Chapter 103

After night fell over New York, the city’s lights gradually dimmed; only the top few floors of Stark Tower remained faintly illuminated. Pepper, having worked all day, stepped into the elevator and waited for the indicator light to glow. She took a deep breath but did not fully relax.

The elevator doors opened, and ceiling lights flickered on one by one along her path, guiding her to Stark’s laboratory—the first time she had come here in a long while.

The laboratory door slid open silently, the entire room shrouded in darkness, save for the faint glow of instrument lights. Stark lay slumped over the workbench, seemingly asleep.

JARVIS dimly activated a soft light—just enough for Pepper to see her steps without waking Stark. He slept deeply. As she approached, she noticed his furrowed brow.

She saw a pile of documents on his workbench. In the past, these had always been experimental data she couldn’t understand. But today, she spotted several books that had no business being there.

Social Engineering, Game Theory, Political Science, International Relations—she even found several of her own university textbooks. Their pages were turned, and some lay open face-down on the desk, clearly unread to completion.

She stepped closer, picked up the papers. Most contained intelligence related to the military, Congress, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. Bureau—especially personnel files.

Pepper was about to circle the workbench and reach Stark when he stirred, cleared his throat, and woke up. In the dim light, he saw her standing before him and thought he was dreaming.

Stark shook his head, blinked hard, looking utterly bewildered. Pepper had seen this expression often—after binge-drinking or pulling all-nighters in the lab.

“Oh, you’re here. Finished your work? How’ve you been?” Stark seemed flustered, as if he’d grown distant from Pepper after so many days apart. He greeted her in an awkward tone.

Pepper was unmoved. She walked over and said: “What’s going on? Why are you reading these books?”

Stark glanced back at his desk. His expression was like a child caught sneaking video games by his parents. He shifted uncomfortably, then said: “A friend recommended them. Said I should read more of this stuff—or I won’t be able to handle the messes coming.”

Stark paused, then lowered his head. His voice grew low, unusually serious.

“S.H.I.E.L.D., the military, and Congress have all gotten what they wanted. Now comes the final negotiation.”

“I represent Stark Industries. I know no one will handle these messes for me anymore. I have to learn to deal with it myself.”

“I’ve never attended a real negotiation. Even when I went, I only had to sit there and wait for Uncle Obadiah to finish everything. I was just a symbolic figure. Everyone knew I was a genius, so even if I showed impatience or left early, no one dared say a word…”

“I know I’m terrible. I’ve created countless messes and troubles—mocked opposing delegates as idiots, spilled coffee all over the table just to escape sooner.”

“I can’t even remember how many times I’ve done these stupid things. But I know this time, I’m on my own.”

Stark rubbed his eyes, then pressed his palms against his face, forcing back the sorrowful, defeated expression. He said: “No one will do these things for me anymore. No one will fix these problems for me. No one will even look at my inventions or listen to my brilliant ideas anymore…”

Pepper had to admit: this was the first time she’d seen Stark look so genuinely sad. In the past, his sad expressions were always for show—meant to be funny or to provoke sympathy. Now, he was truly grieving.

After a moment, Stark clapped his hands. “Alright, then. I can handle this. Right?”

“I’m Stark. How could I fail? How hard could these books be compared to building armor? Watch me—I’ll read every page, every file. In a few days, at that negotiation, I’ll take them all down by myself…”

Pepper felt a pang of sorrow. In the past, whenever Stark slacked off and refused to do something, she’d been exasperated—wasting too much time coddling this grown child, wishing he’d just grow up.

But now, as Stark calmly accepted doing what he dreaded, she suddenly wished he’d go back to being reckless.

She didn’t understand herself. Stark becoming mature should be good—but she knew better than anyone: such growth came with unbearable pain and sorrow. She’d rather he never endure it, forever living in a utopia.

Pepper choked back a sob, about to speak—when her phone rang again. She had no choice but to leave to answer it, without even a moment to talk to Stark, forced back into endless work.

Stark watched Pepper’s retreating back. His pain and helplessness reached their peak. He braced one hand on the workbench, covered his eyes—and for the first time, he felt New York’s night was endless.