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Justin's smile faded. "Hey—what are you doing?"
Rhodes reached inside and carefully pulled out the arc reactor. Its blue glow reflected in his eyes.
"I'm making sure you don't get everything," Rhodes said coldly.
Justin's face stiffened. "That reactor is part of the system."
"And it's Stark property," Rhodes replied. "You're studying the armor. Not owning it."
He closed the chest panel and stepped back, slipping the arc reactor into a secure case.
Justin forced a laugh. "Come on, Colonel. How am I supposed to test it properly without the power source?"
"That's exactly the reason," Rhodes replied coldly. "Iron Man tech is nothing without it. You already saw what happened when one of Stark's reactors was stolen—Whiplash happened. We can't risk that again."
As he spoke, Rhodes turned and walked away with the arc reactor secured in its case.
"Besides," he continued without looking back, "if you think you can replicate Iron Man tech, then at least try to come up with your own power source. The arc reactor is Stark-exclusive property. No one can use it without approval—much less manufacture it."
He paused at the doorway.
"So if you want to replicate Iron Man, do it in a way that ensures the U.S. military won't have to fight Stark over usage rights in the future."
With that, Rhodes left.
Justin stared at his back, his expression dark.
"Fine," he muttered under his breath. "I already have what I need anyway."
A thin smile crept onto his face.
Moments later, the Iron Man armor was carefully loaded into Justin's private jet. The doors sealed shut, and the aircraft lifted off, heading toward his hidden facility.
Deep underground, in a heavily secured base far from prying eyes, a man sat surrounded by holographic schematics and half-finished machines.
Ivan Vanko looked up as the hangar doors opened.
The sound of heavy footsteps echoed.
Justin Hammer walked in, smiling.
"I brought you something interesting," he said.
Ivan's eyes shifted to the armored crate being unloaded.
"I'm amazed you managed to get it, despite your competitors being Arasaka," Ivan said, studying Justin intently.
Justin's grin faded slightly.
"We didn't get it," he admitted. "We only have it for a week before we have to return it. Study it. Learn everything you can in that time. Then make me an army of them."
Ivan nodded slowly. "I can already make my own armor."
"Yes," Justin said quickly. "Then modify yours based on Stark's design."
He shrugged, clearly uninterested in the details, and turned to leave.
Ivan watched Justin's back as he walked away. A quiet chuckle escaped his lips.
"Ignorant fool," he muttered.
His gaze returned to the Iron Man armor.
Moments later, the workshop filled with the sound of tools. Ivan began dismantling the armor piece by piece, carefully studying every component, every connection, every design choice.
He paused when he reached the chest cavity.
"There is no arc reactor," Ivan muttered. "Meaning this shell alone cannot function."
He frowned slightly, fingers tracing the internal framework.
"Without a proper power source, this thing is nothing more than metal."
Still, his eyes burned with focus.
"But Stark's design philosophy…" he murmured. "That is what matters."
He continued working late into the night, comparing Stark's engineering to his own—analyzing the differences, the strengths, and the flaws.
And as the hours passed, a new idea began to take shape in Ivan Vanko's mind.
He straightened, removing the glove from his hands, and walked toward his own workbench. Unlike Stark's clean, elegant setup, Ivan's side of the workshop was rough—coils, heavy cables, and crude but powerful components scattered everywhere.
"Stark chases perfection," Ivan muttered. "Miniaturization. Elegance."
He picked up a thick power conduit and let it drop with a dull clang.
"I chase output."
Ivan turned back to the dismantled armor.
"The frame is light. Too light," he said. "Designed for speed, agility, precision."
He shook his head.
"It can't take heavy hit."
He began sketching quickly on a metal board—thicker plating, reinforced joints, exposed power channels. The design was brutal, inefficient by Stark standards, but overwhelming in raw force.
Ivan's hand paused over the sketch.
He reached beneath the workbench and pulled out a sealed metal case. Unlike the battered crates around it, this one was carefully maintained, its surface worn but precise. With a practiced motion, he unlocked it.
Inside, an arc reactor pulsed with a sharp, controlled blue light.
Compact.
Refined.
Dangerous.
Ivan stared at it in silence.
"My father's work," he said quietly.
He lifted the reactor with one hand. It was far smaller than Stark's model—cleanly engineered, dense with power. The casing was thin, almost elegant, yet the energy readings spiked far beyond what its size should allow.
"This was never meant to be safe," Ivan continued. "It was meant to be efficient."
He set it beside his sketches. The designs weren't bulky or crude. They were tight, aggressive, and purpose-built—every line drawn around one central idea.
The whips.
He began modifying the chest frame, not enlarging it, but refining it—precision mounts, reinforced micro-lattices, perfect alignment. The armor didn't resist; it fit, as if it had always been meant to carry this core.
"The reactor exists for the whips," Ivan muttered. "Everything else exists to survive them."
He locked the reactor into place. Thin conduits spread outward, channeling power directly to the arm assemblies. The output surged, contained only by exact tolerances and flawless timing.
The workshop lights dimmed—not flickered. They were simply overpowered.
Ivan activated the system.
A low, steady hum filled the room. The energy was stable, compressed, and terrifyingly dense.
"This is not Iron Man," Ivan said calmly.
He flexed his fingers as the whips unfolded with a sharp crackle of blue-white energy, perfectly synchronized with the reactor's pulse.
A thin smile crossed his face.
"This is Whiplash."
Ivan stood there for a moment, watching the whips hum and coil back into their housings.
Then his expression darkened.
He turned away from the armor and leaned against the workbench, memories surfacing uninvited.
Violet.
Her calm stance.
The way the air itself had answered her call.
How she had never once needed to close the distance.
"Still not enough," he muttered.
He looked back at the armor, eyes narrowing.
"I need flight capability," he said coldly. "If I want to fight that Violet woman."