#High Speed Data Interface

[eric2bwodr]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/electromechanical--circuit-protection--tvs-diodes/sp4045-04atg-littelfuse-9097778

Silicon-avalanche diodes (SADs), Bidirectional TVS, Low Capacitance TVS

TVS DIODE 3.3V 7V 10MSOP

[jpsjns2s]

https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/semiconductors--signal-interface--rs-485-422/isl83485ibz-t-renesas-8027834

RS 485 Receiver, high-speed data transmission, RS-422 connector types

ISL83485 Series 3.6 V 10 Mbps (-40 to +85°C)RS-485/RS-422 Transceiver - SOIC-8

[ilovemarvel97]

Written in Our Souls - Part 15

Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: Y/N goes on the mission. It was supposed to be a simple mission…

Word Count: 6,255

Warnings: angst, little fluff, mention of blood

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

The Mission

At first, the mission unfolded like clockwork.

The team touched down on the outskirts of a remote Hydra outpost nestled deep in a mountainous region. Intel had flagged the facility for data extraction—nothing high-threat, mostly old storage, according to the briefing. Just a simple in-and-out. Surveillance disabled. Entry points mapped. The air was cool, thin, but quiet. Too quiet.

Y/N moved with the others through the tree line in a blur, her senses sharp, every muscle tensed. Even with her enhanced speed and strength, something about this place made her skin crawl. Wanda’s absence was like a silent echo in her chest, tugging at her instincts louder than anything else.

“Eyes up,” Steve’s voice came through the comms. “We’re approaching the eastern entrance.”

Y/N nodded, appearing beside Sam and Nat with supernatural ease, scanning the perimeter. They breached the door with minimal resistance. The corridors inside were dim, dust-covered, abandoned-looking—but not entirely empty. Y/N could feel it.

“Too quiet,” Nat muttered, checking the corners.

“Energy readings are spiking,” Sam said, holding up a scanner. “Something’s still live down here.”

They reached the data terminal without incident. Strange. Y/N started the extraction, her fingers a blur across the interface, while the others secured the area.

Then everything went to hell.

A sudden boom ripped through the silence. The ground trembled. Dust poured from the ceiling as a wall at the far end exploded inward. Reinforced blast doors hissed open—and behind them—

“Ambush!” Steve barked.

Dozens of Hydra operatives poured in, armed to the teeth and moving with disturbing precision. Automatic fire erupted. The team dove for cover.

Y/N was already moving. In a blur, she shot in front of Sam, arm outstretched—her fingers snapping closed around the bullets mid-air. One. Two. Three. Caught like they were nothing. Then, with a burst of speed, she launched forward, disarming three men in the blink of an eye and slamming one clean through a wall.

“We’ve been set up!” Nat shouted, ducking a blast.

Gunmen dropped from above, rappelling from vents and hidden shafts. It had all been a trap.

Y/N gritted her teeth, eyes darting back to the data terminal—78% downloaded.

“We have to hold until it’s done!” she yelled, tearing a chunk of metal from the wall and using it to block another barrage of bullets. She threw it like a discus, taking out a group of enemies in one clean arc.

But her mind wasn’t on the fight—not fully.

She was thinking about Wanda.

And the baby.

And how fast everything could be lost.

Her chest tightened. No matter how fast she was, how strong—she couldn't be in two places at once.

I have to survive this.

I have to go home to them.

And suddenly, surviving this mission became the only mission.

---

The hallway was barely holding together from the force of the battle. Y/N stood at the front of the team, chest heaving, adrenaline pumping. Her speed had cleared most of the path, and her strength had kept the walls from collapsing entirely.

“98%!” she called out, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Just hold a little longer!”

The terminal hummed beside her, screen flashing as the data download neared completion. Behind her, Steve and Nat held their ground while Sam covered the flank.

Suddenly, Tony’s voice crackled through the comms, urgent and sharp:

“Heads up—Vision and I have visuals on reinforcements. Not inside. Outside. And they’re not your average goons—these are enhanced.”

Vision’s voice followed, more controlled but just as serious:

“I count at least seven. They’re waiting for extraction to fail.”

Y/N’s heart dropped.

Before she could react, the terminal pinged—100%.

“Drive’s ready!” she shouted.

Sam grabbed it and turned, but a low hum began to vibrate through the floor.

Y/N froze.

“What is that?” she muttered, then realized,

The sound was familiar.

“Fall back—now!” she yelled, but it was already too late.

Her limbs felt heavy. Like molasses had filled her veins. She tried to run, to push forward—but her body didn’t obey. Her momentum died mid-step, and the blur of motion that usually trailed her fell still.

“What the hell—?” Steve called out, noticing her slow down.

Then came the sound.

Pop. Pop.

Two gunshots.

Sharp. Close.

Y/N staggered backward, breath catching in her throat. She looked down.

Blood bloomed across her side and lower abdomen.

The pain hit a second later, burning, white-hot.

“Y/N!” Sam shouted, diving toward her.

Y/N hit the ground hard, her vision swimming. Blood seeped through her suit—hot, fast, and too much.

She tried to move but her legs barely twitched. Whatever they hit her with… it was working. Her speed—her healing—it was all gone.

Nat was by her side in seconds, skidding to her knees. “Where are you hit?”

“Side... and ribs…” Y/N gritted out, clutching her abdomen. “Bullets are still in.”

Nat’s fingers were already working, applying pressure. “Alright. You’ll be okay. I just need to get them out.”

She tapped her comm, urgency in her voice. “Vision, we need immediate extraction. Y/N’s down—bullets lodged too deep to remove here. Vision, do you read?”

Static.

“Vision?” Nat repeated, louder now. “Come in. Y/N’s hit!”

More silence.

Sam and Steve were laying cover fire around them, but Nat’s eyes flicked to the sky. “Where the hell is he?”

Y/N’s breathing was shallow, ragged. “Nat…” she rasped. “He’s not answering?”

“No,” Nat said grimly. “But that doesn’t matter. We’ll handle it. I just need—”

Y/N gasped as Nat dug a blade into the first wound, her body convulsing. “AHHHHH—!”

“Hold still!” Nat snapped. “I have to get it out. Your body won’t heal with the metal in you!”

Y/N screamed again, eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenched so hard it felt like they might crack. “It’s not working… dammit, Nat—it’s not working! There’s something wrong.”

Nat’s hand froze mid-motion. “What?”

“They did something. Slowed me down. Whatever it is, it’s still in my system. I can't heal until that bullet's gone…”

Nat looked down, heart pounding. She could feel the bullet—it was deep, but accessible. Maybe.

“Okay. Deep breath. You have to trust me.”

“I do,” Y/N whispered, clutching her shoulder. “But please—please—don’t let me die.”

Nat's expression softened just for a second. “You’re not dying. Not today. Not on my watch.”

Another call through the comms. “Vision! Where the hell are you?” Sam’s voice this time, urgent. “We need you down here!”

Nothing.

Nat bit back a curse and dug in again, ignoring the cry that tore from Y/N’s throat. Steve and Sam were closing ranks to protect them, enemies swarming. Time was running out.

“I’ve almost got it,” she said through clenched teeth, blood coating her gloves.

Y/N’s lips trembled, sweat slick on her brow. “Wanda… needs me… the baby…”

Nat froze. “What?”

But Y/N’s eyes were rolling back. Her grip loosening.

Nat forced herself to focus. “No time for questions,” she muttered. “Just hold on.”

Whatever was blocking Y/N’s powers—they needed to get it out fast.

---

Wanda’s POV

Wanda’s breath caught before the pain even registered.

It struck like lightning—sharp, violent, and wrong. Her knees buckled and she gripped the edge of the sink in her bathroom, the coffee cup slipping from her hand and shattering on the tile below.

Her vision blurred.

“No…” she whispered, one hand flying instinctively to her abdomen, the other to her chest. Her heart thundered wildly, a rhythm not entirely her own.

Y/N.

Something was wrong. So wrong.

She felt it through the bond—not a vague unease or a distant pulse of fear like before—but a surge, raw and red-hot, flooding her senses like fire. The pain, the panic, the searing heat of a wound that wasn’t hers but somehow was.

Her body curled forward, a cry ripping from her throat.

“Y/N—”

Wanda scrambled to her feet, stumbling toward the door. Her vision swam, her pulse chaotic. The nausea came again, but this time it wasn’t morning sickness. It was fear.

She could feel her.

Y/N’s pain.

Her helplessness.

Her scream.

Wanda’s hands shook as she pressed her palm to the wall, trying to ground herself. But grounding was impossible when the person who was your ground was out there bleeding.

The bond screamed in her blood.

Wanda gasped. “No—no, no, no—”

The baby. Y/N’s voice echoed in her soul. Wanda… needs me. The baby…

She staggered toward her nightstand, fumbling with her comm. “Steve—someone—tell me what’s happening!”

There was yelling in the background, static and gunfire, but no one answered her directly.

A cold chill crept up her spine, colder than the panic. She didn’t have time to question it.

Wanda's voice broke as she yelled again into the comm, "Where’s Y/N? Is she—is she okay?!"

Another wave of pain nearly knocked her down.

This wasn’t just injury.

This was a wound meant to sever.

But she wouldn’t let it.

“I’m coming,” she whispered, hands glowing red with magic that trembled and sparked wildly. “I’m coming detka.”

She pressed a trembling hand to her belly and then to her wrist, where Y/N’s name had always burned brightest.

“Just hold on.”

---

BACK TO THE TEAM

Y/N screamed as Natasha tried again, her gloved fingers slick with blood, shaking as she tried to reach the bullet lodged too deep in Y/N’s side.

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I can’t find it—” Nat hissed through gritted teeth, her voice straining against the chaos around them. “Where the hell is Vision?!”

“I CALLED HIM!” Sam’s voice came through the comms. “He’s not responding—he’s just hovering up there with Stark!”

Steve’s shield flew past, slamming into a Hydra soldier closing in. He dropped beside them to cover their position. “What’s wrong with him?!”

Y/N’s skin was pale, blood soaking her suit. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. “He’s not coming…” she said hoarsely, her eyes fluttering open, meeting Natasha’s. “He’s not coming.”

Nat looked down at her in horror. “Why would he—?”

“I don’t know…” Y/N whispered, her body jerking as another wave of pain hit. “Maybe he wants me to die…”

Nat froze, but only for a second. “No. No, don’t say that. Focus. Stay awake. We’ll fix this.”

Y/N shook her head weakly. “It hurts, Nat. I can’t… I can’t heal unless you get the bullets out.”

Her hand reached out blindly, fingers brushing Nat’s wrist. “Wanda… she felt it. I know she did. I felt her panic. I need to get back. I need to hold her. The baby—”

A choking sound escaped her throat, part sob, part scream, as another tremor of pain wracked her.

“I can’t die, Nat…” Y/N gasped, her eyes wild with desperation. “She needs me. The baby needs me. Please—please—get them out—”

Nat’s face twisted with emotion as she grabbed the med kit again. “I’m going to try. Just—just hang on, okay? Stay with me. Don’t you dare give up.”

Blood pooled beneath them.

Gunfire rang louder.

Smoke clouded the battlefield. Explosions from Hydra tech rattled the ground as Sam flew overhead, trying to suppress enemy fire. Steve was shouting commands, but his voice was drowned in the chaos.

Nat’s hands were soaked in blood. She couldn’t see the bullet—couldn’t feel it—and Y/N was slipping.

“I can’t get to it!” she shouted, panic now breaking through her usual cool.

Y/N’s eyes were fluttering closed, her lips pale and trembling. “Tell Wanda I’m sorry,” she breathed.

“No.” Nat grabbed her face roughly, forcing her to look at her. “No goodbyes. You hear me? You’re not dying. I’m not letting you.”

But then another explosion hit nearby—closer. Dirt and metal rained over them. Steve threw his shield, taking the brunt of the shrapnel, but the noise was deafening.

And that was when Sam’s voice cracked through the comms, horrified.

“WE’VE GOT A NEW WAVE—RIGHT SIDE! ALL ENHANCED! SHIT—VISION’S STILL NOT MOVING!”

Nat’s jaw clenched. “What the hell is he doing?!”

“I don’t know! Tony’s trying to override something—he says Vision locked him out of the system!”

Y/N coughed hard, blood on her lips now.

“No, no, no—stay with me—stay with me!” Nat was shaking now, her voice breaking.

Then Y/N cried out—loud, guttural—as the dampener activated again, forcing her body into complete stillness, locking her abilities down even more.

“I can’t… move…” she gasped. “It’s spreading…”

Her body jerked, back arching as another pulse hit from the tech laced into the bullets inside her. Her speed was gone. Her healing stalled. Her strength fading.

“Wanda,” she breathed again. “She’s coming. I feel her. Please…”

But everything was slipping—her vision blurring, the world dimming—and still, Vision hovered above them, unmoving, watching as if he were a god among ruins.

Nat looked up, her fury nearly explosive.

“You bastard,” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

And in that moment—everything tipped toward disaster.

A sudden pressure rippled through the air, thick and electric, like the calm before a storm.

Then—

A crack of red lightning exploded overhead, and in the next heartbeat, Wanda descended like fury itself, a scarlet streak tearing through the sky. She landed hard near the blast site, the ground trembling beneath her feet as her powers surged outward in a blinding pulse.

Her eyes, glowing red, scanned the chaos—but locked instantly on the only thing that mattered: Y/N.

Collapsed. Bleeding. Barely conscious in Natasha’s arms.

“Y/N!”

The scream that left Wanda's lips was raw, broken.

She sprinted forward and dropped to her knees, trembling hands hovering over Y/N’s blood-soaked side. Her magic sparked uncontrollably, crackling around her fingers.

“Wanda—” Natasha began, but Wanda barely heard her.

“What happened?” she choked out.

“Shot twice. Something tech-based is slowing her down—her healing isn’t working,” Nat answered quickly, voice tight. “I tried to pull the bullets out, but I couldn’t reach them.”

Wanda’s heart clenched. Her stomach turned, not from the nausea that had become her norm lately, but from pure panic. She felt Y/N’s pain through the bond like fire in her chest.

“I’ve got her,” Wanda whispered, lowering her hands until scarlet light enveloped Y/N’s abdomen.

“Wands—” Y/N gasped, body twitching. “You can’t… it hurts—”

“I know,” Wanda whispered shakily, “I know it does. But I have to. Please… hold on.”

The magic delved deep, guided by instinct and desperation. Wanda closed her eyes and breathed through the wave of emotion crashing through her—her mate’s pain, her baby’s life, her fear that she might lose both.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice breaking. “Come on, please…”

She felt the first bullet—foreign and cold—and pulled. It scraped through muscle, then finally popped free, clattering to the dirt.

Y/N screamed, her back arching, but her eyes fluttered open for a moment.

“Just one more,” Wanda whispered, tears falling freely now. “Then your body can start healing. I promise.”

Scarlet magic trembled as Wanda reached for the second bullet. It was deeper, wedged in tight.

Behind her, Nat was holding pressure on the wound. “Wanda, she’s losing too much blood—”

“I know,” Wanda snapped, then softened. “I know. I feel it. I feel everything.”

She cradled Y/N’s cheek with one hand, steadying her, while her other hand worked the bullet loose with delicate, precise pulses of red.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Not when I’m carrying our baby. Not when we just started.”

Then—with a final surge of light—the second bullet tore free.

Y/N gasped, then coughed weakly, color beginning to return to her cheeks as her body started to heal.

Wanda let out a sob of relief, gathering her into her arms and holding her tight.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered again and again, pressing her lips to Y/N’s forehead. “We’re okay now. You’re okay. We’re okay.”

She didn’t let go—not even when the sounds of battle still echoed in the distance.

Because in her arms was everything.

Her soulmate.

Her future.

Their child.

And nothing would ever take that from her.

---

The ground was scorched in patches, blackened by blasts and collapsed tech. Gunfire and the roar of enhanced enemies echoed across the battlefield, the mission having spiraled fully out of control.

Steve’s voice crackled over the comms—strained, breathless.

“Wanda—we’re getting overwhelmed! There’s at least six more enhanced coming from the east—super strength, energy manipulation, some kind of shielding. I can’t hold them off alone!”

Wanda turned her head sharply, heart pounding in her chest. Scarlet crackled around her like a storm barely held in check. Behind her, Y/N lay still—her breathing shallow, her body slowly healing, but not fast enough.

“Stay with her,” Wanda said to Natasha without looking. “Don’t let her move.”

Nat nodded, positioning herself over Y/N with a weapon drawn, gaze flickering between her fallen friend and the advancing enemy line.

Wanda stood slowly, power rippling around her in waves. Her fingers flexed at her sides as she looked toward the approaching threats—faces twisted in Hydra armor, masks glowing, eyes feral with aggression. They were enhanced and coordinated. This wasn’t a random ambush. It was a planned assault.

Scarlet power surged behind her eyes.

They were coming for them.

For Y/N.

For their baby.

And that made them a threat Wanda could not afford to let live.

She rose into the air, her movements graceful and terrifying, arms outstretched. “You don’t get to touch my family.”

She launched forward in a burst of red lightning, colliding with the enhanced before they could close in on Steve. Chaos exploded—energy beams ricocheted through the sky, but Wanda moved like a force of nature, tearing through them with a fury born of fear and love.

Steve, catching his breath, turned toward her briefly. “Thank God…”

But the tide hadn’t fully turned yet. Not with how many there were.

Back by the rubble, Natasha glanced down at Y/N. The blood flow had slowed. Her chest rose and fell, but her eyes were barely cracked open.

“Y/N,” Nat said urgently, touching her cheek. “Come on. Wake up.”

Y/N’s fingers twitched.

A broken breath escaped her lips. “W-Wanda…”

“She’s fine,” Nat lied through her teeth. “But she needs backup. She needs you.”

Y/N gritted her teeth. Her limbs were like stone, her body sluggish from the tech that had slowed her down. But her healing had started now that the bullets were gone—pain radiated through her ribs as bones began to knit, muscle stretching back into place.

Her fingers curled into the dirt. She forced herself to move.

For Wanda.

For the baby.

Because her soulmate was out there risking everything—and she wasn’t about to let her fight alone.

Y/N groaned as she shifted, her hand pressing to the half-healed wound in her side. Her vision swam, but she forced herself upright, swaying on her feet. Blood still stained her clothes, and her muscles ached like fire—but her healing had started. Her speed was coming back, little by little.

“She’s pregnant,” Y/N rasped, her voice sharp and trembling. Her eyes locked onto the red storm of chaos swirling in the distance—Wanda in full force. “You need to get her out of there.”

“Y/N—”

“Now, Nat!”

Without waiting for another word, Y/N shot forward, pain ricocheting through her body as she pushed her legs to move at near full speed. The speed inhibitor had weakened, and the moment she broke through the last of its grip, everything clicked into place—her strength, her purpose, her need to reach Wanda.

Wanda was still holding her own, throwing back enhanced enemies with brutal force, her magic wild and lethal. But even she was starting to show signs of strain. Her breathing was erratic, her movements slightly slower, protective instincts clashing with growing exhaustion.

Just as one of the enhanced flanked her from behind, raising a plasma blade to strike—

A blur slammed into him, sending his body flying into a heap of twisted metal.

Wanda spun around just as Y/N skidded to a halt in front of her, blood on her lips and fury in her eyes.

“Detka!” Wanda’s voice cracked with panic. “You shouldn’t be up!”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Y/N snapped, chest heaving. “You’re pregnant, Wanda. Get out. Now.”

Wanda looked like she might argue—until she saw the blood still leaking through Y/N’s side.

“Y/N—”

“No. I’m not leaving you, but I am getting you out of this fight.” She gritted her teeth, eyes burning into hers. “Please. For our baby.”

Wanda’s breath hitched.

Then she nodded.

But before they could move, another wave of Hydra reinforcements broke through the smoke.

Y/N stepped forward, shielding Wanda with her body.

“You get her out,” she said to Steve and Natasha over comms. “I’ll hold them off.”

Wanda’s eyes flared red as the enemy closed in. “No,” she said, her voice deadly quiet.

Y/N’s heart clenched. “Wanda—”

“I’m not leaving you,” she snapped, stepping up beside her. Her hand slipped into Y/N’s, and her grip was firm despite the tremble in her fingers. “Don’t ask me to. Not again. Not now.”

The world around them raged — Hydra soldiers, enhanced enemies, smoke, and gunfire — but in that moment, all Y/N saw was her.

The woman she loved. The woman carrying their child.

And she looked fierce. Terrified, but unyielding.

“You’re pregnant,” Y/N said, pleading, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “If something happens to you—”

“Something did happen,” Wanda cut in. “To you. And I felt every second of it. You think I can just walk away from that? From you?” Her voice cracked, and her other hand pressed to her stomach for a brief moment. “We’re bonded. You feel like home. I can’t leave you here to fight alone. I won’t.”

Another explosion rocked the ground behind them. Steve’s voice shouted something through the comms, but neither of them listened.

“I don’t care if the sky falls, Y/N,” Wanda said. “I’m staying with you.”

Y/N blinked hard. Her wounds throbbed. Her legs barely held her upright. But her heart… her heart ached with so much love for this woman that she could hardly breathe.

“Fine,” she whispered, voice hoarse but firm, “but you stay behind me and Steve.”

Wanda nodded, lips trembling as she blinked away the tears she refused to shed here. Not in front of their enemies. Not when the one she loved was still bleeding, still shaking, still standing — for her.

Y/N turned, eyes scanning the battlefield through the smoke and chaos. “Steve! On me!”

He was already moving, bloodied but alive, his shield up as he carved through the thick of the enhanced soldiers trying to push forward. At Y/N’s call, he redirected, heading straight for them.

“Got you,” Steve called, urgency in his voice. “Fall in!”

Y/N took Wanda’s hand for just one more second, squeezing it — grounding herself in it — before letting go.

“Stay back,” she told her again. “And if I fall, you run. You protect our baby. Promise me.”

Wanda looked like she might argue again, but something in Y/N’s voice — in the quiet command of it — made her nod once.

“I promise,” she whispered.

Then Y/N was gone in a blur of speed, still slowed but pushing through the pain, through the fire in her legs and the burn in her chest. Steve covered her flank. Wanda’s magic surged behind them, glowing scarlet, protecting their backs.

But the low pulse came again—another speed-blocker wave.

Y/N’s legs locked mid-run.

Her scream caught in her throat as she collapsed, tumbling hard, her momentum shattered. Before she could recover, enhanced agents surrounded her. Hydra operatives dragged her toward the trees.

Wanda screamed.

Her eyes glowed red, her magic ready to lash out, to burn the world to get to her.

But suddenly—

Strong arms wrapped around her from behind, locking her in place.

"Let me go!" she yelled, thrashing wildly, magic pulsing and flaring. “Y/N!”

“Wanda,” came the unnervingly calm voice of Vision.

She froze for half a second, shocked. “Where the hell have you been?! Let go of me—she's down there—!”

He didn’t answer. Instead, with a swift, calculated movement, he pulled a small syringe from his belt and stabbed it into her neck.

Wanda's breath hitched. “Wha—?”

Her magic sparked, faltered.

The world tilted.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly as her body began to go limp. “You’re not thinking clearly. I can’t let them take you too.”

She slumped against him, her eyes fluttering, her arms wrapping protectively over her stomach even in unconsciousness.

Vision carried her onto the quinjet.

Sam and Nat turned, startled, as he emerged with Wanda in his arms.

“Where’s Y/N?!” Sam demanded.

Vision didn’t answer. He just shook his head once—expression unreadable.

“We’re not leaving without her—” Nat started, stepping forward.

“She’s gone,” Vision said flatly. “We have to go. Now.”

“She’s not dead!” Sam shouted.

Vision’s voice sharpened, cold. “She is compromised. And this one—” he motioned to the unconscious Wanda in his arms— “is all that matters right now.”

Nat’s eyes narrowed. Sam clenched his jaw, furious.

Just then, the quinjet hatch opened again, and Steve climbed aboard, urgency in his movements.

“Go,” he said firmly, breathing hard.

Sam hesitated, looking at Steve, then nodded.

As the engines roared to life and the quinjet began to lift off, Steve cursed under his breath, voice tight with anger and helplessness, “We left her behind…”

Vision didn’t respond, his expression unreadable as the jet disappeared into the clouds with Wanda in his care.

---

The quinjet’s ramp hissed open as it touched down at the Avengers Compound, its landing gear trembling slightly with the weight of tension inside. At the same time, Tony’s suit clanked against the tarmac as he landed hard nearby, his faceplate sliding open as he marched forward, eyes blazing.

He didn’t wait for pleasantries.

“The hell were you doing up there, Vision?” Tony snapped, striding up just as the others disembarked. “You went dark in the middle of the mission. You blocked my feed—mine. No comms, no HUD link. You disappeared.”

Vision stepped down from the ramp slowly, carefully, carrying the still-unconscious Wanda in his arms. His face was neutral, impassive, even as Tony got in his path.

“I was caught up with Hydra agents,” he said smoothly. “I couldn’t respond.”

“Bullshit,” Tony said without hesitation. “You’re a walking satellite dish. You could’ve blinked Morse code if you wanted to. And don’t tell me you got overwhelmed—we both know that’s not even remotely possible unless you wanted to be.”

Nat stepped in, placing a calming hand on Tony’s arm. “Tony—”

But Tony shrugged her off. “No. We left Y/N behind. Because of him. Because no one knew where the hell he was.”

While Tony was still locked in a heated standoff with Vision, the medics arrived with a stretcher, urgency in their steps. One of them gently took Wanda from Vision’s arms, eyes flicking to her pale face, her limp form.

“She’s stable,” one medic noted after a quick scan, “but her vitals are all over the place. We need to run a full checkup immediately.”

Natasha’s jaw tensed. She didn’t say anything, but the way she turned on her heel and followed the medics said everything.

Inside the medbay, Wanda was quickly hooked up to monitors. Her heartbeat echoed steadily in the room, but her eyelids didn’t flutter. She looked so small, too still, and it made Nat’s chest ache.

Bruce arrived a few minutes later, pulling on gloves, his brow already creased with concern. “What happened to her?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Nat replied, voice tight. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure the door was closed before continuing, her voice low. “There’s something else you should know… I think Wanda might be pregnant.”

Bruce froze. “Wait—what?”

“Y/N told me while she was bleeding out in the field,” Nat said, biting down the emotion in her voice. “She was begging me to get Wanda out, said the baby needed her. She looked terrified.”

Bruce ran a hand down his face, eyes moving toward Wanda again. “Damn. Okay. I’ll run a full scan, but I’ll do it quietly—no one else finds out until Wanda wakes up and tells us herself.”

Nat nodded. “Thanks. And Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“Something’s wrong. I don’t just mean with Wanda. Vision didn’t respond on purpose. Y/N is still out there because of him. We need to find her fast.”

Bruce gave her a grim nod before getting to work, while Nat stayed by Wanda’s side, gripping her hand.

“Come on, Wanda, wake up,” Natasha whispered, her thumb brushing gently across the back of Wanda’s hand. “She needs you. The baby needs you. And we need answers.”

The room was quiet except for the soft beeping of monitors. Bruce worked quickly but carefully, scanning Wanda’s vitals with a portable device, already setting up for more in-depth testing. He didn’t ask any more questions—he knew better than to speak until they had facts. But the weight of Nat’s words hung heavy in the air.

Outside, the storm hadn’t calmed.

Tony was still pressing Vision, his voice sharp and full of disbelief.

“You blocked me out. You blocked me, Vision. That’s not a glitch, that’s a choice.”

Vision remained stoic, almost eerily calm. “I was overwhelmed by the Hydra units. I made a judgment call.”

“A judgment call that left Y/N behind?” Tony snapped. “A judgment call that somehow left Wanda unconscious and drugged out of her mind?”

Steve stood a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He hadn’t said much—not yet. But the tension in his jaw and the dark storm in his eyes promised that he wasn’t buying any of it either.

“I acted in Wanda’s best interest,” Vision said, coldly. “She was in danger.”

“And Y/N?” Steve finally asked, voice low but heavy. “She wasn’t?”

There was no answer. Just silence.

And it was all the confirmation Tony and Steve needed to know something was off.

Back inside the medbay, Wanda stirred.

Nat shot upright.

A flicker beneath her eyelids, a twitch of her fingers.

Then Wanda’s lips parted in a small gasp as her head turned weakly toward Nat.

“Y/N…” she croaked, her voice hoarse and broken. “Where’s… Y/N?”

Nat squeezed her hand, trying to steady her own heart. “We’re going to find her, Wanda. I promise.”

But as Wanda’s eyes fluttered open, filling with confusion, pain—and dread—the color drained from her face.

“No…” she whispered, her voice trembling. “No, no—Vision…”

Her body jolted as the memory returned all at once—her struggling to get to Y/N, the desperation in her chest, Vision grabbing her, holding her back… then the prick of something sharp in her neck before everything went dark.

She sat up abruptly, gasping, her hands flying to her stomach. “The baby—oh God, the baby—”

“Wanda—hey—Wanda, breathe,” Nat said quickly, gently pushing her back down with steady hands. “You’re okay. They’re okay.”

Wanda blinked, her chest heaving, tears welling in her eyes. “They?”

Nat froze for half a second, then cursed herself internally.

Bruce turned from the monitors, giving Nat a quiet nod. “The scans confirmed it. You’re carrying twins, Wanda. And they’re both strong. Healthy heartbeats.”

Wanda’s hand remained frozen over her belly, as though afraid to move. “I didn’t know,” she whispered, voice barely audible. Her wide eyes shifted from Bruce to Nat, brimming with confusion. “Wait—how did you…?”

She looked at Nat sharply now, a tear slipping down her cheek. “We didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. Not even the team.”

Nat’s expression softened, her voice lowering with a kind of reverence. “You didn’t have to.”

Wanda’s heart skipped. “Y/N?”

Nat nodded. Her throat tightened as she remembered the blood, the panic, the raw desperation in Y/N’s voice. “After she got shot… while I was trying to stop the bleeding, she begged me to get you out. Said you needed to be safe… that the baby needed you.”

Wanda covered her mouth, a quiet sob escaping.

“She was so scared, Wanda,” Nat whispered, blinking quickly. “But she wasn’t afraid of dying. She was afraid something would happen to you. To them.”

Wanda leaned forward, clutching her stomach as if to shield her children with her own body. Her shoulders shook, but her resolve was building beneath the grief.

“She still doesn’t know it’s twins,” Wanda choked out between sobs. “We haven’t even been to the doctor yet. We were waiting for the next off-week, to go together…”

Her voice broke on the last word. Nat reached out, placing a steadying hand on Wanda’s back.

“Then we’ll make sure she hears it from you,” Nat said softly. “When we get her back.”

Before Wanda could respond, the medbay doors burst open.

Vision stood there, his expression unreadable, eyes locking on Wanda immediately. “Where is she? I need to see her.”

Wanda stiffened, and for a long moment she didn’t say a word.

Then she stood, slowly, protectively placing herself between Vision and the monitors still softly displaying her babies’ heartbeats.

“You drugged me,” she hissed, voice cold and trembling with rage. “You drugged me, and you carried me away from the person I love while she was bleeding out in a war zone!”

Vision’s face remained neutral, but his eyes flickered faintly. “You were in danger. You weren’t thinking clearly.”

“You don’t get to decide what I’m thinking,” Wanda snapped, magic crackling at her fingertips now, glowing faint red. “You don’t get to touch me without my consent. You don’t get to sedate me like I’m some experiment that’s gone too far.”

Bruce stepped forward cautiously. “Alright, that’s enough—”

“No, Bruce,” Wanda said without looking at him, her gaze fixed on Vision like a blade. “He did this. He left Y/N behind. He put his hand on me like I was his property. And for what?”

“You are my property,” Vision snapped, his voice suddenly rising — cold and sharp like broken glass.

The room fell deathly silent.

Bruce froze. Nat took a step forward, instinctively placing herself just a fraction in front of Wanda. Even the medics, silent in the background, looked up in shock.

“You were created from the Mind Stone just as I was,” Vision continued, his tone hardening with every word. “You and I are bonded by something beyond the primitive nonsense of soulmates. That mark on your wrist? It's nothing. A biological coincidence that humans cling to for meaning.”

Wanda’s lips parted slightly, but no words came. Her entire body tensed.

“She manipulated you,” Vision said, eyes glowing faintly now as he stepped closer. “Y/N saw your vulnerability and exploited it. And now that she’s out of the way—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Wanda said, her voice a low growl.

“She was always in the way. Always trying to steal you. Poison your mind. But now she’s gone, and we can finally—”

“No!” Wanda’s voice cracked through the medbay like a whip, laced with a surge of red energy that exploded outward and knocked Vision back into the wall with a bone-rattling crash. Monitors beeped wildly. Lights flickered overhead.

Wanda stood in front of the bed, trembling, her hand instinctively clutching her abdomen.

“You’re not bonded to me. Yes, I felt a connection because of the Mind Stone, but we were never bonded,” she spat. “You don’t own me. And I was a fool—for ever being engaged to you in the first place.”

Vision pushed himself up slowly, smoke rising from the wall behind him. His synthetic face contorted with something cold and twisted.

“You are confused,” he said, stepping forward again, unwavering. “Y/N will die soon—if she’s not already dead. And then you’ll realize—”

Wanda’s eyes went wide before he could finish. She gasped, a sharp cry escaping her throat as her knees buckled beneath her. Her hand flew to her chest, pain ripping through her with terrifying intensity. Not hers—Y/N’s.

“Wanda!” Nat called out just as she saw her sway.

Before Wanda could collapse fully to the floor, Nat lunged forward and caught her in her arms.

“Bruce!” Nat shouted, voice high and urgent. “She’s in pain—get something—now!”

Wanda clutched at her chest, her face pale, sweat blooming across her forehead. Her lips moved, barely forming a sound: “Y/N…”

Bruce rushed to her side, barking orders to the medics, already reaching for the sedative and scanner. Wanda’s entire body trembled in Nat’s hold, magic sparking erratically from her fingertips, reacting to the panic and pain rolling through her.

“It’s Y/N,” Wanda sobbed, barely conscious, her voice hoarse and breaking. “She’s in pain—I can feel her. She’s hurting—please—”

“I know,” Nat whispered, holding her tighter. “I know, we’ve got you. Just hold on.”

Wanda cried out again, her body arching as another wave of Y/N’s agony surged through the bond. The lights above flickered wildly, and the nearby monitors sparked with static. Bruce injected the sedative into her arm with steady hands, his jaw clenched.

“Her heart rate’s spiking—adrenaline’s flooding her system,” he muttered. “She’s going to crash if we don’t get her calm.”

But it wasn’t Wanda’s fear doing this—it was the bond. Y/N’s suffering was bleeding into her like fire through a cracked dam. Wanda’s fingers dug into her abdomen protectively, even as her body fought to stay upright.

“She’s still alive,” Wanda gasped. “I can feel her—Bruce, please—don’t let her die.”

Bruce hesitated for the briefest moment, then met Nat’s eyes. “We need to keep Wanda stable. But if what she’s saying is true, we need to find Y/N now.”

“I’ll tell Tony,” Nat said, still cradling Wanda. Her gaze shifted to the door where Vision had stood seconds ago—but he was gone.

Vanished.

And that was all the confirmation Nat needed.

---

Sorry! We are back with the angst 😆

[rohvee]

WIP Wednesday, the meet-nerd 🖤

—

Jayce had nearly forgotten about the exchange—until a few days later, when he stepped into his lab and found a stranger standing in the middle of the room. 

A sharp pang of irritation flared in his chest. 

“Hey, this area is off-limits. How the hell did you even get in—” 

“Your calculations on chiral entanglement are incomplete.” 

The voice was smooth, thickly accented, matter-of-fact. Jayce froze mid-step, his words catching in his throat. 

“Excuse me?” 

The man turned slightly. “You are accounting for time distortion within the Beach, yes, but your equations assume a constant gravitational influence. Chiral space is not bound by such constraints.” He gestured lazily toward the scrawled equations on the large holo screen of the far wall. “You need a variable to account for the fluctuations. Otherwise, your model collapses at high densities.” 

Jayce blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. He followed the man’s gaze to his own notes, scanning the numbers.  

Finally, he shut his mouth and took in the stranger properly. 

He was shorter than Jayce, as most people were, his frame rail thin. He leaned heavily on a cane, kept the weight off his right leg. His cheekbones were razor sharp, his complexion pale. A mole sat below his eye, another just above his lip. Waves of chestnut-brown hair cascaded halfway to his shoulders, a shock of light blond peeking out from underneath.  

But what struck him most were his eyes. 

They were chiral gold. 

“You must be Viktor,” Jayce muttered. He wandered deeper into the room, the door hissing shut behind him. He stepped up to the holo board and ran his gaze over the calculations, rubbing his chin as he rearranged the numbers in his mind to account for Viktor’s correction. 

And—damn it. He was right. 

How had he not seen it before? 

He felt a rush of heat—startled, flustered. He had spent his life studying chiralium, was regarded as Runeterra’s foremost expert on the subject, and yet this stranger had waltzed in and pointed out a flaw he hadn’t even considered. Embarrassing. 

And yet… exhilarating. 

Jayce exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “Alright. That could improve data transfer stability. But it still doesn’t solve the real problem—how to move physical materials through the Beach.” 

“No, it doesn’t,” Viktor conceded, tilting his head slightly. “Tell me, what do you know about tar?” 

Jayce frowned. “It manifests in BT-dense areas,” he said slowly. “And in places where voidouts have occurred.” 

“Indeed—regions where the boundary between our world and the Beach is thin.” Viktor tapped his cane idly against the floor. “Do you know what happens when an object falls into a pool of tar?” 

Jayce gave him a look. “You don’t get it back.” 

“Correct. Even after the tar recedes, the object is gone.” Viktor’s gaze was sharp, pinning Jayce in place like butterfly wings. “It has been speculated that the tar acts as a buffer of sorts—a conduit between worlds. It is where BTs come through, yes, but it is a two-way gate. Anything swallowed by it here is transported to the Beach.” 

Jayce’s eyebrows shot up. 

“I’ve never heard that theory.” 

“It is not widely accepted,” Viktor admitted with a wry smile. “But reports from Jumpers would appear to support it. Buildings appearing on their Beaches. Objects from our world.” 

A thrum of excitement shot through Jayce, the gears in his mind turning at full speed. “If we could track travel through the tar...” 

“Then we could quantify the relationship between entry and exit points,” Viktor mused. “And then, perhaps, we could learn how to direct it.” 

Jayce's hands were already moving, clearing a space on his cluttered desk to pull up a holographic interface. Equations, schematics, old reports—his thoughts racing ahead of his fingers. “We’d need controlled experiments. Objects with tracking devices, maybe something embedded with chiralium to send the data back—” 

Their conversation tumbled forward in a rush of mutual excitement. Jayce had never encountered someone who could not only keep pace with him but push him to rethink his assumptions, recontextualize his own expertise. He had spent years dissecting the properties of chiralium, convinced it held the key to bridging the gap between cities, between worlds, but Viktor was opening an entirely new avenue of thought. 

Jayce had always regarded the black, viscous liquid as a byproduct, an environmental hazard. That tar was a phenomenon to be avoided or mitigated. But Viktor approached it differently. He spoke of its composition, the presence of d-amino acids—a biological anomaly in a world built from l-amino structures—suggesting that the tar was not simply an inert remnant of the Beach, but an active medium. A birthing pool for new forms of life. 

The implications sent a thrill down Jayce’s spine. 

The more they spoke, the clearer the picture became. Jayce had spent years staring at one half of the equation, never realizing he had been missing the other. Tar and chiralium—two sides of the same coin, inextricably bound.  

Jayce had already forgotten why he was angry at Mel for bringing Viktor here. For the first time in months, he felt something other than frustration. He felt the edge of a breakthrough.  

It wasn’t until he caught Viktor struggling to keep his eyes open that he realized how much time had slipped away. He glanced at the clock, startled to find it was already late, their enthralling discussion having consumed the hours without notice. 

“You must be tired from the trip,” Jayce noted, studying Viktor more closely. The man looked haggard, exhausted. “When did you get to Piltover?” 

Viktor stifled a yawn, setting the tablet down on the desk he had been leaning against. “A little after noon.” 

Not long before Jayce had discovered him here. “And you haven’t slept?” 

Viktor shrugged, gave a noncommittal hum. 

Jayce stared. A multi-day trek through unstable terrain, past BT-infested zones, and he hadn’t even stopped to rest. Most people would have collapsed into bed the moment they arrived. He was impressed, but he supposed he should have expected as much. The kind of mind that could keep up with him like this—of course it belonged to someone just as obsessive. Just as willing to push past human limits, no matter the toll. 

He understood, but concern still nagged at him. There was something here—something gravitational, pulling him in with a force he’d never quite experienced before. He felt himself drawn in, his focus shifting toward Viktor like a satellite dish locking onto a signal of interest. The last thing he wanted was for him to keel over before they’d even begun. 

"Well, I think we’ve done more than enough for one day,” he said, stepping forward, his hand landing on Viktor’s narrow shoulder. Viktor glanced down at the contact in a sort of detached curiosity before flicking his gaze up to meet Jayce’s. 

For the tenth time that day, those golden eyes startled him. 

“Let’s go figure out where they’ve put you up and get you settled.” 

For a moment, Viktor hesitated. Then, with a slight nod, he fell into step beside Jayce, cane clicking as they headed out the door. 

[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.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 @the-ultimate-librarian @ihatepaperwork if you want to be part of it here

[bigprofitpulse]

BigProfitPulse.io Reviews Explore the Best Trading Conditions

The online trading world is dynamic and ever-evolving making it crucial to choose a reliable and efficient platform that provides traders with the best opportunities. BigProfitPulse.io reviews showcase why this platform stands out as a leader in the financial industry offering a combination of innovative tools competitive trading conditions and high-speed execution. With a diverse range of financial instruments and a user-friendly interface traders can seamlessly engage in trading without unnecessary hurdles. The ability to access real-time market prices and leverage personalized support ensures that every trader from beginners to professionals can optimize their strategies and achieve financial success.

BigProfitPulse.io Reviews Why Traders Choose Us

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BigProfitPulse.io Reviews Your Path to Financial Success

Finding the right trading platform is essential for achieving success in the financial markets. BigProfitPulse.io reviews highlight how this platform combines advanced technology expert guidance and superior trading conditions to create an unparalleled trading experience. Whether you are an aspiring trader or a seasoned professional looking for a reliable partner BigProfitPulse.io provides all the tools and resources necessary for success. By choosing BigProfitPulse.io traders gain access to a secure transparent and innovative trading environment that empowers them to reach their financial goals.

[asyncmeow]

Its New Weapon

this is my first time doing any kind of creative writing uhhh... ever,, it's probably gonna be bad? but still, here you all go

The pilot had spent its morning jacked into the simulation rig, practicing its skills for today: the day its new toy arrived. It and its handler had been waiting over a year for this. A month ago, it got the neural interface connector installed at the top of its spinal cord. Anyone could do it - with this particular pilot, it only required a drill, a soldering iron, and a steady hand to install. After all, if it only takes an hour to do, why not do it? 
Once the new mech got here, though, they would spend the rest of the day unboxing it, as well as installing the equipment outside to recharge and refuel it. Thankfully for them, this was a lower-end model, with less support infrastructure required to use it. The pilot and handler didn’t need a lot of firepower - but they needed more than the bows, arrows, guns, and otits weapons they had until now. They had quite a few enemies, and defending their territory was getting tiring, but the pilot had done a good job so far, and this was its reward.

The new mech got here around noon. The handler called the pilot through the neural link, where it ended its training for the day to start getting everything put together. The mech came as a set of seven boxes, one for each limb and the head, as well as the torso which housed critical components, with the final box being the charger.

The two spent the rest of the day assembling it, with some mild difficulty from using unfamiliar equipment in the process to hoist the upper parts of the body where they needed to be. Finally, they connected everything up to the pad, and issued a command to run a self-test. This would take about a few hours, so the two had dinner.

Eventually they heard the beeping from the built-in computer on the mech’s pad - the self-test had passed. The pilot climbed into the cockpit of the mech, sat in the chair, and connected the mech to its neural interface port. It had sweat beading on its forehead, shaking a bit. it had done this plenty of times in its room, in simulations, but everyone always told its the real thing would feel different. Those were just glorified game engines, you don’t have to worry as much about silly things like “camera resolution” or “motor speed limitations”, and although the simulations tried to be realistic, you could only get so close.

The pilot reached its hand over to the key, let out a deep breath, and turned the cold piece of metal. It immediately started getting feedback over the link cable as each system started up. It got log data intruding its thoughts from the on-board computer. Sensor readouts started to take over its senses. First was temperature, the simplest of the sensors. The pilot immediately started to feel colder from the late December snow, as its vision got replaced by the mech’s camera feeds, in square-shaped sections starting in its peripheral vision. It started to hear everything happening outside - birds chirping and flying away as they start to hear the high-frequency power circuitry in the machine, a nearby river, even a tree nearly a quarter mile away. Its sense of smell and taste turned to nothing - this lower-end model did not have those sensors. The pilot noticed how this was a very distinct feeling from not smelling or tasting anything, this was a unique feeling to it - the lack of the senses entirely, compared to the senses being present with no input.

Finally, the systems were almost done starting up. Now that its vision had been fully replaced with the machine’s own, it started to see diagnostic information in its peripheral vision - perfectly readable, but out of the way. As this was the first time booting the mech up, it prompted the pilot to do a few things to know how to interpret the data returning from the link cable. It moved each of its joints, one by one, the mech slowly moving in unison. First its fingers, moving back to its wrists, elbows, and eventually motion for its entire arm was one-to-one with the mech.

After doing the same for the legs, it took a few small steps, its handler following along at a fairly small distance, only about ten or twenty feet, just in case anything happened. They slowly got far enough away to test how well the weaponry on the machine worked. Selecting the light machine gun, the pilot cautiously focused on a point far in the distance, blinked, and… a second later, there was a hole there. The new weapon was effortless to use, making the pilot hopeful that this would make defending the two much easier than it had been in the past.

The pilot reached its left hand out, grabbing a tree and pulling it out of the ground. Realizing how heavy it was - the weight displayed on the HUD as “2 TONS”, capital letters and all - and how effortless it was surprised it. it threw the tree as far as it could, reached its right hand toward it, and focused on the tree. Before it knew it, the gun had fired, leaving several holes in the tree at the peak of the arc from throwing it.

It was now becoming close to midnight, the sun having set long ago. The two made their way back toward their home, getting more tired the later it went. After walking for about half an hour, they returned, and the pilot stepped on to the pad, disengaging the neural link between the pilot and machine automatically.

Its vision got replaced with its own again, seeming as unfamiliar to it now as the machine’s vision did not too long ago. It felt the heat of the cockpit, a drastic change from the cold of the outside, feeling the snow landing on it. The odd quietness of the cockpit, isolated from all sounds of both the mech and the outside, to reduce possible interference.

The pilot took the key and stepped out of the cockpit, climbing down the ladder next to the pad. As it stepped off the ladder, the handler - the witch - hugged the doll tight, gently petting its hair, whispering in its ear, “I hope you enjoyed your Christmas present.”

[upbtoken]

UPB: Transforming Digital Finance with Crypto Bank Solutions and UCPI

In the fast-changing world of digital finance, users are searching for solutions that offer security, speed, and simplicity. The rise of cryptocurrency and blockchain technology has paved the way for a new kind of financial institution—the crypto bank. One name that stands out in this revolution is UPB, which is quickly establishing itself as a leading platform for global digital banking and payments. With the power of blockchain and its innovative UCPI (Unified Crypto Payments Interface), UPB is redefining what it means to bank in the 21st century.

What Makes UPB Different as a Crypto Bank?

Traditional banks are struggling to keep up with the demands of the digital economy. In contrast, UPB leverages the security, transparency, and efficiency of blockchain to offer a truly modern banking experience. Here’s how UPB is raising the bar for crypto banks:

Advanced Security: Every transaction is protected by blockchain encryption, ensuring that your funds and data are always safe.

Transparency: With blockchain, users can track every transaction, making hidden fees and fraud almost impossible.

24/7 Access: UPB’s platform is available around the clock—no banking hours, no delays, just instant service when you need it.

UCPI: Unified Crypto Payments Interface

A major breakthrough from UPB is the introduction of UCPI (Unified Crypto Payments Interface). Much like how UPI changed the way India pays, UCPI aims to revolutionize the world of crypto payments. UCPI lets users:

Make instant crypto payments to anyone, anywhere in the world

Transfer digital assets between wallets and exchanges seamlessly

Enjoy low transaction fees and real-time settlements

Experience a simple, user-friendly interface for all types of crypto transactions

By introducing UCPI, UPB is removing barriers and making crypto banking as easy as using any digital payment app.

Why Choose UPB as Your Crypto Bank?

Choosing a crypto bank is about more than just moving money—it’s about trust, flexibility, and growth. Here’s why UPB is becoming the preferred choice:

Global Reach: UPB enables cross-border transactions without the hassle and high costs of traditional banks.

Multiple Digital Assets: Manage a variety of cryptocurrencies and even fiat balances all in one secure platform.

Low Fees: Enjoy the benefits of blockchain with minimal transaction charges.

Innovative Solutions: From automated payments to crypto payroll, UPB is ideal for both individuals and businesses.

Conclusion

The future of banking is here, and UPB is leading the way with secure, efficient, and innovative crypto bank solutions. Whether you are an investor, a business, or someone curious about digital finance, UPB and its Unified Crypto Payments Interface (UCPI) offer the perfect gateway to the world of blockchain-based banking. If you’re ready to experience a smarter, faster, and safer way to bank, it’s time to join UPB—the crypto bank built for the digital age.

Visit here :- www.upbonline.com

[nativerest-nativerestapicli]

The Next Generation Native REST API Client

Welcome to the official launch of NativeRest—the native REST API client designed to make your API development journey smoother, faster, and more intuitive than ever.

If you’ve used tools like Postman ↗, Insomnia ↗, or HTTPie ↗, you know how essential a powerful API client is for modern development. But what if you could have a tool that combines high performance, a beautiful native interface, and seamless workflow integration—all in one package? That’s where NativeRest comes in.

Why NativeRest?

NativeRest is built from the ground up for speed, efficiency, and a truly native experience. Here’s what sets it apart:

Lightning-Fast Performance: NativeRest leverages native technologies for a snappy, responsive UI that never gets in your way.

Intuitive Design: Enjoy a clutter-free, modern interface that puts your requests and responses front and center.

Advanced Collaboration: Built-in features make it easy to share collections, environments, and test results with your team.

Robust Security: Your data stays private, with secure local storage and granular permission controls.

Cross-Platform Native Experience: Whether you’re on macOS, Windows, or Linux, NativeRest feels right at home.

Get Started

Ready to try it out? Download NativeRest - native rest api client↗ and see how it compares to your current workflow. Want a sneak peek? Check out our YouTube channel ↗ for quick tutorials and feature highlights.

Welcome to the future of API development—welcome to NativeRest!

[deardearestbrandsnews2025]

For a digital-only, cloud-based PlayStation 7, here’s an updated schematic focusing on next-gen cloud gaming, AI-driven performance, and minimalistic hardware:

1. Hardware Architecture (Cloud-Optimized, Minimalist Design)

Processing Power:

Cloud-Based AI Compute Servers with Custom Sony Neural Processing Units (NPUs)

Local Ultra-Low Latency Streaming Box (PS7 Cloud Hub) with AI-Assisted Lag Reduction

Storage:

No Internal Game Storage (Everything Runs via PlayStation ZeroCloud)

4TB Cloud-Synced SSD for System & Personal Data

Connectivity:

WiFi 7 & 6G Mobile Support for High-Speed Streaming

Quantum Encrypted Bluetooth 6.0 for Peripherals

Direct-to-Server Ethernet Optimization (AI-Managed Ping Reduction)

Form Factor:

Minimalist Digital Console Hub (Size of a Small Router)

No Disc Drive – Fully Digital & Cloud-Dependent

2. UI/UX Design (AI-Powered Cloud Interface)

NexusOS 1.0 (Cloud-Based AI UI): Personalized Dashboard Adapting to Player Preferences

ZeroNexus AI Assistant:

Predictive Game Recommendations

Smart Latency Optimization for Cloud Gaming

In-Game AI Strategy Coach

Instant Play Anywhere:

Seamless Cloud Save Syncing Across Devices

Playable on Console, PC, Tablet, or NexusPad Companion Device

Holographic UI Options (for AR Integration with Future PlayStation VR)

3. Concept Art & Industrial Design (Minimalist, Streaming-Focused)

Compact, Vertical-Standing Console (PS7 Cloud Hub)

Sleek, Heatless Design (No Heavy Internal Processing)

DualSense 2X Controller:

Cloud-Connected Haptics (Real-Time Adaptive Feedback)

AI-Touchscreen Interface for Quick Actions & Cloud Navigation

Self-Charging Dock (Wireless Power Transfer)

4. Software & Ecosystem (Full Cloud Gaming Integration)

PlayStation ZeroCloud (Sony’s Ultimate Cloud Gaming Service)

No Downloads, No Installs – Instant Play on Any Device

AI-Based 8K Upscaling & Adaptive Frame Rate

Cloud-Powered VR & AR Experiences

Cross-Platform Compatibility: PlayStation 7 Games Playable on PC, TV, & Mobile

Subscription-Based Ownership (Game Library Access Model with NFT Licensing for Exclusive Titles)

Eco-Friendly AI Resource Scaling: Low Power Consumption for Cloud Streaming

This design ensures ultra-fast, high-quality, cloud-first gaming while eliminating hardware limitations. Let me know if you want refinements or additional features!

[buysellram]

KIOXIA Unveils 122.88TB LC9 Series NVMe SSD to Power Next-Gen AI Workloads

KIOXIA America, Inc. has announced the upcoming debut of its LC9 Series SSD, a new high-capacity enterprise solid-state drive (SSD) with 122.88 terabytes (TB) of storage, purpose-built for advanced AI applications. Featuring the company’s latest BiCS FLASH™ generation 8 3D QLC (quad-level cell) memory and a fast PCIe® 5.0 interface, this cutting-edge drive is designed to meet the exploding data demands of artificial intelligence and machine learning systems.

As enterprises scale up AI workloads—including training large language models (LLMs), handling massive datasets, and supporting vector database queries—the need for efficient, high-density storage becomes paramount. The LC9 SSD addresses these needs with a compact 2.5-inch form factor and dual-port capability, providing both high capacity and fault tolerance in mission-critical environments.

Form factor refers to the physical size and shape of the drive—in this case, 2.5 inches, which is standard for enterprise server deployments. PCIe (Peripheral Component Interconnect Express) is the fast data connection standard used to link components to a system’s motherboard. NVMe (Non-Volatile Memory Express) is the protocol used by modern SSDs to communicate quickly and efficiently over PCIe interfaces.

Accelerating AI with Storage Innovation

The LC9 Series SSD is designed with AI-specific use cases in mind—particularly generative AI, retrieval augmented generation (RAG), and vector database applications. Its high capacity enables data-intensive training and inference processes to operate without the bottlenecks of traditional storage.

It also complements KIOXIA’s AiSAQ™ technology, which improves RAG performance by storing vector elements on SSDs instead of relying solely on costly and limited DRAM. This shift enables greater scalability and lowers power consumption per TB at both the system and rack levels.

“AI workloads are pushing the boundaries of data storage,” said Neville Ichhaporia, Senior Vice President at KIOXIA America. “The new LC9 NVMe SSD can accelerate model training, inference, and RAG at scale.”

Industry Insight and Lifecycle Considerations

Gregory Wong, principal analyst at Forward Insights, commented:

“Advanced storage solutions such as KIOXIA’s LC9 Series SSD will be critical in supporting the growing computational needs of AI models, enabling greater efficiency and innovation.”

As organizations look to adopt next-generation SSDs like the LC9, many are also taking steps to responsibly manage legacy infrastructure. This includes efforts to sell SSD units from previous deployments—a common practice in enterprise IT to recover value, reduce e-waste, and meet sustainability goals. Secondary markets for enterprise SSDs remain active, especially with the ongoing demand for storage in distributed and hybrid cloud systems.

LC9 Series Key Features

122.88 TB capacity in a compact 2.5-inch form factor

PCIe 5.0 and NVMe 2.0 support for high-speed data access

Dual-port support for redundancy and multi-host connectivity

Built with 2 Tb QLC BiCS FLASH™ memory and CBA (CMOS Bonded to Array) technology

Endurance rating of 0.3 DWPD (Drive Writes Per Day) for enterprise workloads

The KIOXIA LC9 Series SSD will be showcased at an upcoming technology conference, where the company is expected to demonstrate its potential role in powering the next generation of AI-driven innovation.

[johndjwan]

What is a Transceiver in a Data Center? | Fibrecross

A transceiver in a data center is a device that combines the functions of transmitting and receiving data signals, playing a critical role in the networking infrastructure. Data centers are facilities that house servers, storage systems, and networking equipment to manage and process large amounts of data. To enable communication between these devices and with external networks, transceivers are used in networking equipment such as switches, routers, and servers.

Function and Purpose

Transceivers serve as the interface between networking devices and the physical medium over which data is transmitted, such as fiber optic cables or copper cables. They convert electrical signals from the equipment into optical signals for fiber optic transmission, or they adapt signals for copper-based connections, depending on the type of transceiver and network requirements.

Types of Transceivers

In data centers, transceivers come in various forms, including:

SFP (Small Form-factor Pluggable): Commonly used for 1G or 10G Ethernet connections.

QSFP (Quad Small Form-factor Pluggable): Supports higher speeds like 40G or 100G, ideal for modern data centers with high bandwidth demands.

CFP (C Form-factor Pluggable): Used for very high-speed applications, such as 100G and beyond.

These pluggable modules allow flexibility, as they can be swapped or upgraded to support different speeds, protocols (e.g., Ethernet, Fibre Channel), or media types without replacing the entire networking device.

Importance in Data Centers

Transceivers are essential for establishing physical layer connectivity—the foundation of data communication in a data center. They ensure reliable, high-speed data transfer between servers, storage systems, and external networks, which is vital for applications like cloud computing, web hosting, and data processing. In modern data centers, where scalability and performance are key, transceivers are designed to meet stringent requirements for speed, reliability, and energy efficiency.

Conclusion

In summary, a transceiver in a data center is a device that transmits and receives data signals in networking equipment, enabling communication over various network connections like fiber optics or copper cables. It is a fundamental component that supports the data center’s ability to process and share information efficiently.

Regarding the second part of the query about Tumblr blogs, it appears unrelated to the concept of a transceiver in a data center and may be a mistake or a separate statement. If you meant to ask something different, please clarify!

[packagingworldinsights]

Domino Presents New Monochrome Inkjet Printer at Labelexpo Southeast Asia 2025

Domino Printing Sciences (Domino) is pleased to announce the APAC launch of its new monochrome inkjet printer, the K300, at Labelexpo Southeast Asia. Building on the success of Domino’s K600i print bar, the K300 has been developed as a compact, flexible solution for converters looking to add variable data printing capabilities to analogue printing lines.

The K300 monochrome inkjet printer will be on display at the Nilpeter stand, booth F32, at Labelexpo Southeast Asia in Bangkok, Thailand from 8th–10th May 2025. The printer will form part of a Nilpeter FA-Line 17” hybrid label printing solution, providing consistent inline overprint of serialised 2D codes. A machine vision inspection system by Domino Company Lake Image Systems will validate each code to ensure reliable scanning by retailers and consumers whilst confirming unique code serialisation.

“The industry move to 2D codes at the point of sale has led to an increase in demand for variable data printing, with many brands looking to incorporate complex 2D codes, such as QR codes powered by GS1, into their packaging and label designs,” explains Alex Mountis, Senior Product Manager at Domino. “Packaging and label converters need a versatile, reliable, and compact digital printing solution to respond to these evolving market demands. We have developed the K300 with these variable data and 2D code printing opportunities in mind.”

The K300 monochrome inkjet printer can be incorporated into analogue printing lines to customise printed labels with variable data, such as best before dates, batch codes, serialised numbers, and 2D codes. The compact size of the 600dpi high-resolution printhead – 2.1″ / 54mm – offers enhanced flexibility with regards to positioning on the line, including the opportunity to combine two print stations across the web width to enable printing of two independent codes.

Operating at high speeds up to 250m / 820′ per minute, the K300 monochrome inkjet printer has been designed to match flexographic printing speeds. This means there is no need to slow down the line when adding variable data. Domino’s industry-leading ink delivery technology, including automatic ink recirculation and degassing, helps to ensure consistent performance and excellent reliability, while reducing downtime due to maintenance. The printer has been designed to be easy to use, with intuitive setup and operation via Domino’s smart user interface.

“The K300 will open up new opportunities for converters. They can support their brand customers with variable data 2D codes, enabling supply chain traceability, anti-counterfeiting, and consumer engagement campaigns,” adds Mountis. “The versatile printer can also print variable data onto labels, cartons, and flatpack packaging as part of an inline or near-line late-stage customisation process in a manufacturing facility, lowering inventory costs and reducing waste.”

Code verification is an integral part of any effective variable data printing process. A downstream machine vision inspection system, such as the Lake Image Systems’ model showcased alongside the K300, enables converters and brands who add 2D codes and serialisation to labels and packaging to validate each printed code.

Mark Herrtage, Asia Business Development Director, Domino, concludes: “We are committed to helping our customers stay ahead in a competitive market, and are continuously working to develop new products that will help them achieve their business objectives. Collaborating with Lake Image Systems enables us to deliver innovative, complete variable data printing and code verification solutions to meet converters’ needs. We are delighted to be able to showcase an example of this collaboration, featuring the .”

To find more information about the K300 monochrome printer please visit: https://dmnoprnt.com/38tcze3r

[gamelott]

Jups.io Slot Games: Exciting Gameplay and Trusted Transactions

In the dynamic world of online gaming, Jups.io stands out as a premier crypto casino, offering an exhilarating selection of slot games that captivate players worldwide. As a leading no KYC crypto casino, Jups.io combines thrilling gameplay with seamless investment and withdrawal processes, ensuring a trustworthy and user-friendly experience. This article delves into the allure of Jups.io’s slot games, highlights the platform’s reliability, and underscores why it’s a top choice for crypto casino enthusiasts. Visit Jups.io to explore this exciting gaming hub.

Slot Games: A World of Spins and Wins

Slot games are the heartbeat of any crypto casino, and Jups.io delivers an impressive array of options to suit every player’s taste. These games feature vibrant graphics, engaging themes, and rewarding mechanics, making them a favorite among casual and seasoned gamblers alike. Popular titles include classic three-reel slots, modern video slots with immersive storylines, and progressive jackpot slots offering life-changing payouts. Each slot game operates on a Random Number Generator (RNG), ensuring fair and unpredictable outcomes, a hallmark of Jups.io’s commitment to transparency in its no KYC crypto casino environment.

Playing slots on Jups.io is straightforward yet thrilling. Players select their bet size, spin the reels, and aim to align symbols across paylines to win. Bonus features like free spins, wild symbols, and multipliers enhance the excitement, increasing the potential for big wins. Whether you’re chasing a jackpot or enjoying a quick spin, Jups.io’s slot games deliver endless entertainment. The platform’s intuitive interface ensures easy navigation, allowing players to dive into the action without delay, a key advantage of this crypto casino.

Why Jups.io is a Trusted Crypto Casino

Jups.io’s reputation as a reliable no KYC crypto casino stems from its commitment to player satisfaction and operational excellence. Unlike traditional online casinos, Jups.io eliminates the need for lengthy Know Your Customer (KYC) verification, allowing players to register and play with just an email address. This privacy-focused approach appeals to crypto enthusiasts who value anonymity, making Jups.io a standout in the crypto casino space. The platform’s use of blockchain technology ensures secure transactions, protecting players’ funds and data.

Jups.io’s reliability is further evidenced by its robust game offerings and partnerships with top-tier software providers. These collaborations guarantee high-quality, provably fair games, reinforcing trust among players. The no KYC crypto casino model also aligns with the ethos of decentralization, offering a seamless gaming experience without bureaucratic hurdles. Players can focus on enjoying their favorite slots, confident in the platform’s integrity.

Seamless Investment and Withdrawal Processes

One of Jups.io’s strongest attributes is its flawless investment and withdrawal system, a critical factor for any crypto casino. The platform supports a wide range of cryptocurrencies, including Bitcoin, Ethereum, and Tether, enabling instant deposits with no fees. Players can fund their accounts in seconds, ensuring uninterrupted gameplay. This efficiency is a testament to Jups.io’s status as a leading no KYC crypto casino, prioritizing speed and convenience.

Withdrawals are equally seamless, with Jups.io processing payouts rapidly, often within minutes. Unlike some platforms that impose delays or hidden fees, Jups.io ensures players receive their winnings promptly, reinforcing its reliability. The absence of KYC requirements streamlines the withdrawal process, allowing players to access funds without submitting personal documents. This player-centric approach makes Jups.io a trusted choice for crypto casino enthusiasts seeking hassle-free transactions.

Conclusion: Spin with Confidence at Jups.io

Jups.io’s slot games offer a thrilling blend of entertainment and opportunity, making it a go-to destination for crypto casino fans. As a no KYC crypto casino, it prioritizes privacy, security, and ease of use, delivering a gaming experience that’s both exciting and trustworthy. With seamless investment and withdrawal processes, Jups.io ensures players can focus on the fun without worrying about delays or complications. Whether you’re a slot enthusiast or new to crypto gaming, Jups.io provides a reliable and rewarding platform to spin and win. Join today at Jups.io and discover the future of online gaming.

[tubetrading]

Latest Innovations in Railway Bushings for High-Speed Rail Networks

Enhancing High-Speed Rail Efficiency with Advanced Railway Bushings

The rapid development of high-speed rail systems has revolutionized global transportation, necessitating more efficient, durable, and high-performance components. Among these, railway bushings play a crucial role in ensuring seamless power transmission, insulation, and vibration mitigation within electrical railway systems.

Radiant Enterprises, a leading high-current bushing manufacturer in India, is at the forefront of innovation, providing advanced solutions tailored for modern railway infrastructure. This blog explores recent advancements in railway bushings and their impact on the efficiency and safety of high-speed rail networks.

The Role of Railway Bushings in High-Speed Rail Systems

Railway bushings serve as a critical interface between electrical and mechanical components in high-speed rail networks. They are responsible for insulating high-voltage currents, reducing electrical interference, and minimizing vibrations that could impact railway system efficiency.

The expansion of high-speed rail has driven a surge in demand for customized epoxy bushings. These bushings provide superior insulation and withstand extreme weather conditions, making them an ideal choice for contemporary railway applications.

Innovations Shaping the Future of Railway Bushings

1. Advanced Custom Epoxy Bushings

To meet the growing demand for durability and efficiency, epoxy bushings have undergone significant advancements. Modern epoxy formulations enhance mechanical strength and thermal resistance, ensuring long-term reliability in high-speed rail networks.

Key Features:

Superior dielectric strength for exceptional electrical insulation

Enhanced mechanical properties to withstand high-speed vibrations

Resistance to environmental factors such as humidity, temperature fluctuations, and pollutants

Radiant Enterprises specializes in manufacturing custom epoxy bushings tailored to the specific needs of railway systems, ensuring top-tier performance and longevity.

2. Lightweight, High-Strength Materials

Traditional bushings were primarily made from porcelain and other dense materials. However, recent advancements have introduced lightweight composite materials that maintain durability and insulation while reducing overall system weight.

These high-strength materials enhance energy efficiency and improve the overall performance of high-speed rail systems.

3. Advanced Thermal Management Systems

High-speed rail networks generate significant heat due to elevated power transmission. To address this, epoxy bushings now incorporate advanced thermal-resistant coatings and cooling mechanisms that prevent overheating and extend operational lifespan.

By integrating heat-dissipating properties, these bushings ensure consistent performance and reduce the risk of electrical failures caused by excessive heat buildup.

4. Sustainable and Eco-Friendly Manufacturing

Sustainability is a growing priority across industries, including railway infrastructure. Modern railway bushings are now manufactured using environmentally friendly epoxy materials that lower carbon emissions and waste production.

Radiant Enterprises is committed to sustainable manufacturing practices, ensuring our epoxy bushings comply with industry standards while promoting environmental responsibility.

5. Smart Sensor-Integrated Bushings

The integration of IoT (Internet of Things) technology into railway bushings marks a new era of intelligent monitoring and predictive maintenance. Sensor-equipped bushings provide real-time performance data, including:

Temperature variations

Electrical resistance fluctuations

Mechanical stress levels

These insights allow railway operators to conduct proactive maintenance, reducing downtime and enhancing the efficiency of high-speed rail networks.

The Future of Railway Bushings

Ongoing research and technological advancements will continue to drive innovation in railway bushings. Key trends shaping the industry include:

3D Printing for Bushing Manufacturing: Utilizing additive manufacturing for precise and customized bushing production.

Nano-Coated Epoxy Bushings: Enhancing resistance to moisture, corrosion, and electrical failures.

High-Frequency Performance Bushings: Engineered for next-generation high-speed rail systems operating at ultra-high frequencies.

Radiant Enterprises remains dedicated to pioneering bushing innovations, ensuring continuous progress in railway infrastructure with state-of-the-art solutions.

Why Choose Radiant Enterprises for Railway Bushing Solutions?

Radiant Enterprises is a leader in bushing technology, specializing in customized epoxy bushings designed for high-speed rail applications worldwide.

Key Benefits of Our Railway Bushings:

Superior dielectric strength and electrical insulation

Enhanced thermal and mechanical resilience

Tailored solutions to meet specific railway requirements

Smart sensor integration for real-time performance monitoring

Environmentally sustainable manufacturing processes

We work closely with railway authorities, engineers, and system integrators to deliver epoxy bushings that enhance the safety, efficiency, and reliability of high-speed train networks.

Conclusion

The evolution of railway bushings has been instrumental in the advancement of high-speed rail networks worldwide. From custom epoxy bushings with superior insulation to smart sensor-integrated solutions for predictive maintenance, continuous innovation is driving progress in the railway sector.

As one of India's leading high-current bushing manufacturers, Radiant Enterprises is committed to delivering cutting-edge bushing solutions that meet the ever-evolving demands of modern railway infrastructure. By leveraging advanced materials, intelligent technology, and sustainable manufacturing, we are shaping the future of high-speed rail networks.

For premium railway bushing solutions, contact Radiant Enterprises today.

[quickpay1]

Best Payment Gateway In India– Quick Pay

In today's digital era, businesses of all sizes need a reliable, secure, and efficient payment gateway to process online transactions. Whether you're running an e-commerce store, a subscription-based service, or a brick-and-mortar shop expanding to digital payments, choosing the right payment gateway can significantly impact your success. Among the many options available, Quick Pay has emerged as one of the best payment gateways in the industry.

This article explores the features, benefits, security measures, and why Quick Pay is the preferred choice for businesses worldwide.

What is Quick Pay?

Quick Pay is a cutting-edge payment gateway solution that facilitates seamless online transactions between merchants and customers. It offers a secure and user-friendly interface, allowing businesses to accept payments via credit cards, debit cards, mobile wallets, and bank transfers. Quick Pay supports multiple currencies and integrates with various e-commerce platforms, making it a versatile choice for businesses operating locally and globally.

Key Features of Quick Pay

1. Multi-Channel Payment Support

One of the standout features of Quick Pay is its ability to support multiple payment channels, including:

Credit and debit card processing (Visa, Mastercard, American Express, etc.)

Mobile wallets (Apple Pay, Google Pay, PayPal, etc.)

Bank transfers and direct debit

QR code payments

Buy Now, Pay Later (BNPL) services

This flexibility ensures that businesses can cater to customers' diverse payment preferences, thereby enhancing the checkout experience and improving sales conversion rates.

2. Seamless Integration

Quick Pay offers seamless integration with major e-commerce platforms like Shopify, WooCommerce, Magento, and BigCommerce. Additionally, it provides APIs and plugins that allow businesses to customize payment processing according to their specific needs. Developers can easily integrate Quick Pay into their websites and mobile applications without extensive coding knowledge.

3. High-Level Security & Fraud Prevention

Security is a top priority for any payment gateway, and Quick Pay excels in this area with:

PCI DSS compliance (Payment Card Industry Data Security Standard)

Advanced encryption technology to protect sensitive data

AI-driven fraud detection and prevention mechanisms

3D Secure authentication for an extra layer of security

By implementing these security measures, Quick Pay minimizes fraudulent transactions and enhances customer trust.

4. Fast and Reliable Transactions

Speed and reliability are crucial in online payments. Quick Pay ensures that transactions are processed swiftly with minimal downtime. It supports instant payment processing, reducing wait times for merchants and customers alike. Businesses can also benefit from automated settlement features that streamline fund transfers to their bank accounts.

5. Competitive Pricing & Transparent Fees

Unlike many payment gateways that have hidden charges, Quick Pay provides transparent pricing models. It offers:

No setup fees

Low transaction fees with volume-based discounts

No hidden maintenance or withdrawal charges

Custom pricing plans for high-volume merchants

This cost-effective approach makes Quick Pay a preferred choice for startups and large enterprises alike.

6. Recurring Payments & Subscription Billing

For businesses offering subscription-based services, Quick Pay provides a robust recurring payment system. It automates billing cycles, reducing manual efforts while ensuring timely payments. Customers can set up autopay, making it convenient for them and improving customer retention rates for businesses.

7. Multi-Currency & Global Payment Support

In an increasingly globalized economy, accepting international payments is vital. Quick Pay supports transactions in multiple currencies and offers dynamic currency conversion. This allows businesses to cater to international customers without dealing with complex exchange rate issues.

Benefits of Using Quick Pay

1. Enhanced Customer Experience

Quick Pay ensures a smooth checkout experience by providing multiple payment options and a user-friendly interface. Faster payment processing reduces cart abandonment and boosts customer satisfaction.

2. Improved Business Efficiency

With automated invoicing, seamless integration, and real-time transaction tracking, businesses can streamline their payment operations, saving time and resources.

3. Higher Security & Reduced Fraud Risk

With its state-of-the-art security measures, Quick Pay minimizes risks associated with fraud and data breaches. This enhances business credibility and customer trust.

4. Increased Sales & Revenue

Supporting multiple payment options and international transactions helps businesses tap into a broader customer base, leading to higher sales and revenue growth.

How to Set Up Quick Pay for Your Business?

Setting up Quick Pay is a straightforward process:

Sign Up – Visit the Quick Pay website and create an account.

Verify Business Details – Submit the required business documents for verification.

Integrate Quick Pay – Use APIs, plugins, or custom scripts to integrate Quick Pay into your website or app.

Configure Payment Options – Select the preferred payment methods you want to offer customers.

Go Live – Once approved, start accepting payments seamlessly.

Why Quick Pay Stands Out Among Competitors

While several payment gateways exist, Quick Pay differentiates itself with:

Superior security measures compared to standard gateways.

Faster payouts than many competitors, ensuring businesses receive funds quicker.

Customer-friendly interface making it easier for both merchants and users.

Scalability, accommodating businesses from small startups to large enterprises.

Conclusion

Quick Pay is undoubtedly one of the best payment gateway in India available today. Its blend of security, efficiency, affordability, and ease of use makes it an ideal choice for businesses across various industries. Whether you run an e-commerce store, a SaaS business, or a global enterprise, Quick Pay ensures smooth, secure, and hassle-free payment processing.

By choosing Quick Pay, businesses can enhance customer experience, reduce fraud risks, and boost revenue. With seamless integration, multi-currency support, and advanced features, Quick Pay is the go-to payment gateway for modern businesses looking for a reliable and future-proof payment solution.

Are you ready to streamline your payments and take your business to the next level? Sign up for Quick Pay today!