Tony Stark strode through the dense, glittering crowd, Pakkun trotting calmly at his side. They cut a path through the sea of silk and suits until they reached Obadiah Stane.
"What kind of world is this, where the host isn't even invited to his own party?"
Obadiah turned, his eyes sweeping over Tony with a mixture of surprise and calculation. He hadn't expected the man, who had been buried in his lab for weeks, to surface here of all places. Yet, his mask of professional charm didn't slip.
"Look who decided to join us! Ha! I honestly didn't think you'd make it."
His gaze dropped to the floor, landing on the small pug. His eyebrows shot up.
"Tony, since when did you become a lover of small animals? You didn't even forget to bring your pet to a gala."
Tony scanned the perimeter, noting the flashbulbs of the various media outlets already beginning to swarm.
"I'll wait for you inside."
Without another word, Tony turned to leave.
Panic flickered in Obadiah's eyes. He feared Tony might use this platform to announce a breakthrough or, worse, something erratic. He reached out, his hand clamping firmly onto Tony's arm.
"Hey, listen to me. Don't be in such a hurry, alright?"
He lowered his voice, leaning in close.
"I think I've finally convinced the board. Just stay calm."
Tony looked at him, his expression unreadable.
"Fine. I got it. It was just a spur-of-the-moment thing anyway. I'll be out of here soon."
Seeing Tony pacified, the tension in Obadiah's shoulders visibly bled away.
Tony and Pakkun entered the main ballroom of the charity gala. They moved unhindered.
Not a single manager, security guard, or event coordinator dared to step in front of him. No one had the courage to say: 'This is a formal dance, pets are not allowed.'
After all, the world knew Tony Stark was the quintessential eccentric playboy. If he wanted to bring a pug to a tuxedo-only event, who was going to stop him?
The entire gala was being held in his name, after all.
They reached the bar. Tony leaned against the polished wood and signaled the bartender.
"Get me a drink."
Nearby, a man stood contemplating the menu. At the sound of the familiar voice, he turned.
Phil Coulson found himself face-to-face with his primary target: Tony Stark.
But as Coulson's professional gaze drifted downward, his pupils constricted sharply.
He saw it.
It wasn't the pug itself that shocked him—though seeing a dog in the middle of a Disney Concert Hall gala was odd enough.
It was the metal forehead protector tied firmly around the dog's head. Specifically, the symbol etched into the plate.
Coulson's mind raced. Director Nick Fury had already dispatched Barbara Morse—the Mockingbird—to go undercover near Shiranui Hayate. Her mission was specifically to investigate the individuals carrying these forehead protectors and to decipher the meaning behind the mark.
And now, here it was. On a dog. Standing right next to Tony Stark.
Coulson took a breath, forcing his heart rate to remain steady. He was a professional. He would not let this new variable compromise his mission.
"Mr. Stark."
Tony turned, glass in hand, eyeing the man.
"I'm Agent Coulson."
Tony took a sip of his drink, his expression turning to one of feigned recognition.
"Oh, right, right. From that... what was it?"
He remembered Pepper Potts mentioning a specific agency had been hounding them, but the name was a jumble in his head.
"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division," Coulson supplied smoothly.
Tony looked down at his glass, his voice dripping with dry amusement.
"Right. That's the one."
He let out a long breath, finished his drink, and looked Coulson in the eye.
"God. You people really need a shorter name."
Coulson maintained his polite, practiced smile. It was a familiar critique.
"Yes. We hear that quite often. Including from Shiranui Hayate."
The name acted like a spark.
Tony Stark's eyebrows twitched. Even Pakkun, who had been looking bored, shifted his gaze toward Coulson, his dark eyes narrowing.
"I know things aren't easy for you right now," Coulson continued, sensing he had Tony's attention. "But we need to understand the situation. There are still many unknowns, and time is tight. Perhaps we could schedule a proper meeting?"
He paused, offering a window.
"How about the 24th at 7:00 PM at Stark Industries?"
Tony had been planning to find an excuse to leave—he had already spotted Pepper across the room—but the mention of Shiranui Hayate changed the temperature of the conversation.
"Shiranui Hayate? You've already been to see him?"
Coulson had expected this reaction. It was the lever he needed.
"Yes. In fact, I went to see him personally. I wanted to understand the full details of your rescue operation."
Tony didn't hide his skepticism.
"If you've already gotten the full story from him, why are you coming to me?"
Coulson didn't falter. He kept his tone soft, almost confidential.
"Well, Mr. Stark... Shiranui Hayate isn't exactly what one would call a 'positive' figure. An agency like ours cannot simply take the word of a man like that at face value. There are details—specifics—that I need to verify with you."
The moment Coulson disparaged his friend, Tony's interest evaporated. He knew enough to realize that if this agent was still asking questions, he hadn't gotten a single grain of truth out of Hayate.
"Fine," Tony said dismissively. "Do whatever you said. I have to go find my assistant now."
He set his glass down and walked away toward the dance floor, where Pepper was waiting.
As Tony vanished into the crowd, Coulson's eyes remained fixed on the pug.
His mind whirled with possibilities. How did this dog end up at Tony's side? Why was Tony bringing it to a high-society event?
Did Tony understand the significance of the plate on the dog's head?
Has Tony Stark already joined this mysterious organization? >
Or... is this dog actually a sentry, sent to monitor his every move?
To an outsider, Coulson's thoughts might have seemed like the ramblings of a conspiracy theorist. But in his line of work, the most outlandish assumptions often aligned perfectly with the truth.
What Coulson didn't know was that Tony did know about the forehead protector.
In the month they had spent together, Tony had asked Pakkun about the metal plate. Pakkun's answer had been blunt and simple.
"Not every dog can be called a Ninja Dog," the pug had grunted.
To Pakkun, the forehead protector was more than an accessory. It was a mark of status. It meant the wearer was capable of speech, possessed extraordinary abilities, and belonged to a legacy of warriors.
Those who wore the mark were Shinobi.
When Tony had asked why he had never seen Shiranui Hayate wearing one, Pakkun had simply looked at him with those droopy, knowing eyes.
"Hayate has one too," Pakkun had explained. "You just haven't earned the right to see it yet."