Chen Xiao set down his glass of water and met Tony's shaken gaze.
"As for those bloodstained trading cards, there's nothing to guess. I was in the corridor beside the bridge. I watched that black-hearted old bastard pick up the undamaged cards, smear them with blood from the floor, and pocket them without batting an eye. He staged a tragedy to bind you problem children together through guilt and anger. I thought he'd bring Coulson back once the Chitauri were beaten. I never imagined he'd keep up the lie this long."
Tony said nothing.
His chest heaved. His fingers dug into the edge of the marble bar, his knuckles white, the muscles in his forearms twitching from the strain.
Humiliation and betrayal erupted inside him.
The solemn foundation of the Battle of New York—the sacrifice they had fought for and compromised over—had been a political hoax Nick Fury had concocted from the start.
"JARVIS." Tony's voice was dangerously low.
"I'm here, sir."
"Get that old popsicle from the gym downstairs up here. Now."
A suffocating silence settled over the bar. Tony stared at the half glass of whiskey before him. The ice had melted into tepid water, as absurd as the unity Fury had manufactured aboard the Helicarrier.
Less than five minutes later, the elevator opened with a ding.
Steve Rogers stepped out in a gray workout tank. His long strides made it clear JARVIS had sent him a high-priority alert.
"What happened? Are we under attack?" Steve scanned the living room. Finding no sign of a fight, he turned to Tony, whose face was ashen.
Tony pointed to Chen Xiao by the floor-to-ceiling window.
"Captain, let me introduce our great magician." Tony forced a smile uglier than a grimace. "He just told me Agent Coulson, who supposedly died heroically