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pancaketax · 12 days ago

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What Remains | Chapter 12 Under the Surface (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Summary : After Stark discovers threatening messages from Matthew, he confronts you about keeping secrets and insists on imposing strict safety measures. This irritates you, yet brings an uneasy comfort. Matthew’s continued threats intensify your anxiety, causing vivid nightmares. Unable to cope alone, you reluctantly spend the night near Stark, who reveals a subtle but genuine concern beneath his tough exterior.

word count: 8.5k

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Stark stares at the screen, his expression shifting imperceptibly. A wave of irritation, or perhaps cold anger, flickers across his features. He picks up the phone, turning it slightly in his hand as if hesitating about something. His gaze darkens, his mind already working to analyze the situation. He sets the device down with an exasperated sigh, but his fingers tap nervously against the counter. He glances towards the hallway leading to my room. The very thought that I might be receiving these threats without telling him deeply irritates him. After a moment of stillness, he takes a sip of coffee, his eyes still fixed on the phone. His mind oscillates between frustration and a certain weariness. He should have suspected I hadn’t told him everything about my situation.

This isn’t just an angry ex-roommate. It’s not just about unpaid rent. It’s something else. Something more vicious. More personal. A faint sound of footsteps in the hallway draws his attention away. I stumble into the kitchen, half-asleep, rubbing my face mechanically to chase away the last traces of sleep. I grab a clean cup and approach the coffee maker without immediately noticing Stark.

— “You forgot something, kid,” he remarks neutrally, pushing my phone towards me on the counter.

I furrow my brows, freezing for a moment when I see my phone in front of him. My gaze shifts between the device and Stark, trying to understand what he means. Then it hits me. My stomach knots instantly.

— “You looked at it?”

He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of coffee.

— “Let’s say it insisted on getting my attention.”

My heart skips a beat. Hot shame rushes through me. Stark saw those messages. He knows. I quickly grab my phone and turn it off without even checking the screen. My back tenses, fingers gripping the device tightly. I feel his gaze on me, analyzing my every move.

— “Were you planning on telling me, or was I supposed to guess your ex-roommate wanted your head on a platter?” he asks, his tone still cutting.

I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to snap back. Anger, humiliation, and a vague relief clash inside me. Part of me is mortified that Stark discovered all this, but another part... another part feels strangely relieved. Like, for once, someone noticed what I was going through.

— “I thought my bullshit didn’t interest you,” I finally respond, voice low and bitter.

He sets his cup down sharply on the counter.

— “That’s what you decided to believe.”

I don’t dare lift my eyes to him, my heart beating too hard in my chest. I’m not sure what bothers me most: the fact he saw those messages or the fact he’s interfering in my problem. Yet somewhere deep inside, a tiny sliver of gratitude begins to surface. But I refuse to acknowledge it.

— “Don’t worry about it, Boss. I’ve got it handled.”

Stark studies me for a moment, then shakes his head with an exasperated sigh.

— “Yeah. Clearly.”

I pour my coffee, avoiding his gaze, and switch my phone to silent mode. I try to ignore the anxiety creeping up inside me and focus on the aroma of hot coffee filling the kitchen.

— “Anyway, he can’t really beat the crap out of me anymore since I’m stuck here,” I joke nervously, trying to lighten the tension gnawing at me.

Stark doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at me, his expression unreadable, before glancing back at his cup. He takes a long sip of coffee, as if restraining himself from reacting instantly to my remark. He puts down his cup and fixes me with a sharp gaze.

— “That’s your solution? Bury your head in the sand and hope he gets bored?”

I sigh loudly and cross my arms.

— “What do you want, Stark? Should I cry and beg for your help? Maybe that would suit you, huh? Another reason to see me as a lost cause.”

He arches an eyebrow and leans against the counter, arms crossed.

— “I want my employee to be able to work without this kind of crap hovering over him. And most importantly, I don’t want an idiot who lets himself be walked all over like it’s normal.”

I clench my fists.

— “Easy for you to say when you’re Tony Stark, with the power, the money, and the means to solve all your problems with a snap of your fingers. Me, I’ve got nothing. Not even a damn apartment of my own.”

Stark lets a silence hang, then he sighs.

— “Yeah, you’re right. You’ve got nothing. But you could start by dropping the martyr act and admitting you need help.”

I lower my gaze. He has a point, but I can’t bring myself to admit it. Not now. Not like this. I take a sip of my coffee, carefully avoiding Stark’s eyes. The air has grown heavy in the room, almost suffocating. I hate this feeling of being exposed, being at the center of a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. My gaze drifts toward the wall clock. Time is ticking, and soon we’ll have to start working. Good. Work allows me to refocus, to escape this kind of exchange that makes me so deeply uncomfortable. I set down my cup, my movements a little too mechanical, and straighten up.

— “Well, I should get ready,”

I mutter neutrally, slowly stepping away from the counter. I try to convince myself it’s just another day, that I can just ignore what just happened. After all, Stark knows nothing about me. Except for Matthew, he doesn’t know anything I’ve been through, anything I feel. To him, I’m just another employee among many, and that's exactly how it should stay. I turn away and leave the kitchen without looking back, forcing myself to forget the tension still lingering there. Behind me, I feel Stark's gaze following me for a moment, but he says nothing. He doesn't try to stop me. Perhaps he's finally understood that I don't want his help, that I don't want him meddling in my life more than necessary.

As I walk down the hallway to my office, I grip my phone tightly. I ignore the notifications still appearing on the screen. I don't want to see them. I don't want to see anything. I just need to focus. Work. Act as if nothing happened. I return to the office, the air still heavy from our previous exchange. My eyes briefly settle on Stark, already seated behind his screen, focused. He doesn't even glance my way as I sit at my own station. Good. I don't want to meet his gaze, let alone engage in any conversation with him.

Silence settles in, heavy, broken only by the clicking of keyboards and the gentle humming of the machines. I immerse myself in work, trying to block out everything else. It's my only escape. I start finding a good rhythm, my movements becoming smoother despite the throbbing pain in my wrist. I try not to think about it, not to wince. Maximum concentration. Nothing else matters. Then, without warning, Stark’s voice breaks the silence.

— "Have you always been the type to handle everything alone?"

My fingers freeze on the keyboard. For a second, I think I misheard him. My mind tries to analyze the question, to understand what he's aiming at. His tone is neutral, without sarcasm, but there's intent behind his words. I slowly resume working, trying not to show how unsettled I am by his question.

— "Why do you ask?"

I hear him raise an eyebrow without needing to look.

— "Just an observation. You don’t seem like the type to ask for help."

I exhale sharply through my nose, half nervous, half annoyed.

— "Because it’s not always useful."

He doesn't reply immediately. I can sense him evaluating me, trying to understand something, digging where I don't want him to dig.

— "You know, it's not about being useful or not. It's about recognizing when you've reached your limit and need a hand."

I grit my teeth, hitting the keys a bit harder than necessary.

— "I’ve managed so far, haven’t I?"

Stark lets out a small laugh, a mixture of cynicism and weariness.

— "Yeah. And look where that's gotten you. A fractured wrist, a psycho ex-roommate chasing after you, and zero backup plans. Great management."

I straighten slightly, stung by his words. I could retort, tell him I've never had other choices, that I do what I can with what I've got. But I hold back. That's exactly what he's expecting.

— "I do what I can with what I've got," I finally reply, my voice harsher than intended.

Silence follows. He doesn’t press further, as if knowing I'm not ready to go deeper. He merely sighs and returns his attention to his screen.

— "Well, you'd better start doing better. Because I didn't hire a guy who’s going to collapse after a week."

I briefly close my eyes, slowly breathing to calm the knot of emotions stuck in my throat.

— "Got it, Boss."

I get back to work immediately, but the weight of our conversation clings to me, lingering more than I'd like. His words hit harder than he realizes. My whole life, I've been taking hits. I slightly lower my eyes, my mind wandering to the scars and burn marks I hide daily beneath my clothes. Memories of a past I refuse to confront, buried beneath a mask of normality. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought, and I sigh, as if I could dispel these images with a simple breath. I clench my fists briefly, forcing myself to dive back into work. It's the only thing over which I still have some semblance of control.

The day progresses rather well. Despite the tension, I find a certain ease in working, gradually forming a routine. My efficiency improves, and for once, I finish a project before Stark’s imposed deadline. A small wave of satisfaction washes over me as I give the details one final check before sending him my email. I hit 'send' and let out a sigh, leaning back in my chair. My wrist still throbs, but the pain has become a silent companion I've grown accustomed to. Without waiting for an immediate response, I stand up and head to the coffee machine. I need another cup. I move quietly through the office, Stark absorbed in his own work. The scent of freshly brewed coffee slowly fills the air, a comforting warmth contrasting with the room's tension.

I grab a mug and pour the steaming liquid, distractedly watching the black surface ripple gently under the subtle movement of my hand. A brief interlude, a moment of respite. Behind me, I hear Stark shifting, probably checking my submission. I don’t turn around, preferring to savor these few seconds of breathing freely without feeling his gaze weighing on me.

As I'm about to return to my desk, I catch a slight noise coming from his side. A furrowed brow, a barely audible sigh. He's analyzing my work. I take a sip of coffee, waiting to see if he'll say anything. Part of me is already bracing for a cutting remark; another part secretly hopes he'll have nothing negative to say for once. But this time, he takes his time. The silence stretches longer than usual, putting me even more on edge. Eventually, his voice resonates in the room.

— "Hm... Not bad."

I freeze momentarily, surprised by his tone. No sarcasm, no obvious annoyance. Just a neutral observation. I slightly turn my head to catch his expression, but he's already immersed in examining the details again. Then, of course, the follow-up comes.

— "It's not perfect. Some transitions still lack fluidity, and there's an issue with the lighting details. But... you worked more efficiently today."

I don't know how to respond. I'd expected harsher criticism, something that would immediately send me back to my workstation to redo everything. Instead, he pauses, briefly meets my gaze, then closes the file on his screen.

— "Let's see if you can maintain this rhythm. I'll give you something else to do. Something more challenging. You still have a lot to prove."

I nod, grabbing my coffee mug to hide a faint smile. I know he'll never clearly express satisfaction, but for now, that's enough. As I wait for him to assign me another task, I sit at my desk and glance at Matthew's messages. My chest tightens. It’s like a sharp reminder of my existence. Of my mistakes. Gathering my courage, I reply:

"Go to hell."

The silence of the office is only interrupted by the clicking of my keyboard. Stark remains behind his screen, absorbed in his work, but I sense he's keeping an eye on me. He notices my shift in attitude after responding to Matthew's message but says nothing. Not yet. I see him sit up slightly in his chair, feigning casualness as he scans his screen.

— "You're lucky, kid. I haven't found anything for you to do right now."

His tone is almost lighthearted—a rare attempt to ease the atmosphere. Yet I know he's still watching, waiting for an opening to break me down. But before I can reply, the door opens unceremoniously.

— "Well, I hope I'm not interrupting a top-secret mission!" Peter’s cheerful voice startles me.

He enters the room with a broad smile, a sports bag over his shoulder and another smaller one in hand. He tosses me the lighter bag, which I barely catch.

— "I brought the rest of your stuff. Figured it'd save you some time."

I mutter a distracted

— "Thanks," my gaze briefly flickering to Stark, who hasn't even raised his eyes from the screen. He's observing the scene, maintaining his mask of indifference.

Peter, ever upbeat, leans against the back of a chair and looks at me.

— "So, are you adjusting to the job? How’s it going? You haven't blown up a computer yet, have you?"

I roll my eyes but can't help smiling.

— "Everything's fine."

Peter chuckles, turning toward Stark.

— "And you, Boss? Is your protégé actually working or just pretending?"

Stark, still arms crossed, finally rests his gaze on us. He slightly narrows his eyes before answering pragmatically as always:

— "He’s improving. Slowly. But at least he knows how to hold a mouse."

Peter bursts out laughing.

— "Hey, that’s a compliment!"

He elbows me, and for a second, I feel myself relax. Until he continues.

— "By the way, did you manage to pick up the rest of your stuff from—" He stops as he sees my eyes widen slightly, accompanied by a discreet gesture of my hand to silence him. Too late.

Stark immediately raises an eyebrow, his gaze sharpening.

— "From whom?"

Peter realizes his mistake, and his smile freezes. He slowly turns his head towards me, an unmistakable "oh shit" look etched across his face. I swallow hard, already feeling the tension spike.

— "It's nothing important," I attempt, drawing in a breath. "It's handled."

Stark crosses his arms, leaning slightly back in his chair, adopting that condescending look that makes me want to vanish.

— "Oh? Interesting. Because the last time I heard about this, it didn't seem so 'handled.'"

Peter, thoroughly uncomfortable now, raises his hands defensively.

— "Yeah, no, but it's... it's nothing, really. I just wanted to check if it was done, that's all."

I clench my fists.

— "It's done."

My sharp tone surprises even Peter, but Stark remains unfazed. He studies me for a moment before raising an eyebrow.

— "Fine. Then I assume, if it’s 'handled,' you haven’t received any more messages from your dear roommate?"

My jaw tightens, and I feel that familiar heaviness settle in my chest. My gaze unconsciously flickers to my phone lying on the desk. Stark follows my glance, and I can see in his eyes he’s already figured it out. He knew I was lying. He was just waiting for me to fall into my own trap. A heavy silence descends upon the room. Stark finally shakes his head with a sigh, rubbing his temples.

— "Goddammit..." he mutters to himself.

Peter shifts uneasily, glancing at me as if hoping I might find some way out of this conversation, but he knows as well as I do that it's impossible.

Stark continues, his tone harsher:

— "Let me put it another way. Are we going to have another 'incident' involving this guy in the next few days? Because if so, I’d prefer to be informed."

I grit my teeth, searching for words.

— "No, he... he'll eventually give up."

Stark lets out a short, humorless laugh.

— "Right. Because obsessive control freaks are known for easily letting things go."

He stares at me, waiting for me to contradict him, but I have nothing to say. I look away, my throat tightening slightly. Stark sighs once more, speaking softer this time:

— "Don't you get it yet? It's not your job to handle this, kid."

I swallow hard, the tension knotting my stomach. I don't want his help. I don't want him getting more involved. But the more he talks, the more inevitable it feels. I stand up, grabbing the bag Peter brought me. As I head toward my room, Stark adds dryly:

— "I don't have time to play babysitter, but if this guy bothers you again, I'll have to deal with it myself—and trust me, it won't involve kind words."

I freeze momentarily, my gaze locked onto him. His eyes are cold, calculating, but beneath his pragmatic tone lies something else—a shadow of determination leaving no room for argument. He's not asking my opinion; he's stating a fact. If he has to intervene, he will. I swallow and simply nod in acknowledgment. Then, without another word, I grab Peter by the arm and drag him towards the kitchen.

Once out of Stark’s sight, I set my bag down on a chair and run a trembling hand over my face. Peter watches me, arms crossed, looking more serious than usual.

— "You okay?" he asks gently.

I sigh, leaning against the countertop.

— "He needs to stop meddling in my life."

Peter raises an eyebrow.

— "Do you hear yourself? Stark’s right, man. This asshole is ruining your life, and you're acting like it’ll all magically fix itself."

I clench my teeth, my gaze darkening.

— "You think I haven’t tried getting him out of my life? You think I chose to have some psycho on my back, threatening and humiliating me at every turn?"

Peter falls silent, but his expression makes it clear he's not backing down.

— "You don't need this anymore," he pauses. "You've got a chance at a fresh start here. You need to take it."

I drop my gaze to my clenched fists. A part of me knows he's right. But another refuses to accept the idea of Stark having such power over my life. I've never needed anyone. I've always handled things myself.

Peter sighs and changes his approach.

— "Fine. I just hope you're planning on enjoying your new digs. Because trust me, it's a hundred times better than my place."

A faint smile flickers briefly on my lips—brief, but genuine.

— "Yeah, we’ll see."

I take a deep breath, grab a bottle of water from the fridge, and head toward my room. Stark's words keep echoing in my mind, creeping into my thoughts like a persistent shadow. If Matthew comes back... will he really step in? And if so, how far would he go? Peter follows, admiring the room's view and decoration. It's luxurious but impersonal. I unpack the bag and start sorting through the clothes he's brought me.

— "I don't know if you heard, but he came back yesterday to beat me up again." I pause, rubbing my sore wrist lightly. "My wrist is killing me. I don't think I can go back to my old apartment to get the rest of my stuff right away. Anyway, there isn’t much left... just furniture, but the essentials are here."

Peter frowns, concern written across his face.

— "Wait... He hit you again?"

I look away and shrug, as if it doesn't matter.

— "What difference does it make? He can't reach me now. I'm here."

Peter crosses his arms, glancing from me to my phone buzzing on the bedside table. His expression hardens when he reads the name displayed on the screen.

— "Is he still sending you messages?"

I frown and quickly reach for my phone, but Peter is faster, grabbing it and reading aloud:

— "'Go to hell? Sure—after I kill you and watch you bleed out. Slut.'"

A heavy silence settles between us. My stomach knots painfully as Peter clenches his fist, visibly furious.

— "This guy is fucking insane!" He shakes his head gravely. "I mean... is he stalking you or something? How does he even know where you are?"

My heartbeat quickens. The idea that he could still be watching me sends chills down my spine. It feels like he'll never leave me alone.

— "He's probably just pissed off because I cut ties." I try to convince myself, but doubt creeps in.

Peter looks at me, even more worried than before.

— "Man, you need to go to the police."

I clutch my phone tightly.

— "Yeah... maybe."

Peter fixes me with an insistent stare, arms folded, before swiftly grabbing my phone again. He begins dialing a number, fury burning in his eyes.

— "What are you doing?" I shout, reaching out to grab my phone back.

— "I'm calling the cops. Enough is enough, man. This psycho needs to be stopped."

My breath catches in my throat. The thought of having to explain everything, having to recount it all, twists my stomach. I shake my head sharply.

— "No! Give it back, Peter."

He lightly pushes me away, determination blazing in his gaze.

— "Listen to me. You can't just ignore him. He'll do it again, and next time might be worse."

My heart pounds furiously; my throat tightens. I swallow hard, trying to fight the rising wave of panic.

— "And what do you think they'll do, huh?" My voice trembles with mixed anger and fear. "You think the justice system gives a damn? You think anyone cares? Last time I asked for help, they rolled their eyes and said they couldn't do anything without proof. You want me to wait until he sticks a knife in me before they react?"

Peter blinks, shocked by my sudden explosion of rage. Even I feel the pressure burning inside my chest. My breath comes short; my hands tremble slightly.

— "Man..."

Peter begins more softly, but I don’t want to hear it. I shake my head and snatch the phone from his hands.

— "Let me handle it."

A heavy silence descends. Peter hesitates, about to speak again, but before he can utter another word, a sharp, authoritative voice slices through the tension.

— “Am I interrupting something?”

I freeze, my blood running cold. Stark stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his piercing gaze shifting from Peter to me. He doesn’t need to press further—he’s heard enough. And judging by the flash of irritation crossing his face, he isn't about to let it go. Peter steps back slightly, uncomfortable, while I stay rooted in place, my phone still clutched in trembling fingers.

— “Are you going to explain this mess, or should I figure it out myself?” Stark asks dryly.

I lower my eyes, unable to withstand his stare. The pressure building in my chest becomes unbearable. I thought I could handle this alone. I thought I could ignore the threats, as I always have. But Stark is here. And he has no intention of looking the other way. Finally, I lift my gaze and meet his eyes, adrenaline causing my muscles to tremble.

— “Drop it, Stark. I don't need more people on my back right now. Just leave us alone.”

Peter turns toward me, visibly irritated by my response. He clenches his teeth and, without hesitation, snatches the phone from my hands again.

— “Peter, seriously, stop.”

— “No.” He shakes his head, and to my horror, extends the phone screen toward Stark. “Read this. Tell me if this is something he can just ignore.”

I feel betrayed. My heart pounds in my chest, and I rush forward to reclaim my phone, but Stark grabs it first. He reads the few words on the screen, his expression hardening with each second.

"Go to hell? Sure—after I kill you and watch you bleed out. Slut."

A heavy silence fills the room. Stark slowly lifts his eyes toward me, and I step back. There's nothing compassionate or gentle in his gaze—only cold, analytical severity.

— “What exactly was your plan? Wait until he makes good on his threat before reacting?”

I clench my fists, my breath ragged.

— “It's my problem.”

Stark studies me for a moment, then lets out a humorless laugh and sighs heavily.

— “Goddammit. I knew you were stubborn, but you’re giving me a headache.”

He hands back my phone, and I snatch it quickly, never breaking eye contact. Stark places his hands on his hips, measuring me up for a moment.

— “Listen to me carefully, kid.” His voice is lower, steadier, leaving no room for argument. “Let me be clear. If this guy shows up again, you come straight to me. No negotiating, no bullshit excuses. Is that understood?”

I look away, unable to answer.

— “Answer me.”

My throat tightens. I nod weakly. Peter, still tense, crosses his arms and sighs.

— “You might think he's a jerk, but he's right.”

I run a trembling hand over my face, feeling the weight of the situation crash down on me.

— “I didn’t ask for any of this…” I whisper, more to myself than to them.

Stark doesn't look like he's backing off anytime soon. And that frightens me almost more than anything else. He stares at me sternly, arms folded, shifting his gaze slowly between Peter and myself. He takes a deep breath before shaking his head slightly, clearly out of patience.

— “Well, apparently you have no idea what's dangerous or not, so let's set some ground rules.” His voice is sharp and firm. A heavy weight settles in my chest.

— “What?” I frown, already defensive.

He doesn't let me interrupt.

— “From now on, you give me your schedule. Every move, every damn outing, you report to me. You don't leave the tower without notifying someone—Potts, Happy, or myself.”

I freeze, mouth slightly open.

— “You’re serious right now?”

Stark nods without flinching.

— “I don't have time to chase after a reckless kid. So if keeping you from doing stupid things and getting yourself killed means doing this, yes, I'm very serious.”

I clench my fists, frustration spiking. Peter stays quiet, observing the exchange uneasily, but he doesn't intervene.

— “You want to put a GPS tracker on me while you're at it? Seriously, Stark, I didn't ask for this!” I realize my voice is trembling, caught between anger and exhaustion.

He raises an eyebrow.

— “Don't tempt me.”

I rub a hand over my face, nerves stretched thin.

— “This is ridiculous. It feels like I'm in prison.”

Stark takes a step closer, his gaze even harsher.

— “Oh, forgive me for trying to keep your ex-roommate from rearranging your face or worse. But if you have a better solution, I'm all ears.”

I grit my teeth, unable to respond. He's right. Damn it, he's right, but it feels like yet another piece of my freedom is being ripped away. Stark isn’t finished. He reaches into his jeans pocket and pulls out a badge, spinning it between his fingers.

— “This is priority access. If you have a problem, any security agent in the tower can find you within two minutes. Keep it on you at all times.”

I stare at him, refusing to take it.

— “You’re putting a leash around my neck.”

Stark shrugs, seemingly unfazed by my reaction.

— “Call it whatever you want. I call it ‘avoiding a potential disaster.’”

Peter sighs, placing a hand on my shoulder, as if trying to bring me back to reason.

— “Dude, he's just trying to help.”

I shake my head, stomach knotted.

— “That's exactly the problem.”

I finally take the badge without a word, sliding it into my pocket, eyes fixed on the floor. Stark watches me another moment before sighing.

— “Good. Now that we've settled this, go get back to work.”

I nod, my throat too tight to reply. I leave the room, a bitter taste lingering in my mouth. This tower was supposed to be a refuge, but today, it feels more like a cage. I return to the office, my footsteps echoing lightly against the tower's pristine floor. My wrist is still throbbing, but that's nothing compared to the heaviness pressing on my chest. That damn badge feels like it's burning a hole in my pocket, like an invisible chain Stark just wrapped around me.

I sit down at my desk without a word, gripping the armrests tightly before taking a deep breath. Why does all of this make me so furious?

Stark isn't wrong. Not entirely. But the way he imposes things, making decisions without even asking me, drives me crazy. For years I've been forced to take punches, to bend, to endure. And now he wants me to report to him? The guy who, just a few days ago, treated me like any random employee expected to work without complaining? I clench my fist, and pain shoots up my arm instantly from my wrist. I suppress a groan and focus on my screen.

Work. Just work. It'll be better afterward. It has to be better afterward. But that's easier said than done. My thoughts are a mess. I type a few lines of commands, adjust textures on my project, but my mind won't fully commit to the task. Behind me, Stark is at his desk, absorbed in his own work. But I can sense him—I know he's keeping an eye on me.Eventually, I let out a bitter laugh.

— "You really like controlling everything around you, huh?"

Stark doesn't answer immediately. Then, without looking away from his screen, he responds evenly.

— "Mostly I prefer preventing avoidable catastrophes."

I press my lips together, nodding sarcastically.

— "Right."

A tense silence settles. I restart a simulation on my screen, but frustration simmers just beneath my skin. I feel like I'm suffocating here. Not just because of Stark, but because of everything. Matthew. This damn sense of helplessness that refuses to let go. I stand abruptly.

— "I'm taking a break."

Stark doesn't move, but his voice snaps out like an order.

— "Ten minutes. No more."

I clench my teeth but say nothing. I leave the office, fists clenched, heart pounding too fast. I don't even know where I'm going—I just need to put some distance between him and me, between everything. Just breathe, even for a moment. I head towards the elevator, steps quick and jittery. The air in the tower feels oppressive; every noise, every detail irritates me more than usual. I need to get out, even just for a few minutes. Just be somewhere else. As I cross the lobby toward the exit, a familiar voice calls out to me.

— "Where are you going?"

I freeze briefly and look up to see Pepper watching me, her expression both suspicious and concerned. She holds a folder under her arm, clearly on her way to something else, yet she's stopped to question me anyway. I force a strained smile.

— "Just getting some air. I need a moment."

She narrows her eyes, unconvinced.

— "Did you tell Stark?"

A sigh escapes me.

— "It's just a break, Pepper. Ten minutes, tops."

She studies me for a moment before slowly nodding.

— "Fine. But don't go too far."

I nod without another word and head out. Once outside, I take a deep breath. The cool air is a welcome shock, contrasting sharply with the oppressive heat inside the tower. I run a hand over my face, trying to ground myself. I can't lose control now, not when things are finally starting to align.

But even here, even under the clear sky, the shadow of Stark and his rules still weighs heavily on me. Sitting on the steps of Stark Tower, my gaze drifts aimlessly over the sprawling city before me. The sun gently beats down, the sky a shade of blue that's far too bright for the turmoil within me. I breathe in slowly, trying to ignore the persistent burning in my wrist, the echo of Stark and Peter’s words still ringing in my head. My chest feels heavy, compressed by an invisible weight. I've fled one hell only to dive straight into another. It’s not the same, of course. Stark doesn't hit me, doesn't openly destroy me... but he's trapped me under another yoke—rules, expectations, control I never asked for. As if I were incapable of handling my own life.

A sigh escapes me, and I rub a hand over my face, trying to chase these thoughts away. Dwelling on them won't do me any good. Then my phone vibrates in my pocket. Not a message. A call. A shiver runs down my spine. Slowly, I take out my phone, gripping it so tightly my knuckles whiten. On the screen is a name I'd hoped never to see again.

Matthew.

An urge to immediately reject the call grips me, but I don't press the button. I stare at his name, hesitating. A deep anger rises in me, mixed with fear I refuse to acknowledge. I'm sick of running, sick of hiding like prey. Then, in a burst of courage I'll probably regret, I answer. His breath is the first thing I hear. Slow, controlled. Purposefully measured. Then his voice comes through—calm, composed. Too composed.

— "Oh, finally. Decided to ignore me, huh? Did you really think you could hide forever?"

My stomach twists. Every word is slow venom seeping into my veins. I don't respond right away, simply gritting my teeth.

— "I see you've become a real little prince now. Stark, huh? Do you really think he can protect you? You think a guy like him gives a shit about you?"

I close my eyes for a moment, breathing deeply to keep my composure.

— "What do you want, Matthew?"

He laughs—that low, mocking laugh that's always made me want to run.

— "What do I want? Nothing special. Just reminding you that you can change places, but not your story. You think I don't know you by now? I know where you work. I know when you're there. You really think your little bodyguards will always be around?"

My throat tightens. The air suddenly feels heavier. My gaze drifts toward the horizon, but my mind is far away, very far from here. He's hunting me. Watching me. Nausea washes over me, adrenaline making my hands tremble. I want to answer him. Tell him he's wrong. That I'm no longer the person he once knew, no longer that shadow he could trample whenever he wanted. But no words come out. I remain silent, listening as his voice strangles me from afar.

— "See you soon."

He hangs up. The silence afterward is even worse. Slowly, I lower my phone, fingers clenched around it. My heart races, my breath short. He knows. He knows where I am, what I’m doing. He's tracking me like a fucking ghost who refuses to let me go. I've lost track of time. I remain there, frozen, unable to move. Minutes fade away without me counting them. Then a thought hits me: Stark. The break. Ten minutes. I've been outside way longer than that. I quickly straighten up, my heart pounding against my rib cage. I've stayed away too long. What if someone comes looking for me?

Taking a deep breath, I try to calm the storm inside me before stepping back into the tower. As if nothing had happened. I push open the door of Stark Tower and head straight for the elevator. Each step echoes a bit too loudly in my head, still clouded by Matthew’s call. I already miss the fresh air from outside, but I don't have a choice. I have to get back to work as if everything were normal. The elevator doors close, and for the first time in minutes that felt like hours, I glance at my reflection in the metallic mirror walls. My face looks paler than usual, my dark circles more pronounced. I run a trembling hand through my hair, trying to pull myself together, but it’s no use. The image staring back at me is that of a man at his breaking point.

The elevator opens onto the office floor. The atmosphere is unchanged: silence punctuated by keyboard clicks and the soft hum of air conditioning. I walk forward slowly, taking deep breaths. I need to get myself together. When I enter the office, Stark is already there, standing and examining a data screen projected holographically. He doesn't immediately look up, but I can sense he knows I'm late.

—"Took your sweet time," he finally remarks, not even glancing away from his screen.

I clench my jaw and take my seat, carefully avoiding his gaze.

—"Sorry, I lost track of time."

He doesn't reply immediately. I feel his eyes on me from the corner of his vision, and it makes me even more uncomfortable. Then he closes the holograms with a quick gesture and finally turns toward me.

—"You look like you've seen a ghost."

I freeze briefly before shrugging, feigning indifference.

—"Just tired."

He says nothing. He just stares at me for another moment, as if trying to read my thoughts. Then he sighs and returns to his work.

—"Pick up where you left off. I want a first draft by the end of the day. And no excuses."

—"Yes, Boss."

I force myself to keep my tone neutral and dive immediately into my screen, trying to ignore the erratic beat of my heart. Each of Matthew’s words still echoes in my mind, but I don't have time to dwell on it. Not here. Not now. So I lose myself in work. Lines of code, visuals, precise adjustments. I must concentrate. I must forget. But I still feel Stark’s eyes on me. And I know he isn’t finished with this yet. Sitting at my screen, I force my mind to focus. Lines of code, textures, lighting effects—everything must be flawless. My fingers glide precisely over the keyboard, my stylus moves over the graphics tablet, yet deep down, another part of me remains elsewhere.

Matthew’s call still haunts my thoughts. His voice, his veiled threat, his constant reminder that he's watching, that he doesn't need to be physically present to control me. He’s always maintained his hold on me, one way or another. And even now, in this damned Stark Tower, he’s managed to worm his way back into my daily life. I grit my teeth. No. He won't win. Not this time. Time slips away unnoticed. Adrenaline from work keeps me going, the pressure of the deadline preventing me from collapsing under stress. And finally, after those long hours, I adjust the last details, reviewing everything one final time.

It’s good.

With slightly trembling fingers, I send my project to Stark. I slowly sit back, fatigue suddenly crashing down on me. He reviews my submission on his screen, scrutinizing every detail with that neutral, focused expression that always puts me on edge. A few seconds pass. Then, he nods—just a slight movement, barely noticeable. He doesn't say much, simply:

—"Better."

Just those two words. No extravagant compliments, no excessive praise. But coming from him, it’s almost a victory. I just nod, not daring to ask for anything more. Taking a deep breath, I stand, my body protesting each movement. The exhaustion, wrist pain, mental fatigue—all piling up. I grab my bag and leave the office, ready to lock myself in my room. Ready to finally be alone, away from all this. But as I turn the corner in the hallway, I run into Peter. He's there, about to leave. Clearly, he was talking to Pepper, likely about me. Judging by his expression, he hesitates, considering stopping me to talk. But I have no desire to chat, no desire to be yet another topic of conversation.

Why the hell does everyone feel obligated to take care of me?

You sigh softly, avoiding his gaze, and pass by him without saying a word. You feel his eyes following you—perhaps hurt, perhaps concerned—but you keep moving, closing your bedroom door behind you silently.

Finally alone. You collapse onto the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Your entire body is tense, your wrist still aching, yet you can't relax. You should be relieved—work finished, Stark's subtle approval gained. Yet this victory tastes bitter, as though, in the end, nothing has really changed. Matthew is still out there, lurking in the shadows. And you, despite everything, still feel trapped. Once in your room, exhaustion sets in, yet sleep remains elusive. Your thoughts circle relentlessly between the satisfaction of finishing your task and the persistent anxiety Matthew's call has left behind. His shadow still follows you, even here.

You could try to ignore or push away that oppressive feeling, but your body betrays your mind. Your heart races, your stomach knots, and despite your exhaustion, rest won’t come. Then a thought crosses your mind. You pick up your phone, staring at it for a moment, hesitating. You could block his number—it would be simple. One gesture, and he couldn't reach you this way again. But would that truly be enough? Your fingers slide across the screen, opening your conversation with Peter instead. You don't want to talk about Matthew. Not yet. But a simple message slips out:

"Did you get home? Sorry about earlier."

A short message, but enough to show some regret for your attitude. You place your phone beside you and stare at the ceiling in the darkness of your room. Tomorrow will be a new day. And even if you hate to admit it, part of you begins to wonder if Stark is right to force this surveillance onto you. You close your eyes, unsure if sleep will finally come.

Eventually, sleep does claim you, but it brings no peace.

You're in a dark, cold room, familiar and oppressive. A burnt smell fills the air—sharp, suffocating. Your legs are heavy, impossible to move, as if something anchors you to the ground. Then a figure emerges from the shadows.

Matthew.

His smile is predatory, twisted by hatred and satisfaction.

—"Look at you... still so pathetic." His foot crashes down onto your chest, tearing a cry of pain from you. Another blow follows, then another. You try to defend yourself, but your body won’t respond.

Another presence then appears. A larger, indistinct but terrifying figure. A deep, unrecognizable voice echoes through the room.

—"You think you'll get out of this? You think you're worthy to go on?" Sharp pain explodes across your face—you never saw the strike coming, but you feel your skin tear, your bones break from the impact.

Then flames rise around you. They consume you slowly, eating away your flesh, forcing screams from your throat. Matthew laughs—a cruel, demented sound—while the shadowy figure pins you down, preventing any escape from the infernal heat. You want to scream. To run. But there’s no escape. Only unbearable pain, voices whispering that you should never have existed, that you're nothing but a burden. Nothing but a failure. Your body collapses, broken.

Then, in a blinding flash, Stark appears. His gaze is cold, distant. He looks at you like a defective object.

—"You really think you're worth anything?" His voice is sharp, merciless. "Look at you. You’re nothing. Just another failure."

He draws a blade. One fluid, calculated movement. The pain blinds you.

You scream.

The icy sensation of metal sinking into your flesh burns a fiery path across your face. A mocking laugh accompanies the act, echoing judgment and contempt. Then everything plunges into darkness. You wake up screaming, a "Let me go!" torn from your lips, gasping for breath, forehead drenched in cold sweat. Your whole body shakes, your wrist throbbing even more painfully from tension. You sit up sharply, your mind still clouded by the nightmare’s terror.

Your first reflex is to touch your face—your cheeks, your nose—to check if everything is intact. Panic pounds fiercely against your chest. It takes several seconds before you realize it was only a nightmare. Yet the dread lingers, clinging to your skin like a persistent shadow.

The air in your room feels suffocating. You peel yourself from the sweat-soaked sheets and stumble out. Your feet lead you almost unconsciously toward the bathroom. You flick on the light. The harsh glow of neon forces you to squint. Your reflection in the mirror stares back. Your face is intact—no wound, no bloody gash, no burn marks. And yet you still feel the ghostly sensation of the blade slicing your skin. You close your eyes, gripping the edge of the sink tightly. Your breathing is ragged. You try to steady the tremors shaking your body.

But the anxiety clings to you, like a curse you can’t dispel. The sensation of the blade remains so vivid that even awake, your body still trembles. Unable to stay alone in your room, you leave, hoping the fresh air of the corridors will banish the horrible images.

Stark Tower is quiet at this late hour. Only a few dim lights pierce the darkness, casting elongated shadows across the immaculate floor. Your steps are soft, hesitant, until you see a glow coming from the lounge area. As you push open the door, you find Stark sitting on a couch, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze distant, lost in thought. He doesn’t seem surprised to see you. His sharp eyes land on you briefly before returning to the amber liquid swirling in his glass.

—“Another rough night?” His voice is raspy, tired, but lacks genuine curiosity—just an observation.

You hesitate. Telling him you just dreamed he gutted you with clinical coldness probably isn't the best idea. Not knowing how to respond, you just shrug, avoiding his gaze. Your legs carry you unsteadily toward the chair opposite him, and you sink into it with exhaustion. A heavy silence settles between you.

He takes a sip from his glass, then turns his attention back to you, watching closely. Too closely.

—“You planning to talk, or do you want me to guess?”

You close your eyes briefly, trying to steady your still-erratic breathing. The truth burns your lips, but it stays stuck—heavy, unbearable.

—“It was just a nightmare. It'll pass.”

—“You screamed loud enough to wake half the floor. That wasn’t just a nightmare.”

His tone is sharp, cutting—and he's not wrong. You swallow hard, running your fingers through sweat-dampened hair.

—“I...” You take a deep breath. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

He nods slowly, as if dissecting your answer, analyzing every word to extract the truth.

—“Suit yourself,” he finally says. “But if you keep piling up trauma without dealing with it, someday you'll explode. And trust me, it won’t be pretty.”

A bitter laugh escapes you.

—“Thanks for the analysis, Freud.”

He smirks faintly, but his gaze remains hard. You meet his eyes, notice something different—it's not just cold, distant pragmatism. It’s a warning. Silence stretches again. You glance toward the door, but the thought of returning alone to your room knots your stomach. You don’t want to face that solitude—not yet.

Stark eventually sighs, placing his glass on the coffee table.

— “You planning to sleep here, or what?”

You lower your eyes, searching for a response. Part of you wants to say yes, to stay here, safe from your own thoughts, but you know it isn't realistic.

—“I just... don’t want to go back to my room,” you finally admit.

Stark doesn't immediately respond. He watches you closely, perhaps trying to understand what's holding you back, what's scaring you so much. Then, without a word, he rises and grabs the whiskey bottle, spinning it lightly between his fingers. You remain seated, muscles tense, mind still numb from the nightmare. Without speaking, you draw your knees closer, staring into the distance through the wide window. The city stretches out beneath you, lit by thousands of tiny lights, almost surreal in its apparent calm. Yet it’s not the view you truly see. Your reflection in the glass reveals a face worn by exhaustion, dark circles deeper than ever. You take a deep breath, attempting to ignore the persistent sensation of a blade slicing your skin, as if a ghost still brushes against you even now.

Stark remains silent. He has retaken his seat, whiskey in hand, observing quietly. He leaves you alone with your thoughts, without forcing them out. Perhaps he understands that tonight, words won't help. Silence drags on.

—“You've got a day off tomorrow,” he eventually reminds you. “Use it to clear your head. And try to sleep, wherever that might be.”

You nod vaguely, but the thought of returning alone to your room still chills your blood. For now, staying here—even with the heavy silence—feels like the better option. You glance at him briefly, then down at your wrist, still wrapped in the brace. The echoes of the nightmare pound relentlessly in your head.

—“I don't think I can face that again.”

Your voice is lower than intended, almost broken from accumulated fatigue and tension. It’s not just the loneliness weighing you down—it's the idea of being trapped in an enclosed space, at the mercy of your own demons. Stark slowly sets down his glass, his gaze unreadable as it settles on you. He doesn't answer right away, allowing you to get lost in your thoughts again. The silence in the room feels suffocating, pressing heavily against your chest.

—“You afraid it'll happen again?” he finally asks bluntly.

You shrug weakly, without denying it. Of course it will happen again. It always does. Nightmares return like a curse you can't shake.

—“Is this going to become a habit?” he says ironically, crossing his arms.

You shoot him a look, caught between frustration and exhaustion. This isn’t funny to you. He must see it, because his expression hardens slightly, as if gauging the line between his usual sarcasm and what you can handle tonight.

—“I'm not tucking you in, if that's what you’re thinking.”

—“I'm not asking for that.”

He sighs. Then, after a moment's hesitation, he stands and grabs a blanket from one of the nearby chairs, tossing it your way. You catch it mid-air, surprised by the gesture.

—“If you're planning to camp out here, at least don't freeze to death.”

You don't thank him, but the intention isn't lost on you as you wrap the blanket around yourself. You lean back against the chair, your breath still uneven but gradually calming. Stark says nothing more. He sits back on the couch, finishing his whiskey in silence. You wonder how many nights he spends here, haunted by his own ghosts—probably more than you'd expect.

—“Try to get some sleep,” he finally says without looking your way.

You don't reply, but your eyelids grow heavy. Fatigue slowly overtakes you. And for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel completely alone with your nightmares.

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