The Pacific moonlight painted silver trails across Stark Industries' headquarters as Leon and Tony hovered outside the 42nd-floor window. Below them, Obadiah Stane's shadow loomed large against the glass like a puppet master finally exposed.
"Compensation?!" The muffled roar carried through the vacuum-sealed pane. "You incompetent sand rats let Stark slip through your—"
Leon's fingertip brushed the window's edge. Molecular bonds shattered silently as the entire three-ton glass panel lifted free. Tony's breath hitched – not at the display of power, but at the hologram flickering above Obadiah's desk.
The Ten Rings lieutenant's scarred face sneered through static. "...your weapons are obsolete, Stane. Without Stark's new tech..."
Obadiah's chair creaked as he leaned forward, the grandfatherly facade melting like wax. "Fine. Lure him to Karachi with the Mark VIII prototypes. But this time—"
"Knock knock."
The terrorist's hologram dissolved as Leon strolled into the office, Tony trailing like a storm cloud. Obadiah's Rolodex of expressions cycled through shock, calculation, and finally, resignation.
"Tony! This isn't—"
"Save it." Tony's voice cracked like dry ice. He gestured at the still-smoldering hologram projector. "My first birthday present from you was a chemistry set. Now you're ordering my hit list?"
Obadiah's hand inched toward the drawer. "You don't understand the pressures—"
"Don't."
The command froze the room. Leon's eyes glowed faintly, casting hellish shadows across the mahogany desk. "That Beretta M9 holds fifteen rounds. By the time your finger touches the trigger..."
A paperweight levitated, its sharpened edge hovering at Obadiah's jugular. "...I'll have rearranged this building's structural integrity. Permanently."
The silence stretched until Obadiah laughed – a wet, crumbling sound. "Howard's bastard and his pet alien. Should've drowned you both in—"
Tony never saw Leon move.
One moment Obadiah stood ranting; the next, his polished Oxfords dangled forty-two stories above concrete. The night wind carried his final scream like a discordant opera note.
"JARVIS," Leon called to the empty air. "Scrub all footage. Leave the suicide note... poetic."
Tony stared at the vacant window frame, his reflection fractured in the glass shards. "He taught me to ride a bike."
"And he ordered twelve assassination attempts." Leon gripped his brother's shoulder, the bioelectric field neutralizing Tony's tremors. "Go write his eulogy. I'll handle the PR fallout."
As dawn tinged the horizon, the headlines bloomed: STARK INDUSTRIES COO SUCCUMBS TO GUILT! Beneath the lies, a different truth took root – one where family meant more than blood, and justice wore cargo pants.