Chapter 104

When Peter stepped into the lab, the chill of the morning still clung to him; the cold wind had reddened his cheeks, and he exhaled, setting down his backpack.

The warm air of the lab made his forehead slightly damp; he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the chair back. Stark was still groggy from waking, and Peter said, “I heard Dr. Schiller say you’re troubled by something. Since school’s off today and I’m not interested in those football games, I thought we could tackle this together—but first…”

He pulled a bag from his backpack, struggling to hold it because it was hot, and said, “I brought the best pizza from near school—I swung fast enough, so it’s still warm.”

Then he turned, glanced at the coffee machine, set the pizza bag aside, and rushed over, fiddling with it as he spoke: “Let’s get some coffee. Dr. Schiller’s espresso is way too bitter—I can’t stand it. Let me see… I’ll take a double-shot, double-sugar latte. What about you, Mr. Stark?”

Stark sat by the window, propping his head in his hand, still feeling dizzy.

Peter, bustling about with the energy and vitality unique to his age, like a bustling New York morning, seemed overly lively and even a little ridiculous—but that very energy rekindled Stark’s frozen heart.

Peter held two cups of coffee on one tray and the pizza bag in the other, dumping them all onto the table at once.

Peter unwrapped the pizza, squeezed the included sauce on top, and handed it to Stark. Stark disliked accepting things, but he took it anyway and bit into it.

Peter and Stark had different tastes: Peter loved heavily seasoned food, dousing everything in sauces, while Stark preferred mild flavors. He bit into the pizza—the sharp sauce overwhelmed the dough’s natural aroma, and in Stark’s opinion, it wasn’t tasty at all.

But fortunately, as Peter said, the pizza was fresh out of the oven, and Peter had raced across half of New York to bring it here—it was still warm, and paired with the rich coffee, Stark felt a warm current surge through his chest, as if he’d come back to life.

Throughout the entire night, Stark hadn’t felt like crying—or rather, that emotion had been buried deep inside him, unable to reach his eyes.

Yet this ordinary breakfast gave Stark a sense of salvation; he never imagined he’d be moved to tears by a two-dollar pizza.

Peter ate poorly—he’d squeezed on too much sauce, which clung to the corners of his mouth. As usual, he took a huge bite and chewed relentlessly.

The steaming breakfast made him sweat more; he tugged at his collar, his shirt now disheveled.

This image and this meal clashed utterly with the environment of Stark Tower—everywhere cold metal, high-end lab equipment, and steadily blinking lights.

It was like someone had forcibly painted a splash of color onto cold, orderly machine parts.

But Peter was unaffected. He devoured one pizza quickly, then gulped down a whole cup of coffee, finally slumping back in his chair with a contented sigh.

Peter wiped his mouth and said, “That’s great. I used to eat this only once a week—you know, it’s delicious, but kind of expensive. School cafeteria meals cost half as much.”

“But I really hate the sausages in the cafeteria, so whenever Uncle Ben gives me pocket money, I treat myself to one.”

“Gwen likes this place too. Now we come here every day after school. I used to complain about the seats being too few, but with Gwen, we squeeze into the corner, eat and chat—is there anything better?”

Stark looked down at his hand: the whole pizza was gone, leaving only a greasy wrapper with traces of sauce; his left-side coffee cup was empty.

“I’ve never eaten this before,” Stark said.

Peter said in surprise, “No way? Pizza’s pretty popular here—almost everyone at school loves it.”

“You know Thompson, right? I mentioned him before—the big guy on our football team. He can eat five servings at once. Last time he made me bring him breakfast—only because he tipped me extra did I haul all those bags.”

Then Peter added casually, “But it’s fine—everything has a first time. So? How’s it taste?”

Stark clicked his tongue. He had to admit: human taste buds do crave richer flavors. The sauces might not be healthy, but they were delicious.

After eating, Peter stood before the lab bench, intending to see if Stark had any new armor ideas, when he noticed the stacks of books and documents.

Unlike Pepper, Peter could understand complex lab data—but he couldn’t make sense of these long-winded texts at all.

He picked up one paper, glanced at it, then covered his eyes: “I think I’ve forgotten how to read English. Help! I recognize every word here, but they all feel strange…”

“You’ll have to learn this someday,” Stark said.

Peter shook his head. “That’s why my dream has never been to run a company or become the richest man in the world. I know I can’t grasp this stuff. I might not even hire a single employee—I don’t understand what they think, and I’d probably mess up every business deal…”

Stark’s grip on the book stiffened.

Peter’s words reminded him: he wasn’t being forced to learn this—he’d chosen to save Stark Industries. If he’d chosen to abandon the company, to become a street hero like Peter, he wouldn’t need any of this at all.

As long as he had his genius mind, he could build armor from scrap in a landfill.

So why had he chosen to save the company? Stark wondered. The pain of learning this didn’t feel any less than digging through garbage.

Then Stark thought of Pepper, of Obadiah, and of his father.

At that moment, JARVIS announced: “Mr. Rogers is here.”

“Close the door. Deny access.”

But it was too late—Steve stood at the lab entrance, arms crossed. “Schiller said you’re having trouble, so I came specifically to mock you.”

“Shut up, or I’ll suit up and beat you right now.”

“I haven’t settled the bill for you blowing me up with that armor yet.”

“You deserved it.”

The two exchanged sharp words, about to come to blows, when Peter stepped between them, arms outstretched to block them.

Steve said, “I had some leads about your father’s belongings. Guess you don’t want to hear them.”

Stark was taken aback. “My father had other belongings? You’re not lying to me, are you?”

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know the truth behind your father’s death, but I know it wasn’t simple. He likely prepared for this…”

So Stark said tightly, “Where is it?”

“It should be at the old Stark Industries site. But don’t get your hopes up—he wouldn’t leave anything important there.”

“You mean Howard Motors? JARVIS, didn’t you get Obadiah’s research data from there last time?”

“Yes, sir. But there are two old sites—Stark Industries relocated. I’ve dispatched armor to search both locations.”

“You really care about your father,” Steve said.

“I don’t. I just—”

“No, I’m serious. You don’t need to deny it. I can only tell you: your father’s involvement in that operation and his death were far from simple. He…”