Red Ribbon Corporation Headquarters
The conference room had the particular stillness of a space occupied by people who were used to silence. Seven black-robed figures sat around the table as Eddie Brock stood at the head, his expression composed, his voice measured.
"According to the latest intelligence," he said, gesturing to the image on the screen behind him, "this individual—who calls himself the Mandarin and claims leadership over the Ten Rings—committed his tenth bombing last night. Christmas Eve." He let that land for a moment. "This is a genuinely dangerous actor. His operations span multiple continents, and we cannot afford to treat him as someone else's problem."
Shang-Chi spoke up. "Boss, the Mandarin isn't affiliated with the Ten Rings. The organization is releasing a public denial through the media today."
Eddie gave a small nod, unbothered. "Noted. Regardless of whether the name is legitimate, we don't yet know what organization—or individual—is actually behind this. He calls himself the Mandarin, so that's what we're working with." He moved on. "What we do know is that investigators have found no bomb casings or explosive devices at any of the blast sites. Current theory is that a superpowered individual is generating the explosions directly." He turned to the seventh seat. "Vermillion. Could pyrokinesis account for that kind of yield?"
Chen Haoran considered it. "Theoretically, yes. If the temperature is high enough and you can control the rate of thermal expansion precisely enough, you can produce an explosive effect without conventional charges." He paused. "But the precision required is extreme. I'm not there yet."
It wasn't false modesty. Since receiving the enhancement serum, his abilities had grown considerably, but producing a contained, high-yield thermal detonation was its own discipline—one he'd been exploring in training but hadn't mastered. There were two directions to take pyrokinesis: raw temperature increase that dissolved anything it touched, or controlled explosive dispersal. Both were on his development roadmap. Neither was ready for what the Mandarin appeared capable of.
Eddie absorbed the answer and moved forward. "So our working assumption is that we're dealing with a superpowered individual with destructive capacity that surpasses conventional explosives. The mission is to locate him before anyone else does." He paused. "It would be ideal if the Paragons were the ones to resolve this. If another hero gets there first, that tells us where our gaps are."
He pressed a button on the conference table. His assistant entered carrying a flat case, which Eddie accepted and opened on the table. Inside sat seven second-generation scouters, each nestled in foam.
He distributed them around the table.
T'Challa turned his over carefully and then looked up with an expression of restrained frustration. "Boss, any possibility of getting just the module? I'd prefer to integrate it into the helmet."
"That's outside what I can authorize," Eddie said without hesitation. "But consider attaching it to the exterior—a magnetic mount wouldn't be difficult to engineer, and it keeps the hardware accessible."
It wasn't the answer T'Challa was hoping for, but he accepted it without further comment.
Among the group, Shang-Chi and Chen Haoran were the most visibly struck by the gesture. Each unit cost several million dollars. Distributing them to field operatives without a second thought said something about the corporation's backing—and about the value it placed on its team members returning from assignments in one piece.
"Use the scouter to flag any enhanced individual you encounter during your investigation," Eddie said. "Cross-reference with the explosion sites. If the Mandarin has a power signature, find it." He looked around the table. "That's all. Move out."
The seven dispersed.
Once the room emptied, Eddie turned and walked into his private office. A man was already waiting there—Thaddeus Ross, newly confirmed as Secretary of State, wearing the particular expression of someone accustomed to being kept waiting and choosing to be gracious about it.
Eddie crossed the room and extended his hand. "Secretary Ross. My apologies for the delay."
Ross shook it with a practiced warmth. "Not at all. Young team—short meeting. I've seen worse."
They settled into chairs. Eddie got to it. "Has the White House moved on the proposal to formally integrate the Paragons into the national defense framework?"
Ross exhaled slowly. "Eddie. What you're asking for is considerable. Defense funding. Law enforcement authority. And no meaningful oversight in exchange." He spread his hands. "The people in that building are not enthusiastic."
Eddie smiled. "You said difficult, Secretary Ross. Not impossible."
"I did."
"Ten bombings. The public knows about four. The gap exists because the administration is managing perception." Eddie leaned forward slightly. "Consider the alternative framing: a black-robed team—nominally operating under federal authorization, publicly aligned with national security—neutralizes the Mandarin. The narrative writes itself. The administration looks decisive. Public confidence recovers."
Ross was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—not the practiced one, but a smaller, more genuine version. "That's a very clean argument."
"The Paragons have a global following," Eddie continued. "That translates to voters. An endorsement—explicit or implicit—from a team with that kind of reach would be worth something to someone interested in re-election."
"It would," Ross agreed. He glanced toward the window. "But you'll need to move quickly. I'm told Tony has already declared war on this man. Publicly."
Eddie nodded. That was already in his calculations.
A beat of silence passed between them before Ross added, almost casually: "You asked about the White House."
Eddie met his eyes. "I did."
Ross didn't look away. "I'm a politician, Eddie. There's no politician alive who doesn't think about that office at some point." He let a measured pause settle. "But I've used every resource I have to reach this position. That conversation is for another time."
"Of course," Eddie said.
Another time. Not never.
The meeting concluded with handshakes and the particular warmth of two men who had just confirmed they wanted the same things for overlapping but not identical reasons. The alliance between the Paragons and the Secretary of State had just quietly solidified—and both of them understood that Ross had his eye on a longer horizon than the Mandarin