"Mr. Stark! Rumors on Wall Street say a fierce confrontation broke out at the Stark Industries board meeting last night! Did you call this emergency press conference to announce the company's bankruptcy and liquidation?!"
The press room at Stark Tower, in downtown Los Angeles.
Camera flashes flickered like a miniature thunderstorm. The reporters in the front row practically shoved their microphones against the edge of the podium.
Tony Stark wore an impeccably tailored bespoke suit without a tie. He reached out and tapped the microphone, producing an ear-splitting buzz. The room instantly fell silent.
"Bankruptcy? You're getting ahead of yourself, my friend from Forbes." A mocking smile curled Tony's lips.
"Stark Industries has enough cash flow to buy your publication and burn it down a hundred times over. I invited you here today for a little housecleaning."
"Housecleaning?" The reporters exchanged puzzled looks.
"That's right. Taking out a piece of rotting garbage that's been hiding among our senior executives for thirty years."
Tony snapped his fingers.
The enormous holographic screen behind him instantly lit up. Instead of a presentation on Stark Industries' latest products, it displayed grainy surveillance footage.
In an Afghan valley swept by clouds of sand, several turbaned Ten Rings terrorists were unloading crates of weapons marked "STARK INDUSTRIES" from heavy trucks.
Then the screen split.
A densely packed list of bank transactions appeared on the right, accompanied by a digitally restored recording of an encrypted phone call.
"Twenty million dollars has been transferred to the Cayman Islands account. I want your guarantee that Tony Stark will never leave that desert alive."
The voice in the recording was deep and gravelly, with an unmistakable, chilling menace.
The room went deathly silent.
Every reporter covering finance and politics knew that voice all too well.
It belonged to Stark Industries'