... life was like a never-ending carnival.
But he had never really thought about what this carnival was built upon.
It was Stark Industries, built by his father's lifelong efforts; it was the relative peace of the World maintained by his parents' wisdom and courage; it was the safety bought by the lives of those who fought in the shadows.
And what was he, Tony Stark, doing?
Hosting lavish parties? Spending enough money in one night to support a small town for a month, pursuing thrills and pleasure? While his parents almost died on a remote country road.
He stood up and walked to the study window.
Outside the window was a meticulously maintained garden. Maria's favorite roses were in full bloom, looking delicate and dripping with dew in the morning light.
Further away, he could see the sea, sparkling, vast, and boundless.
He had thought all night. From the moment his parents were attacked, his brain had been racing, analyzing the situation, assessing risks, and looking for solutions.
The conclusion was clear: he needed power, resources, and influence.
And the fastest way to get all of that was to take over Stark Industries.
This was not an easy decision. Tony had always resisted this responsibility—not because he lacked the ability; he knew better than anyone that he was capable of managing the company well—but because he did not want to become the kind of person his father expected him to be.
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