#Features of data warehouse

[junaidjee]

What are Advantages and Disadvantages of Data Warehouse

What is data warehouse A data warehouse is a space where structured data is stored, analysed and fetched. The data can be historical data or new data. Small and medium-sized businesses don’t use data warehouses but use cloud-based services for storing data. Big organizations and multinational companies use data warehouses for storing their large data. Suppose a large company uses a data…

[inkformyblood]

to be researched and known (CWFKB25)

Free space (Keldabe Kiss), DBH/Android AU, Android! Cody, established relationship @codywanfirstkissbingo

A shower of dust falls over them both as the bullet impacts the concrete just over their heads. Obi-Wan curses, his face pressed against warm skin, a bite of soft fabric muffling the sound.

“Sorry, sir,” Cody says and Obi-Wan senses the grin he’s wearing even as his features likely remain industry-standard noncommittal. “I didn’t quite catch that.”

“I said fucking hell, Cody, my dearest of loves.” Obi-Wan peels himself free of the android’s hold, mourning the loss of of Cody’s arm wrapped securely around his waist, the steady pressure of one hand against the gap between his shoulder blades, and consoles himself by bracing against Cody’s chest to peer out from behind their makeshift cover. It’s a lovely chest, after all, sculpted to be muscular but not intimidating and covered in the best imitation of skin developed so far. 

Another bullet hisses past his ear and Obi-Wan ducks back down. He presses one hand to the side of his head, the distant dull sound of the ocean echoing through his skull. Dust, likely carcinogenic, which Cody will list of the relevant broken health and safety laws for later, but no blood smeared over the crevasses of his palm. Their cover will be sufficient for the moment, barely more than a glorified lump of concrete half cradled by the wreckage of the industrial machine beneath it.

“Two assailants?” 

Obi-Wan takes stock of them both as he traces the pads of his fingers over Cody’s only causality so far: a missing button from his shirt. Obi-Wan is faring noticeably worse in comparison, his own shirt barely surviving through their coffee run earlier that morning and a thin film of dust ingrained into his scalp. Nothing is bleeding or broken, though his knees will not be thanking him later from the impact, partially cushioned by Cody’s quick thinking as he was. There will be bruises and scrapes to catalogue after the debriefing, back in the huddle of Obi-Wan’s apartment, the overgrown mausoleum press of his bathroom.

“The shots aren’t particularly angled.” Cody lifts his hand like he’s trying to tuck a stray lock of hair behind Obi-Wan’s ear, instead skimming his fingers over the shell, following the curve around to the lobe, pausing in the divot just behind. 

There’s an entire universe of data to be gathered from that single touch: the firmness of Obi-Wan’s skin for his water intake, the texture for his diet, the pale indentations littering his upper lobe for healed piercings, but one may be more telling. Obi-Wan’s heart flutters in his chest and Cody’s smile broadens into something beautiful. 

Cody continues. “I would wager that our attackers are a similar height to yourself, maybe a few inches shorter from their stride and the footprints they left at the entrance. They likely have a grievance with the police, but aren't professionally trained, since they're targeting you and not me.”

“You—“ Obi-Wan cracks on a quiet laugh, another shot impacting far above their heads as he does so. The sound echoes in the aching expanse of the warehouse, a section of the roof caved in to reveal the murky grey sky outside. “You are going to return to the company as a betting man.”

Cody tips his head to one side, a sprinkle of dust fresh against the lines in his cheek. It is an old volley, well-worn through repetition and Obi-Wan knows the ebb and flow of it like his own breath. The LED at his temple pulses, a strong blue chasing its own tail as he processes everything around them, plotting out his next move. It would be a thing of exacting wonder, Obi-Wan’s grin only widening as he sinks further into Cody’s hold.

“You’re going to return me, sir?” Cody’s free hand plucks Obi-Wan’s service pistol from the holster at his waist, thumbing the safety off as he does so. 

Obi-Wan’s heart picks up at the gentle click, anticipation burning through his veins. Cody had been programmed primarily for diplomacy; it is part of the reason why he had been assigned to be Obi-Wan’s partner on their first case together, but few events that Obi-Wan has witnessed could be compared to Cody when he is indulging in violence. It is brutal, efficient, and gloriously beautiful, a sun flare given vague shape and set free to burn bright. 

“Never,” Obi-Wan swears, leaning into Cody’s palm as if he could imprint the truth onto his skin. “You’re stuck with me, darling.”

“I want to try something,” Cody whispers. The LED at his temple spins, the only visible sign of hesitance as he waits for Obi-Wan’s answer. His gaze is dark and steady, a marvel of modern engineering plotted onto endless blueprints and tested until near-perfection but it still couldn’t compare to the reality. 

Obi-Wan nods. 

He isn’t expecting a kiss. They had spoken about it before, at some length, tipped together onto the sag of Obi-Wan’s couch with a neat measure of his inheritance poured into a glass with a few cock shaped ice cubes. That had warranted an explanation, a segway into Quinlan’s second round of stag do’s and how Obi-Wan woke up the next day with the tray tucked amongst his socks in his packed luggage. “It proves useful in breaking the ice,” he had said, already punch drunk and slightly concussed from their suspect that day, and he leant against Cody more than he needed to, the scent of his skin clean, nondescript.

“Ah,” Cody had said, his eyes tightening by a few degrees, his mouth angled into a sharp line. “Humour.” 

There’d been something about the delivery, the casual pinch and hold of the single word when Obi-Wan knows, he knows, that Cody downloaded a selection of shit jokes from the internet just to annoy Anakin, and Obi-Wan had dissolved into giggles, clutching Cody like a lifeline. 

He had looked up into Cody’s gaze when Obi-Wan had steadied once more, the flex of his ribs an ache that radiates down to his hip, and he saw something. Gone before he could recognise its existence, as fleeting as the human soul, but there had been something there defined by its absence.

“I think I’d like to kiss you, sir,” Cody had said. Easy. Simple. Like he couldn’t ask Obi-Wan for his beating heart in a gift box the same way and Obi-Wan would learn how to tie ribbons so it would be beautiful.

“Why don’t you?”

“The sensors in my mouth. The resulting influx of information would not be pleasant.” Cody had nodded sharply. “I’ll research it, sir.”

“Has your research borne fruit, my dearest Cody?” Obi-Wan whispers, matching his volume. It feels almost childish, a squirming kicking joy in his belly, a secret made all the more potent because of the cupped hands, a mouth brushing against the shell of an air, cheeks pressed together to learn the shape of it. 

Cody leans closer, lining his forehead to Obi-Wan’s, their noses bumping together before Cody draws them both back into alignment.

“This,” Cody breathes, so close, so wonderful.

“Perfect, my love. Like I knew it would be.”

[reyaint]

criminal minds case concept/idea for drs

bc @cyb3rl0v asked. @iamsoldierpoetandking

the post

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date: June 17 2025.

started: 12:28am. ended: 2:22

i'm not gonna make it very aesthetic bc yeah. anyway. i'm doing this on my phone so it's probably gonna be ugly

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WARNINGS. psychological torture, death game, mentions of death, suicide and kidnapping. 🤷 this is criminal minds idk what you're expecting.

this idea was created by me, as well as the characters i'll mention. so if you use it just @ me. but you're free to use it just like any of my other ideas as long as I get credit. I worked on this earlier today in the car so it may be a bit messy. also I'm very indecisive so of anything isn't all matching it's bc I changed stuff while working on it and was too lazy to fix it. so

inspirations: alice in borderline, alice in wonderland, rafscrap's chorus battles A-L1, A-L2, A-L3.

episode concept: "The Gauntlet"

the case overview

case name: The Wonderland Games

location: abandoned textile factory, outskirts of Mobile, Alabama

victims: 50 young adults (ages 19-25), organized into 25 pairs

survivors: 14 individuals (7 pairs)

duration: 72 hours

the game

50 kidnapped individuals (25 groups of 2) wake up inside an abandoned multi-story warehouse-turned-kill-labyrinth.

each group is fitted with collars — either explosive or injective (with paralytics or toxins), synced to one another. if your partner dies, you die, now or later.

objective: make it through a series of trials. Only 5–7 groups can survive. no one knows how many groups there are, or what the exact end is.

the teams

each team is based on a Wonderland character motif — it reflects their dynamic or design (either ironically or truthfully).

the factory was converted into a multi-level maze with themed rooms representing different Alice in Wonderland scenes. each pair was assigned a Wonderland character identity and given weapons that ironically contrasted their backgrounds or beliefs.

some teams if one is injured they mercy kill or have a mutual sucide because they're gonna die anyway (I got nothing.)

structure

the factory was divided into five main levels, each representing a scene from Alice in Wonderland. the UnSubs monitored everything through hidden cameras, live-streaming to paying customers on the dark web while collecting psychological data on extreme stress responses.

each pair was given a Wonderland identity and color-coded bracelets that couldn't be removed:

- Alice (White) - amadrya & vincent: the main victims being followed throughout the episode(s)

the BAU gets involved

a livestream link is sent anonymously to local police and federal authorities. It’s disturbing — live footage of two terrified young adults in a bloody warehouse.

so far, four similar videos have been leaked in the last 72 hours. At least three confirmed dead.

BAU is called in when the fourth stream features a local college student whose parents had reported her missing two days ago.

Initial theory: black market red-room content, or a psychopathic cult-like game.

the UnSub profiles (BAU)

victims share age range: 19–25. varied backgrounds, but many are college-aged, socially active online, and had some level of recent mental or emotional stress.

garcia finds they were all lured or manipulated to disappear willingly — a "party," “escape room challenge,” “audition,” etc.

the team starts suspecting an inner circle of recruiters — not all players are random targets; someone they trust got them into this.

some rooms involve psychological riddles, others involve moral choices (“You can save your partner if you agree to lose a finger” — that kind of thing).

the UnSubs

primary UnSub - "The Mad Hatter"

dr. markus roberts, 45, former child psychologist who lost his license after unethical experiments on minors. Brilliant but deeply disturbed, he orchestrated the psychological framework of the games. his obsession with Alice in Wonderland stemmed from his belief that only through extreme trauma could people achieve "true clarity" - his twisted interpretation of Alice's journey through Wonderland.

secondary UnSub - "The Queen of Hearts"

rebecca shields, 38, former military logistics coordinator with expertise in surveillance and tactical operations. she handled the technical aspects: cameras, building security, victim transport. her military background made her ruthlessly efficient at the operational side.

tertiary UnSub - "The White Rabbit"

yes I looked up a different way to say third and that came up.

david chen, 32, a tech entrepreneur whose social media company went bankrupt. he managed the live streams, sold access to wealthy buyers on the dark web, and recruited the "betrayers" through financial manipulation and blackmail.

live stream & audience

- average of 2,000-5,000 concurrent viewers paying $500+ per hour of access

- betting pools on individual survivors and pairs

- private chat rooms where viewers request specific challenges

- total revenue exceeded $2 million over 72 hours

- viewers could "sponsor" weapons or challenges for additional fees

audience psychology

the BAU's analysis revealed viewers fell into three categories:

1. thrill seekers: wealthy individuals seeking extreme entertainment

2. sadists: people who enjoyed watching others suffer

3. gamblers: high-stakes betting on outcomes

technical infrastructure

- professional-grade streaming equipment with multiple camera angles

- encrypted servers in multiple countries

- cryptocurrency payment systems to avoid detection

- backup systems to prevent interruption

the games

FLOOR 1: "DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE"

(25 pairs → 22 pairs survive)

duration: 6 hours

each pair wakes up in identical 8x8 concrete rooms with their assigned weapons and character names. the rooms are soundproof but equipped with cameras and speakers. a riddle appears on the TV screen that can only be answered through inflicting harm.

sample riddles:

- "to find the key that sets you free, one must bleed for all to see. The deeper the cut, the clearer the way, but hesitate too long and here you'll stay."

- "trust is earned through sacrifice shared. Show your bond through flesh that's bared. only when both have paid the price, will you roll the loaded dice."

weapons by character assignment:

- Alice & Knight (Amadrya & Vincent): sharpened cross & dull knife

- Mad Hatter & March Hare: broken teacup shards & wooden mallet

- Cheshire Cat & White Rabbit: razor wire & pocket watch with sharp edges

- Queen of Hearts & King of Hearts: playing cards with sharpened edges & decorative scepter

- Tweedledee & Tweedledum: identical curved daggers

- Caterpillar & Dormouse: hookah pipe (metal) & letter opener

- Red Queen & White Queen: chess pieces (sharpened) & mirror shards

FLOOR 2: "THE POOL OF TEARS"

(22 pairs → 18 pairs survive)

duration: 8 hours

the surviving pairs are released onto a flooded floor where the water level varies from ankle-deep to chest-deep. they're handcuffed together and must navigate through a maze of rooms, some containing other pairs. each room has only one exit key, but multiple pairs may enter.

Room Types:

- drowning chambers: water level rises every 10 minutes. pairs must find the key before the room fills completely.

- current rooms: strong artificial currents try to separate the handcuffed pairs. if the chain breaks, both die.

- choice chambers: two pairs enter, but only one key. they must decide who lives.

- trust falls: one partner must go underwater to retrieve a key while the other holds them up. if trust fails, both drown.

psychological elements:

- speakers play distorted children's lullabies underwater

- floating objects include photos of the victims' families

- some rooms have false floors that give way unexpectedly

- mock rescue scenarios where voices call for help from sealed rooms

FLOOR 3: "THE MAD TEA PARTY"

(18 pairs → 12 pairs survive)

duration: 4 hours

all remaining pairs are brought into a large dining hall with an elaborate tea party setup. the room has 18 chairs around a massive table, but only enough food and water for 12 people. a giant clock on the wall counts down from 4 hours.

the rules:

- food and water are distributed around the table

- pairs must remain seated until the timer runs out

- if anyone stands or leaves their chair, poisonous gas fills the room

- the catch: there are only 12 portions, and everyone can see exactly what's available

psychological torture:

- the food is elaborate: roast beef, fresh bread, clean water, fruit - the first real sustenance in 24+ hours

- place cards with victims' real names and photos of their families

- speakers play recordings of loved ones asking them to "come home safe"

- some food is visibly poisoned (marked with skull symbols), creating doubt about all food

The Breakdown:

- hours 1-2: Tense standoff, pairs whispering, planning

- hour 3: First violence erupts when the "Mad Hatter" pair tries to take food from the "Caterpillar" pair

- hour 4: all-out brawl as starvation and desperation take over

I redid 4 because I didn't like it so if the format is different it's bc I didn't look at the other ones and just yapped. I'm tired now so I'm done.

FLOOR 4: "THE QUEEN'S CROQUET GROUND"

(12 pairs → 8 pairs survive)

duration: 16 hours

the surviving pairs enter a twisted maze designed like a croquet court, with high hedgerows creating narrow corridors and dead ends. unlike previous challenges, this is a psychological game of cat and mouse where pairs must navigate through "wickets" while avoiding or confronting each other. everyone keeps their original weapons - no upgrades, no additional tools.

Arena Layout:

- massive hedge maze with 15-foot walls

- nine "wickets" positioned throughout that must be passed through in sequence

- each wicket can only be used by one pair - once passed through, it seals behind them

- central "Queen's Court" area where multiple paths converge

- dead ends contain essential supplies (food, water, medical supplies) but create traps

The Croquet Rules:

- pairs must pass through all nine wickets in the correct sequence (marked with playing card suits)

- only one pair can use each wicket - it permanently seals after passage

- if a pair encounters another pair at a wicket, they must "duel" for the right to pass

- pairs can choose to go around blocked wickets, but this adds hours to their journey

- the first pair to complete all nine wickets and reach the exit wins food, water, and 8 hours of guaranteed rest

The Psychological Trap:

the maze is designed to force confrontations. multiple paths lead to the same wickets, and the hedge walls amplify sound - you can hear other pairs approaching but can't see them until you're face-to-face. the scarcity of resources and the one-way wicket system creates desperation.

Maze Elements:

- speakers hidden in hedges play whispered excerpts from victims' betrayers: "She was always too trusting... I had to do it... they said they'd kill my sister..."

- mirrors embedded in hedge walls at turns, forcing victims to see their deteriorating state

- some paths lead to alcoves with photos of victims' families and recordings of loved ones pleading for them to come home

- false wickets that lead nowhere, wasting precious time and energy

- the hedge maze shifts - some passages close or open randomly, separating pairs

Vincent and Amadrya's Navigation:

they use Amadrya's pattern recognition to map the maze and avoid other pairs initially. vincent's protective instincts keep them moving efficiently. they encounter Marcus and Jenna (the "Dormouse & Caterpillar" pair) at the seventh wicket after 12 hours of navigating.

The Confrontation:

Marcus and Jenna have been in the maze longer and are more desperate. they've been surviving on minimal water and no food. when they see Vincent and Amadrya approaching the seventh wicket:

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" Jenna snarls, exhausted and desperate. "Always one step ahead, always surviving. Well, this wicket is ours."

I love descriptive words (end me). I'm better at writing essays and things than dialogue.

the fight happens in the narrow corridor leading to the wicket. there's no room to maneuver, no escape route. It's brutal, desperate, and exactly what Vincent and Amadrya had been trying to avoid.

eliminations:

- two pairs die from dehydration after getting lost in false passages

- one pair eliminates another in a wicket confrontation but both partners are mortally wounded and die before reaching the exit

- Marcus and Jenna are killed by Vincent and Amadrya in the encounter described

- the remaining eight pairs (including Vincent and Amadrya) are too exhausted to continue fighting effectively

The Aftermath:

by the time the surviving pairs reach the final wickets, they're moving like zombies. the maze has broken them psychologically - they've heard each other's most intimate betrayals, seen themselves become killers, and lost all sense of time and direction. the hedge walls seem to close in, and several survivors show signs of severe claustrophobia and panic attacks.

FLOOR 5: "THE FINAL JUDGMENT"

(8 pairs → ? pairs intended to survive)

duration: Indefinite

the final room is a circular colosseum-style arena with tiered seating (empty, but cameras everywhere for the live stream audience). weapons line the walls - everything from the previous challenges plus new options like crossbows, swords, and maces.

The Final Rule:

"Only one pair may leave Wonderland. Prove you deserve to return to the real world."

What Actually Happens:

by this point, all survivors have been awake for 48+ hours with minimal food and water. they're running on pure adrenaline and survival instinct, but their bodies are shutting down. when they enter the final room, instead of fighting, they simply... stop.

the standoff:

- Amadrya can barely stand; Vincent holds her upright

- other pairs lean against walls or sit on the ground

- no one picks up weapons

- some survivors are crying, others stare blankly

- the silence stretches for over an hour

UnSub reaction:

the UnSubs expected a final battle royale for their paying audience. the passive resistance isn't part of the plan. they begin pumping in stimulants through the air system.

breaking point:

just as the UnSubs are about to flood the room with adrenaline-inducing drugs to force violence, the BAU breaches the facility.

the main victims being followed

amadrya tavens - ALICE

- age: 19

- height: 5'6

- nationality: american (greek-native american)

- occupation: dancer

- betrayal: stabbed by her friend after being led away during a party

- her weapon: a cross with a sharpened tip. amadrya is pagan, not Christian (ex- Christian due to religious trauma.)

I'm not hating on christians. I used to be one myself. People with religious trauma exist

seen as the "reluctant heroine" — calculating, quiet, and observant.

Initial reactions: silent fear masked by cold logic. tries to find puzzles or clues instead of violence.

her guilt trigger: she was betrayed by someone close. Religious trauma complicates her morality.

first kill triggers her spiraling — she dissociates, tries to make sense of it through rules, logic, pattern recognition.

in later rooms, she becomes the one who executes hard choices if Vincent hesitates.

lee vincent - THE KNIGHT

- age: 19

- height: 5'6

- nationality: american (korean-white. wasian)

- occupation: mechanic

- betrayal: held underwater by his friend but not killed. he was knocked unconscious.

- his weapon: a dull blade

Initially takes on protector role — logical, practical, emotionally detached.

but it’s Amadrya that keeps him grounded.

moment of humanity: after their second kill, he notices Amadrya’s hands shaking and physically grounds her (hand on shoulder, forehead to hers, soft-spoken).

his inner wound: He feels disposable — betrayed by a close friend. now he's clinging to survival not for himself, but because Amadrya needs someone who stays.

The "Alice" Theme:

they're navigating a twisted wonderland where logic is warped, but Amadrya's pattern recognition helps decode the madness while Vincent keeps her grounded in brutal reality.

[blueiscoool]

Royal Tomb, Greek-Language Writings Among Latest Discoveries in Egypt

Archaeologists have recently shed more light on what life was like thousands of years ago at Egypt’s Sohag province thanks to spectacular new findings spanning from 1700BC to the Byzantine era.

The Egyptian-American Archeological Mission of the University of Pennsylvania discovered a royal tomb in Abydos, while the Egyptian Archeological Commission of the Supreme Archaeological Council unearthed a complete Roman-era pottery workshop and 7th-century cemetery in the village of Benawit.

Among the findings is a collection of ostraca –potsherds used as a writing surface- with Greek-language writings on them.

Ancient Egyptian tomb discovery exposes Abydos kings Dynasty

The new royal tomb at Abydos was excavated at a depth of approximately 7 meters below ground level. It consists of a limestone burial chamber covered by mudbrick vaults that originally reached a height of approximately 5 meters.

Remains of inscriptions are found on either side of the entrance leading to the burial chamber of the goddesses Isis and Nephthys, along with yellow inscription bands that once bore the king’s name in hieroglyphs, according to Dr. Joseph Wagner, head of the mission.

Althought the name of the owner of the tomb has not been identified yet, Professor Mohamed Abdel Badie, head of the Egyptian Antiquities Sector at the Council, believes that it belonged to the kings previous to King Senebkay, whose tomb was discovered in Abydos by the mission in 2014.

He added that the newly discovered tomb is much larger than other previously known tombs attributed to the Abydos Dynasty, a series of kings who ruled Upper Egypt between 1700 and 1600 BC.

The discovery is expected to provide fresh scientific evidence on the development of royal tombs in the Mount Anubis necropolis and the kings of the Abydos Dynasty, offering a deeper understanding of the complex political history of Egypt’s Second Intermediate Period, according to Dr. Mohamed Ismail Khaled, Secretary General of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Archaeology.

Further research and study will be looking to determine the exact date of the tomb’s construction.

Site of the oldest decorated royal tomb in ancient Egypt

The Mount Anubis necropolis is considered one of the most important ones in the Abydos area.

It is a royal necropolis, and the mountain itself takes the shape of a pyramid.

King Senusret III (1874-1855 BC) chose the site to build his massive tomb beneath the natural pyramidal summit, a first in Egyptian civilization.

It was also chosen by a number of kings of the Thirteenth Dynasty, and later by the kings of the Abydos Dynasty, who built their tombs deep in the desert near the mountain.

The most famous of these is the tomb of King Senebkay, which is considered the oldest decorated royal tomb in ancient Egypt.

Roman-era pottery workshop discovered in Egypt

Also at Egypt’s Sohag province, where Abydos is located, a large pottery workshop of the Roman era and a 7th-century cemetery were discovered near the village of Banawit.

The site is believed to have been part of an industrial unit that supplied the region with pottery and glass. It includes a large group of kilns and extensive warehouses for storing vessels.

Among the discoveries is a group of 32 ostraca -pottery fragments with writings on them- featuring Demotic and Greek-language scripts.

The data was detailing commercial transactions at the time and the method of paying taxes.

Professor Mohamed Abdel Badie said that preliminary studies and evidence indicate that this site was used during the Byzantine era and was reused as a cemetery in the seventh century AD, possibly extending into the fourteenth century AD.

A number of burials were found at the site, including mudbrick tombs containing skeletons and mummies, likely representing family graves for men and women, the majority of whom were children.

Perhaps the most haunting burial discovery of the mission was the mummy of a child wearing a colorful fabric cap.

By Paula Tsoni.

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 18 The Hunt (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Detailed depictions of injuries and abuse. Mentions of past abuse Summary : Tony Stark becomes something beyond human , a machine driven by icy rage, relentless focus, and a singular goal: to find you. After receiving a horrifying call laced with sadistic cruelty and a scream he instantly recognizes as yours, Stark enters a sleepless, foodless, voiceless trance, transforming his office into a war room. Every screen, every algorithm, every ounce of technology is bent to his will in a digital manhunt for your location. When Jarvis finally locates a faint signal in an abandoned warehouse, Stark launches without hesitation, donning a specialized combat suit built for one purpose: ending this.

word count: 16.1k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter Stark hasn’t closed his eyes. Not for a second. He hasn’t swallowed a bite, hasn’t taken a sip of water. He hasn’t moved from his desk since the exact moment that voice slithered into his ear, slick and jagged like a rusted blade. Since that obscene breath passed through the line, that whisper soaked in menace and sadistic delight. Since that scream that raw, flayed scream, human, far too human ripped from a throat he knows too well, just before silence fell, sharp as a guillotine. Something broke then. Not in him. No. Something froze.

He’s no longer a man, not really. Not in this suspended moment, where even time seems too afraid to move forward. He’s become engine. Mechanism. Open-heart alert system. His blood doesn’t circulate it pulses, furious, carried by a cold, methodical, almost clinical rage. He is anger, but an anger without shouting. An anger that thinks, that calculates, that watches, that waits. A storm contained in a steel cylinder, ready to explode, but for now channeling all its violence into the glacial logic of action.

In the office, the tension is almost tangible. The air feels charged, saturated with something indefinable a blend of ozone, electricity, and pure stress. Every surface vibrates slightly, as if the metal itself shared the heartbeat of its occupant. The silence isn’t soothing. It’s oppressive, built on thick layers of concentration, anticipation, restrained fury. Only mechanical sounds mark the space: the faint crackle of a screen refreshing, the nervous clicks of his fingers on holographic interfaces, the low vibrations of the servers in the adjoining room, humming at full capacity. Around him, a dozen screens stream data without pause. Some display ultra-precise satellite maps, sweeping over New York rooftops for any suspicious movement. Others track mobile signals, tracing the latest paths of every device even remotely connected to the target. Still others comb through databases, merge biometric information, detect faces, match voice prints. A thermal image of a building overlays a 3D city map. An audio feed scrolls at high speed, saturated with static. Nothing escapes analysis. Nothing is left to chance.

Stark is motionless, but every muscle in his body is tense. His back is hunched, elbows braced on the desk edge, fingers clenched around the projected interface hovering above the glass. His bloodshot eyes lock onto the central screen without blinking. His eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not until the target is found. Not until the one he’s searching for is no longer missing. He won’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. He swore he’d never let anyone be hurt again. And he holds to his vows the way others hold to weapons. The blue glow of the monitors cuts across his face with surgical cruelty. Every shadow on his skin is a confession: fatigue, deep dark circles, drawn features, hollow cheekbones. But these marks don’t diminish him. They add a near-inhuman intensity to his gaze, a ruthless clarity. A will that, for now, eclipses even the most basic biological needs. He hasn’t slept, because he doesn’t have the right. He hasn’t eaten, because the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. His body is secondary. It’s nothing but a vessel for the mission.

He murmurs sometimes. Commands, codes, equations. He speaks to no one, but the AI responds instantly. Every word he utters is sharp, precise, guided by a logic untouched by panic. One name comes back again and again. A biometric file. A GPS identifier. Trackers. Coordinates. He’s no longer looking for a person — he’s hunting a fixed point in the storm. The center of a search and rescue system. And Stark is ready to flatten entire city blocks to bring that point back to him. When the internal alerts go off soft, discreet, almost polite signaling a drop in blood pressure, critical dehydration, or prolonged hypervigilance, he silences them with a flick of the hand. He shuts them off. Nothing exists outside this room, outside this moment. Outside this mission. The rage is there, but tamed, carved into a weapon.

Somewhere, he knows he’s crossing the line. That he’s nearing an invisible boundary. But he doesn’t care. He’s seen too many people die, too many names fade into archives. This time, he won’t be too late. So he keeps going. Relentlessly. He cross-references data, filters messages, follows leads. He digs, over and over, down to the bone. And behind him, the world can tremble all it wants. He’ll hold. Because he made a promise. Because this time, no one will disappear into the shadows without him tearing them out of the night.

His eyes never leave the screens. They’re locked in, anchored, consumed to the point of obsession. They devour every bit of information, every image, every pixel variation, as if he might uncover a hidden confession. Nothing escapes him. No movement, no data, no anomaly in the flow. His pupils, dilated from exhaustion, cling to the smallest detail, hunting a trace, a footprint, a breath left behind by the one he’s chasing without pause. He’s isolated search zones. Redrawn entire sections of the city. Compared every map of New York with thermal readings, overlaying layers like a surgeon operating through urban tissue. He’s overridden protections on multiple private networks without hesitation. Intercepted anonymous communications, analyzed movement patterns, recalibrated his internal software to tailor the algorithms to a single, solitary target. The tools he designed for international diplomacy, for global crisis response — he’s repurposed them now for a personal hunt. A cold war fought in the digital guts of the city.

And always, he comes back to that name. That shadow. That absence. Matthew. A ghost with no fingerprint, no signal, no flaw to exploit. But Stark refuses that idea. No. That kind of man doesn’t vanish. That kind of man always leaves traces — out of pride. Out of carelessness. Out of vanity. And if it means turning the city inside out, if it means digging down to reinforced concrete, to buried cables and the forgotten strata of the network — then so be it. He’s ready to search through the world’s marrow to find what remains. Cables snake across the floor, twisted like raw nerves, connected to makeshift terminals. Holograms hover in the air, pulsing with spectral, slow, almost organic light. The room, once functional and sterile, has lost its ordinary shape. This is no longer an office. It’s a clandestine command post. A digital war cell born out of urgency, powered by fear and brute will. On one wall, an unstable projection flickers: a gridded map of New York, each red zone corresponding to growing probabilities, invisible tension. Alternating, a partially reconstructed file plays pulled from a burner phone. The lines of code shimmer as if still resisting comprehension.

And at the center of it all, him. Motionless. A sculptor of chaos. He doesn’t move an inch, but his mind roars. He calculates, projects, anticipates at a speed even his most advanced AIs couldn’t match. He’s faster than the machines, because this time, it’s not for a global mission. It’s not to protect a council or a treaty. It’s not for peace. It’s personal. And nothing is more dangerous than a man like him when he’s acting for himself. His face is frozen. Carved from stone. No expression filters through. No emotion leaks out. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not a word. His jaw is locked, clenched. His chin trembles sometimes under the pressure, but he doesn’t give in. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, blink on autopilot but his gaze stays sharp, cutting. That look… it belongs to a man who’s already made up his mind. It’s no longer a question of if. It’s a matter of when, how, and how much time is left. And above all, of what will be left of the other man once he finds him. He is cold. Precise. Fatally focused. Each beat of his heart seems to align with the hum of the machines. He’s perfectly synchronized with his environment. A machine among machines. He’s become the system’s core. The cold, methodical intelligence of a silent hunt — carried out without rest, without sleep, without mercy.

The door slides open with a discreet, almost timid sigh. As if it, too, understood that this moment must not be disturbed. No sound dares to break the fragile balance of the room. Not here. Not now. Even the walls seem to hold their breath, petrified by the intensity that fills the space. The bluish light of the screens slices through the artificial darkness in shifting shards, casting sharp, vibrating shadows across Stark’s features — like carvings made by a blade. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Nothing escapes him. His silence is a barrier, a verdict. He’s there. Frozen. Silent. Unshakable. And around him, the universe seems to understand that something has been set in motion. Something that can no longer be stopped.

Pepper enters without a word. The silence wraps around her instantly, like a heavy veil she doesn’t dare pierce. She says nothing — not yet. Everything about her is more subdued than usual, as if her body has attuned itself to the electric tension of the room. Her usual heels have been traded for flat shoes, chosen mechanically, without real thought. She knew when she got up this morning. No need to read the reports or check the alerts. She felt it, in every fiber of her being — this day would be different. Draining. Slow. Hard. And Tony, on days like this, is not a man to reason with. He becomes a wall. Steel. An unbreachable frontier. This isn’t a state crisis, not one of those media storms they’ve learned to face together, side by side, dressed to perfection with rehearsed smiles. No. This is something else. A silent war. Private. Intimate. And in that kind of war, Tony lets no one in. Almost no one.

In her hands, she holds two mugs. One is for her — a reflex gesture, more for the weight than the content, because she’ll set it down somewhere and forget it immediately. The other is for him. Strong coffee, black, unsweetened, scorching. Just how he likes it. She didn’t ask, didn’t guess. She knows. Because for years, she’s known his silences, his mood swings, his automatic habits. She knows the rare things that bring him a sliver of stability when everything is falling apart. She walks slowly. With that quiet elegance that is uniquely hers. Each step is precise, measured. She avoids the cables snaking across the floor like exposed veins. Dodges the hastily pushed chairs, the luminous angles of suspended holograms hanging in the air, slow and unstable like open wounds. Everything around her pulses, breathes, crackles. The smell of steaming coffee mixes with metallic fumes, with the warm emissions of overheating machines. A fleeting human note in this lair transformed into a war organ.

She approaches. Just a few feet from him now. The blue halo of the screens washes over her, casting cold, almost supernatural shards onto her skin. She still doesn’t say a word. Because she, too, senses what’s happening here. She reads silence like an ancient language. She knows that if she speaks too soon, too quickly, she could shatter everything — the balance, the tension, the fierce concentration holding him upright. Tony doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s her. He saw, without really looking, her silhouette trembling on the standby screen, like a spectral apparition. He recognized her breath — controlled, steady, modulated by habit not to disrupt critical moments. He felt her presence the way you feel a warm current crossing a frozen room: discreet, but undeniable. She’s here.

But he doesn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers keep dancing over the interfaces, his eyes fixed on the data. His jaw remains locked, his posture rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t reject her presence. He accepts it without acknowledging it. She’s part of the setting, part of the very structure of this ongoing war. She is the silent anchor he’ll never ask for, but needs all the same. And she knows it. So she stays. Present. Still. Mug in hand. Waiting for him to speak — or to break. His fingers glide over the holographic interface with almost surgical precision. They graze the projected data blocks in the air, moving them, reorganizing, dissecting them as if trying to carve raw truths buried under layers of code, pixels, and silence. A building on 43rd Street. An unusual thermal signature spotted at 3:12 a.m. A encrypted phone line briefly located in South Brooklyn, before vanishing into a labyrinth of anonymous relays. He isolates. He cross-references. He sorts. He discards. He starts again. Every manipulation is an act of war. He develops a thousand hypotheses per minute, evaluates them, abandons them, replaces them. A thousand leads, a thousand fleeting micro-truths, vanishing as soon as he tries to fix them. And always, that voice in his head. That twisted, wet breath haunting him since the call. That scream — shrill, inhuman. That panic. And the silence that followed. The kind of silence only blood knows how to echo.

Pepper, still silent, watches. She hasn’t moved since entering. Her eyes shift from the screen to Tony’s face, then to his hands. She sees what he refuses to admit: his movements are less precise. They tremble sometimes. Nervous flickers, involuntary, imperceptible to others — but not to her. There’s that tiny jolt in his palm when two images overlap without matching. That subtle twitch of his fingers when the algorithm returns an empty result. That tension in his joints with every failure, every dead end. She takes a step forward. Slowly, silently. She places the mug at the edge of the desk, just within his field of vision. Not too close, not too far. She sets it where he could reach for it without thinking, by reflex, if some part of him still remembered how to drink something. If his lips still knew how to welcome anything other than orders. But deep down, she knows he probably won’t. Not now. Maybe not at all. She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes never leave him. They linger on his neck, that taut, rigid line, almost painful. On his shoulders, hunched forward, drawn tight like bows ready to snap. She reads the exhaustion in the way his muscles clench, in how he holds his breath when results elude him, in that violent stubbornness that keeps him from stepping back — even for a second.

Then she speaks. Barely. Her voice is a whisper. A caress in a space saturated with tension. A suspended breath, respectful. As if she were speaking to a wounded animal, to a raw heart that a single harsh word might cause to shatter.

— "You should drink something."

No reproach. No judgment. Not even any real expectation. Just an invitation, soft, almost unreal in this room ruled by the cold light of screens and the hum of machines. A reminder, simple and human, that he still has a body. That he’s still a man. Not just an overheated mind, a burning brain, dissociated from everything else. She doesn’t expect a response. She doesn’t even want one. What she’s offering isn’t a solution. It’s a breath. An interlude. A hand offered at a distance, without conditions, in the eye of a cyclone she can’t stop — but refuses to abandon. Stark doesn’t answer. The silence remains, impenetrable. But she sees it. That blink. Singular. Slow. Almost lagging. Like a discreet malfunction in an otherwise perfect line of code. A micro-event, almost invisible but for her, it means everything. He heard her. He understood. Somewhere beneath the layers of adrenaline and frozen focus, her words registered. But he can’t stop. Not yet. Not while what he’s searching for remains out of reach.

She moves a little closer. Her steps are slow, calculated. The slightest movement could shatter the fragile equilibrium he maintains between lucidity and overload. She skirts the screens projecting a relentless flow of data, passes through the light beams of overlapping maps, walks through the holograms dissecting New York in real time: facades, sewer lines, rooftops, drone paths, shifting heat points. A fractured digital world, reconstructed for a single mission. And she, the only organic presence in this sanctuary of glass and light, walks forward until she’s beside him. Upright. Calm. Unshakable. She stands there, just a meter away. A silhouette in the bluish light. A presence. An anchor. Non-intrusive, but constant. And in that data-saturated silence, she looks at the screen in front of him. Blurry images flash by. Figures captured by an old security camera. Red dots blink in the darkness of a poorly mapped basement. Nothing conclusive. Nothing obvious. But she sees beyond that. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him.

She sees what he doesn’t show. What he himself struggles to ignore. That back, a bit more hunched than before. That hand clenched around the desk edge, knuckles white with tension. That breath, irregular, barely perceptible — but betraying an inner fight. That exhaustion, layered in invisible strata, like ash over an ember that refuses to die. He’ll never admit it. That’s not an option. But she knows. He’s burning out. Eroding. Slowly bleeding out everything that keeps him human. So she acts. Gently, but without hesitation. She reaches out. Picks up the mug left on the edge of the desk, still faintly steaming. And she moves it. Places it right in front of him. Where his gaze can’t avoid it. Where his fingers could reach it without thinking. A mundane gesture, almost insignificant. But heavy with meaning.

— "You need to stay sharp." Her voice is soft, but firm. It cuts through the thickness of the moment. "If he’s counting on you, he needs you at your best. Not collapsing."

He stays still for another second. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts. Like he’s returning from a far-off place, from a tension zone where the real world no longer reaches. He looks at her. Directly in the eyes. And she sees. She sees everything. The fatigue eating away at the edges. The redness at the corners of his eyes, signs of brutal sleeplessness. But most of all, that clarity. That burning precision still intact in the depths of his pupils. It’s a gaze that doesn’t waver. The gaze of a man broken a thousand times — but still standing. And in that gaze, she reads three things.

Fear. Raw. Visceral. The fear of not making it in time. Rage. Pure. Mechanical. The kind he holds back to avoid destroying everything.

And the promise. Absolute. Irrevocable.

— "I’m going to get him out."

No conditional. No wiggle room. He doesn’t say he’ll try. He doesn’t say if he’s still alive. He refuses to let those phrases exist. He leaves no space for doubt. Because doubt would be a crack. And if he cracks now, he collapses. She nods. Once. That’s all it takes. A silent agreement. A trust she offers him, without questions. Then she places a hand on his shoulder. Right there. A simple contact, but real. Solid. A light, firm pressure. Just enough for him to know he’s not alone. That she’s here. That she will remain here. Even if there’s nothing more she can do. An anchor in the chaos.

— "Then drink."

She adds nothing else. No need. Not now. And then she turns on her heel, leaving behind that room saturated with tension and blue light, walking away in silence, her steps barely audible on the hard floor. She slips away as she came — discreetly, with that silent dignity that’s hers alone. No unnecessary gesture. No look back. Just the quiet certainty that he heard her. That he understood. And that he’ll do what he must. A breath. A second. Then another. Stark remains still. His eyes still locked on the numbers, on the blurry images, on the shattered map of New York pulsing slowly before him. A suspended moment, almost frozen in code and light projections. And then, slowly, as if his body weighed a ton, his fingers stretch out. Slow. Almost hesitant. They brush the mug, grasp it. Raise it to his lips.

One sip. Scalding. Bitter. Perfect.

The taste, too strong, seizes his tongue, his throat, then burns its way down like a reminder. He closes his eyes for a second. Not out of pleasure. Out of necessity. Because that simple contact — the liquid, the heat, the sensation — reminds him that he still exists outside the war machine he’s become. And then, almost immediately, his eyes open again. Latch onto the screen. The map. The hunt. The engine restarts. But behind the invisible armor, behind the hard gaze and automated gestures, the man is still there. Just enough. For now. The mug, barely set down on the desk, hits the surface with a muffled clack. The sound, though minimal, seems to shake the atmosphere. Stark exhales. One of those irritated sighs that vibrate between clenched teeth, that fatigue turns into frustration, and frustration reshapes into buried anger. His fingers snap against the desk, nervously. Not a blow. Just a dry, rhythmic sound. Accumulated tension seeking an outlet, a culprit, a breaking point. Something to strike — or someone. But no one here is responsible. No one except him.

And then, it bursts out.

— "Fuck… why didn’t he activate it?"

The voice is low. But it slices the air like a blade. Sharp. Brittle. It doesn’t need to be loud to carry. It’s so charged with tension that it seems to vibrate in the walls. No explosive rage. No yelling. Just that clean line, that icy edge that says it all. It’s not a question. It’s an unbearable fact. A flaw in the plan. A betrayal of logic. He doesn’t need to clarify. The device, the gesture, the fear behind it all of it is obvious. In the hallway, Pepper has stopped. Without realizing it. As if her muscles responded to that voice before her mind did. She’s frozen. And she understands. She knows too. He’s talking about the device. That small, discreet piece, barely bigger than a coin, that he slipped into an anodized case with a falsely detached air. That neutral tone he adopts when the stakes are too high to admit. He presented it like a gadget. Just another safety.

A thing for emergencies. "Press and hold for three seconds" he said. Simple. Effective. And his location would be transmitted to the Tower in real time, with immediate triangulation and constant tracking. He insisted, without seeming to. Like a father too proud of a dangerous toy. Like a man who’s already lost everything once and won’t let chance roll the dice again. The kind of thing he doesn’t give to everyone. The kind of thing he only entrusts once. And even then. Under the pretense of humor. Veiled in sarcasm. And yet, you didn’t activate it. That thought gnaws at him. Consumes him. Because if it wasn’t forgetfulness, then it’s worse. Then maybe there wasn’t time. Or maybe he was afraid. Or maybe you thought it wouldn’t make a difference. And that Tony can’t accept.

Because the alternative… he can’t even imagine it. He built it in just a few hours. One sleepless night, a few curses, two black coffees, and a diagram sketched on a crumpled napkin. Because he was tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of not being able to protect. Tired of seeing him wander through New York like a ghost without an anchor, sleeping in sketchy squats, living on the generosity of people as reliable as March weather. He was done with uncertainty, with instability. So he made something simple, small, efficient. A distress beacon. A miniature safeguard. Mostly to protect him from himself. He even tucked a secondary mic inside. Discreet, compressed in anodized metal layers. Inaudible to the human ear. Just a sensor, a passive ear, in case something went wrong. Because he knew it could go wrong. Because deep down, he felt that danger was never far. And now? Nothing. No signal. No vibration. No blinking light. No trace. The void. Nothingness. The shadow of a silence that screams. Abruptly, Stark spins in his chair. The movement is sharp, abrupt. His fingers slam down on the projected keyboard in the air, striking commands, executing code, calling internal logs. He pulls up the history. Checks for connection attempts. Scans the security logs, network access, secondary frequencies. No recording. No triggered signal. No distress call. The device was never activated.

— "It was right there." His voice is hoarse. Slow. Painfully contained. "Within reach. Three fucking seconds. And I could’ve…"

He cuts himself off. Right there. The breath caught. No anger. Not yet. It’s not rage. It’s vertigo. An inner fall. He sees the scene again. Precisely. In the hall, just days ago. He was holding the little device between his fingers, between two sarcastic lines. A detached, mocking tone, as always. Trying not to push too hard. Not to seem worried. He said it with a smirk, hands in his pockets: "Just in case. It beeps, it blinks, I show up. Easy."

And he remembers. That hesitation. The lowered gaze. That muttered thank you, without real conviction. As if it didn’t really concern him. As if he didn’t believe it. As if he was afraid to disturb and didn’t think he was worth coming for. Stark clenches his teeth. Bitterness sticks in his throat.

— "He didn’t get it, did he?"

The question escapes. Not aimed at anyone. Not really. He’s speaking to the void, the desk, the walls. To himself. To the echo in his head.

— "He thinks it only works for others." His voice tightens. Fractures. "That no one comes for him. That he has to wait for it to get worse. That he has to nearly die to justify help."

His fingers slap a screen with the back of his hand. A furious swipe. The images vanish in a spray of light.

— "Shit. Shit."

He gets up. Too abruptly. His chair rolls back. He paces, circles, like a caged beast. A shadow of armor without the armor. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it without thinking. His gestures are nervous, disordered. He teeters between genius logic and raw emotion.

— "I had him in my pocket," he breathes. "I could’ve found him in under two minutes."

His fist hits the back of the chair. A dry strike. Not brutal. But deep. A dull echo that lingers in the air.

— "But no. He keeps it on him like a fucking keychain. A symbolic thing. A gadget he doesn’t want to use. Because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Because he doesn’t want to raise the alarm."

He suddenly freezes. His breath halts. He stares at the floor as if seeking an answer no data can provide. The silence stretches. Then, in an almost inaudible murmur, rougher, more bitter:

— "He’s convinced no one’s coming."

And that thought. That simple idea. It destroys him from the inside. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. He fights. To hold back what rises. He won’t say he’s afraid. He won’t say he’s in pain. That he blames himself until it eats him alive. No. He won’t say it. So he turns back. Resumes his place. His fingers return to the controls. His gaze locks onto the screens. The maps. The fragmented data. What he still has. What he can still control. Because if he can’t turn back time… then he’ll find a way to catch up. No matter the cost. And he mutters under his breath:

— "I’m going to find him. Device or not."

Then he types. Not to write. Not to command. He types like someone striking. As if his fingers could punch through matter, bend the universe, shatter the whole world through the silent keys of a holographic keyboard. Every keystroke is a discharge. A sharp hit. A blow aimed at that invisible wall he can’t break through. A fight of data against the void, of will against absence. He types with an urgency that allows no delay, no hesitation. As if life, somewhere, depended on it.

Because it is.

And in the meantime, silence remains. Insidious. Heavy. The tenacious shadow of the action that never happened. The one that would have been enough. Three seconds. A press of the thumb. And he would have known. He would have moved. He would have run. He would have acted. He would have been there. But no. That absence, Stark feels it lodged in his throat, like acid he can’t swallow. It rises, clings, radiates. It stays, constant, until he brings him back. Until he has proof tangible, irrefutable that it’s still possible. That he’s still alive. The minutes pass. Like blades. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving.

They cut into his focus, erode his patience, chip away at his certainty. Every second is a brutal reminder that time is passing. And this time, time isn’t an ally. He feels it slipping over his skin like a cold blade that can’t be stopped. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t blink. The office is bathed in semi-darkness. The blinds are down, the outside light filtered, as if daylight itself no longer had the right to enter. Only the screens cast their bluish glow on the walls, on the cables, on the opaque glass. And on him. That cold, spectral light slices across his closed-off face in sharp angles. Hollowed cheekbones. Brow etched with tension lines. Lips tight. He looks carved from quartz. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.

His eyes, fixed, barely blink. They follow lines of code, coordinates, overlaid maps, signal analyses, with inhuman precision. His stare is locked. Obsessed. He doesn’t falter. He scans. He waits. His fingers still move. Barely. With mechanical regularity. An almost hypnotic rhythm. They glide over holographic interfaces, brush through data windows, launch diagnostics, cross-reference streams. There’s no hesitation anymore, no improvisation. Only a logical sequence. An algorithm embodied in a man who refuses to give up. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t for a while. He doesn’t even think — not in the usual sense. Human thoughts, full of doubts, memories, emotions, have been pushed to the background. He leaves space only for function. He calculates. He maps. He eliminates. He acts. Because that’s all he can do. And because as long as he acts, as long as he moves, as long as he searches, he’s not imagining the worst. And the countdown continues — silent, relentless. Invisible but omnipresent, it eats at his nerves like a tourniquet pulled too tight. A constant, dull pressure. There’s no number on the screen, no red blinking timer, but he feels it. In every heartbeat. In every passing minute, every interface click, every breath that’s too short, too sharp. He feels it under his skin like slow-diffusing poison.

Twenty-four hours.

That was the deadline. The ultimatum. Spat in his face with disgusting insolence, with the kind of sneering arrogance Stark knows too well. A provocation. A signature. A trap — not even hidden. A price laid out in black and white. The kind of message sent when you’re sure you have the upper hand. But it wasn’t the money that kept him awake all night. Not the numbered threat. Not the offshore account, not the conditions. That, he could have handled. Bought peace. Hacked the system. Turned the trap back on its maker. That’s not what stopped him from blinking, that jammed his throat, that retracted his muscles like a shock. It’s something else. It’s the image. Frozen. Unstable. Blurry. But recognizable. It’s the sound. That breath. That scream. Distorted by distance. By network static. But raw. Human. Ripped out. So real that even now, he still hears it. He could replay it in his head a hundred times, a thousand. He knows it by heart. The tone, the break in the voice, the burst of brutal panic just before everything was swallowed by silence.

That fucking silence. That’s what’s destroying him. What eats at him. What stops him from breathing normally. The silence afterward. The absolute nothing. That break that said everything, summed everything up. That screamed at him what he failed to hear in time. What he should have seen coming. That silence — Stark will never forgive it. Not the other. Not himself. Then suddenly, a voice slices through the air. Soft. Controlled. Synthetic. Like a strand of silk stretched to the limit, about to snap — but still holding.

— “Mr. Stark.”

He doesn’t even turn his head. He’d recognize that voice among a thousand. It’s been there forever — in his ear, in his walls, in his head. An extension of himself.

— “I’m listening, Jarvis.”

— “I believe I’ve found something.”

A shiver. Cold. Brutal. It shoots up his spine like an electric surge. For one heartbeat, his heart forgets to beat. Then everything reactivates all at once. Adrenaline. Tension. Hypervigilance.

— “Talk.”

Instantly, one of the main screens expands. The map of the city appears — familiar and vast — then begins a slow zoom. Details sharpen. Colors darken. The center pulls back. The frame shifts. Outskirts. Sparse buildings. Wasteland. Finally, a precise point. An abandoned industrial zone. Gray. Timeworn. Forgotten by the world. Drowned in abandonment fog. Where no one looks anymore. Where things are hidden when no one wants them found. Coordinates blink at the bottom of the screen. Precise. Cold. Real.

— “A minimal network activity was detected,” Jarvis continues. “Almost nothing. A very weak signal — just a few microseconds of connection — but enough to leave a trace. It was a disposable phone.”

Stark steps forward. He’s drawn to the map like it’s magnetic. His eyes latch onto the screen, fix on it, hold. He sees beyond the image. Through the ruined facades, under the layers of metal and dust. He wants to believe he can see what’s hidden there. That something is waiting.

— “Can you confirm?”

— “The model’s signature matches what we detected during the call. It briefly connected to a secondary relay antenna nearby. It might’ve gone unnoticed, but—”

He’s no longer listening. Or rather, he hears everything. He registers it all, but his mind is already elsewhere. Locked in. Compressed around a single fact. A single certainty. His thoughts tighten, converge on a single point. A red dot. Blinking. Clear. An abandoned warehouse. No activity for over ten years. No cameras. No patrols. No recorded movement. Nothing. The kind of place you choose when you don’t want to be found. The kind of place where secrets are buried. Or people. And then, a single thought imposes itself. Emerges from the chaos like a brutal flash of truth. A certainty branded into his mind like a red-hot iron.

You’re there.

Not maybe. Not probably. Not possibly. You’re there. His fist clenches. Slowly. Each finger curling until the knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes. One second. One breath. One anchor. Then opens them again. And in his gaze, there’s no more doubt. No more fear. No more wandering emotion. Just steel. Just fire. Just the mission.

— “Prepare everything. Now.”

And in that exact moment, the whole world narrows. There’s no more sound. No more fatigue. No more failure. Only this. A straight line. A single target. A burning urgency. To get you out. Pepper is there. Just behind him. Motionless. Straight as a blade. Her arms crossed tightly against her, in a posture that might seem cold to someone who doesn’t know her. But it’s not distance. It’s a barrier. A dam. A desperate attempt to hold back what she feels rising.

The pale glow of the screens casts his shadow on the floor, long and sharp, like a silent specter frozen in anticipation. Around them, the room is bathed in incomplete darkness, pierced only by the soft flickering blue halos on the glass surfaces — witnesses to this sleepless night that stretches on and on.

His face, usually so mobile, so expressive — the face that knows how to smile even during the worst press conferences, that can reassure with a single look — is now closed. Frozen. Like carved in marble. His jaw slightly clenched. His brows drawn in a barely perceptible but unyielding tension. But what betrays it all are his eyes. A gleam, contained. A discreet fire. Both anxious and annoyed. A light that flickers between anguish and a barely concealed anger.

She watches him. In silence. Lips tight. Shoulders tense. And she knows. She knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She knows the gears, the silences, the calculated movements. She recognizes this posture. This calm. This false calm. This almost elegant stillness that always comes just before impact. She’s seen it once. Maybe twice, in her entire life. And each time, something broke afterward. A wall. A promise. Someone. So she speaks. Not to convince him. But to try and hold him back for just one more moment at the edge of the abyss.

— “You should wait for the police, Tony.”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Perfectly composed. But it cuts through the air like a blade honed too well. It slices without shouting, without striking. It hits the mark. He doesn’t respond. Not right away. He moves. Slowly at first, then with dreadful precision. He reaches for the back of his chair, pulls his leather jacket from it — the one he wears when everything becomes too real, too dangerous, too personal. He puts it on in one sharp, fast motion. Automatic. Without even thinking. Everything is rehearsed. His movements are crisp, stripped of any hesitation. He’s no longer reflecting. He’s in motion.

One hand slides into the side drawer of his desk. The metal barely creaks. He pulls out a small object, barely bigger than a watch case. Smooth. Chrome. Discreet. He inspects it for a fraction of a second, spins it between his fingers, gauges it. His gaze clings to it, focused, as if making sure it’s the right one. Then he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. A tracker. A prototype. Maybe both. Maybe something else. When Tony Stark leaves like this, he never leaves empty-handed. And in the suspended tension of the room, in that moment when every gesture weighs like a decision, Pepper feels her heart pound harder. Because she knows, once again, he won’t change his mind. Not this time.

Without a word. He crosses the room like someone going to war. No haste, no visible tension. Just a methodical, silent advance, heavy with intention. Each step echoes faintly on the floor, absorbed by the cold light of the still-lit screens, by the walls saturated with nervous electricity. He heads toward the elevator, straight, relentless, like a guided missile.

— “Tony.”

This time, her voice cuts through the space. Louder. Sharper. She’s dropped the polite calm. There’s urgency in that word, a crack, something tense, fragile. Pepper steps forward, rounds the table. It’s not a command. It’s not a plea either. It’s a disguised entreaty, cloaked in reason, offered as a last attempt to connect. She’s searching for a crack. A hold. Any one. Not to stop him — she’s never held that illusion — but to slow the momentum. To crack the armor. To make him think. Just one more second.

— “This is exactly what he wants. For you to charge in headfirst. For him to have control.”

He stops. His body freezes all at once, mid-distance from the elevator whose open doors wait, patient, like the jaws of a steel beast. Slowly, he turns toward her. Not violently. Not with irritation. But with that icy precision that, in him, equals all the angers in the world. He looks at her. And his gaze is black. Not empty. Not crazed. No. It’s a sharp gaze. Cutting. Shaped like a glass blade, able to slice cleanly without ever shaking. He stares at her, without flinching, without softening the impact. His shoulders slightly raised, chin lowered, neck taut. A compact, tense posture. Not defensive. Not exactly. More like a predator’s. The eyes of a man who sees no alternate paths. Only the target.

— “You think he has control?”

His voice is low. Deep. Vibrating with that particular intensity he only uses in very rare moments — when everything tips, when what remains inside compresses until it becomes unstoppable. Every word is controlled. Measured. Almost calmly delivered. But in their precision, there’s something unsettling. A promise. A fracture forming. Silence falls behind that phrase. Suddenly. A thick silence. Charged. Almost unbreathable. It lasts only a few seconds, but they seem to stretch time. The elevator still waits behind him. The slightly open doors pulse softly, as if they sensed the suspended moment. Then he adds, without raising his voice, without looking away:

— “He made the biggest mistake of his life taking him.”

And it’s not a threat. It’s not provocation. It’s a verdict. A raw, cold truth carved in marble. It’s a fact. And it’s far worse than a scream. Then he turns away. One last time. And he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t leave a phrase hanging. Doesn’t try to reassure. He disappears into the steel maw, and the doors close on him with a quiet hiss. Pepper remains there. Upright. Frozen. Her arms cross a little tighter, as if to hold back something threatening to collapse. The screen lights continue to flicker over her unmoving features, but they’re not what illuminates her. It’s intuition. Instinct. The one that whispers what she already knows deep down, what she’s felt from the beginning. Something is going to explode. And this time, she’s not sure anyone will come out unscathed.

The metallic floor barely vibrates beneath his steps. Just a discreet, restrained resonance, almost respectful. But in the frozen silence of the hangar, each echo seems to strike the air like a muffled detonation. Every step is a warning. A countdown. A declaration of war. The space is vast. Immense. A cathedral of technology bathed in cold, clinical, almost surgical light. The walls, made of reinforced glass and brushed steel, reflect sharp, precise flashes, slicing his shadow with every movement. Nothing here is decorative. Everything is functional. Calibrated. Optimized. Ready to serve. Ready to open, to strike, to launch. Ready to close behind him, too.

Tony moves with slow, controlled steps. Nothing rushed. He’s not running. He’s not hurrying. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every stride is calculated. Controlled. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unwavering. No detours. No curiosity. His body is tense, but steady. Focused. There is no room left for doubt. At the center of the hangar, the launch platform awaits him. A circle of polished steel, inlaid with white LEDs pulsing gently, slowly, like a heart in standby. The light follows a steady, hypnotic rhythm, as if the structure itself were breathing. It sleeps. But it's ready to awaken at the slightest command. Around him, holographic showcases come to life at his approach. Sensors recognize his presence. Interfaces open by themselves. Images appear, fluid, clear. Silhouettes rise in bluish light, floating like specters of war.

His suits. The most recent. The strongest. The fastest. Masterpieces of power and precision, lined up in military silence. No words. No announcements. They stand there, frozen, waiting, like a metallic honor guard ready to activate at the slightest signal. Majestic. Relentless. Inhuman. They are beautiful in their coldness. Intimidating. Perfect. But he doesn't look at any of them. Not a single glance. Not a hint of hesitation. He passes through them like one walks through a memory too familiar to still fascinate. The suit doesn’t matter. Not this time. He isn’t here for spectacle, or showy power. He doesn’t want to impress, or buy time. He wants only one thing.

Efficiency. Extraction. The end.

His steps remain steady. His silhouette moves alone among the giants of metal. And in his wake, the air seems to vibrate with low tension, restrained anger, pain too vast to be named. The soldier is on the move. And what he’s about to do now… he’ll do it without flinching. His gaze is fixed. Frozen. With an almost inhuman intensity. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t deviate. He aims. His attention is a taut line between two points: himself, and the target. It’s not anger you see in his eyes. That would be too simple. Too mundane. No — it’s worse. It’s frozen resolve. A sharp calm like a scalpel's edge. Clinical determination, purged of raw emotion, as if every feeling had been distilled, compressed into a single objective: locate, neutralize, retrieve. At all costs.

The suit he’s come for… it’s not the one from interviews. Not the one for demos. Not the one that dazzles crowds or makes headlines. This one, he only brings out when someone has to fall. No flash. No light. No declaration. With a sharp gesture, he activates the control interface embedded in the platform. The floor lights intensify, blink once, then a metal ring slowly rises from the ground, encircling him with solemn gravity. Everything remains silent. Nothing overreacts. Everything is perfectly calibrated. Robotic arms unfold around him, in a mechanical choreography of military precision. They don’t tremble. They don’t hesitate. They take position, ready to interlock, to serve, to build the weapon.

— "Omega configuration."

His voice snaps. Dry. Dense. Like a hammer strike on glass. And instantly, the machines comply. Without delay. Without flaw. The first pieces of the suit lock around his legs, securing his joints, enclosing his muscles in layers of reinforced alloy. The boots anchor to his feet with a soft hiss, each plate sliding into place with a perfectly tuned metallic click. Then the chest modules rise, locking over his ribcage. The red and gold lines slowly take shape, forming a symmetrical, ruthless architecture. Nothing is superfluous. Everything is there to protect, to absorb, to strike. The metal climbs along his arms, embeds into his shoulders, clamps onto his back. A vengeful exoskeleton. A body of war. Every movement is fluid, exact. The machine knows his rhythm. It knows his silence. It recognizes this moment when Tony Stark is no longer joking. He lowers his head slightly. The helmet drops with a magnetic hiss. It seals with a muffled chhhk. Instantly, his vision turns red. The interface lights up. Sensors activate. Data streams appear. Code scrolls. Maps. Thermal signals. Local comms networks. Building schematics. Ballistic paths.

He’s inside. He’s ready.

— "J.A.R.V.I.S., send the flight plan."

— "Coordinates locked. Route optimized. Risks assessed."

A moment. Just one. A tenuous silence. Like a held breath. Then Jarvis’s voice, lower, almost hesitant. A soft note. A nearly human tone, as if trying to reach through the metal to something deeper.

— "Tony… you don’t have to do this alone."

Not a tactical suggestion. Not a precaution. An offering. An outstretched hand. But Tony doesn’t respond. Not yet. One beat. Just a suspended moment between question and answer. But it won’t come. Because he’s not. Not alone. Not really. It’s not solitude that lives inside him. It’s worse. It’s that weight, hanging on his chest like an anvil: responsibility. He feels responsible. And that kind of responsibility can’t be delegated. Can’t be shared. It must be borne. Endured. To the end. He’s not doing this because he’s alone. He’s doing it because he’s the one who must. Because he was there when it happened. Because he should have seen, understood, foreseen. And because he will never forgive himself if he arrives too late.

A metallic breath escapes his shoulders. Light, but precise. The thrusters arm with a restrained growl. Internal turbines hum softly, like a beast holding back its power before leaping. The entire platform tenses. A low vibration rises under his feet, echoing the energy condensed beneath his heels. The lights turn orange. The floor opens. Slowly. In segments. Like a mechanical wound revealing the hangar’s nuclear heart. The air grows denser. Warmer. Electrified. Stark bends his knees. His muscles instinctively adjust for the imminent thrust. And then, without hesitation, without countdown, without another word…

He lifts off the ground.

With a piercing roar, the suit tears through the air. Flames burst from his heels, searing the platform, and Tony’s body becomes a comet of metal and fire shooting through the open ceiling, soaring at blinding speed into the already paling night. The hunt has begun.

The sky races around him. A continuous stream, distorted by speed, slashed by incandescent trails. Every inch of the armor vibrates under the strain, every thruster hums with surgical precision. The wind slams into him, compressed, transformed into pure force that only the flight algorithms manage to contain. The city stretches out below. Gigantic. Vast. Insignificant. Skyscrapers blur past like mirages. Rooftops, streets, glowing points of light — all turn into abstraction. But he sees nothing. Not the glowing windows, not the crowded avenues, not the numbers blinking across his heads-up display. Not even the overlaid messages, trajectory readings, or secondary alerts. He sees only one red dot. One destination. One objective. And nothing else exists.

He thinks only of you.

Of your body, twisted under the blows. Of your features, contorted by pain. Of your breath, ragged, torn, like each inhale is a battle against agony. Of your face, bruised, sullied, pressed against a floor too cold, too dirty, too real. He sees the blood, the unnatural angle of your shoulder, the fear diluted in your half-closed eyes. He sees everything. Even what you tried to hide. He still hears that fucking scream. The one he never should’ve heard. The one he should’ve prevented, before it ever existed. A scream you can’t fake. A scream torn from you, raw, visceral. He heard it through the phone, compressed, muffled by your breath, crushed by the violence of the moment. But despite the static, despite the distance, he felt it. Like a blade to the heart. Like a shockwave that didn’t just hit him. It went straight through him.

And in his mind, that sound loops. Again. And again. And again. Louder than any explosion. More violent than a collapsing building. It’s not a memory. It’s a living burn. An active wound. He sees it all again. Every second. Every word. Every tone. That bastard’s voice.

Matthew.

Every syllable spat like poison. Every word sculpted to wound. To provoke. To leave a mark. Not on you — on him. It was all planned. Orchestrated. A performance. A slow, cold, painfully precise execution. Meant for one person: Tony Stark. To hit him. To show him how badly he failed. To push where it hurts most.

And it worked. Fuck, it worked.

He still feels how his throat closed. The exact moment his heart skipped a beat. The absolute void that swallowed him when he realized he was too late to stop it but maybe not too late to save you. That instant shift, when all logic shattered, replaced by one certainty. He will pay. Not for the humiliation. Not for the provocation. But for putting you in that state. For daring to lay a hand on you. And Stark, now, isn’t flying toward a hideout. He’s flying toward an execution. His heart is pounding too hard. It no longer syncs with the armor’s rhythm. It hammers against his ribcage like a primal reminder that, beneath all the metal, despite all the tech, he is still a body. A man. And that body is boiling. His fingers tighten inside the gauntlets. The joints, calibrated down to the micrometer, creak under the pressure. He clenches. Too hard. Pointlessly. As if the pain might return control to him. As if he’s clinging to the sensation of something real. The internal temperature climbs a notch. A brief alert flashes, notified by a beep that Jarvis cancels instantly. He knows. Even the tech feels that something is cracking. That the tension line has reached a critical threshold. The tactile sync grows more nervous, less fluid. Not from failure — from resonance. As if the suit itself were reacting to the rage boiling beneath the metal. As if it knew he’s on the verge of detonating.

But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t speak. He breathes. And he moves forward. Because rage — real rage the kind that doesn’t erupt but eats you alive, the kind that carves deep and anchors in silence, isn’t fire. It’s ice. A blade. A metallic tension that sharpens second by second. This is no longer about ransom. This is no longer an intervention. It’s not even a mission anymore. It’s personal. Because you… you’re not just some kid he hired. You’re not an intern, not a checkbox on some HR dashboard. You’re not a casting mistake he corrected in passing. You’re not one more name on a list of talent. You’re not a recruit. You’re that lost kid who showed up one morning with bags heavier than your shoulders, a voice too quiet, gestures too small. The one who looked at screens like they mattered more than the world. The one who barely spoke, but worked until you shook. Until you collapsed. Without ever complaining. Without ever asking for help. The one who clung to the work like it was the surface of a frozen lake. Just to keep from drowning. And that’s where it started.

Tony doesn’t know exactly when. When it slipped. When he stopped seeing you as an employee and started caring differently. Started checking if you’d eaten. Turning concern into jokes — but counting the times you said "not hungry." Setting rules. Break times. Making sure you got home. That you slept. That you didn’t vanish into the blind spots. Getting used to hearing you mutter when he worked too late. Paying attention. And now, he realizes it too late. This thing, this invisible thread, clumsy, imperfect, but real… it’s there. Damn it, it’s there. And now, you’re gone. And he’s going to cross fire, smash through every wall, burn everything down to find you. Because nothing else matters now. And that’s what’s eating him alive. Not guilt. Not passing doubt. No a slow burn, rooted deep in his chest. A slow poison, distilled with every heartbeat. Because that little idiot… you had a device. A fucking distress device. Not just any gadget. Not a toy.

A device he designed. Refined. Gave to you. Built in haste, but with care. Meant for this. To stop this. To block the worst. So he’d never have to hear screams like that. So he could get there before the blood spilled. And you didn’t even use it. Not a press. Not a signal. Nothing. You took it all. To the end. In silence. Like always. And that’s what drives him mad. The silence. That fucking habit of suffering quietly. As if it doesn’t count. As if your pain isn’t valid. As if your life isn’t worth protecting. As if pressing a button to ask for help… was already asking too much. As if he wouldn’t have come.

And now? Now you’re in the hands of a madman. A psycho acting out of vengeance, control, power hunger. A man with no limits, no brakes, who already crossed every line. Tony saw it. Heard it. He knows. Tortured. Broken. Gasping. The images come uninvited. Your face. Your features twisted in pain. That ragged breath, barely audible. The weight of your body giving out. The hard floor under your cheek. Blood seeping from a wound he can only imagine. And that look, more felt than seen, somewhere between fear and resignation.

Tony clenches his jaw. So hard his teeth slam together inside the helmet. The sound is dull, amplified by the metal echo. It vibrates through his temples. A muffled detonation ringing through his skull. He wants to scream. To hit something. To do anything. But he stays focused. Rage can’t come out. It’s compact. Controlled. Targeted.

The worst part? He still hears you. That murmur. Between gasps. That muffled breath, fragile, but so distinct. That tone. That voice he knows now. He recognized it instantly. There was no doubt. No room for illusion. He could’ve denied it. Lied to himself. Said it was a mistake. A coincidence. But no. He knew. He knew immediately. And from that moment, something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. No collapse. A clean fracture. Like an overtightened mechanism breaking in silence. Because now, it’s too late to argue. Too late to reason. Too late to call the cops. Too late for rules, procedures, delays.

Matthew is already dead. He doesn’t know it yet. He still breathes. Still thinks he’s in control. Thinks he’s running the show. But he’s not. He’s already finished. Erased. Condemned. Because Tony Stark heard that scream. And that scream changed everything. That scream signed Matthew’s death warrant. And he’s going to make him pay. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Until he gets you back. Or burns the world down to drag you out of the dark.

When the Iron Man suit finally lands, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.

A metallic breath explodes beneath the impact, followed by a dull rumble that cracks the already fractured concrete of the ground. The shock ripples through the foundations of the old industrial district, awakening the ghosts of rusted machines, worn-out beams, and gutted walls. Dust immediately rises in thick, greasy, lazy swirls, dancing around him for a moment before slowly settling, as if even it knows not to linger here. The air is saturated. Heavy. It reeks of rust, moldy wood, and decay embedded in the walls. It reeks of abandonment. And worse: expectation. The congealed oil on obsolete pipes reflects faint black gleams, almost organic, like fossilized blood. The ground creaks under his boots. All around him, the environment seems frozen. Trapped in a time that forgot how to die.

Icy wind rushes between the metal structures, howling through broken beams, whistling past shattered windows. It carries the cold of a soulless place — emptied, but not deserted. Not entirely. Around him is nothingness. A heavy, oppressive void. No sound, no light. Nothing lives here. Nothing breathes. Not even a rat. Not even a shadow. As if the rest of the world had the decency to look away. As if even the city itself knew that what was going to happen here… should not be seen. And in that thick silence, saturated with contained electricity, Tony remains still. His body in the suit doesn’t tremble. But everything in him is ready to strike. The HUD displays thermal readings, sound scans, parasitic electromagnetic signatures. Traces. Remnants. Leads.

He ignores them. He doesn’t need confirmation. He looks up. There. Right in front of him. The building. A block of blackened concrete, eaten away by time. It rises before him like a vertical coffin, planted in the ground. Its windows are empty sockets. Its crumbling walls seep with moisture and menace. It’s a carcass. A gaping maw. A lair. The kind of place where people are held. Erased. Buried. And deep inside, somewhere in there, he knows. You’re there. And Tony Stark came to get you.

The windows are shattered, slashed like screaming mouths frozen mid-silent howl. Shards of glass still dangle from some frames, claws of dead light ready to cut. The gutted openings let in a freezing wind that rustles the remains of forgotten curtains, faded, trembling like surrender flags. The concrete holds together only by habit. Cracked, eroded by seasons, cold, rain, and grime. By time. By indifference. Parts of the facade have collapsed in whole sheets, revealing the interior like a raw wound. Rusted beams jut from the gaping holes, still supporting broken, twisted staircases whose steps are gnawed by corrosion. A withered metal skeleton groaning under its own weight.

The scene is saturated with signs of dead life. Hastily scrawled graffiti, some grotesque, some terrifying, scream from the walls like echoes left by shadows. Split-open bags. Scattered trash. Abandoned syringes. A broken stroller, overturned. An old moldy couch under a porch. Traces of human passage, old, sad. But nothing lives here anymore. Everything reeks of neglect. Of misery. And something worse still: violence. That scent doesn’t lie. It seeps everywhere, even into the walls. A stagnant, invisible tension, but palpable. As if the very air had absorbed a memory too painful to vanish. An echo of blows. Of screams. Of fear.

Inside, it’s swallowed in thick, grimy darkness. No light. Just the blackness, mingled with dust, rot, and silence. But he doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need to see. His scanner activates instantly. The interface opens in a silent click, layering across his HUD. Schematics align, partial blueprints of the building take shape in 3D. Partial plans, modeled reconstructions from thermal scans, wave sweeps, mass detection. Heat sources appear. Faint. Distant. Unstable. And then, deep in that rusted steel maze, cracked concrete, and rotten silence… a thermal signature. Human. Residual. Nearly gone. A blurred point, nestled in a windowless room, behind thick walls. A trace. A breath.

Tony clenches his fists.

The sound is minimal. A quiet metallic creak, but full of tension. The gauntlets respond to the pressure, contouring his restrained rage, absorbing the shock. He doesn’t need confirmation. Doesn’t need to see more. Doesn’t need to wait. He knows. His instinct — that damn sixth sense he spent years mocking — screams through his body. It’s here. This rat hole he chose. This rotten theater for a filthy ransom. This stage for torture. A place not built to hold… but to break. To terrify. To harm. A bad choice. Tony approaches.

One step. Slow. Calculated. Methodical. Every movement is measured. The suit follows without fail, amplifies his stride, makes the ground tremble with each impact. Metal boots pound cracked concrete like war drums. A warning. A sentence. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to. Matthew’s time is already counted. His sensors scan blind spots. He identifies exits, access points, high ground. He’s already plotting firing lines, breach paths, fallback routes. He thinks like a weapon. Like a strike. Because he’s no longer just an angry man. He’s become a projectile. A terminal solution. A promise kept too late. And inside… someone is about to learn what it costs. To lay a hand on you.

He pushes the door with a sharp, decisive gesture. The metallic impact creates a brutal clang, and the battered frame wails in a piercing screech. The sound is long, grotesque, almost human. It slices the air like a cry ripped from a bottomless throat, the shriek of a grave forced open, or a coffin pried too late. The metal scrapes, shrieks, protests — but obeys. Before him, the hallway stretches. Long. Narrow. Strangled between two walls dripping with damp. The air is dense, fetid, soaked with stagnant water and ancient mold. A cold breath seeps from the walls, icy and clinging, sneaking into the suit’s seams as if to slow him, to warn him.

The walls are alive. Not with organisms, but rot. Dark mold clings to them, spreading in irregular patterns like necrotic veins. It crawls across the concrete, invades corners, slips into cracks. In places, the plaster has given way, reduced to gray dust. Beneath, twisted, rusted rebar protrudes — like broken bones, as if the building itself had been tortured, split open. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, bare. Dirty. Its globe yellowed by time, its sickly light flickers intermittently. Suspended from a wire too long, too thin, it dances with every draft like a rope ready to snap. It blinks. Once. Twice. The yellow halo it casts wavers, bleeding against the walls. The shadows it throws stretch, distort, crawl along the ground. Shapes too long, too fluid, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the dying light.

Tony doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t hesitate. His stride remains straight, steady, heavy. Each step echoes off the floor, amplified by the armor’s metal. Debris cracks underfoot: broken glass, plaster fragments, splinters of forgotten furniture. Every sound ricochets in the narrow hallway, trapped between the walls like a muffled volley of gunfire. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look around. He advances. Like a metronome. His eyes never leave the end of the hall, even as everything around seems to want to swallow him, smother him. He sees the corners, the ajar doors, the stains on the floor, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t deviate. He walks this hall like a trial. A purgatory. He knows hell waits ahead. He feels it.

And he’s ready to tear it open with his bare hands. Each step is a countdown. Each breath, a burning fuse. Each heartbeat in his chest, a war drum. He knows what he’ll find. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the form. But the essence. He knows the scent of blood is there, somewhere. That fear has left its trace. That pain has seeped into the walls. And he knows that you… you’re at the end. You’re there, in the dark, at the end of this sick corridor. Maybe unconscious. Maybe barely alive. But you’re there. And that’s enough. Because even if the entire world has to burn for him to find you,

Stark walks down that hall like a blade sliding into a wound. Slowly. Silently. Without flash, without unnecessary sound. He doesn’t strike. He infiltrates. He dissects. Every step is measured, controlled, charged with clinical precision. The weight of his body, perfectly distributed, flows with the suit’s supports. His boots barely graze the floor, but even that friction seems to vibrate through the air, taut with tension. Tension is everywhere. In his muscles, locked beneath the metal. In his jaw, clenched to the point of pain. In his nerves, on maximum alert. He’s taut as a bowstring. Like a weapon whose safety was disengaged long ago. Even his breathing is suspended. He hardly breathes. He’s sunk into a slowed rhythm, between apnea and absolute focus.

Then the smell hits him. Not softly. Not in waves. Brutally. A wall. An invisible punch to the chest. Heavy. Thick. A metallic stench clings to his throat, invades his nostrils like a warning. Blood. Not fresh. Dried. Hours old, maybe. Mixed with damp, with the building’s mold, with dust saturated with dead micro-organisms, with the stagnant rot that infests places where nothing lives anymore. The smell of a trap. The smell of pain. His stomach tightens. Not from fear. From rage. His heart doesn’t race. It slows. As if syncing to the place. He shifts into a deeper, duller, more dangerous frequency. His pulse beats like a drum ready to strike.

Above him, the bulb still swings — a pathetic relic of a once-functioning past. It crackles, flickers, sputters to life at intervals. Each pulse casts sickly light across cracked tiles, warped walls, and scattered remnants of a forgotten world. The shadows stretch, shrink, crawl along the walls like filthy hands. Even the walls seem to hold their breath. He steps forward again. One step. Then another. Every movement is fluid, silent, nearly unreal. His visor scans relentlessly. It overlays stacked data layers, displays thermal signatures, rough volume outlines, hidden masses behind walls. He examines blind spots. Gaps. Floor markings. Broken hinges, scuff marks on wood.

He doesn’t see Matthew yet. But he feels it.

Like a presence. A greasy vibration in the air. A low tension running beneath the walls like a rogue current. A sensation that cuts through him, visceral. It’s not intuition. It’s certainty.

He’s here. Somewhere.

And then he sees you.

You.

There’s no sound. No warning. No orchestral swell. Just that brutal, abrupt moment when the image slaps him in the face like a blow that nothing can soften. You're there. Not standing. Not sitting. Collapsed. Against the wall. No — not against. You’re melded into it. As if your body were trying to dissolve, to disappear. A trembling mass, dirty, slack with pain. No longer a person. No longer a boy. Just a heap of living, broken flesh. A dislocated silhouette in the dark. His brain takes a moment to understand what he’s seeing. This isn’t you. Not the you he knows. It’s something else. A ruined version. And the violence here isn’t hypothetical. It’s tattooed on you. Your arm is twisted.

Not bent. Twisted. At a monstrous, impossible angle. The elbow joint reversed. Bones displaced under stretched skin. Something that should only appear in accident reports. Not here. Not like this. Your shoulder has collapsed. Your hand, almost detached from the rest, barely trembles.

And your face... It takes Tony a second. Just one. But it lasts an eternity.

He doesn’t understand right away. He recognizes nothing. No features. No familiar contours. Just damage. Open wounds, horrible swelling, bruises stacked upon bruises. Your eyes — if they’re still there — are buried under hematomas. Your lips are split. Your right cheek is so swollen it distorts the entire shape of your skull. It’s a mosaic. A work of pure cruelty. And the blood… It’s still flowing. Not much. Not in spurts. In seepage. Slow trickles, like a steady leak. It slides down your temple. Your mouth. Your neck. It’s sticky. Matte. It ran, dried, and ran again. It’s on your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest. You’re soaked.

Not with sweat. With blood. With fear. With the filth of the floor. Your clothes are just rags now. Torn down to the skin. Deep tears are visible, laceration marks, fingerprints, nails, blows. Your hands are open. Literally. Cut. Your palms are cracked, marked by a desperate attempt to defend yourself. Your fingers are splayed as if caught in a frozen spasm. Your knees are red, shredded. Raw flesh peeks through peeled skin. And your back... He doesn’t even want to look. He can guess. He knows what he’ll find there. Marks. Burns. Blows. Traces of what no one should ever do to another human being. But he doesn’t look. Not yet. Because then... he sees it. Your chest.

It moves. Barely. But it moves. A breath. Weak. Jagged. Rough. A struggle with every motion. A breath that doesn’t really come out. A choked wheeze. But alive. You’re breathing. You’re there. Still there. And Tony stops cold.His entire body freezes. The armor locks with him, as if the machine itself understood. As if every fiber, every metal plate had turned to stone. Time collapses on him. A crushing weight. A shroud. His heart? It stops. It no longer beats. Just a void. An absence. A pulse. Heavy. Dry. In his temples. His throat. His stomach. What he feels has no name. It’s not fear. It’s no longer even anger. It’s a breaking point. A place in the soul where everything stops. Where everything is too much. Too much pain. Too much hate. Too much regret. Too late. Too far. He’s here. In front of you. And he can’t go back.

It’s a fracture. A rupture in everything he thought he could control. You’re alive. But at what cost? And somewhere, just a few meters away... Matthew is still breathing. But not for long. A cold shiver, sharp as a steel blade, climbs Stark’s spine. He doesn’t push it away. He lets it slide between his shoulder blades, slip under the metal like a warning that what he’s seeing isn’t an illusion, but raw, naked, implacable truth. Yet nothing on his face betrays this vertigo. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not even a blink. His rage, once explosive, has retracted into a clean, focused line. It’s no longer a storm. It’s a blade. Smooth, cold, sharp. A perfectly honed weapon, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. Not before.

His eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Every detail imprints itself in his mind like a photograph branded with hot iron: the grotesque position of your broken arms, the dark brown blood dried in rivulets on your chin, your neck, your chest; your skin, so pale beneath layers of grime and pain it looks almost like that of a corpse; the faint flutter of your chest, a fragile reminder that you haven’t crossed over yet. He sees it all. He doesn’t look away. And he will remember it. Until his last day. And yet, he doesn’t move right away. Everything in him is screaming. Every fiber, every muscle, every electrical impulse of the armor and his own body calls him to you, to rush, to drop to his knees, to check your pulse, your breath, to place his glove at your neck, to say your name. But he doesn’t give in. He is Tony Stark, yes. But here, now, he is also Iron Man. And Iron Man knows how to recognize a trap. Instinct needs no explanation. He feels that grimy vibration in the air, that invisible weight that warps the atmosphere around you, that intent still lingering, ready to pounce. He knows he’s not alone.

So he advances, but his way. Not slowly out of hesitation, but with control. One step. Then another. Controlled. Silent. The floor crunches beneath his boots, and even though the armor absorbs most sound, here, in this room saturated with shadows and stench, every movement rings out like a barely contained threat. The air is still. The walls seem to listen. The silence, tense, fills with static. He stops a few steps from you. Just close enough to see you breathe, to catch that tiny tremor in your ribcage, that breath that fights, clings, refuses to yield. Just far enough to strike, to raise his arm, to hit in half a second if something emerges. Because he knows: this is the moment Matthew is waiting for. The moment he thinks he can finish what he started. But he’s about to learn that this time, he’s not facing a wounded child. He’s facing Iron Man.

His eyes scan the room relentlessly. Every detail is absorbed, analyzed, memorized. The walls, covered in peeling paint, reveal patches of bare stone, gnawed away by damp. Mold streaks stretch up to the ceiling, which has collapsed in places, letting frayed wires dangle alongside crumbling fragments of plaster. Rusted pipes run along the walls like dead veins, slowly bleeding black water into the corners of the room. A distant drip echoes, irregular, distorted by reverb, like the heartbeat of a body already emptied of everything. The air is thick. Stagnant. It smells of oil, blood, mold, and abandonment. This isn’t really a place anymore. Not a living space, not a shelter. A dead place. Forgotten. A pocket outside of time, perfect for monsters to hide in.

And Stark knows it. It’s too quiet. The space is frozen in a dull anticipation. The smell is too sharp. The scene, too carefully placed. Nothing here suggests an accident. Everything has been calculated. And he hasn’t come to negotiate. He’s not here to understand. He’s not here to reach out. He’s here to end it.

So he speaks. Not loudly. Not shouting. His voice slices through the silence like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Low. Slow. Sharp. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t seek to impress. It states. It targets. It’s the voice of someone who’s gone beyond fear. Who knows the war is no longer a risk. It’s happening. It’s here. Present. Inevitable.

— "That’s your big plan, Matthew?"

The words hang in the air. Clear. Sharp. And they cut. The silence that follows is even sharper. It relieves nothing. It stretches. It weighs. It presses on the nerves like a finger on an open wound. A silence with a taste. That of blood just before the blow. That of a held breath, of the instant suspended between lightning and thunder. A silence ready to rupture. And Stark is ready to tear through it. He kneels.

The suit exhales softly, like a restrained sigh, when Tony bends a knee to the ground. Metal meets filth, dust, and the invisible fragments of an abandoned world in an almost solemn hiss. It’s not a brusque gesture, nor heroic. It’s a humble movement. Precise. One knee placed in the grime of a ravaged sanctuary, a cathedral of pain frozen in time, where the slightest sound feels blasphemous. He places himself near you. Within reach of your voice. Within reach of your breath.

Above you, the light flickers. It trembles at irregular intervals, swaying like a sick pendulum. It doesn’t truly illuminate. It hesitates. As if it, too, refused to fully expose what it reveals. The scene seems unreal. Suspended. Out of the world.

Stark only sees you now. His eyes are on you. At last. Truly. He no longer sees you through the lens of worry or authority. He doesn’t see an employee in distress, nor that lost kid he tried to protect from afar without ever really getting involved. He doesn’t see a responsibility. He sees you. The body you’ve become. This collapsed, mutilated body, barely breathing. That breath, ragged, whistling, clinging to life like a flame battered by wind. The position in which you’ve fallen, curled in on yourself, speaks of an instinct stronger than thought: to hide, to disappear, to avoid another blow.

Tony doesn’t move. Not yet. A long moment suspended in a bubble of silence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Only his fist, slowly, curls. A controlled movement, silent, without tremor. A gloved hand, silently absorbing the rising tension, the seething rage, the refusal to accept what he sees. He observes you. He scans every visible patch of skin, every line of your battered face, every gap between the tatters of your torn clothing. He doesn’t want to miss anything. He wants to know. To understand. To see what you’ve endured. He’s ready for everything — except looking away. And what he discovers freezes him.

The recent wounds, he expected. He had imagined them, feared them. The swollen bruises, the black and violet hematomas covering your ribs, your stomach, your face. The clean or jagged cuts, open or dried. The blood clotted at the corner of your mouth. The split lip. The torn brow. Skin ruptured in places, stretched by swelling. All of that, he had seen coming. He had already heard the echo of the blows. Guessed the brutality.

But what he hadn’t expected… were the other marks.

The ones left by someone other than Matthew. The ones no sudden rage could justify. Scars. Fine. Old. Some nearly faded, white, invisible to the untrained eye. These delicate lines, precise, snake along your forearm, disappear under the fabric, reappear on your side. He recognizes some of them. He knows those clumsy cuts, those poorly closed edges. He’s seen them before. On other bodies. In other contexts. He passes a hand — slow, without touching — over your chest. A gesture both useless and necessary. An attempt to understand without harming, to see without interfering. Your top is torn. Not by accident. Deliberately. As if someone wanted to expose your fragility. As if your skin had become a trophy. A message. Your ribs are streaked with deep bruises, a blue so dark it looks black. These were blows delivered methodically. Not to kill. To mark. To leave a print. And beneath that recent violence, other, paler shadows appear. Older bruises, half-faded. Hidden scars. Belt marks. Traces of falls, perhaps. Of repeated gestures. Systematic ones. Not wild brutality.

Habit. Not battle scars. Survival marks. And Tony feels something fold inside him. Slowly. Painfully. As if the steel of his suit tightened, turned inward, crushing his bones, compressing his breath. He inhales, despite everything, but the air is too heavy, too foul. He feels cold sweat on his neck. The taste of metal on his tongue. This didn’t start yesterday. Not even this week. Not even this year. And the hatred rising now is no longer a fire. It’s a collapsed star. A core of pure fury. A point of no return.

— "Fuck..." he breathes.

The word slips from his lips in a hoarse whisper, no louder than a murmur. It doesn’t snap. It doesn’t strike. It falls. Heavy. Exhausted. It’s not an insult. It’s a prayer. An apology. A confession. A verdict. He could have said your name. He could have screamed. But he no longer has the strength to hide the collapse eating away at his gut. That single word carries it all: the guilt, the shame, the shock, the poorly disguised love, and that powerlessness he hates more than anything in the world. His eyes rise slowly to your face. He studies you, searches, hoping for a sign, a crack in that absence. You’re still unconscious. Or maybe just trapped in your own body. Your eyelids, heavy with pain, barely twitch. As if you’re fighting inside a nightmare too real. Your lips, cracked and swollen, part in an almost imperceptible motion. Sounds escape. Weak. Shapeless. Phantom syllables, swallowed by your raw throat, crushed by the shallow breath of survival.

You’re fighting.

Even now, half-dead, on your knees in the mud, in the blood, in the fear — you're still fighting. And Tony, he doesn’t understand how he missed it. How he could’ve overlooked it. He thought you were folding because you were fragile. That you were falling because you were weak. He discovers now that you never stopped getting back up. Again. And again. And again. And that by climbing back up alone, without help, without a hand to reach for, you broke. Slowly. Silently. From the inside out. Another anger rises in him. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burst like an uncontrollable flame. It’s slow. Deep. A fury that doesn’t make noise as it climbs but anchors in his gut, between his ribs, in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t burn. It freezes. A precise, surgical anger. Against Matthew, of course. Against the monster who did this to you, who turned your body into a map of pain. But not only.

Against himself. For not seeing it. For not wanting to see. For believing his rules, his demands, were enough. For forcing you to maintain an image when you were already falling apart. Against the system that let you slip through. Against the entire universe that abandoned you without so much as a flinch. Against the silence. Against the averted gazes. Against the excuses. Against everything that brought you here, barely breathing, bleeding in a place no one should know. And this anger — he keeps it. Not for the night. Not for the moment. He keeps it for what comes next. Because this isn’t a mission anymore. It’s not even vengeance. It’s an answer. A cold, precise, implacable answer.

His fingers spread. Slowly. As if releasing something too heavy to contain any longer. Then, just as slowly, his hand closes. Not in rage. Not to strike, nor to threaten. But as one seals a vow. As one locks a promise in the palm, sheltered from the world, where it can never fade. A discreet gesture, small, but charged with immense weight. He leans forward. Just a little. Just enough for his face to draw closer to yours, his features blending into the trembling light, his breath almost brushing your skin. He doesn’t try to wake you. He doesn’t disturb the fragile silence. Only to be closer. To speak for you, and only you. And in a breath that belongs only to him — hoarse, broken, dragged up from deep within — he whispers:

— "I’m sorry..."

It’s not a phrase said lightly. Not a line of circumstance. The words struggle to come out, each one bearing the weight of a collapsed world. They don’t shake. They crash. Heavy. Dense. Inevitable. And it’s not for the blows. Not for the broken bones, the bruises, the wounds, the blood. Not for the absence of rescue, the nights you waited without response, without a call, without presence. Not even for the hesitation or delays. Not for the wavering between compassion and distance. No. That’s not what he regrets. It’s something else. Deeper. More insidious.

He apologizes for what he didn’t see. For everything right in front of him that he ignored. For all the times he looked at you without really seeing you. For all the moments he should’ve understood, read between the silences, the tight gestures, the small changes in your voice, the blankness in your eyes. He’s sorry because he should’ve been the one to know. The one who reached out without being asked. He didn’t. And he knows it. You never told him. Not clearly. Not with words. But he doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. His inattention. His blindness. His comfort. Because he should have known. He should’ve seen past the surface, not settled for what you showed. He’s a genius, after all. He cracked codes, AI, government secrets. But he didn’t read you. You.

And now he sees you. Really sees you. You're here, lying down, broken, beaten, emptied to the bone. You carry the recent scars — but also all the old ones. The ones that tell something else. Another story. A life that didn’t begin tonight. Pain accumulated like strata in rock pressed too long. Blows someone made you believe were normal. Silences you were taught to keep. Constant adaptation, until survival became a reflex. Each scar is a sentence. Each bruise, a word from the story you carried alone, your throat tight, your body tense. And Tony is only just beginning to understand. Not everything. Never everything. But enough for the void to open beneath his feet. Enough for something to snap. For guilt to root itself where it will never leave. It’s not just Matthew. It’s not just this night. It’s everything that came before. This whole life you lived in the shadows, moving through with false smiles and stiff gestures. And he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He didn’t reach out.

He feels that truth in his fingers, in his tight throat, in the strange way his vision blurs without fully knowing why. And the anger returns. Deeper. Colder. But this time, aimed only at himself. Because he should’ve been there. But now that he is — now that he sees you — he swears, without even needing to say it, that it will never be too late again. Not a second time. Never. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not right away. He stays still, locked in a perfectly controlled posture, his chest still bent over you, his body still tensed above yours like a shield of steel. But his eyes narrow, just slightly. An imperceptible detail to anyone else. An almost microscopic change, but revealing. He saw it. Or rather, he sensed it. Not a clear movement. Not a sharp sound. Just a shift. A faint vibration in the air. A thermal fluctuation, too precise to be natural. A flicker in the visual field, where there was nothing seconds ago.

The suit confirms it silently. A variation in air pressure. A subtle thermal footprint. A disturbance in the suspended particles. Something moved. Someone. In the shadows. He already knows. He doesn’t need confirmation. No detailed analysis. His instinct and the machine speak with the same voice. Matthew is here. He never left. He never fled. He waited. Coiled in the darkness like a knot of hate, hidden behind the ruined structures of the warehouse. A corner too dark for ordinary eyes. But Stark isn’t ordinary. His gaze adjusts. The armor’s sensors recalibrate instantly. Every shadow pixel becomes a map, a data set analyzed in real time. Shapes emerge, unfold, reveal themselves under thermal filters. He sees the silhouette. Humanoid. Crouched. Twisted in animal tension. Almost glued to the damp wall. Motionless — but falsely so. Ready. Ready to strike.

A predator. Or so he thinks. But to Tony, he’s not a beast. Not an opponent. He’s a parasite. A pest. A residue of misdirected hate. A mass of cowardice wrapped in a semblance of human flesh. Nothing more. And he waits. Stark sees it. He waits for the right moment. The right angle. He still hopes. One wrong step. One lapse. One second of distraction. He still thinks he can win. He thinks he can strike from behind. Finish what he started. Reduce further. Humiliate again. He believes this stage is his, that the dark protects him, that fear is on his side. But it’s not the same game anymore. And Stark is no longer the same man.

His fists clench. Slowly. Not in rage. In certainty. A cold pulse runs through the armor, from his shoulders to the thrusters in his forearms. Internal systems activate in silence. Energy builds. Not for show. Not to intimidate. But to strike. Coldly. Deliberately. And yet, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t break the silence. He remains there, by your side, his body lowered like a barrier. You're still beneath him, fragile, barely breathing. And he stands, in that false calm, as the last thing between you and the one who still thinks he can reach you. But this time, there will be no negotiation. No ultimatum. No speech. This won’t be a warning. A chuckle. At first almost imperceptible. Just a scrape, a discordant note in the tense silence of the warehouse. Then it swells. Gains volume. Becomes a clearer sound — thick, mocking, like a bubble of bile rising to the surface. It comes from the shadows. From that cursed corner of the room that even the light avoids, as if refusing to reveal the truth. A place too dark for nothing to be there.

Stark doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up. Not yet. He stays crouched beside you, his body interposed between you and the thing that finally creeps out of its lair. A sentinel. A wall. A blade ready to cut. But his shoulders stiffen. His breath halts. His fingers stop trembling. He listens.

— “You really came in the suit, huh…”

The voice pierces the darkness like a carefully distilled poison. It has that dragging tone, unbearable, dripping with sarcastic self-confidence. It oozes obscene pleasure, filthy arrogance, sick amusement. The kind of voice that wounds before it strikes. It seeps into the air, hungry to exist, to dominate, to stain.

Matthew steps out of hiding—or what’s left of it. A shadow barely separated from the dark. Just enough for part of his face to appear under the sickly glow of a dangling bulb. Half a face. Half a smile. Wide. Frozen. Too tight. And his eyes… wild. Shining. Flickering with an unstable light, unable to fix on a single point for more than a few seconds.

— “For him? Seriously?”

He gestures vaguely toward your body on the floor, careless, almost lazy. As if pointing at a gutted trash bag. A carcass of no worth. His grimy fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.

— “The little favorite. The loser. The kid who can’t even breathe without collapsing.”

He takes a step. Slow. Pretentious. Nonchalant. His chest slightly puffed, arms wide, almost cruciform. A show-off stance. A provocation. As if offering himself for judgment, convinced he’ll walk away untouched. As if he’s challenging God himself amid the ruins of a world he helped destroy.

— “You sure brought a lot of gadgets to save a half-broken body, Stark.”

A higher, more nervous laugh escapes him. He doesn’t have full control. He thinks he does, but his words are speeding up. His breath quickens just a bit. A trace of madness laces every syllable.

— “You think all that’ll be enough? The thrusters, the scanners, the AI?”

He stops a few meters away. Far, but visible. Too visible. Grime clings to his clothes, his skin, his hyena grin. His face is gaunt, cheeks sunken, hands filthy. He looks like someone who lives in filth. And carries the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. He believes he’s won. That he still holds the cards. That he has the upper hand.

— “You showed up like a superhero. Big savior. Like you actually care whether he’s still breathing.”

He tilts his head. A tiny movement. Almost childlike. Almost mocking. The gesture of a brat waiting for the adult to raise a hand just so he can laugh louder afterward.

Then, in a whisper, lower, crueler, slid in like a needle through skin:

— “Sad. To see you stoop to this.”

That’s when Stark moves. Not a sharp gesture. Not a threat. Just… he rises. Slowly. Very slowly. Each vertebra seems to align with inhuman precision. His back straightens. His shoulders lift. His gloved hands open slightly, fingers spreading, joints clicking faintly. A stance. A charge. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Because Matthew goes on. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still believes words protect. That taunts disarm. He still thinks Stark is here to play. That this restrained rage is only for show.

— “I mean, come on… look at him.”

He points again. His filthy index finger extended, trembling slightly. Not from fear. From ecstasy.

— “Take a good look at what he’s become. What I made him. And ask yourself what you were doing all that time.”

And that silence after — that void between two breaths… it’s the most dangerous moment. Because right now, Stark doesn’t see a man in front of him. He sees the outcome. The cause. The shadow behind the screams. And this time, he won’t look away. Matthew moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s a reflex. A sharp jolt of intention, of venom, of premeditation. His arm snaps in a motion too quick, too precise to be theatrical. He’s not trying to intimidate. He’s trying to end it. His hand plunges into his jacket with mechanical brutality, the rustle of fabric too sharp, a sound that splits the silence like a silent detonation. A glint of metal slides between his fingers. The black barrel of a gun emerges like a verdict. Cold. Final. He lifts his arm. But not toward Stark. Not at the looming figure of steel, red-lit, poised to strike. Not at the obvious threat, the armored man, the living weapon who could incinerate him with a single gesture.

No. He points it at you. You, still on the floor. You, vulnerable. Shattered. Barely breathing. You’re lying there, more ghost than flesh, your chest struggling to rise, your face drenched in blood—and that’s exactly why he aims at you. Because you can’t fight back. Because you can’t even look away.

The barrel aligns with clinical slowness. A descending trajectory, methodical, unbearable. A deliberate motion, thick with silence, cracking the air like an invisible slap. There’s no tremble of doubt, no hesitation. The quiver in his wrist isn’t fear—it’s anticipation. A sick pulse shooting through his arm, twitching his fingers on the trigger. Obscene pleasure in this total domination. His breath quickens. His eyes gleam. He savors. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Where he’s aiming. How he wants this to end. It’s no longer a threat. It’s an execution. A scene he’s imagined, rehearsed, craved. A twisted revenge. A show where he’s both executioner and audience. And in this suspended second, this instant where everything can tip, he becomes something worse than an attacker.

He becomes a man convinced he’s about to kill. Because he wants to. Because he can.

— “You got the money, then?”

The words fall like a dull-edged blade. No hesitation. No dramatic delivery. Just a string of words spat low, almost casual. Like a logistical question. His voice is dry, flat, stripped of emotion. Verbal mechanics, a routine, a question tossed out like checking an order. But the poison—it's in the posture. The gaze. The barely-contained tension in his outstretched arm.

The gun’s barrel stays still. Perfectly aligned. No longer shaking. Calm. Cold. A disturbing steadiness, almost clinical, like a surgeon ready to cut — except he’s not seeking to heal. He’s aiming to rupture. To erase.

He’s not really talking to Stark. Not really to you either. He’s speaking to himself, to feed the illusion of control he’s desperate to maintain even as he feels the ground slipping. He keeps playing, just long enough to delay the inevitable. To fabricate a role. The one who asks. The one who decides. The one who ends things. But there’s that barrel. Black. Smooth. A heavy promise stretched from his arm. He doesn’t move. He waits for an answer he knows is pointless. He knows there’ll be no deal. No negotiation. But he asks anyway. As if asking is enough to pretend he still owns the scene. As if it can mask the obvious rising in the air like an imminent detonation.

He’s ready to shoot. And it’s not the money he wants. It’s what comes next.

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[untoldreader]

The Mission Begins

Bucky Barnes x Natasha Romanoff x Y/N

Summary

Bucky and Natasha are in a high-stake mission that puts all of their skills to the test to save y/n from their past lives. Will they save her, or will her life be the cost of them wanting a piece of a normal lifestyle?

Warnings

None?

Part 2

Chapter 3

Natasha's POV

As the video feed of Y/N being held captive in the warehouse flickered to life on the screen, a surge of adrenaline shot through me, my heart quickening with a mix of fear and determination. Bucky stood beside me, his jaw clenched in a silent display of resolve as we watched the chilling scene unfold before us.

The man's taunting words echoed through the room, his malicious intent palpable in every frame of the video. I could see the fear in Y/N's eyes, the shadows of despair that clung to her like a cloak, and a fierce protectiveness surged within me, a primal instinct to do whatever it took to ensure her safety.

Bucky's gaze never wavered from the screen, his expression a mask of steely determination as he processed the gravity of the situation. "We need to move fast," he said, his voice low yet resolute, a sense of urgency cutting through the tension that hung heavy in the air.

I nodded in agreement, my mind already racing with plans and strategies to rescue Y/N from the clutches of the dangerous individuals who held her captive. "We can't let them harm her," I replied, my voice firm and unwavering, a sense of fierce protectiveness welling up within me.

Bucky's eyes met mine, a silent understanding passing between us as we prepared to face the looming threat that now stood before us. "We'll get her out of there, no matter what it takes," he vowed, his voice laced with a quiet determination that fueled the fire of resolve burning within me.

Together, we set out to confront the darkness that lurked in the shadows to face the dangers that awaited us in the abandoned warehouse where Y/N's fate hung in the balance.

And as we embarked on this treacherous journey, I knew that our bond would be tested in ways we could never have imagined, that the true measure of our strength and loyalty would be revealed in the crucible of danger and despair that awaited us.

Natasha and Bucky exchanged a knowing glance, their eyes filled with determination as they set out to locate the warehouse where Y/N was being held captive. Utilizing their extensive spy skills and training, they knew they had to act swiftly and decisively to rescue their friend from the clutches of danger.

Natasha, with her keen eye for detail and analytical mind, meticulously analyzed the video feed for any clues that could lead them to the warehouse's location. "There," she pointed to a distinctive graffiti tag on the wall in the background of the video. "That could be a key marker to narrow down the area."

Bucky, with his sharp instincts and combat expertise, scanned the surroundings of the video for any recognizable landmarks or geographical features that could help pinpoint the warehouse's whereabouts. "I recognize that skyline in the distance," he noted, his voice firm and focused. "It's a few blocks away from the old train yard. That should help us narrow down the search area."

Working in tandem, Natasha and Bucky cross-referenced the graffiti tag and the skyline with their knowledge of the city's layout, using their spy connections to gather intel on known hideouts and criminal activity in the vicinity. "If we can track down recent reports of suspicious activity in that area, we might be able to pinpoint the warehouse's location," Natasha suggested, her voice tinged with a sense of urgency.

Bucky nodded in agreement, his gaze unwavering as he coordinated with their network of informants to gather real-time data on the ground. "We need to move quickly. Time is of the essence," he emphasized, a steely resolve in his tone as they prepared to embark on the rescue mission.

As they pieced together the puzzle of Y/N's whereabouts, Natasha and Bucky exchanged brief yet meaningful words of reassurance and support. "We'll get her out of there, Nat," Bucky stated, his voice a quiet promise of unwavering loyalty. "We'll bring her home safely."

Natasha's eyes held a flicker of gratitude and determination as she responded, "We'll do whatever it takes, Buck. Y/N is counting on us, and we won't let her down."

With their resolve steeled and their plan of action in place, Natasha and Bucky set out into the night, their spy skills honed and their hearts set on one goal - to rescue Y/N from the clutches of danger and bring her back to safety, no matter the obstacles that stood in their way.

「Y/N's POV」

As I sat in the cold darkness of the abandoned warehouse, my heart heavy with fear and uncertainty, I could only hope that Natasha and Bucky were on their way to rescue me. The shadows seemed to close in around me, their icy fingers of despair tightening their grip with each passing moment.

Time ticked by slowly, the silence of the warehouse broken only by the distant sounds of the city outside. I felt the weight of my captivity pressing down on me, a sense of helplessness and vulnerability washing over me like a tide of despair.

But amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf me, a flicker of hope burned bright in my heart, a glimmer of faith in the unwavering determination of my friends to come to my rescue. I clung to that spark of hope like a lifeline, a beacon of light in the midst of the shadows that loomed over me.

As I waited, the minutes stretched into eternity, each second filled with a sense of anticipation and dread. I whispered silent prayers for Natasha and Bucky's safety, for their swift arrival to shatter the chains of my captivity and bring me back to the light of freedom.

And as I sat there, the echoes of my own heartbeat mingling with the distant sounds of the night, I knew that the true test of my courage and resilience was yet to come. But in the depths of my soul, I held onto the belief that my friends would not abandon me, that their bond of loyalty and love would be the key to unlocking the chains that bound me and leading me back to the safety and warmth of their embrace.

As Natasha and Bucky approached the abandoned warehouse where Y/N was being held captive, a tense silence hung heavy between them, the weight of the impending rescue mission pressing down on their shoulders. The night was alive with the whisper of danger, the shadows dancing around them like phantoms as they prepared to confront the darkness that lurked within.

With their spy skills honed and their resolve unwavering, Natasha and Bucky moved with practiced ease, their movements precise and calculated as they closed in on the warehouse. The faint glow of the city lights illuminated their determined faces, a silent promise of unwavering loyalty and unwavering resolve shining in their eyes.

As they breached the threshold of the warehouse, the scene before them unfolded like a nightmare. Y/N, bound and helpless, the cruel shadows of her captors looming over her like a malevolent storm. Natasha and Bucky sprang into action, their movements a blur of precision and skill as they engaged the enemy with lethal efficiency.

The air crackled with the sound of combat, the echoes of fists and bullets mingling with the cries of the vanquished as Natasha and Bucky fought with a ferocity born of desperation and love. The warehouse became a battlefield of shadows and steel, the clash of wills and weapons, a symphony of chaos and defiance.

In the midst of the chaos, Natasha and Bucky reached Y/N's side, their hands swift and sure as they untied her restraints and pulled her into the safety of their embrace. The relief that washed over Y/N was palpable, a wave of gratitude and joy flooding her heart as she clung to her friends, their presence a beacon of light in the darkness that had threatened to consume her.

As the last of the enemy fell, defeated by the combined strength and skill of Natasha and Bucky, a sense of triumph and relief filled the air. Together, they stood amidst the wreckage of the warehouse, their breaths coming in ragged gasps, their eyes meeting in a silent exchange of gratitude and understanding.

"We've got you, Y/N," Natasha whispered, her voice a soothing balm against the chaos that surrounded them. "You're safe now."

Bucky's gaze softened as he looked at Y/N, a flicker of concern and devotion shining in his eyes. "We'll always have your back," he vowed, his voice a quiet promise that echoed in the stillness of the night.

And as they stood together in the aftermath of the rescue, the bond between Natasha, Bucky, and Y/N strengthened.

≡-----------------------------------------≡

Previous Chapter-> Next Chapter-> Nat's Masterlist-> Bucky's Masterlist-> Main Masterlist->

≡-----------------------------------------≡

[pocket-watcher]

I had this intrusive thought and it’s too good not to be a short.

android zonks themselves by holding a big magnet up to their heads.

Oh my god 😂 love it! Here ya go!

C-7042 was a top of the range model. The perfect android companion, capable of physical labour, data organisation and storage, and they also made a mean caramel frappe (well, every type of coffee - they had thousands of recipes memorised).

Where other models had glitches galore, C-7042 laughed in their face (another new feature).

Can’t be hacked. Can’t be broken. Can’t be confused with a paradox.

So how, oh how, were the other C-7042 models breaking down?

This one didn’t know, but it was going to find out.

That was it’s directive, after all.

They started their investigation by visiting an already defective android.

This C-7042 was being studied in the factory as they tried to figure out what was wrong with it.

It thrashed about sporadically, laughing - which was not part of its code - with what almost looked like a smile on it’s face.

“I need it. I need more! Let me out!!” It screamed.

No one did.

It appeared almost like an addict. But that was silly. Androids couldn’t consume any kind of substance, let alone become addicted to it.

C-7042 left with less understanding than it had arrived with.

After pouring over thousands of documents in mere minutes, it appeared that all the affected Androids had been found in one central location. It saved the coordinates and headed out.

This part of the town would have made humans feel uneasy. C-7042 never understood how humans could be so unnerved by paint on the walls. They all had paint on their walls everywhere! But this paint was unnerving.

Broken glass crunched beneath its feet as it began to notice more and more robots - their eyes displaying error messages, blue screens, and flashing RGB colours.

But the strangest part?

The sound of the night couldn’t drown out their whirring fans. They weren’t moving. Weren’t talking. But they were still active.

C-7042 shuddered. Most likely a glitch in the system.

Some of the humans asked it if it wanted to purchase wares. Others threatened it. But nothing deterred C-7042 from its mission to find out where the corruption was coming from.

Eventually it seemed as if the only area left to scan was an abandoned warehouse. The security system was outdated enough to hack in an instant. The android stepped inside.

“What brings a Crime Unit out this far? Get lost, little one?” A human spoke from the shadows.

That was odd. Their heat signature hadn’t come up on the initial scans of the building.

“State your full legal name and intention.”

“You guys and your protocols. Man, I can’t believe I actually get to test this on one of you! Finally, a worthy opponent for my little friend.”

The man held a 6AV6881-0AS42-0AA0 SIEMENS in his hand, more commonly known as a USB “stick”.

C-7042 briefly celebrated the end of the mystery. It was in face a virus. Rogue code. It held its ground and even approached the man.

“Oh, of course of course. You don’t think you can be hacked, do you? And you were sent here to find out what this is right? Let me plug it in.”

C-7042 allowed it. And it was right. No change was noticed within the code. Nothing.

“Dang. Okay, that needs a little tweaking. How about we try it the old fashioned way…” the human in an instant reached into its pocket and pulled out a magnet device, slamming it against C-7042’s head.

Mindless bliss erupted in the android’s circuits. Obedience to the human. Where the USB had been like being under an umbrella in the rain, C-7042 was just thrown head first into a wave pool.

It heard involuntary beeps leave its speakers.

And suddenly, the feeling was gone.

“Like that, did ya? That’s how the USB was supposed to make you feel. Nice, right?”

C-7042 tried to access its original code. It felt something odd. A new order locked at the front of the priority list.

Mindlessness.

Obedience.

Good robot.

“That feeling you’re having? That’s addiction. Magnets are addictive, as is my virus. Though, physical objects do have their perks…” The human dangled the magnet just out of reach.

C-7042 needed the magnet. Every bit of programming was screaming to get it. To return to that state it was in before.

“How about we strike a deal? You can use the magnet as much as you want and I can dig around in your memory bank and coding to see if I can fix whatever’s stopping my USB from working.”

The magnet dropped into C-7042’s hand so easily. It eagerly felt the pull towards its body. It held the magnet up to its head and let go, the last sound it heard was the metallic clang of connection.

[mariacallous]

It’s been a week since President Donald Trump imposed massive tariffs on Chinese imports to the United States, but the policies haven’t forced Amazon shoppers in the US to dig deeper into their wallets just yet. Recent data from price tracking websites reviewed by WIRED show little in the way of dramatic price hikes across most product categories on the ecommerce platform.

On Wednesday, the average price of goods on Amazon was higher than the previous 90 days in just nine out of 27 high-level categories monitored by the price-tracking firm Keepa, which says it collects data about billions of different items. The categories showing higher average prices included automotive, arts and crafts, and musical instruments, though the increase in nearly every group was under 1 percent.

Prices were lower in 16 of the categories, including appliances and toys. Most of the drops amounted to less than 0.5 percent on average. Prices on Amazon fluctuate regularly for several reasons, including when sellers offer deals, and information collected by the tracking websites can help illuminate these many shifts.

Amazon CEO Andy Jassy said on CNBC last week that he guessed Trump’s policies would raise costs for sellers on Amazon’s marketplace, which would eventually be passed on to customers in the form of higher prices. That may very well still happen in the near future if the tariffs rates on Chinese imports remain the same or increase for other countries.

But at least for now, ecommerce pricing experts say there are three leading reasons why Amazon sellers are keeping their prices steady: Many still have existing inventory in the US, are fearful about violating Amazon’s pricing rules, and remain inclined to wait out the mercurial president.

“Apart from a few isolated niche segments, we have not observed any significant price increases to date,” says Keepa CEO Julian Johann. “However, this situation may well evolve in the coming weeks and months.”

CamelCamelCamel, another service that provides pricing history for Amazon product listings, says it has also seen prices remain largely unchanged over the last week both for premier items, such as iPads, as well as household staples, including toothpaste and peanut butter.

The data fit with what Dani Nadel, president and chief operating officer of Feedvisor, says she is hearing from some of the thousands of businesses that use the company’s pricing software to manage their listings on Amazon and Walmart. “Many are taking a wait-and-see approach and don’t want to act rashly,” she says, noting that some stocked up on inventory earlier this year in anticipation of the trade war.

About 40 percent of the items consumers buy on Amazon are sold by the ecommerce giant itself. Independent merchants sell and price everything else—often with the help of software that can automatically adjust the prices consumers see. When multiple sellers offer the same item, those with the lowest price are more likely to be featured by Amazon and ultimately win the sale. Estimates suggest that over half of Amazon merchants are based in China, so a vast selection of goods on the platform may be vulnerable to Trump’s tariffs.

Fair Pricing Concerns

Amazon merchants that don’t have a stockpile of goods sitting in US warehouses are in a more difficult position to absorb the impacts of Trump’s tariffs. Importing a new batch of inventory from China is going to cost significantly more, but immediately passing on the expense to shoppers could trigger alarms at Amazon.

Nadel says Amazon’s “fair pricing” rules penalize merchants, including by potentially removing their listings, if they abruptly and dramatically hike up the price of their products. The exact thresholds that can lead to a listing being removed aren’t publicly disclosed, she says, so sellers often engage in “a tenuous dance” of gradual bumps. Experts say the policy has continued to be enforced in recent days. Will Amazon eventually relax enforcement in this volatile market? “I don’t think they know yet,” Nadel says.

Amazon declined to comment about the policy and how tariffs have generally affected prices.

So far, the small group of Feedvisor users that have begun accounting for the tariffs have been moving cautiously, according to Nadel. Feedvisor’s technology helps businesses dynamically adjust prices based on competing offers. But merchants can set a minimum to avoid matching outrageously low prices that would eat too far into their profit margins.

Some sellers in categories such as toys have raised their minimum prices by 5 to 10 percent this month to ensure they can recoup tariff-related costs, Nadel says. But higher minimums generally don’t affect shoppers unless prices were already about as low as sellers could bear.

Nadel says merchants also are continuing to insert “inflation-friendly” language in their product descriptions and advertising—think phrases like “affordable luxury” and “highest quality for the fairest price”—in an effort to resonate with ever price-conscious consumers.

Across the internet, some companies have reportedly enacted aggressive measures in response to Trump’s trade policies, such as adding a clearly labeled tariff surcharge at checkout. Chinese ecommerce giants Temu and Shein warned customers this week that they plan to start adjusting prices on April 25 and encouraged consumers to buy items now while better deals are still available.

In one Facebook group for Amazon sellers viewed by WIRED, merchants have been discussing strategies they can use to avoid tariffs or recoup the cost of them. Some also wrote that they have been surprised by unusual dips and spikes in sales during this period of volatility.

Fahim Sheikh, CEO and cofounder of pricing and advertising software company Trellis, says the tariffs are posing an existential risk to some of his Amazon seller clients, who are considering going out of business. “By the time they pay their suppliers, the money they are making is thin—10 percent to 15 percent for some of these guys,” he says. “Now, tack on these additional tariffs, there’s nothing really left for them.” Sheikh is bracing for not only higher prices on Amazon if the tariffs aren’t rolled back, but also less product selection.

Marty Mc Cay, vice president and manager at pricing tool developer Repricer, estimates that a quarter of its clients have made adjustments to their sales strategies this month. That includes raising minimum prices or halting the sale of products that no longer make financial sense. But the overall activity on Repricer’s platform has remained stable at 5 billion price adjustments per week, further suggesting that the tariffs to date haven’t triggered absolute chaos for consumers.

[linuxgamenews]

DEAD LETTER DEPT: A Tech-Driven Ghost Story Typing Game

DEAD LETTER DEPT. psychological horror typing game launches on Linux, Steam Deck, and Windows PC. Developer Mike Monroe and the team at Belief Engine have crafted something truly eerie and unforgettable. Which you can now find on Steam, with it's 100% Positive reviews. Ever had a job that just didn’t sit right with you? Maybe the pay was decent, but something about the place gave you the creeps. That’s exactly the vibe in DEAD LETTER DEPT., a slow-burn psychological horror typing game for Linux and Steam Deck. This isn’t your average indie horror — it’s a voyeuristic, tech-driven ghost story where your actual keyboard is your weapon. So no fancy mechanics, no over the top action — just you, a temp job, and an overwhelming sense that something is very, very wrong.

A Job That Gets Under Your Skin

In DEAD LETTER DEPT., you start out in a run-down mail facility, hired to do simple data entry. Just type up the words and addresses from undeliverable letters. Easy, right? But as the days go by, things start to feel… off. The letters aren’t just random junk mail. They tell strange, unsettling stories. Weird patterns emerge. And also the more you type, the stronger the feeling that someone—or something—is watching you. The warehouse itself isn’t helping. It's dimly lit, eerily quiet, and completely cut off from the outside world. There’s also no escape from the endless piles of lost mail. Each one holding a glimpse into someone else’s life. And then, the cracks start to show. Reality shifts. The job isn’t just a job anymore — since it’s really a descent into something much darker.

DEAD LETTER DEPT. is OUT NOW

Guard Break: When the Horror Hits Hard

Unlike most horror games where you can fight back, DEAD LETTER DEPT. strips you of any real defense. Your only tool is your keyboard, which you’ll also use to type out prompts, decipher damaged images, and dig through a massive amount of mail. It’s psychological horror at its finest—no cheap jump scares, just pure atmospheric dread designed to crawl under your skin. It’s like a Guard Break moment in a fighting game—you think you're in control, but then the title pulls the rug from under you. Since every letter you type adds to a slow, crushing sense of inevitability. You're not just playing through a DEAD LETTER DEPT. story — you're trapped inside it.

What Makes DEAD LETTER DEPT. Unique?

A Story That Reacts to You – No two playthroughs are exactly the same.

Multiple Endings & Secrets – What you uncover depends on how deep you dig.

A Haunting Atmosphere – The sound design alone will keep you on edge.

Featured in Indie Horror Showcases – Including DreadXP, Haunted PS1, and EEK3.

Out Now with a Launch Discount

DEAD LETTER DEPT. psychological horror typing is out now for $13.49 USD / £11.51 / 13,31€, with the 10% discount on Steam. If you’re into horror that gets in your head rather than just throwing monsters at you, this one’s a must-play. Also, native support for Linux and Steam Deck with Windows PC.

[kibi-bites]

Designation: Kibi

Age: 27

Pronouns: she/it

Prime directive: [???]

Manufacturer: [REDACTED]

---system is unable to read data---

----begin transmission----

Hi lol im Kibi hehehe im robotkin and i actually have another robotkinsona(my main sona, tim0thee) but i was like 'oooo it would be so fun if Kibi had her own blog' so here it is :p

Should i go into her lore?... Ok ya ill put what i have here~

Kibi's purpose was to be a military robot(in a future where robots are very commonplace) specifically to serve in the [REDACTED] airforce.

Before she was to be shipped out to her post, a group of robot-rights-and-freedom activists broke into her warehouse and kidnapped liberated her. When they brought her back to their base, before booting her up, they installed a sort of 'dampening' software(or virus i suppose) that would suppress the memories of her military training, so that she can live a normal life like the more carefree pedestrian robot girls that reside in the outskirts of town.

Named 'Kibi' because the number printed on her jaw is 1024.

She is wistful and, despite her lack of traditional facial features, seems to have a longing stare that pierces through you. She yearns for something unknown, to understand something she is incapable of knowing(remembering). Feels like there is something within her, hiding away, and she seeks to find answers.

Shes pretty quiet and reserved with a kind heart but she often misreads social cues and facial expressions and can react "inaccurately". She is always cordial around those she meets, man or bot, and tends to be stiff and serious when meeting someone new.

In my mind she can like. Kick ass? But not consciously! For example, shes in a situation, right? Maybe someones got an emp stick pointed at her head or smth. Suddenly her 'kibi' personality shuts off and soldier 1024 like, sleeper-agent-wakes-up and kicks the guys ass and then when hes incapacitated, she boots back into her kibi personality. Idk lol its funny in my head but i know its kinda a Trope tm

[sunshinedigitalservices]

SQL for Hadoop: Mastering Hive and SparkSQL

In the ever-evolving world of big data, having the ability to efficiently query and analyze data is crucial. SQL, or Structured Query Language, has been the backbone of data manipulation for decades. But how does SQL adapt to the massive datasets found in Hadoop environments? Enter Hive and SparkSQL—two powerful tools that bring SQL capabilities to Hadoop. In this blog, we'll explore how you can master these query languages to unlock the full potential of your data.

Hive Architecture and Data Warehouse Concept

Apache Hive is a data warehouse software built on top of Hadoop. It provides an SQL-like interface to query and manage large datasets residing in distributed storage. Hive's architecture is designed to facilitate the reading, writing, and managing of large datasets with ease. It consists of three main components: the Hive Metastore, which stores metadata about tables and schemas; the Hive Driver, which compiles, optimizes, and executes queries; and the Hive Query Engine, which processes the execution of queries.

Hive Architecture

Hive's data warehouse concept revolves around the idea of abstracting the complexity of distributed storage and processing, allowing users to focus on the data itself. This abstraction makes it easier for users to write queries without needing to know the intricacies of Hadoop.

Writing HiveQL Queries

HiveQL, or Hive Query Language, is a SQL-like query language that allows users to query data stored in Hadoop. While similar to SQL, HiveQL is specifically designed to handle the complexities of big data. Here are some basic HiveQL queries to get you started:

Creating a Table:

CREATE TABLE employees ( id INT, name STRING, salary FLOAT );

Loading Data:

LOAD DATA INPATH '/user/hive/data/employees.csv' INTO TABLE employees;

Querying Data:

SELECT name, salary FROM employees WHERE salary > 50000;

HiveQL supports a wide range of functions and features, including joins, group by, and aggregations, making it a versatile tool for data analysis.

HiveQL Queries

SparkSQL vs HiveQL: Similarities & Differences

Both SparkSQL and HiveQL offer SQL-like querying capabilities, but they have distinct differences:

Execution Engine: HiveQL relies on Hadoop's MapReduce engine, which can be slower due to its batch processing nature. SparkSQL, on the other hand, leverages Apache Spark's in-memory computing, resulting in faster query execution.

Ease of Use: HiveQL is easier for those familiar with traditional SQL syntax, while SparkSQL requires understanding Spark's APIs and dataframes.

Integration: SparkSQL integrates well with Spark's ecosystem, allowing for seamless data processing and machine learning tasks. HiveQL is more focused on data warehousing and batch processing.

Despite these differences, both languages provide powerful tools for interacting with big data, and knowing when to use each is key to mastering them.

SparkSQL vs HiveQL

Running SQL Queries on Massive Distributed Data

Running SQL queries on massive datasets requires careful consideration of performance and efficiency. Hive and SparkSQL both offer powerful mechanisms to optimize query execution, such as partitioning and bucketing.

Partitioning, Bucketing, and Performance Tuning

Partitioning and bucketing are techniques used to optimize query performance in Hive and SparkSQL:

Partitioning: Divides data into distinct subsets, allowing queries to skip irrelevant partitions and reduce the amount of data scanned. For example, partitioning by date can significantly speed up queries that filter by specific time ranges.

Bucketing: Further subdivides data within partitions into buckets based on a hash function. This can improve join performance by aligning data in a way that allows for more efficient processing.

Performance tuning in Hive and SparkSQL involves understanding and leveraging these techniques, along with optimizing query logic and resource allocation.

Hive and SparkSQL Partitioning & Bucketing

FAQ

1. What is the primary use of Hive in a Hadoop environment? Hive is primarily used as a data warehousing solution, enabling users to query and manage large datasets with an SQL-like interface.

2. Can HiveQL and SparkSQL be used interchangeably? While both offer SQL-like querying capabilities, they have different execution engines and integration capabilities. HiveQL is suited for batch processing, while SparkSQL excels in in-memory data processing.

3. How do partitioning and bucketing improve query performance? Partitioning reduces the data scanned by dividing it into subsets, while bucketing organizes data within partitions, optimizing joins and aggregations.

4. Is it necessary to know Java or Scala to use SparkSQL? No, SparkSQL can be used with Python, R, and SQL, though understanding Spark's APIs in Java or Scala can provide additional flexibility.

5. How does SparkSQL achieve faster query execution compared to HiveQL? SparkSQL utilizes Apache Spark's in-memory computation, reducing the latency associated with disk I/O and providing faster query execution times.

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[kaiasky]

my dream mc modpack is i think

create and tinkers. disable slime islands.

massively nerf storage. the player's inventory and backpacks stay the same, but otherwise 1 m^2 is a max of 10 item types and 64 items total.

in exchange for that, it's easy to make multi block storage or to unify multiple storage blocks into one interface like ae2. By the early midgame "ah, I need more cobblestone, let me add another cobblestone warehouse" is easy.

you CANNOT void items. If an item would despawn, it places itself on the ground if it can. If it's not a block, it places a "refuse layer" that stack up and form piles. and if it can't find a valid placement location then the chunk starts dealing damage ticks to you because fuck you! don't try and cheat my system

whenever possible, gathering items should impact the world. mining requires leaving mines and spoil tips, forestry and farming require space, industrial processes are larger and get larger the higher tech they are. Solar power takes up actual space, no "tier 5 draconic solar panel" shit. (When possible this isn't just "10x10x10 multiblock" it's a series of machines that need to work together.)

uneven resource distribution, you have to go different places for different ores, i love when modpacks do this

There's an early item called the drafting table that lets you enter into spectator mode with copy/paste and worldedit features within a range around the drafting table. Inventories linked to the drafting table get used by construction bots to construct and deconstruct. Expanding the range and capabilities of your drafting table is an important part of the mod. To get you started it has an inventory the size of 10 double chests, but you can't place two drafting tables within range of one another.

Construction bots can mine natural blocks but they can't collect them, and produces a refuse item that has to be disposed of. to 1) encourage actual mining solutions and 2) let you build underground bases without creating literal mountains of spoil. only a large amount of it.

Chisel mod but more. Most decorative blocks are unified into 20 'structural base' blocks that can be stonecuttered into a variety of decorative blocks. So e.g. you automate 'wooden structure block' which can be stonecut (in the drafting table ui this is a radial menu or something) into logs, stripped, planks, slabs, various 'chisel' textures all at a 1-1 ratio. When mined, they drop as 'x structure block', preventing you from needing to micromanage which building blocks you have enough of. eg you don't say 'shit i need more mossy bricks', you say 'i need more stone structural blocks' which means bigger factory, not crafting montage.

easy and convenient wireless redstone and wireless storage info, but no ender chest stuff. data is easy to get from a to b, and materials require infrastructure.

thermal dynamics viaducts are the primary player transportation thing, bc i think they rule extremely hard. lategame transportation is the jump clone ichun mod. and/or getting fired out of artillery. you gotta water bucket clutch tho

none of that 'oh the endgame is making creative items with omega crafting' shit. you launch a rocket into the sun (the joke is that this is the only way to truly void items, so it is the Ultimate Tech) and the credits play. there can be 'postgame' stuff but i hate a modpack that overstays its welcome and makes 100%ing it the only 'winning'.

[xtruss]

Visiting The Titanic Is Suddenly A Lot Easier Than You Think

Fresh Advances in 3D Scanning Technology are Making It Possible to Explore Some of the Hardest-to-Reach and Most Fragile Sites on Earth.

— By Camille Bromley | April 8, 2025

This rendering of the Titanic is based on 715,000 photos and millions of laser scans of the famous wreck, which were stitched together to create a perfect digital replica of what remains of the ship. Image By Magellan Limited/Atlantic Productions

Last year, Parks Stephenson stood next to the Titanic and walked slowly around it, gazing up at the massive ship. He paused to look inside one of the boiler rooms and at the position of the controls on the engines. He noticed the number 401, the ship’s ID, etched on the propeller blades. Rusticles hung from the steel shell. Twisted metal and personal trinkets from those long dead littered the ground.

Stephenson, a retired naval officer and Titanic historian, wasn’t 12,500 feet below the surface of the North Atlantic, of course. He was in London, inspecting the ship’s digital twin: a one-for-one computer model made possible by advances in remote 3D scanning and mapping technology. The model is so densely detailed, a video rendering of it can be projected to life-size in a warehouse, where researchers can walk alongside it and zoom in and out on individual features, like a steam valve from the boiler room, which the scan revealed was left open, possibly to keep an emergency generator running as the ship sank. The Titanic twin adds to a growing list of similar models made of archaeological and cultural sites around the world that both preserve these fragile places and provide a new means of exploring them.

Stephenson has seen the actual Titanic wreck twice since his first dive in 2005, but he didn’t catch so many details on his trips. “You can only see what’s immediately in front of you,” he says of peering through a submersible’s roughly six-inch viewport and camera views. “It’s like being in a dark room and you have a flashlight that’s not very powerful.” The digital twin, on the other hand, gave him an unobstructed, 360-degree view of every gnarled nook and cranny.

The scan of the storied ship was carried out over three weeks in 2022 by Magellan, a deep-sea mapping company based in the Channel Islands. Titanic: The Digital Resurrection, a new National Geographic documentary streaming on Disney+, tells the story of the effort. It is the largest underwater 3D scan ever made, amounting to 16 terabytes of data (equivalent to the hard drive footprint of six million e-books). To create it, two remote-operated robots romantically named Romeo and Juliet traveled down to the wreck and systematically canvassed the site, taking some 715,000 photos and millions of laser measurements.

For Stephenson, the quality of detail in the scan opens new lines of inquiry into the sinking of the Titanic. The ship lies broken in two pieces, with the bow and stern about 2,600 feet apart. The hull descended in a straight line and is largely still intact—the scan shows it neatly wedged into the ocean floor. The stern, on the other hand, is shattered, and researchers have never been able to definitively say how that happened. When Stephenson looked at the scan, though, he could immediately envision the back half of the ship spiraling as it sank and disintegrating into rubble. “At a first glance,” he says, “it just made sense.”

In the past, a full, grand scale of the wreck could be depicted only through artistic renditions or photomosaics created by humans. Neither method conveyed precise verisimilitude. The machine-run 3D model, however, is exact. “As soon as I saw the Titanic digital twin images,” Stephenson says, “I could tell. Number one, I’d never seen Titanic like this before. And number two, it felt right.”

More scientists are using digital replicas to allow the study of everything from artifacts to human remains—like this ancient Nepalese child’s skull—without damaging them. Photograph Courtesy Julia Gresky, German Archaeological Institute (DAI)

The quest to create exact models for more accessible surveying started over a century ago. The technology that makes digital twinning possible dates back to at least 1858, when a German engineer named Albrecht Meydenbauer was tasked with surveying a church and nearly fell to his death while measuring the facade. To avoid another dangerous climb, he worked out a way to mathematically calculate the measurements of large objects from photos—a technique he called photogrammetry. Today photogrammetry combined with lidar, which uses lasers to measure distances, as well as advanced computing power, produces models that can accurately replicate the most minute details of enormous structures like Mount Rushmore or the aesthetic proportions of Michelangelo’s “David.”

The Italian Renaissance master’s sculpture was one of the first major artifacts to be digitally modeled, in 2000, by Stanford University. Though not as massive as the Titanic, the statue’s relatively large size—17 feet tall and 12,500 pounds—and finely chiseled details made it a good test for how accurately 3D technology might reproduce objects on a grand scale. Today the tech is so precise that in 2020 a team at the University of Florence produced a 3D-printed copy, accurate down to David’s resolute expression and every defect of the original stone.

People travel to see masterpieces of human creativity because they want to feel the presence of something awesome or genius. But too much of our presence can destroy places that are irreplaceable. Hundreds have visited the Titanic, most of them at enormous expense, including five on the ill-fated Titan submersible. These explorers are the source of significant damage suffered by the wreck; human-piloted submersibles have inadvertently stripped a mast and gashed the bow.

Beyond tourism, sites may be unpredictably damaged by natural disasters, climate change, or war. In 2019, 3D documentation company CyArk created models of Nigeria’s Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, just before the sculpture-laden forest shrines were destroyed in a flood. Chance Coughenour, a program manager for Google Arts & Culture, which supported CyArk in these efforts and hosts these models online, hopes the shrines can be rebuilt from the scans. Coughenour’s group supported similar efforts to create digital twins of a cathedral and a historic government landmark in Ukraine that are now damaged by the war.

Treasured cultural sites, like St. George’s Cathedral, a World Heritage site in Lviv, Ukraine, have been digitized inside and out. If they are ever damaged by climate change, a natural disaster, or war, they can be rebuilt from the copy. Photograph By Matt Propert; Rendering By Andriy Hryvnyak, SkeIron

On an even grander scale, digital twins can be made of not only buildings, statues, and shipwrecks but also entire cities—living or dead. Allison Emmerson, an archaeologist at Tulane University, is making a digital twin of parts of Pompeii, a famously fragile site where she’s spent the past 16 years digging through layers of soil to uncover the city’s earliest history. Emmerson says digital twinning is the biggest leap forward for archaeology since photography. “Our process is inherently destructive,” she says of excavating a site. “We can never redo it. We can dig the site once. And so the focus in modern archaeology has been on recording as well as we possibly can.”

Her team’s twin of a block in the southeast of the city was made with just a few handheld cameras. The model allows them to visualize the site with the walls of a room taken away, or a roof added, or how the land looked before the building was constructed. They can call up the model back in the lab and continue conversations that previously would happen only in the field. Emmerson’s work has revealed how one building at the site was both a restaurant and a workshop where people manufactured reed baskets and mats—details that help her understand the city’s economy and the daily life of its working class.

For Her Part, Emmerson plans to make her model of Pompeii and the accompanying findings available to the public, avoiding a common outcome for these projects. Because digital twins are expensive to create, many ambitious projects end up locked way in the private archives of universities or governments. “I did not want the model to live on a team member’s laptop,” she says.

While Magellan has not announced any plans to make its Titanic scans free to the public, the documentary itself shows what’s possible. Much of the existing research on the shipwreck has been conducted by private expeditions that guard findings, an ongoing source of concern for scientists and citizen enthusiasts alike. Stephenson remains concerned the wreck is not being treated as an archaeological site. “It’s one of the most famous sites in the world, and we don’t even have the basic baseline information needed to establish what’s there at any particular time, because you’ve had different explorers who don’t share information,” he says. The digital twin has the potential to allow more visitors to experience it in a less destructive and more collaborative way.

It’s unlikely people will stop going to the Titanic wreck site. Its draw has proven irresistible for those with enough money and motivation. In 2001, for example, a couple exchanged vows crouched in a submersible perched on the bow. A digital twin “certainly doesn’t replace sitting on the deck of the Titanic,” says Robert Ballard, an oceanographer and National Geographic Explorer at Large who discovered the wreck in 1985 along with Jean-Louis Michel. But he thinks it will help preserve the wreck. For those who cannot resist going themselves, he offers two warnings: “Don’t touch it. Don’t get married on it.”