Chapter 35

“You said you’re planning to shut down Stark’s weapons manufacturing division?” Shiler asked.

“But you shouldn’t be coming to me about this,” Shiler continued.

Stark rubbed his forehead in frustration and said, “Because of what you two did, Pepper has received thousands of employee complaints these past few days—she’s had to completely overhaul the entire benefits system and is swamped.”

“Actually, that’s not the point,” Shiler said. “If you want to talk, she’s always willing to listen.”

Stark touched the bridge of his nose but said nothing.

After a moment, he said, “Fine, I know my decision is putting immense pressure on her. I know I’m a damn selfish bastard. I know she’s helped me enough. I know I shouldn’t be doing this—but I have no other choice.”

Shiler opened the notebook beside him and wrote as he spoke: “Let me think—you’re trying to sentence a gun to death.”

“But my weapons have killed many people.”

“Weapons have no choice,” Shiler said.

“Do you expect them all to be like JARVIS—able to speak, to protest? Do you think they enjoy going to that hellhole in Afghanistan? Or do you believe a bullet, once manufactured, has as its lifelong dream to kill someone on a battlefield?”

Stark sat silently across from him, his voice fragile: “I admit I blame the weapons because I know I’m the real culprit—but I can’t judge myself.”

“But I also know, Mr. Stark, you can’t judge yourself not because you want to survive in cowardice, but because you believe you have the ability to make up for it—that when crisis strikes, only you can save the world, turn the tide. It’s this sense of responsibility that drove you to do these things.”

“But let me be blunt—do you ever consider that demanding someone or something be held accountable and then judging them is a highly arbitrary and reckless notion?”

“But every event must have a root cause.”

“But that root isn’t necessarily right or wrong. You know better than anyone that the world isn’t black and white. You found what you think is to blame—but it hasn’t made anything better. You think weapons are to blame, so you want to shut down the entire weapons division, leaving Pepper sleepless for nights, making many employees jobless—and even those on the battlefield won’t thank you.”

“Is the pain from this relentless pursuit of roots really worth it?”

Stark looked agonized, his entire face twisted in pain. If Spider-Man’s transformation was like a grand firework, Stark’s transformation might be the inward collapse of a dying star.

Stark didn’t yet know that he would later clash with Steve over this same issue—and destroy the Avengers entirely.

“My mind tells me I can’t stop thinking about right and wrong,” Stark said.

“Alright, then your mind must take responsibility for it. If it won’t let you go, you should go after it. Isn’t that the theory you insist on?”

“Ask your mind—is there any way to achieve what you want without hurting the people around you? That’s the answer it should give you, because it’s the one making you suffer.”

Stark didn’t feel any better. He slumped back in his chair and said, “Look at me—I’m an idiot. I paid a devil doctor a million dollars an hour—a Satan…”

“Your damn psychotherapy has never brought me any positive change. Every time I leave here, I feel worse.”

Stark spoke through gritted teeth.

Shiler rarely refrained from joking—he said, “You can see me as a catalyst. You’ll understand later…”

“Thinking brings pain. No one escapes it. I’m just giving you a preemptive shot—later, you’ll feel much better. You’ll thank me.”

Stark made the sign of the cross over his chest and said, “If you keep talking like this, you’ll nearly surpass Howard in my heart.”

“This is the first time you’ve brought up your father voluntarily. It’s odd—most people in pain prefer to scream for their mother.”

Stark slammed his fist on the table—he didn’t want to admit he mentioned his father because he was hurting.

He wasn’t some helpless fledgling. The eagle that flew off the cliff and never returned wasn’t who he should think of in despair and pain.

Shiler said, “Perhaps that’s why you built yourself armor—you wear that iron shell everywhere, convinced only it can protect you, that only when you’re inside it are you truly the mighty Iron Man.”

“But I must say—if you can’t learn to take it off, you’ll never become the real Iron Man.”

Shiler had already considered this: Stark and Batman were strangely alike—their upbringing, education, even their responses to certain problems were eerily similar—

They built weapons no one else could, strapped them to their bodies, believed themselves invincible—then, when they realized these weapons couldn’t solve everything, they sank into agonizing turmoil.

Shiler scribbled in his notebook. Stark asked, “What are you writing?”

“Steve’s therapy session ended, so Natasha retracted the listening device. I have to write your case notes by hand.”

Stark narrowed his eyes. “You wrote down everything I just said?”

“Not everything—but I remember clearly the part where you called out ‘Dad.’”

“Five million dollars.”

Shiler tossed the notebook directly in front of Stark. Stark pulled out a lighter, set it on fire, and muttered, “How the hell did I believe a damn vampire doctor?”

“It’s late. You should go back. Your argument with Miss Pepper won’t be solved by hiding outside,” Shiler said.

Stark clearly didn’t want to leave. “That spider kid can stay here—why can’t I? I don’t even mind your shabby place. You get the privilege of cooking breakfast for the genius Stark.”

“Sure. Then Miss Pepper works alone in Stark Tower, everyone’s gone, the building dark and cold… oh, JARVIS might keep her company—I heard JARVIS developed feelings. Maybe he understands Miss Pepper’s loneliness better than you do.”

Stark instantly jumped up. He grabbed his coat and said, “I’d never compete with my own AI Guanjia —never.”

Shiler opened the clinic door for him. “Yes, of course. God bless JARVIS.”

After leaving the clinic, Stark’s mood was terrible—thoughts tangled chaotically in his mind.

He’d long accepted that geniuses are lonely. He’d lived most of his life this way. He always thought he was fine—rich, smart, with enough resources to fulfill his worth. Excessive responsibility never troubled him. But never before had he felt this desperate for companionship.

Rarely, he didn’t call for his armor. He even turned off his phone. He walked slowly down the street, arriving at the rundown bus stop. The last bus driver reeked of cigarette smoke—unpleasant, but Stark still boarded and found a seat.

Thanks to Shiler’s fearsome reputation, the neighborhood was empty—Stark rode the bus safely out of Hell’s Kitchen. In the streets of New York, he flagged down a taxi and got in.

“Stark Tower,” Stark said.

The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. He didn’t recognize him as the owner of Stark Industries—Stark always looked dazzling on TV. Now, he resembled a middle-aged, defeated stray dog.

The taxi weaved through New York’s cold neon. Street scenes blurred past. Jazz played softly inside—perfect for New York’s late autumn. Stark sat in the back, hands resting on his knees, covering his face.

He thought to himself: Fine, fine—I’m just a fragile little boy, not some great hero. Right now, I just want to see Pepper, hug her, and let saving the world go to hell.

Stark never admitted his childishness—he preferred calling it innocence, the unique innocence of a genius.

But one must admit: in every person’s life, someone must play this role—a returning eagle, sheltering fledglings beneath its wings.

Pepper was just an ordinary woman—not an eagle or a raptor. But when this hungry fledgling, Stark, felt cold, he still wanted to burrow beneath her feathers.

He got out of the taxi and sprinted toward the building, certain the top-floor office was still lit—Pepper always worked late.

He rushed into the elevator, unsure what was wrong with him—he felt like a greenhorn. He nervously rubbed his hands, paced in place. As soon as the doors opened, he bolted out.

He wanted to say something to Pepper—he should say something.

But the entire floor was dark. He spun around—no office lights on. This was abnormal.

“Pepper? Pepper, are you there?” Stark shouted.

Only echoing silence answered him. He slammed his fist against the glass door and yelled, “JARVIS? Are you there? JARVIS, where are you?”

Silence again.

Now Stark was truly panicked. If JARVIS didn’t respond, he was likely hijacked or cut off from power. If someone did this, their target was definitely Pepper.

Stark sprinted through the office, racing to Pepper’s usual workspace.

But without armor, Stark was just a normal man—no night vision, no JARVIS, no smart lighting system activated.

He rushed in and tripped over an overturned chair. When he got up, he couldn’t see a thing—let alone examine details.

He opened his mouth to call for armor—but without JARVIS, the remote control wouldn’t respond.

Stark was truly breaking down. He suddenly realized everything he thought he controlled didn’t belong to him. Without that shell, Iron Man was just a blind man in the dark.

His voice trembled as he fumbled blindly across Pepper’s desk, whispering to reassure himself: “Damn it, she’s fine… this is Stark Tower—no one can breach its defenses. I’m Stark…”

Suddenly, the entire floor lit up. Stark shielded his eyes, turned—and saw Pepper standing at the office door holding a remote. He froze.

Before Pepper could speak, Stark rushed forward and hugged her. She’d never seen Stark so terrified.

He kept murmuring, “I knew you’d be fine… you’d never be hurt…”

Pepper sighed. This fledgling, nearly larger than an eagle, was so repulsive—and yet so impossible to refuse.

Now rewind time slightly—to just after Stark left the clinic—when Shiler received Pepper’s call.