Ivan regained consciousness slowly, his vision swimming as reality crept back in piece by piece. The first thing he saw was a group of unfamiliar figures standing around him, their presence heavy and unsettling. His instincts flared immediately, and when he glanced downward, his heart sank.
His reactor was gone.
His whip was gone.
A cold realization struck him like a hammer. He had been stripped clean, disarmed without even noticing. The thought that followed was even worse—he hadn't just been defeated. He had been taken.
Robbed.
His gaze snapped forward, locking onto the man with mechanical tentacles. The stranger stood there, completely absorbed, examining the small reactor as if it were a toy. Each movement of those metal arms was precise, controlled, almost reverent in the way they handled the device.
Ivan's throat tightened.
Maybe… maybe he doesn't understand it, Ivan thought desperately. Maybe he's just poking around blindly. If he can't grasp how it works, then there's still a chance.
But that fragile hope didn't even last a second.
"This design… it's using cold fusion principles," Doctor Octopus muttered, his tone thoughtful, almost impressed. "It's different from the controlled fusion system I'm working with, but the concept itself is solid. For something like this to exist decades ago… that's remarkable."
Ivan's pupils shrank.
"I might be able to refine my own system further based on this," Otto continued, his voice gaining excitement as ideas sparked one after another.
"That's impossible," Ivan blurted out instinctively, shaking his head as if rejecting reality itself.
He remembered his father vividly—the pride in his voice, the reverence with which he spoke about this technology. This wasn't something ordinary. It was legacy. It was everything they had left behind.
And yet, in the hands of this so-called genius…
It was nothing more than a stepping stone.
Ivan's thoughts spiraled.
He had come all the way from Moscow, fueled by obsession and vengeance, believing that what he carried was unique—irreplaceable. It was supposed to be the edge that would let him stand against Tony Stark.
But now?
Here stood someone who not only understood it, but casually talked about surpassing it.
Did that mean Stark wasn't special either?
Had this kind of technology already become common among people like them?
Ivan's gaze grew vacant, his mind drifting as the foundation of everything he believed began to crack. Then it got worse.
The turtle—the same one who had beaten him—stepped forward and joined the discussion. He spoke in clear, technical language, pointing out structural aspects and potential optimizations. Occasionally, Otto even nodded in approval, offering praise without hesitation.
Ivan felt something inside him snap.
He could accept losing a fight.
But this?
This wasn't just defeat—it was humiliation on an intellectual level.
"They're lying… they have to be lying," he muttered, retreating into the corner, his head shaking over and over. "That's not possible… it can't be…"
If this technology wasn't special anymore, then what was he even fighting for?
What was the point of his revenge?
He might as well abandon everything and go back to a quiet life, far away from this madness.
But just as he teetered on the edge of collapse, a new conversation snapped him back.
"Let's analyze the whip's structure," Doctor Octopus said, already shifting focus.
"It definitely needs to be taken apart," Donnie added casually.
Ivan froze.
Then, slowly, a flicker of hope reignited in his chest.
That's right.
Even if they understood the basics, replication wasn't easy. This wasn't something you could just copy on a whim. Years of work, countless iterations—there was depth to it. Complexity.
They wouldn't be able to recreate it so easily.
They shouldn't be able to.
But reality didn't care about what he believed.
Under his watchful, horrified gaze, Otto's mechanical arms began to move. Components were separated, rearranged, reconstructed with terrifying efficiency. Donnie assisted, offering input, adjusting alignment, refining the structure.
Ten minutes.
That's all it took.
By the time they were done, what lay before them wasn't his original weapon—but something new. A sleek, hollow staff etched with intricate patterns, its design both elegant and deadly. The reactor was integrated seamlessly, feeding energy into the system.
A faint hum filled the air.
Then—
"Whoosh."
A surge of energy burst from the tip, arcs of electricity snapping outward as the weapon came to life. The sound alone carried a destructive promise, a violent crackle that made the air feel unstable.
Ivan's chest tightened.
If that thing struck someone…
The damage would be catastrophic.
Rage surged through him, hot and uncontrollable. If not for the restraints still binding him, he would have thrown himself forward without hesitation, desperate to stop what was happening.
That weapon was his.
His tool for revenge.
And now it had been taken, reshaped, made better—right in front of him.
"Relax," Donnie said lightly, clearly enjoying himself. "Technology doesn't belong to anyone."
His eyes were glued to the newly crafted weapon, excitement shining through without restraint. What had started as a simple mission had turned into something far more rewarding.
Recruiting Daredevil had been a success.
And now this?
A brand-new piece of equipment, obtained without effort.
It felt like a bonus prize.
As for Ivan, whose emotions were spiraling out of control, Donnie didn't spare him a second thought. Strength decided everything. That was the rule he followed, and by that measure, Ivan simply didn't matter.
The strong took.
The weak endured.
It was that simple.
Ivan's breathing grew uneven, his thoughts fraying as anger and despair tangled together. He was losing himself, slipping further into a state where reason barely held on.
Then everything changed.
A presence entered the space.
Locke.
The moment he stepped closer, the temperature seemed to drop. It wasn't an actual change—it was something deeper, something instinctive. A warning that settled into the bones, impossible to ignore.
Ivan felt it immediately.
A chill ran down his spine.
Locke stopped in front of him, his expression calm, almost indifferent. "You want revenge on Tony Stark?" he asked.
Ivan forced himself to respond, clinging to what little pride he had left. "What's it to you?"
He meant for it to sound defiant.
It didn't.
Before he could even process what happened, a blade appeared at his throat. It hadn't been drawn—it simply existed, cold steel pressing lightly against his skin. The chill seeped in instantly, sending a sharp signal to every nerve in his body.
This wasn't a threat.
It was a fact.
"I'll ask. You answer," Locke said evenly.
Ivan's breath hitched. His instincts screamed at him to resist, to push back, but his body refused. The pressure of that blade erased any illusion of control.
"I want revenge on Tony Stark," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "Stark Industries stole my father's research. They destroyed his life, forced him into obscurity. I won't let that go."
Locke tilted his head slightly, considering.
"And you planned to do that… dressed like this?" he asked, his gaze flicking over Ivan's current state.
Ivan bristled. "It's not crude. That whip is powerful."
Locke's lips curved faintly. "Powerful enough to end up here?"
"That was an accident," Ivan shot back, but the words lacked conviction. After a moment, his shoulders sagged slightly. "If I had proper funding… I could build something far beyond Stark's tech."
That much was true.
What he had created so far was only the beginning.
Give him resources, a real platform, and he could surpass anything Tony Stark had ever made.
Locke watched him for a moment longer, then spoke again.
"Let me reintroduce myself. I'm a shareholder of Milcom Industries."
He paused just long enough for the implication to settle.
"I have money. A lot of it."
Ivan's eyes lit up despite himself.
Another rich man.
Another arrogant figure who thought money could solve everything.
But then Locke added, almost casually, "Maybe I can fund you."
Silence.
Ivan stared at him, stunned, his mind struggling to process what he had just heard.
"What…?"
The restraints binding him released with a soft click, falling away as if they had never been there.
He didn't move.
Couldn't move.
"You're just letting me go?" he asked, his voice unsteady. "What if I take the money and disappear?"
The question hung in the air.
Locke didn't answer immediately, but the faint amusement in his expression said enough.
Doctor Octopus let out a quiet chuckle, clearly entertained by the idea.
Donnie, on the other hand, was more direct. "If you try that," he said flatly, "I'll hunt you down no matter where you run."
Ivan didn't laugh.
He couldn't.
Because when he looked at Locke, what he saw wasn't just confidence—it was certainty.
The kind of certainty that came from someone who already knew the outcome.
The aura surrounding him was overwhelming, suffocating in its intensity.
Not like a noble.
Not like a leader.
Like a king standing among lesser beings.
.....
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