James stood inside his newly renovated director's office and slowly turned in a circle, inspecting it like a landlord checking a new apartment. The place was clean, modern, and expensive—exactly what you'd expect from Stark Tower. The desk was spotless. The screens were crisp. The lighting was perfect. Even the air smelled like money.
He then looked back at Pepper, who was standing behind him holding a stack of documents.
"Don't you think something is missing here?"
Pepper blinked, confused. She scanned the room carefully. The office had everything a director could need—computer systems, storage cabinets, a sleek couch, and enough equipment to run an entire department.
"No," Pepper said honestly. "What's missing?"
James answered with complete sincerity. "A big, soft bed. You know, I usually take naps."
He said it like he was asking for a pen.
Pepper stared at him for a long second, expression blank. Then she calmly closed her documents, turned around, and walked out.
James watched her leave, pleased with himself. He hadn't even finished planning where the bed would go when Pepper returned—dragging a folding bed behind her like she was hauling an injured soldier off the battlefield.
She dropped it directly in front of him.
"Napping, huh?" she said flatly. "This will do."
James looked down at it. It was practical. Small. Humble. The exact opposite of what he wanted.
"This thing?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Pepper didn't blink. "Yes. This thing."
James paused, then chuckled. "Fine. A small bed has its own small pleasures. This works too."
Pepper crossed her arms. "James. No messing around in the company. And especially don't provoke employees. I don't want to receive any workplace harassment complaints with your name on them."
Her tone was sharp because her position now demanded it. Pepper had become the kind of person who didn't just manage chaos—she absorbed it, controlled it, and prevented it from exploding.
James waved lazily. "Don't worry. Like the old saying goes—a rabbit doesn't eat the grass near its own nest."
He said it with a reassuring smile, completely ignoring the small detail that he had already flirted his way into trouble within his first few days of employment.
But this wasn't the old situation anymore. He was a director now. A shareholder. A visible face inside Stark Tower. Acting like he used to would trigger political landmines he didn't feel like stepping on.
If he wanted entertainment, he'd go to professionals—people who understood boundaries and had a code.
Pepper narrowed her eyes. She didn't trust him for even a second.
"…Forget it," she said. "I already found you a secretary. She'll keep a close eye on you."
"A secretary?" James's eyes lit up. "If she's not good-looking, I'm returning her."
He did need someone to handle paperwork and shield him from boring meetings. Laziness was an art form. He believed in delegation.
Pepper handed him a document folder.
James opened it.
The moment he saw the profile photo—sexy, composed, cold-eyed—his expression shifted slightly.
He slowly looked up at Pepper with sudden seriousness.
"Can I take back what I just said?"
Pepper's lips curved faintly, amused.
"No."
James leaned back with a helpless shrug. Looking at the file again, he understood the message loud and clear.
S.H.I.E.L.D. had noticed him.
That wasn't surprising. Anyone who helped reshape Stark Industries and created technology that could change warfare wasn't going to stay invisible forever.
He briefly wondered if the organization had already changed its name at this point or if they were still hiding behind long, boring titles that sounded like government paperwork.
James closed the folder and handed it back.
"How's Tony doing now?" he asked casually.
Pepper sighed like the question alone gave her a headache.
"Just like that, I guess."
She had truly believed Tony was changed after the Middle East. For a while, it seemed real—he had been quiet, focused, even humble in his own way.
But time passed.
And like a rubber band snapping back, Tony returned to his old habits.
Except now it was worse.
Obadiah's fall had benefited many people, but his absence also removed the one person who had been smoothing relations between Stark Industries and the military. Without him, the tension between both sides sharpened fast.
Pepper saw it everywhere—in meetings, in emails, in the media.
Even Time Magazine had shifted tone.
When Tony was a weapons dealer, they worshipped him. He could party, cheat, cause scandals—none of it mattered. They still called him a genius and placed him on covers like a king.
But once Tony became Iron Man and shut down the weapons division, the praise turned into suspicion and criticism overnight.
Closing weapons didn't only mean losing future profit. It also meant breaking contracts, ending military partnerships, and paying massive penalties.
But the real damage wasn't financial.
It was political.
And instead of facing it, Tony… escaped.
He began flying around in the Iron Man suit again, turning into a walking headline. Bars. Clubs. Dance halls. Showy entrances. All-night chaos.
He soaked himself in the fame Iron Man brought him like it was oxygen.
It was like responsibility gave him permission to become even more reckless. If anything, he looked happier than before.
Pepper's eyes held quiet frustration.
James felt a small twist of guilt.
Because he had been there.
Those last nights? James had been one of the people partying with Tony. And if Tony was the master of fun, then Martin was still a rookie compared to him.
But James knew what Pepper didn't fully see.
Under the noise and indulgence, something darker was pushing Tony forward.
The rising blood toxicity inside Tony's body wasn't just a medical problem. It was a countdown.
Tony wasn't partying because he was careless.
He was partying because, deep down, he was scared.
When someone feels death getting closer, they cling harder to what they can still touch. Fame. Pleasure. Control. Anything.
It wasn't childish.
It was trauma.
"Don't worry," James said smoothly. "It will get better."
He comforted Pepper, then quickly escorted her out of his office before she could unload more stress onto him.
Pepper looked back once, exhausted.
"I hope so," she whispered.
Half the company's weight was on her shoulders now.
But there was one thing easing the pressure.
James.
His so-called "smart toilet" project—initially treated like a joke—had exploded in popularity once launched. Orders poured in from wealthy homes, luxury apartments, and celebrity mansions. The money began to flow in fast.
The smart toilet saved morale.
Employees calmed down. Fear of layoffs faded. The company found a new pillar to lean on while Tony tore down the old one.
And the profits were enormous—because these weren't cheap toilets.
They were luxury technology.
And James didn't plan to stop there.
Next would come smart phones, devices that would change the information age forever. If Stark Industries moved first, they could redefine the world.
Still, one thing irritated James deeply.
Tony had rejected James's idea to name the smartphone "Hammer."
James had argued passionately as the creator. Tony ended the discussion with one sentence:
"I'm the chairman."
James had nearly pinned him to the ground and beaten him right there.
Tony only survived by bribing James with a ridiculous promise: a full year's worth of Cover Girls.
James privately decided Tony was treating the word "chairman" like it meant "Hokage."
---
The New Secretary Arrives
A knock on the office door snapped James out of his thoughts.
"Knock, knock…"
The door opened.
A beautiful woman stepped inside—urban, polished, and dangerously calm. Her wine-red wavy hair drew the eye instantly, and her fair skin made the color pop even more.
She looked like the type of person who didn't belong in normal rooms.
"Natalie Rushman," she said smoothly.
James smiled and stood. "Welcome. Want a drink? I think whiskey during the day helps people bond. Premium stuff. Stolen straight from Tony's office."
He eyed her with open appreciation, like he was inspecting expensive art.
It was partly real—but mostly performance.
If James didn't act like this, it would raise suspicion. A playboy director who suddenly behaved like a monk would make people ask questions.
Tony really had made life easy for him in that way.
Natalie raised her hand politely. "Sorry. I don't drink during work hours. It affects efficiency."
James leaned forward slightly. "Then after work?"
"That depends on my mood," she replied, calm and controlled. "That's my private time."
It was a clean refusal—but she left a crack in the door. Hard to get, but not impossible.
James nodded like a gentleman. "Fine. When you're in the mood, tell me. For now, let's work."
He handed her a thick stack of files.
Natalie took them. "This is…?"
"I need volunteer test subjects for my newest cybernetic implant research," James said. "These are disabled veterans."
He wasn't doing this purely for science.
James also wanted to rebuild cooperation with the military. Stark Industries needed that bridge. If relations broke completely, the company's influence across politics, law, and defense would weaken badly—especially if certain agencies ever collapsed or disappeared.
Natalie flipped through the list and frowned slightly.
"These look… difficult."
James nodded. "They are."
Disabled veterans rarely carried only physical damage. Many brought alcoholism, addiction, PTSD, violence, depression—the kind of wounds that never showed on skin.
Finding suitable test subjects wouldn't be easy.
James smiled slowly. "To be my secretary, just being good-looking isn't enough. If this is too hard, I can give you easier work."
As he said it, he placed his hand on her shoulder.
Natalie's gaze sharpened, but her voice stayed steady.
"Boss, as a secretary, it's my duty to remind you that workplace harassment lawsuits can be very expensive. Especially for someone rich."
James calmly patted her shoulder twice, then pulled his hand back.
"There was a small speck of dirt," he said smoothly. "It's gone now."
Natalie held his stare. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," James replied, smiling.
She turned and left.
James watched the door close, then spoke to the empty room.
"F.R.I.D.A.Y. Keep a close eye on her."
"Understood, Master," F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s voice replied through the computer.
James controlled this floor completely. Security cameras, access logs, and internal systems were under F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s supervision. Even someone as skilled as Black Widow wouldn't move unseen here.
Whatever reason Nick Fury had for placing Natalie near him, James would use her efficiency first.
If she tried to steal technology?
If she somehow succeeded, then she deserved the prize.
The things James truly protected weren't in folders anyway.
They were in his head.
---
The Cybernetics Project Begins
Natalie proved her value immediately.
In a single day, she brought back enough candidates and arranged their arrival at the newly established cybernetic implant laboratory.
James put on a white lab coat and stood before several disabled veterans. Their presence filled the room with a harsh smell—sweat, alcohol, old pain.
James leaned toward Natalie and whispered, "You should've made them shower."
Natalie didn't react much. "Will it affect the experiment?"
"It will affect my mood," James replied seriously. "And that affects the experiment."
Before she could respond, a man in a wheelchair interrupted, impatient and angry.
"Hey! You pretty boy—start already. Isn't this just being a guinea pig? Kill me fast and transfer the money to my daughter."
James smiled softly.
"Since you have such good taste," he said, "I won't give you anesthetic later."
The air in the lab dropped a few degrees. The threat landed like ice.
The veteran scoffed. "Tsk. You think I'm scared? On the battlefield—"
A while later, that same man was strapped to a cold operating table, screaming, cursing, and begging the universe for mercy.
"You bastard! You really didn't give me anesthetic!"
James didn't look guilty at all. "Didn't you ask for it? Now you're unhappy. Hard to please."
He injected a needle.
The man's voice died instantly.
Silence.
In the cyberpunk world, implant tech was mature long ago. Even in the early twentieth century, people like Johnny Silverhand had cybernetic limbs. James didn't need cutting-edge improvements for what he wanted.
Decades-old methods were already enough.
And in this Marvel world, cybernetics had already appeared too—Winter Soldier's arm proved that.
The problem was cost, complexity, and compatibility. It wasn't something that could be mass-produced for normal people.
But James's version was different.
It was a finished product.
So finished that the "research process" was almost theater—done only because the world demanded procedure.
A simplified neural core—an even more simplified brain-computer interface—was implanted first. Without it, cybernetic parts couldn't interpret neural signals cleanly.
"Neural core implantation complete…"
"Initiating activation test…"
"Connection stable…"
"Subject condition good…"
Researchers read data aloud while screens filled with steady lines and clean numbers.
After a while, the veteran woke up. He winced at pain at the back of his head and reached to touch it, but James stopped his hand.
"Don't move. Wound isn't healed."
The veteran swallowed. "I'm still alive? That's… surprising."
James raised an eyebrow. "What nonsense? This is a government-approved Stark Industries lab."
The man exhaled, relieved. Getting paid while alive was better than death compensation.
James added casually, "Worst case, you'll be paralyzed and incontinent. Dying isn't that easy."
The veteran's face darkened.
Natalie watched quietly from a distance, observing every detail, building a psychological profile of James piece by piece.
Nick Fury hadn't sent her here to type notes and schedule meetings.
He sent her to watch.
Someone who could change war, reshape industries, and build intelligence technology strong enough to alter society was the kind of person Fury never ignored.
Of course, Fury wouldn't ignore Tony either.
Stark Industries was too big for only one spy.
And deep in the system, hidden behind friendly smiles and office titles, more eyes were already watching.
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