The disdain and absolute confidence on Peter's face, in Tony's eyes, looked like nothing more than a childish attempt to drive down the price.
And yet—
Tony still took the bait.
It wasn't carelessness.
It was pride.
Confidence in his own technology, and the unshakable arrogance that came with being Tony Stark.
"Hmph. The Iron Man armor is decades ahead of anything on this planet," Tony said, his tone sharp with certainty. "You should know that if I don't open-source it, no one can replicate it."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes gleaming.
"But since you're so confident that you can find someone here who can build one… how about we make a bet?"
Tony had always been a gambler at heart.
A lifetime of success had shaped him that way. The only real setback he had ever faced was his kidnapping the previous year—a brush with death that he had turned into a triumph through sheer intellect and willpower.
But surviving that ordeal hadn't humbled him.
If anything—
It had made him even more confident.
"What are the stakes?" Peter asked calmly.
For Peter, this wasn't a gamble at all.
It was more like sitting an exam with the answer sheet already in hand.
While Tony spoke, Peter's telekinetic senses had already locked onto a man approaching the venue—someone radiating intense hatred and fury.
Without hesitation, Peter invaded his mind.
His identity.
His purpose.
Everything was laid bare.
Ivan Vanko.
Also known as Whiplash.
A Russian physicist.
The son of Anton Vanko—once a collaborator of Howard Stark. Together, they had worked on the Tesseract, and from that research came the prototype of the Arc Reactor.
But ideological differences—and national loyalties—had torn them apart.
Howard Stark had cast Anton out.
And that single decision had destroyed a life.
Anton had abandoned everything to chase the American dream during the Cold War, only to be betrayed and deported back to the Soviet Union by S.H.I.E.L.D.
From hope—
To humiliation.
A wound like that didn't fade.
It passed from father to son.
But now—
That story would take a different turn.
Because the moment Peter noticed Ivan Vanko—
He became a piece on the board.
A tool.
A pawn that would secure Peter's victory.
"If you can find someone who can replicate my armor," Tony said, his voice steady, "then I'll reveal the principles behind the Arc Reactor to you."
He crossed his arms.
"And we'll go with your terms—shares, profit distribution, everything."
Tony was certain he couldn't lose.
Even if Peter somehow won, Tony didn't think it would cost him much.
The Arc Reactor wasn't just advanced technology.
It was derived from the Tesseract—the Space Stone.
It didn't belong to Earth's technological evolution.
It was an anomaly.
Like Pym Particles.
-----
In another timeline, in another civilization, even if cold fusion advanced to its limits, the chances of independently developing the Arc Reactor were almost nonexistent.
Because it wasn't part of the natural progression of science.
It existed because of the Tesseract—not because humanity had climbed its way there.
So even if he explained it—
Tony believed Peter wouldn't truly understand it.
After all, Peter was only eighteen.
Tony himself had graduated from MIT at seventeen, but even he didn't believe his eighteen-year-old self could have grasped the Arc Reactor's principles.
Otherwise—
He wouldn't have needed a life-or-death crisis to perfect it.
…
And more importantly—
Tony had left himself an escape route.
He would "reveal" the principles, sure.
But to what extent?
That was up to him.
A single lecture would count as fulfilling his promise.
If Peter couldn't understand it?
That wasn't Tony's problem.
"But if I win," Tony continued, tapping his chest lightly, "I want thirty-five percent of the profits. You give me five percent of Stark Industries' shares—and…"
His gaze sharpened.
"I want that serum. Within three days. Free of charge."
The meaning was clear.
Fix the wound in his chest—
And his palladium poisoning would be significantly alleviated.
Perhaps even reversed.
Peter looked at him, his expression almost pitying.
As if Tony had already lost.
"Deal."
He reached out and casually patted Tony on the shoulder.
Two men—
Both utterly convinced of their own victory—
Turned toward the entrance.
"Since you said 'anyone,'" Tony said with a smirk, "how about the first person who walks in?"
"Your call," Peter replied, arms crossed.
Outside—
Chaos was already beginning.
Guided by Peter's unseen influence, Ivan Vanko strode forward with purpose.
A burly Russian man covered in tattoos, dressed in a worker's uniform, barged into the hall like a force of nature.
He didn't even try to hide it.
His presence screamed danger.
Then—
His device activated.
Twin whip-like coils extended from his arms, electromagnetic currents surging through them as the motors roared to life. Blue electricity crackled along their length, hissing violently as heat ignited the air itself.
His uniform caught fire instantly, reduced to ash as the smell of burning fabric filled the hall.
The crowd erupted in panic.
And in the center of it all—
A man stood revealed.
Whiplash had arrived.
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T/N:
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