Florida, Miami.
A villa with white stucco walls and pale red roof tiles stood nestled amid lush woods. The plants in its enormous courtyard had been trimmed with meticulous care, giving the place something of a medieval manor's atmosphere. Guards stood watch every few steps throughout the grounds, black-suited enforcers as stone-faced as stock spies from an espionage film tightly securing the estate.
Aldrich Killian, dressed in a white suit over a black shirt, stood waiting in the open space behind the courtyard with his hands in his trouser pockets. The bald man beside him was Eric Savin, his most capable confidant and the most successful example among the men he had enhanced with the Extremis Virus.
Killian raised his hand to check his watch for what had to be the umpteenth time.
"There's only one minute left, and there isn't even a damn shadow in the sky." He snorted darkly. "Looks like this so-called Hydra leader isn't very punctual either."
Only seconds after he spoke, a thunderous roar abruptly rang out overhead. Lines of steel emerged in the air, gradually outlining the silhouette of a massive, futuristic fighter jet. The jet-black Quinjet, like a predatory bird spreading its wings, slowly descended amid the hum of its antigravity systems.
The gale made it nearly impossible to keep one's eyes open, and the tails of Killian's white suit snapped wildly in the wind. Looking up at the flashy aircraft, he curled his lip. "Show-off."
The Quinjet landed smoothly and vertically in the clearing, and a boarding ramp lowered from its rear. An old man walked down it. His facial features were resolute, his eyes seemingly calm yet faintly carrying a snake-like sharpness. Dressed in an entirely black suit, he looked like an undertaker.
This was Michael—wearing a digital mask. He had