Aryan Spencer stood by the window, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the Manhattan skyline wake from its slumber, a jagged line of steel and ambition against the pale canvas of the sky.
This world felt achingly familiar, yet it was fundamentally fractured in a way that presented a tantalizing opportunity. In his previous life, he had ascended the heights of the financial industry only to find the summit crowded with short sighted wolves. He had built, he had innovated, he had trusted in the elegant logic of his algorithms, and he had been betrayed. Torn apart by the brute force greed of those who viewed a company not as a legacy to be nurtured, but as a carcass to be picked clean.
Marvel's world was a playground of brilliant but tragically isolated minds. It was technologically magnificent in pockets, yet digitally archaic as a whole. Tony Stark was a god of hardware, a blacksmith forging iron and fire into miracles. Governments hoarded world-ending weapons in lead-lined vaults, and sorcerers whispered incantations in hidden temples.
But the true territory of power, the digital ether that connects a soul to the world, that shapes thought and directs desire was an unclaimed wilderness.
There was no singular empire here. No Google to index the sum of human curiosity and sell it back to the highest bidder. No YouTube to shape the culture of the masses with an endless stream of propaganda. No Android or iOS to live in the pockets of billions, whispering what to buy, where to go, and how to think. The fundamental infrastructure of modern reality was empty. And emptiness, to a man like him, was an invitation.
"Architecture," he whispered to his reflection in the glass, a sharp faced ghost against the rising sun.
Phase One: A search engine that did not merely answer questions but anticipated the unformed intent of the human heart. From there, he would build the platforms of influence video streaming, online education, targeted advertising so seamless it felt like a helpful suggestion.
Phase Two: Cloud infrastructure tied to proprietary and self improving AI would move the world's data into his vaults. Then, the operating systems. Mobile. Desktop. Wearables. Smart environments. Once a system lived in someone's pocket, their life followed.
Phase Three: When the world depended on Umbrella to function, to communicate, to learn, to bank, to simply exist.
He smiled faintly at the reflection in the glass. This was an architecture of fate.
A soft knock broke the silence of his contemplation.
"Come in," he said, his voice settling back into the detached mask of the corporate executive.
Sharon stepped inside. She moved with a liquid grace that was entirely too natural for a secretary, a data tablet cradled in the crook of her arm. "Good morning," she said, her smile bright enough to feel genuine, which of course meant it was expertly crafted. "You skipped breakfast again."
"I wasn't aware it was a mandatory corporate function," he replied, his eyes scanning her for any flicker of the agent beneath the surface.
She laughed, a pleasant sound. "It's generally recommended for humans, Aryan."
He sat at his desk, his fingers steepling before him, a gesture of calm authority. "What do you have for me?"
She handed him the tablet, leaning slightly against the mahogany of his desk, a casual invasion of his personal space. "Meeting summaries from yesterday's R&D pitch. And an invitation to keynote the World Technology Conference in Zurich next week. They're calling you the 'Resurgent Heir'."
"Flattering," he said dryly. "I'll consider it."
She hesitated, her professional veneer softening into something far more dangerous, 'calculated empathy.' "Aryan... do you want to get coffee later? Real coffee, not the industrial sludge from the breakroom. My treat."
"I'm busy," he said evenly, his gaze unwavering.
"You're always busy," she countered softly, her voice becoming intimate. "You know... it's okay to talk. You lost your grandfather. You don't sleep, you don't eat, you just work until you're a ghost. That isn't fine."
A cold suspicion stirred in the dark recesses of his mind. What is your angle, Agent 13? Probing for psychological weakness? Establishing an emotional baseline? He kept his face as expressionless as the stone pillars of Sefirah Castle. "You are my secretary, Sharon, not my therapist."
She exhaled, a frustrated sigh. Her heartbeat quickened, he could hear it now, a frantic little drum in the quiet room, a tell that his enhanced senses drank in like fine wine. "I know. But... I knew him. Your grandfather. Years ago, he helped me when I had nothing. He was a kind man. I thought... maybe helping you was a way of repaying that ghost."
Aryan watched her. He looked deep into her eyes, searching for the cold calculation of the spy. But there was only a disarming sincerity. And yet sincerity was the most effective camouflage of all.
"I appreciate the sentiment," he said, the words cold by design. "But I find distance is preferable for a productive working relationship."
She nodded slowly, the mask of professional cheer slipping back into place, hiding her disappointment. "Understood, sir. If you change your mind... I'll be around."
When the door clicked shut, the office felt unnervingly quiet, the silence now filled with the echo of her words.
Sharon Carter was an anomaly. She didn't probe for corporate data or push for higher security clearances. She didn't try to plant listening devices. She treated him like a man, not a target. That alone made her the single greatest threat he currently faced.
Sentiment was a rust that could corrode even the strongest iron. For now, he would let Sharon stay close. He would observe her, measure her, and if she proved to be a threat to the architecture he was building, he would erase her. But if she was genuine...
He stopped the thought before it could take root. Efficiency demanded coldness. Empathy was a variable he could not afford in his equation. The empire came first.
He turned back to his bank of monitors, the cool blue light washing over his face, and began to write the code that would become the foundation of his new world.