#Most of this is from the 3d warehouse

[pancaketax]

What Remains | Chapter 18 The Hunt (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

TW : Detailed depictions of injuries and abuse. Mentions of past abuse Summary : Tony Stark becomes something beyond human , a machine driven by icy rage, relentless focus, and a singular goal: to find you. After receiving a horrifying call laced with sadistic cruelty and a scream he instantly recognizes as yours, Stark enters a sleepless, foodless, voiceless trance, transforming his office into a war room. Every screen, every algorithm, every ounce of technology is bent to his will in a digital manhunt for your location. When Jarvis finally locates a faint signal in an abandoned warehouse, Stark launches without hesitation, donning a specialized combat suit built for one purpose: ending this.

word count: 16.1k

Previous Chapter - Next Chapter Stark hasn’t closed his eyes. Not for a second. He hasn’t swallowed a bite, hasn’t taken a sip of water. He hasn’t moved from his desk since the exact moment that voice slithered into his ear, slick and jagged like a rusted blade. Since that obscene breath passed through the line, that whisper soaked in menace and sadistic delight. Since that scream that raw, flayed scream, human, far too human ripped from a throat he knows too well, just before silence fell, sharp as a guillotine. Something broke then. Not in him. No. Something froze.

He’s no longer a man, not really. Not in this suspended moment, where even time seems too afraid to move forward. He’s become engine. Mechanism. Open-heart alert system. His blood doesn’t circulate it pulses, furious, carried by a cold, methodical, almost clinical rage. He is anger, but an anger without shouting. An anger that thinks, that calculates, that watches, that waits. A storm contained in a steel cylinder, ready to explode, but for now channeling all its violence into the glacial logic of action.

In the office, the tension is almost tangible. The air feels charged, saturated with something indefinable a blend of ozone, electricity, and pure stress. Every surface vibrates slightly, as if the metal itself shared the heartbeat of its occupant. The silence isn’t soothing. It’s oppressive, built on thick layers of concentration, anticipation, restrained fury. Only mechanical sounds mark the space: the faint crackle of a screen refreshing, the nervous clicks of his fingers on holographic interfaces, the low vibrations of the servers in the adjoining room, humming at full capacity. Around him, a dozen screens stream data without pause. Some display ultra-precise satellite maps, sweeping over New York rooftops for any suspicious movement. Others track mobile signals, tracing the latest paths of every device even remotely connected to the target. Still others comb through databases, merge biometric information, detect faces, match voice prints. A thermal image of a building overlays a 3D city map. An audio feed scrolls at high speed, saturated with static. Nothing escapes analysis. Nothing is left to chance.

Stark is motionless, but every muscle in his body is tense. His back is hunched, elbows braced on the desk edge, fingers clenched around the projected interface hovering above the glass. His bloodshot eyes lock onto the central screen without blinking. His eyelids are heavy, but he doesn’t close them. He can’t. Not until the target is found. Not until the one he’s searching for is no longer missing. He won’t allow himself the luxury of weakness. He swore he’d never let anyone be hurt again. And he holds to his vows the way others hold to weapons. The blue glow of the monitors cuts across his face with surgical cruelty. Every shadow on his skin is a confession: fatigue, deep dark circles, drawn features, hollow cheekbones. But these marks don’t diminish him. They add a near-inhuman intensity to his gaze, a ruthless clarity. A will that, for now, eclipses even the most basic biological needs. He hasn’t slept, because he doesn’t have the right. He hasn’t eaten, because the thought hasn’t even occurred to him. His body is secondary. It’s nothing but a vessel for the mission.

He murmurs sometimes. Commands, codes, equations. He speaks to no one, but the AI responds instantly. Every word he utters is sharp, precise, guided by a logic untouched by panic. One name comes back again and again. A biometric file. A GPS identifier. Trackers. Coordinates. He’s no longer looking for a person — he’s hunting a fixed point in the storm. The center of a search and rescue system. And Stark is ready to flatten entire city blocks to bring that point back to him. When the internal alerts go off soft, discreet, almost polite signaling a drop in blood pressure, critical dehydration, or prolonged hypervigilance, he silences them with a flick of the hand. He shuts them off. Nothing exists outside this room, outside this moment. Outside this mission. The rage is there, but tamed, carved into a weapon.

Somewhere, he knows he’s crossing the line. That he’s nearing an invisible boundary. But he doesn’t care. He’s seen too many people die, too many names fade into archives. This time, he won’t be too late. So he keeps going. Relentlessly. He cross-references data, filters messages, follows leads. He digs, over and over, down to the bone. And behind him, the world can tremble all it wants. He’ll hold. Because he made a promise. Because this time, no one will disappear into the shadows without him tearing them out of the night.

His eyes never leave the screens. They’re locked in, anchored, consumed to the point of obsession. They devour every bit of information, every image, every pixel variation, as if he might uncover a hidden confession. Nothing escapes him. No movement, no data, no anomaly in the flow. His pupils, dilated from exhaustion, cling to the smallest detail, hunting a trace, a footprint, a breath left behind by the one he’s chasing without pause. He’s isolated search zones. Redrawn entire sections of the city. Compared every map of New York with thermal readings, overlaying layers like a surgeon operating through urban tissue. He’s overridden protections on multiple private networks without hesitation. Intercepted anonymous communications, analyzed movement patterns, recalibrated his internal software to tailor the algorithms to a single, solitary target. The tools he designed for international diplomacy, for global crisis response — he’s repurposed them now for a personal hunt. A cold war fought in the digital guts of the city.

And always, he comes back to that name. That shadow. That absence. Matthew. A ghost with no fingerprint, no signal, no flaw to exploit. But Stark refuses that idea. No. That kind of man doesn’t vanish. That kind of man always leaves traces — out of pride. Out of carelessness. Out of vanity. And if it means turning the city inside out, if it means digging down to reinforced concrete, to buried cables and the forgotten strata of the network — then so be it. He’s ready to search through the world’s marrow to find what remains. Cables snake across the floor, twisted like raw nerves, connected to makeshift terminals. Holograms hover in the air, pulsing with spectral, slow, almost organic light. The room, once functional and sterile, has lost its ordinary shape. This is no longer an office. It’s a clandestine command post. A digital war cell born out of urgency, powered by fear and brute will. On one wall, an unstable projection flickers: a gridded map of New York, each red zone corresponding to growing probabilities, invisible tension. Alternating, a partially reconstructed file plays pulled from a burner phone. The lines of code shimmer as if still resisting comprehension.

And at the center of it all, him. Motionless. A sculptor of chaos. He doesn’t move an inch, but his mind roars. He calculates, projects, anticipates at a speed even his most advanced AIs couldn’t match. He’s faster than the machines, because this time, it’s not for a global mission. It’s not to protect a council or a treaty. It’s not for peace. It’s personal. And nothing is more dangerous than a man like him when he’s acting for himself. His face is frozen. Carved from stone. No expression filters through. No emotion leaks out. He hasn’t spoken in hours. Not a word. His jaw is locked, clenched. His chin trembles sometimes under the pressure, but he doesn’t give in. His eyelids, heavy with fatigue, blink on autopilot but his gaze stays sharp, cutting. That look… it belongs to a man who’s already made up his mind. It’s no longer a question of if. It’s a matter of when, how, and how much time is left. And above all, of what will be left of the other man once he finds him. He is cold. Precise. Fatally focused. Each beat of his heart seems to align with the hum of the machines. He’s perfectly synchronized with his environment. A machine among machines. He’s become the system’s core. The cold, methodical intelligence of a silent hunt — carried out without rest, without sleep, without mercy.

The door slides open with a discreet, almost timid sigh. As if it, too, understood that this moment must not be disturbed. No sound dares to break the fragile balance of the room. Not here. Not now. Even the walls seem to hold their breath, petrified by the intensity that fills the space. The bluish light of the screens slices through the artificial darkness in shifting shards, casting sharp, vibrating shadows across Stark’s features — like carvings made by a blade. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Nothing escapes him. His silence is a barrier, a verdict. He’s there. Frozen. Silent. Unshakable. And around him, the universe seems to understand that something has been set in motion. Something that can no longer be stopped.

Pepper enters without a word. The silence wraps around her instantly, like a heavy veil she doesn’t dare pierce. She says nothing — not yet. Everything about her is more subdued than usual, as if her body has attuned itself to the electric tension of the room. Her usual heels have been traded for flat shoes, chosen mechanically, without real thought. She knew when she got up this morning. No need to read the reports or check the alerts. She felt it, in every fiber of her being — this day would be different. Draining. Slow. Hard. And Tony, on days like this, is not a man to reason with. He becomes a wall. Steel. An unbreachable frontier. This isn’t a state crisis, not one of those media storms they’ve learned to face together, side by side, dressed to perfection with rehearsed smiles. No. This is something else. A silent war. Private. Intimate. And in that kind of war, Tony lets no one in. Almost no one.

In her hands, she holds two mugs. One is for her — a reflex gesture, more for the weight than the content, because she’ll set it down somewhere and forget it immediately. The other is for him. Strong coffee, black, unsweetened, scorching. Just how he likes it. She didn’t ask, didn’t guess. She knows. Because for years, she’s known his silences, his mood swings, his automatic habits. She knows the rare things that bring him a sliver of stability when everything is falling apart. She walks slowly. With that quiet elegance that is uniquely hers. Each step is precise, measured. She avoids the cables snaking across the floor like exposed veins. Dodges the hastily pushed chairs, the luminous angles of suspended holograms hanging in the air, slow and unstable like open wounds. Everything around her pulses, breathes, crackles. The smell of steaming coffee mixes with metallic fumes, with the warm emissions of overheating machines. A fleeting human note in this lair transformed into a war organ.

She approaches. Just a few feet from him now. The blue halo of the screens washes over her, casting cold, almost supernatural shards onto her skin. She still doesn’t say a word. Because she, too, senses what’s happening here. She reads silence like an ancient language. She knows that if she speaks too soon, too quickly, she could shatter everything — the balance, the tension, the fierce concentration holding him upright. Tony doesn’t even turn his head. He doesn’t need to. He knows it’s her. He saw, without really looking, her silhouette trembling on the standby screen, like a spectral apparition. He recognized her breath — controlled, steady, modulated by habit not to disrupt critical moments. He felt her presence the way you feel a warm current crossing a frozen room: discreet, but undeniable. She’s here.

But he doesn’t move. Not an inch. His fingers keep dancing over the interfaces, his eyes fixed on the data. His jaw remains locked, his posture rigid, unyielding. He doesn’t reject her presence. He accepts it without acknowledging it. She’s part of the setting, part of the very structure of this ongoing war. She is the silent anchor he’ll never ask for, but needs all the same. And she knows it. So she stays. Present. Still. Mug in hand. Waiting for him to speak — or to break. His fingers glide over the holographic interface with almost surgical precision. They graze the projected data blocks in the air, moving them, reorganizing, dissecting them as if trying to carve raw truths buried under layers of code, pixels, and silence. A building on 43rd Street. An unusual thermal signature spotted at 3:12 a.m. A encrypted phone line briefly located in South Brooklyn, before vanishing into a labyrinth of anonymous relays. He isolates. He cross-references. He sorts. He discards. He starts again. Every manipulation is an act of war. He develops a thousand hypotheses per minute, evaluates them, abandons them, replaces them. A thousand leads, a thousand fleeting micro-truths, vanishing as soon as he tries to fix them. And always, that voice in his head. That twisted, wet breath haunting him since the call. That scream — shrill, inhuman. That panic. And the silence that followed. The kind of silence only blood knows how to echo.

Pepper, still silent, watches. She hasn’t moved since entering. Her eyes shift from the screen to Tony’s face, then to his hands. She sees what he refuses to admit: his movements are less precise. They tremble sometimes. Nervous flickers, involuntary, imperceptible to others — but not to her. There’s that tiny jolt in his palm when two images overlap without matching. That subtle twitch of his fingers when the algorithm returns an empty result. That tension in his joints with every failure, every dead end. She takes a step forward. Slowly, silently. She places the mug at the edge of the desk, just within his field of vision. Not too close, not too far. She sets it where he could reach for it without thinking, by reflex, if some part of him still remembered how to drink something. If his lips still knew how to welcome anything other than orders. But deep down, she knows he probably won’t. Not now. Maybe not at all. She doesn’t touch him. Doesn’t interrupt. But her eyes never leave him. They linger on his neck, that taut, rigid line, almost painful. On his shoulders, hunched forward, drawn tight like bows ready to snap. She reads the exhaustion in the way his muscles clench, in how he holds his breath when results elude him, in that violent stubbornness that keeps him from stepping back — even for a second.

Then she speaks. Barely. Her voice is a whisper. A caress in a space saturated with tension. A suspended breath, respectful. As if she were speaking to a wounded animal, to a raw heart that a single harsh word might cause to shatter.

— "You should drink something."

No reproach. No judgment. Not even any real expectation. Just an invitation, soft, almost unreal in this room ruled by the cold light of screens and the hum of machines. A reminder, simple and human, that he still has a body. That he’s still a man. Not just an overheated mind, a burning brain, dissociated from everything else. She doesn’t expect a response. She doesn’t even want one. What she’s offering isn’t a solution. It’s a breath. An interlude. A hand offered at a distance, without conditions, in the eye of a cyclone she can’t stop — but refuses to abandon. Stark doesn’t answer. The silence remains, impenetrable. But she sees it. That blink. Singular. Slow. Almost lagging. Like a discreet malfunction in an otherwise perfect line of code. A micro-event, almost invisible but for her, it means everything. He heard her. He understood. Somewhere beneath the layers of adrenaline and frozen focus, her words registered. But he can’t stop. Not yet. Not while what he’s searching for remains out of reach.

She moves a little closer. Her steps are slow, calculated. The slightest movement could shatter the fragile equilibrium he maintains between lucidity and overload. She skirts the screens projecting a relentless flow of data, passes through the light beams of overlapping maps, walks through the holograms dissecting New York in real time: facades, sewer lines, rooftops, drone paths, shifting heat points. A fractured digital world, reconstructed for a single mission. And she, the only organic presence in this sanctuary of glass and light, walks forward until she’s beside him. Upright. Calm. Unshakable. She stands there, just a meter away. A silhouette in the bluish light. A presence. An anchor. Non-intrusive, but constant. And in that data-saturated silence, she looks at the screen in front of him. Blurry images flash by. Figures captured by an old security camera. Red dots blink in the darkness of a poorly mapped basement. Nothing conclusive. Nothing obvious. But she sees beyond that. She’s not looking at the screen. She’s looking at him.

She sees what he doesn’t show. What he himself struggles to ignore. That back, a bit more hunched than before. That hand clenched around the desk edge, knuckles white with tension. That breath, irregular, barely perceptible — but betraying an inner fight. That exhaustion, layered in invisible strata, like ash over an ember that refuses to die. He’ll never admit it. That’s not an option. But she knows. He’s burning out. Eroding. Slowly bleeding out everything that keeps him human. So she acts. Gently, but without hesitation. She reaches out. Picks up the mug left on the edge of the desk, still faintly steaming. And she moves it. Places it right in front of him. Where his gaze can’t avoid it. Where his fingers could reach it without thinking. A mundane gesture, almost insignificant. But heavy with meaning.

— "You need to stay sharp." Her voice is soft, but firm. It cuts through the thickness of the moment. "If he’s counting on you, he needs you at your best. Not collapsing."

He stays still for another second. Then, slowly, his gaze lifts. Like he’s returning from a far-off place, from a tension zone where the real world no longer reaches. He looks at her. Directly in the eyes. And she sees. She sees everything. The fatigue eating away at the edges. The redness at the corners of his eyes, signs of brutal sleeplessness. But most of all, that clarity. That burning precision still intact in the depths of his pupils. It’s a gaze that doesn’t waver. The gaze of a man broken a thousand times — but still standing. And in that gaze, she reads three things.

Fear. Raw. Visceral. The fear of not making it in time. Rage. Pure. Mechanical. The kind he holds back to avoid destroying everything.

And the promise. Absolute. Irrevocable.

— "I’m going to get him out."

No conditional. No wiggle room. He doesn’t say he’ll try. He doesn’t say if he’s still alive. He refuses to let those phrases exist. He leaves no space for doubt. Because doubt would be a crack. And if he cracks now, he collapses. She nods. Once. That’s all it takes. A silent agreement. A trust she offers him, without questions. Then she places a hand on his shoulder. Right there. A simple contact, but real. Solid. A light, firm pressure. Just enough for him to know he’s not alone. That she’s here. That she will remain here. Even if there’s nothing more she can do. An anchor in the chaos.

— "Then drink."

She adds nothing else. No need. Not now. And then she turns on her heel, leaving behind that room saturated with tension and blue light, walking away in silence, her steps barely audible on the hard floor. She slips away as she came — discreetly, with that silent dignity that’s hers alone. No unnecessary gesture. No look back. Just the quiet certainty that he heard her. That he understood. And that he’ll do what he must. A breath. A second. Then another. Stark remains still. His eyes still locked on the numbers, on the blurry images, on the shattered map of New York pulsing slowly before him. A suspended moment, almost frozen in code and light projections. And then, slowly, as if his body weighed a ton, his fingers stretch out. Slow. Almost hesitant. They brush the mug, grasp it. Raise it to his lips.

One sip. Scalding. Bitter. Perfect.

The taste, too strong, seizes his tongue, his throat, then burns its way down like a reminder. He closes his eyes for a second. Not out of pleasure. Out of necessity. Because that simple contact — the liquid, the heat, the sensation — reminds him that he still exists outside the war machine he’s become. And then, almost immediately, his eyes open again. Latch onto the screen. The map. The hunt. The engine restarts. But behind the invisible armor, behind the hard gaze and automated gestures, the man is still there. Just enough. For now. The mug, barely set down on the desk, hits the surface with a muffled clack. The sound, though minimal, seems to shake the atmosphere. Stark exhales. One of those irritated sighs that vibrate between clenched teeth, that fatigue turns into frustration, and frustration reshapes into buried anger. His fingers snap against the desk, nervously. Not a blow. Just a dry, rhythmic sound. Accumulated tension seeking an outlet, a culprit, a breaking point. Something to strike — or someone. But no one here is responsible. No one except him.

And then, it bursts out.

— "Fuck… why didn’t he activate it?"

The voice is low. But it slices the air like a blade. Sharp. Brittle. It doesn’t need to be loud to carry. It’s so charged with tension that it seems to vibrate in the walls. No explosive rage. No yelling. Just that clean line, that icy edge that says it all. It’s not a question. It’s an unbearable fact. A flaw in the plan. A betrayal of logic. He doesn’t need to clarify. The device, the gesture, the fear behind it all of it is obvious. In the hallway, Pepper has stopped. Without realizing it. As if her muscles responded to that voice before her mind did. She’s frozen. And she understands. She knows too. He’s talking about the device. That small, discreet piece, barely bigger than a coin, that he slipped into an anodized case with a falsely detached air. That neutral tone he adopts when the stakes are too high to admit. He presented it like a gadget. Just another safety.

A thing for emergencies. "Press and hold for three seconds" he said. Simple. Effective. And his location would be transmitted to the Tower in real time, with immediate triangulation and constant tracking. He insisted, without seeming to. Like a father too proud of a dangerous toy. Like a man who’s already lost everything once and won’t let chance roll the dice again. The kind of thing he doesn’t give to everyone. The kind of thing he only entrusts once. And even then. Under the pretense of humor. Veiled in sarcasm. And yet, you didn’t activate it. That thought gnaws at him. Consumes him. Because if it wasn’t forgetfulness, then it’s worse. Then maybe there wasn’t time. Or maybe he was afraid. Or maybe you thought it wouldn’t make a difference. And that Tony can’t accept.

Because the alternative… he can’t even imagine it. He built it in just a few hours. One sleepless night, a few curses, two black coffees, and a diagram sketched on a crumpled napkin. Because he was tired. Tired of not knowing. Tired of not being able to protect. Tired of seeing him wander through New York like a ghost without an anchor, sleeping in sketchy squats, living on the generosity of people as reliable as March weather. He was done with uncertainty, with instability. So he made something simple, small, efficient. A distress beacon. A miniature safeguard. Mostly to protect him from himself. He even tucked a secondary mic inside. Discreet, compressed in anodized metal layers. Inaudible to the human ear. Just a sensor, a passive ear, in case something went wrong. Because he knew it could go wrong. Because deep down, he felt that danger was never far. And now? Nothing. No signal. No vibration. No blinking light. No trace. The void. Nothingness. The shadow of a silence that screams. Abruptly, Stark spins in his chair. The movement is sharp, abrupt. His fingers slam down on the projected keyboard in the air, striking commands, executing code, calling internal logs. He pulls up the history. Checks for connection attempts. Scans the security logs, network access, secondary frequencies. No recording. No triggered signal. No distress call. The device was never activated.

— "It was right there." His voice is hoarse. Slow. Painfully contained. "Within reach. Three fucking seconds. And I could’ve…"

He cuts himself off. Right there. The breath caught. No anger. Not yet. It’s not rage. It’s vertigo. An inner fall. He sees the scene again. Precisely. In the hall, just days ago. He was holding the little device between his fingers, between two sarcastic lines. A detached, mocking tone, as always. Trying not to push too hard. Not to seem worried. He said it with a smirk, hands in his pockets: "Just in case. It beeps, it blinks, I show up. Easy."

And he remembers. That hesitation. The lowered gaze. That muttered thank you, without real conviction. As if it didn’t really concern him. As if he didn’t believe it. As if he was afraid to disturb and didn’t think he was worth coming for. Stark clenches his teeth. Bitterness sticks in his throat.

— "He didn’t get it, did he?"

The question escapes. Not aimed at anyone. Not really. He’s speaking to the void, the desk, the walls. To himself. To the echo in his head.

— "He thinks it only works for others." His voice tightens. Fractures. "That no one comes for him. That he has to wait for it to get worse. That he has to nearly die to justify help."

His fingers slap a screen with the back of his hand. A furious swipe. The images vanish in a spray of light.

— "Shit. Shit."

He gets up. Too abruptly. His chair rolls back. He paces, circles, like a caged beast. A shadow of armor without the armor. He runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it without thinking. His gestures are nervous, disordered. He teeters between genius logic and raw emotion.

— "I had him in my pocket," he breathes. "I could’ve found him in under two minutes."

His fist hits the back of the chair. A dry strike. Not brutal. But deep. A dull echo that lingers in the air.

— "But no. He keeps it on him like a fucking keychain. A symbolic thing. A gadget he doesn’t want to use. Because he doesn’t want to be a bother. Because he doesn’t want to raise the alarm."

He suddenly freezes. His breath halts. He stares at the floor as if seeking an answer no data can provide. The silence stretches. Then, in an almost inaudible murmur, rougher, more bitter:

— "He’s convinced no one’s coming."

And that thought. That simple idea. It destroys him from the inside. He closes his eyes. Clenches his fists so tightly his knuckles turn white. He fights. To hold back what rises. He won’t say he’s afraid. He won’t say he’s in pain. That he blames himself until it eats him alive. No. He won’t say it. So he turns back. Resumes his place. His fingers return to the controls. His gaze locks onto the screens. The maps. The fragmented data. What he still has. What he can still control. Because if he can’t turn back time… then he’ll find a way to catch up. No matter the cost. And he mutters under his breath:

— "I’m going to find him. Device or not."

Then he types. Not to write. Not to command. He types like someone striking. As if his fingers could punch through matter, bend the universe, shatter the whole world through the silent keys of a holographic keyboard. Every keystroke is a discharge. A sharp hit. A blow aimed at that invisible wall he can’t break through. A fight of data against the void, of will against absence. He types with an urgency that allows no delay, no hesitation. As if life, somewhere, depended on it.

Because it is.

And in the meantime, silence remains. Insidious. Heavy. The tenacious shadow of the action that never happened. The one that would have been enough. Three seconds. A press of the thumb. And he would have known. He would have moved. He would have run. He would have acted. He would have been there. But no. That absence, Stark feels it lodged in his throat, like acid he can’t swallow. It rises, clings, radiates. It stays, constant, until he brings him back. Until he has proof tangible, irrefutable that it’s still possible. That he’s still alive. The minutes pass. Like blades. Sharp. Precise. Unforgiving.

They cut into his focus, erode his patience, chip away at his certainty. Every second is a brutal reminder that time is passing. And this time, time isn’t an ally. He feels it slipping over his skin like a cold blade that can’t be stopped. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t blink. The office is bathed in semi-darkness. The blinds are down, the outside light filtered, as if daylight itself no longer had the right to enter. Only the screens cast their bluish glow on the walls, on the cables, on the opaque glass. And on him. That cold, spectral light slices across his closed-off face in sharp angles. Hollowed cheekbones. Brow etched with tension lines. Lips tight. He looks carved from quartz. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.

His eyes, fixed, barely blink. They follow lines of code, coordinates, overlaid maps, signal analyses, with inhuman precision. His stare is locked. Obsessed. He doesn’t falter. He scans. He waits. His fingers still move. Barely. With mechanical regularity. An almost hypnotic rhythm. They glide over holographic interfaces, brush through data windows, launch diagnostics, cross-reference streams. There’s no hesitation anymore, no improvisation. Only a logical sequence. An algorithm embodied in a man who refuses to give up. He doesn’t speak. Hasn’t for a while. He doesn’t even think — not in the usual sense. Human thoughts, full of doubts, memories, emotions, have been pushed to the background. He leaves space only for function. He calculates. He maps. He eliminates. He acts. Because that’s all he can do. And because as long as he acts, as long as he moves, as long as he searches, he’s not imagining the worst. And the countdown continues — silent, relentless. Invisible but omnipresent, it eats at his nerves like a tourniquet pulled too tight. A constant, dull pressure. There’s no number on the screen, no red blinking timer, but he feels it. In every heartbeat. In every passing minute, every interface click, every breath that’s too short, too sharp. He feels it under his skin like slow-diffusing poison.

Twenty-four hours.

That was the deadline. The ultimatum. Spat in his face with disgusting insolence, with the kind of sneering arrogance Stark knows too well. A provocation. A signature. A trap — not even hidden. A price laid out in black and white. The kind of message sent when you’re sure you have the upper hand. But it wasn’t the money that kept him awake all night. Not the numbered threat. Not the offshore account, not the conditions. That, he could have handled. Bought peace. Hacked the system. Turned the trap back on its maker. That’s not what stopped him from blinking, that jammed his throat, that retracted his muscles like a shock. It’s something else. It’s the image. Frozen. Unstable. Blurry. But recognizable. It’s the sound. That breath. That scream. Distorted by distance. By network static. But raw. Human. Ripped out. So real that even now, he still hears it. He could replay it in his head a hundred times, a thousand. He knows it by heart. The tone, the break in the voice, the burst of brutal panic just before everything was swallowed by silence.

That fucking silence. That’s what’s destroying him. What eats at him. What stops him from breathing normally. The silence afterward. The absolute nothing. That break that said everything, summed everything up. That screamed at him what he failed to hear in time. What he should have seen coming. That silence — Stark will never forgive it. Not the other. Not himself. Then suddenly, a voice slices through the air. Soft. Controlled. Synthetic. Like a strand of silk stretched to the limit, about to snap — but still holding.

— “Mr. Stark.”

He doesn’t even turn his head. He’d recognize that voice among a thousand. It’s been there forever — in his ear, in his walls, in his head. An extension of himself.

— “I’m listening, Jarvis.”

— “I believe I’ve found something.”

A shiver. Cold. Brutal. It shoots up his spine like an electric surge. For one heartbeat, his heart forgets to beat. Then everything reactivates all at once. Adrenaline. Tension. Hypervigilance.

— “Talk.”

Instantly, one of the main screens expands. The map of the city appears — familiar and vast — then begins a slow zoom. Details sharpen. Colors darken. The center pulls back. The frame shifts. Outskirts. Sparse buildings. Wasteland. Finally, a precise point. An abandoned industrial zone. Gray. Timeworn. Forgotten by the world. Drowned in abandonment fog. Where no one looks anymore. Where things are hidden when no one wants them found. Coordinates blink at the bottom of the screen. Precise. Cold. Real.

— “A minimal network activity was detected,” Jarvis continues. “Almost nothing. A very weak signal — just a few microseconds of connection — but enough to leave a trace. It was a disposable phone.”

Stark steps forward. He’s drawn to the map like it’s magnetic. His eyes latch onto the screen, fix on it, hold. He sees beyond the image. Through the ruined facades, under the layers of metal and dust. He wants to believe he can see what’s hidden there. That something is waiting.

— “Can you confirm?”

— “The model’s signature matches what we detected during the call. It briefly connected to a secondary relay antenna nearby. It might’ve gone unnoticed, but—”

He’s no longer listening. Or rather, he hears everything. He registers it all, but his mind is already elsewhere. Locked in. Compressed around a single fact. A single certainty. His thoughts tighten, converge on a single point. A red dot. Blinking. Clear. An abandoned warehouse. No activity for over ten years. No cameras. No patrols. No recorded movement. Nothing. The kind of place you choose when you don’t want to be found. The kind of place where secrets are buried. Or people. And then, a single thought imposes itself. Emerges from the chaos like a brutal flash of truth. A certainty branded into his mind like a red-hot iron.

You’re there.

Not maybe. Not probably. Not possibly. You’re there. His fist clenches. Slowly. Each finger curling until the knuckles turn white. He closes his eyes. One second. One breath. One anchor. Then opens them again. And in his gaze, there’s no more doubt. No more fear. No more wandering emotion. Just steel. Just fire. Just the mission.

— “Prepare everything. Now.”

And in that exact moment, the whole world narrows. There’s no more sound. No more fatigue. No more failure. Only this. A straight line. A single target. A burning urgency. To get you out. Pepper is there. Just behind him. Motionless. Straight as a blade. Her arms crossed tightly against her, in a posture that might seem cold to someone who doesn’t know her. But it’s not distance. It’s a barrier. A dam. A desperate attempt to hold back what she feels rising.

The pale glow of the screens casts his shadow on the floor, long and sharp, like a silent specter frozen in anticipation. Around them, the room is bathed in incomplete darkness, pierced only by the soft flickering blue halos on the glass surfaces — witnesses to this sleepless night that stretches on and on.

His face, usually so mobile, so expressive — the face that knows how to smile even during the worst press conferences, that can reassure with a single look — is now closed. Frozen. Like carved in marble. His jaw slightly clenched. His brows drawn in a barely perceptible but unyielding tension. But what betrays it all are his eyes. A gleam, contained. A discreet fire. Both anxious and annoyed. A light that flickers between anguish and a barely concealed anger.

She watches him. In silence. Lips tight. Shoulders tense. And she knows. She knows exactly what’s going on in his head. She knows the gears, the silences, the calculated movements. She recognizes this posture. This calm. This false calm. This almost elegant stillness that always comes just before impact. She’s seen it once. Maybe twice, in her entire life. And each time, something broke afterward. A wall. A promise. Someone. So she speaks. Not to convince him. But to try and hold him back for just one more moment at the edge of the abyss.

— “You should wait for the police, Tony.”

Her voice is calm. Measured. Perfectly composed. But it cuts through the air like a blade honed too well. It slices without shouting, without striking. It hits the mark. He doesn’t respond. Not right away. He moves. Slowly at first, then with dreadful precision. He reaches for the back of his chair, pulls his leather jacket from it — the one he wears when everything becomes too real, too dangerous, too personal. He puts it on in one sharp, fast motion. Automatic. Without even thinking. Everything is rehearsed. His movements are crisp, stripped of any hesitation. He’s no longer reflecting. He’s in motion.

One hand slides into the side drawer of his desk. The metal barely creaks. He pulls out a small object, barely bigger than a watch case. Smooth. Chrome. Discreet. He inspects it for a fraction of a second, spins it between his fingers, gauges it. His gaze clings to it, focused, as if making sure it’s the right one. Then he slips it into the inner pocket of his jacket. A tracker. A prototype. Maybe both. Maybe something else. When Tony Stark leaves like this, he never leaves empty-handed. And in the suspended tension of the room, in that moment when every gesture weighs like a decision, Pepper feels her heart pound harder. Because she knows, once again, he won’t change his mind. Not this time.

Without a word. He crosses the room like someone going to war. No haste, no visible tension. Just a methodical, silent advance, heavy with intention. Each step echoes faintly on the floor, absorbed by the cold light of the still-lit screens, by the walls saturated with nervous electricity. He heads toward the elevator, straight, relentless, like a guided missile.

— “Tony.”

This time, her voice cuts through the space. Louder. Sharper. She’s dropped the polite calm. There’s urgency in that word, a crack, something tense, fragile. Pepper steps forward, rounds the table. It’s not a command. It’s not a plea either. It’s a disguised entreaty, cloaked in reason, offered as a last attempt to connect. She’s searching for a crack. A hold. Any one. Not to stop him — she’s never held that illusion — but to slow the momentum. To crack the armor. To make him think. Just one more second.

— “This is exactly what he wants. For you to charge in headfirst. For him to have control.”

He stops. His body freezes all at once, mid-distance from the elevator whose open doors wait, patient, like the jaws of a steel beast. Slowly, he turns toward her. Not violently. Not with irritation. But with that icy precision that, in him, equals all the angers in the world. He looks at her. And his gaze is black. Not empty. Not crazed. No. It’s a sharp gaze. Cutting. Shaped like a glass blade, able to slice cleanly without ever shaking. He stares at her, without flinching, without softening the impact. His shoulders slightly raised, chin lowered, neck taut. A compact, tense posture. Not defensive. Not exactly. More like a predator’s. The eyes of a man who sees no alternate paths. Only the target.

— “You think he has control?”

His voice is low. Deep. Vibrating with that particular intensity he only uses in very rare moments — when everything tips, when what remains inside compresses until it becomes unstoppable. Every word is controlled. Measured. Almost calmly delivered. But in their precision, there’s something unsettling. A promise. A fracture forming. Silence falls behind that phrase. Suddenly. A thick silence. Charged. Almost unbreathable. It lasts only a few seconds, but they seem to stretch time. The elevator still waits behind him. The slightly open doors pulse softly, as if they sensed the suspended moment. Then he adds, without raising his voice, without looking away:

— “He made the biggest mistake of his life taking him.”

And it’s not a threat. It’s not provocation. It’s a verdict. A raw, cold truth carved in marble. It’s a fact. And it’s far worse than a scream. Then he turns away. One last time. And he steps into the elevator. He doesn’t look back. Doesn’t leave a phrase hanging. Doesn’t try to reassure. He disappears into the steel maw, and the doors close on him with a quiet hiss. Pepper remains there. Upright. Frozen. Her arms cross a little tighter, as if to hold back something threatening to collapse. The screen lights continue to flicker over her unmoving features, but they’re not what illuminates her. It’s intuition. Instinct. The one that whispers what she already knows deep down, what she’s felt from the beginning. Something is going to explode. And this time, she’s not sure anyone will come out unscathed.

The metallic floor barely vibrates beneath his steps. Just a discreet, restrained resonance, almost respectful. But in the frozen silence of the hangar, each echo seems to strike the air like a muffled detonation. Every step is a warning. A countdown. A declaration of war. The space is vast. Immense. A cathedral of technology bathed in cold, clinical, almost surgical light. The walls, made of reinforced glass and brushed steel, reflect sharp, precise flashes, slicing his shadow with every movement. Nothing here is decorative. Everything is functional. Calibrated. Optimized. Ready to serve. Ready to open, to strike, to launch. Ready to close behind him, too.

Tony moves with slow, controlled steps. Nothing rushed. He’s not running. He’s not hurrying. He knows exactly where he’s going. Every stride is calculated. Controlled. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unwavering. No detours. No curiosity. His body is tense, but steady. Focused. There is no room left for doubt. At the center of the hangar, the launch platform awaits him. A circle of polished steel, inlaid with white LEDs pulsing gently, slowly, like a heart in standby. The light follows a steady, hypnotic rhythm, as if the structure itself were breathing. It sleeps. But it's ready to awaken at the slightest command. Around him, holographic showcases come to life at his approach. Sensors recognize his presence. Interfaces open by themselves. Images appear, fluid, clear. Silhouettes rise in bluish light, floating like specters of war.

His suits. The most recent. The strongest. The fastest. Masterpieces of power and precision, lined up in military silence. No words. No announcements. They stand there, frozen, waiting, like a metallic honor guard ready to activate at the slightest signal. Majestic. Relentless. Inhuman. They are beautiful in their coldness. Intimidating. Perfect. But he doesn't look at any of them. Not a single glance. Not a hint of hesitation. He passes through them like one walks through a memory too familiar to still fascinate. The suit doesn’t matter. Not this time. He isn’t here for spectacle, or showy power. He doesn’t want to impress, or buy time. He wants only one thing.

Efficiency. Extraction. The end.

His steps remain steady. His silhouette moves alone among the giants of metal. And in his wake, the air seems to vibrate with low tension, restrained anger, pain too vast to be named. The soldier is on the move. And what he’s about to do now… he’ll do it without flinching. His gaze is fixed. Frozen. With an almost inhuman intensity. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t deviate. He aims. His attention is a taut line between two points: himself, and the target. It’s not anger you see in his eyes. That would be too simple. Too mundane. No — it’s worse. It’s frozen resolve. A sharp calm like a scalpel's edge. Clinical determination, purged of raw emotion, as if every feeling had been distilled, compressed into a single objective: locate, neutralize, retrieve. At all costs.

The suit he’s come for… it’s not the one from interviews. Not the one for demos. Not the one that dazzles crowds or makes headlines. This one, he only brings out when someone has to fall. No flash. No light. No declaration. With a sharp gesture, he activates the control interface embedded in the platform. The floor lights intensify, blink once, then a metal ring slowly rises from the ground, encircling him with solemn gravity. Everything remains silent. Nothing overreacts. Everything is perfectly calibrated. Robotic arms unfold around him, in a mechanical choreography of military precision. They don’t tremble. They don’t hesitate. They take position, ready to interlock, to serve, to build the weapon.

— "Omega configuration."

His voice snaps. Dry. Dense. Like a hammer strike on glass. And instantly, the machines comply. Without delay. Without flaw. The first pieces of the suit lock around his legs, securing his joints, enclosing his muscles in layers of reinforced alloy. The boots anchor to his feet with a soft hiss, each plate sliding into place with a perfectly tuned metallic click. Then the chest modules rise, locking over his ribcage. The red and gold lines slowly take shape, forming a symmetrical, ruthless architecture. Nothing is superfluous. Everything is there to protect, to absorb, to strike. The metal climbs along his arms, embeds into his shoulders, clamps onto his back. A vengeful exoskeleton. A body of war. Every movement is fluid, exact. The machine knows his rhythm. It knows his silence. It recognizes this moment when Tony Stark is no longer joking. He lowers his head slightly. The helmet drops with a magnetic hiss. It seals with a muffled chhhk. Instantly, his vision turns red. The interface lights up. Sensors activate. Data streams appear. Code scrolls. Maps. Thermal signals. Local comms networks. Building schematics. Ballistic paths.

He’s inside. He’s ready.

— "J.A.R.V.I.S., send the flight plan."

— "Coordinates locked. Route optimized. Risks assessed."

A moment. Just one. A tenuous silence. Like a held breath. Then Jarvis’s voice, lower, almost hesitant. A soft note. A nearly human tone, as if trying to reach through the metal to something deeper.

— "Tony… you don’t have to do this alone."

Not a tactical suggestion. Not a precaution. An offering. An outstretched hand. But Tony doesn’t respond. Not yet. One beat. Just a suspended moment between question and answer. But it won’t come. Because he’s not. Not alone. Not really. It’s not solitude that lives inside him. It’s worse. It’s that weight, hanging on his chest like an anvil: responsibility. He feels responsible. And that kind of responsibility can’t be delegated. Can’t be shared. It must be borne. Endured. To the end. He’s not doing this because he’s alone. He’s doing it because he’s the one who must. Because he was there when it happened. Because he should have seen, understood, foreseen. And because he will never forgive himself if he arrives too late.

A metallic breath escapes his shoulders. Light, but precise. The thrusters arm with a restrained growl. Internal turbines hum softly, like a beast holding back its power before leaping. The entire platform tenses. A low vibration rises under his feet, echoing the energy condensed beneath his heels. The lights turn orange. The floor opens. Slowly. In segments. Like a mechanical wound revealing the hangar’s nuclear heart. The air grows denser. Warmer. Electrified. Stark bends his knees. His muscles instinctively adjust for the imminent thrust. And then, without hesitation, without countdown, without another word…

He lifts off the ground.

With a piercing roar, the suit tears through the air. Flames burst from his heels, searing the platform, and Tony’s body becomes a comet of metal and fire shooting through the open ceiling, soaring at blinding speed into the already paling night. The hunt has begun.

The sky races around him. A continuous stream, distorted by speed, slashed by incandescent trails. Every inch of the armor vibrates under the strain, every thruster hums with surgical precision. The wind slams into him, compressed, transformed into pure force that only the flight algorithms manage to contain. The city stretches out below. Gigantic. Vast. Insignificant. Skyscrapers blur past like mirages. Rooftops, streets, glowing points of light — all turn into abstraction. But he sees nothing. Not the glowing windows, not the crowded avenues, not the numbers blinking across his heads-up display. Not even the overlaid messages, trajectory readings, or secondary alerts. He sees only one red dot. One destination. One objective. And nothing else exists.

He thinks only of you.

Of your body, twisted under the blows. Of your features, contorted by pain. Of your breath, ragged, torn, like each inhale is a battle against agony. Of your face, bruised, sullied, pressed against a floor too cold, too dirty, too real. He sees the blood, the unnatural angle of your shoulder, the fear diluted in your half-closed eyes. He sees everything. Even what you tried to hide. He still hears that fucking scream. The one he never should’ve heard. The one he should’ve prevented, before it ever existed. A scream you can’t fake. A scream torn from you, raw, visceral. He heard it through the phone, compressed, muffled by your breath, crushed by the violence of the moment. But despite the static, despite the distance, he felt it. Like a blade to the heart. Like a shockwave that didn’t just hit him. It went straight through him.

And in his mind, that sound loops. Again. And again. And again. Louder than any explosion. More violent than a collapsing building. It’s not a memory. It’s a living burn. An active wound. He sees it all again. Every second. Every word. Every tone. That bastard’s voice.

Matthew.

Every syllable spat like poison. Every word sculpted to wound. To provoke. To leave a mark. Not on you — on him. It was all planned. Orchestrated. A performance. A slow, cold, painfully precise execution. Meant for one person: Tony Stark. To hit him. To show him how badly he failed. To push where it hurts most.

And it worked. Fuck, it worked.

He still feels how his throat closed. The exact moment his heart skipped a beat. The absolute void that swallowed him when he realized he was too late to stop it but maybe not too late to save you. That instant shift, when all logic shattered, replaced by one certainty. He will pay. Not for the humiliation. Not for the provocation. But for putting you in that state. For daring to lay a hand on you. And Stark, now, isn’t flying toward a hideout. He’s flying toward an execution. His heart is pounding too hard. It no longer syncs with the armor’s rhythm. It hammers against his ribcage like a primal reminder that, beneath all the metal, despite all the tech, he is still a body. A man. And that body is boiling. His fingers tighten inside the gauntlets. The joints, calibrated down to the micrometer, creak under the pressure. He clenches. Too hard. Pointlessly. As if the pain might return control to him. As if he’s clinging to the sensation of something real. The internal temperature climbs a notch. A brief alert flashes, notified by a beep that Jarvis cancels instantly. He knows. Even the tech feels that something is cracking. That the tension line has reached a critical threshold. The tactile sync grows more nervous, less fluid. Not from failure — from resonance. As if the suit itself were reacting to the rage boiling beneath the metal. As if it knew he’s on the verge of detonating.

But he doesn’t scream. He doesn’t speak. He breathes. And he moves forward. Because rage — real rage the kind that doesn’t erupt but eats you alive, the kind that carves deep and anchors in silence, isn’t fire. It’s ice. A blade. A metallic tension that sharpens second by second. This is no longer about ransom. This is no longer an intervention. It’s not even a mission anymore. It’s personal. Because you… you’re not just some kid he hired. You’re not an intern, not a checkbox on some HR dashboard. You’re not a casting mistake he corrected in passing. You’re not one more name on a list of talent. You’re not a recruit. You’re that lost kid who showed up one morning with bags heavier than your shoulders, a voice too quiet, gestures too small. The one who looked at screens like they mattered more than the world. The one who barely spoke, but worked until you shook. Until you collapsed. Without ever complaining. Without ever asking for help. The one who clung to the work like it was the surface of a frozen lake. Just to keep from drowning. And that’s where it started.

Tony doesn’t know exactly when. When it slipped. When he stopped seeing you as an employee and started caring differently. Started checking if you’d eaten. Turning concern into jokes — but counting the times you said "not hungry." Setting rules. Break times. Making sure you got home. That you slept. That you didn’t vanish into the blind spots. Getting used to hearing you mutter when he worked too late. Paying attention. And now, he realizes it too late. This thing, this invisible thread, clumsy, imperfect, but real… it’s there. Damn it, it’s there. And now, you’re gone. And he’s going to cross fire, smash through every wall, burn everything down to find you. Because nothing else matters now. And that’s what’s eating him alive. Not guilt. Not passing doubt. No a slow burn, rooted deep in his chest. A slow poison, distilled with every heartbeat. Because that little idiot… you had a device. A fucking distress device. Not just any gadget. Not a toy.

A device he designed. Refined. Gave to you. Built in haste, but with care. Meant for this. To stop this. To block the worst. So he’d never have to hear screams like that. So he could get there before the blood spilled. And you didn’t even use it. Not a press. Not a signal. Nothing. You took it all. To the end. In silence. Like always. And that’s what drives him mad. The silence. That fucking habit of suffering quietly. As if it doesn’t count. As if your pain isn’t valid. As if your life isn’t worth protecting. As if pressing a button to ask for help… was already asking too much. As if he wouldn’t have come.

And now? Now you’re in the hands of a madman. A psycho acting out of vengeance, control, power hunger. A man with no limits, no brakes, who already crossed every line. Tony saw it. Heard it. He knows. Tortured. Broken. Gasping. The images come uninvited. Your face. Your features twisted in pain. That ragged breath, barely audible. The weight of your body giving out. The hard floor under your cheek. Blood seeping from a wound he can only imagine. And that look, more felt than seen, somewhere between fear and resignation.

Tony clenches his jaw. So hard his teeth slam together inside the helmet. The sound is dull, amplified by the metal echo. It vibrates through his temples. A muffled detonation ringing through his skull. He wants to scream. To hit something. To do anything. But he stays focused. Rage can’t come out. It’s compact. Controlled. Targeted.

The worst part? He still hears you. That murmur. Between gasps. That muffled breath, fragile, but so distinct. That tone. That voice he knows now. He recognized it instantly. There was no doubt. No room for illusion. He could’ve denied it. Lied to himself. Said it was a mistake. A coincidence. But no. He knew. He knew immediately. And from that moment, something inside him snapped. Not dramatically. No collapse. A clean fracture. Like an overtightened mechanism breaking in silence. Because now, it’s too late to argue. Too late to reason. Too late to call the cops. Too late for rules, procedures, delays.

Matthew is already dead. He doesn’t know it yet. He still breathes. Still thinks he’s in control. Thinks he’s running the show. But he’s not. He’s already finished. Erased. Condemned. Because Tony Stark heard that scream. And that scream changed everything. That scream signed Matthew’s death warrant. And he’s going to make him pay. Inch by inch. Breath by breath. Until he gets you back. Or burns the world down to drag you out of the dark.

When the Iron Man suit finally lands, it’s as if the whole world holds its breath.

A metallic breath explodes beneath the impact, followed by a dull rumble that cracks the already fractured concrete of the ground. The shock ripples through the foundations of the old industrial district, awakening the ghosts of rusted machines, worn-out beams, and gutted walls. Dust immediately rises in thick, greasy, lazy swirls, dancing around him for a moment before slowly settling, as if even it knows not to linger here. The air is saturated. Heavy. It reeks of rust, moldy wood, and decay embedded in the walls. It reeks of abandonment. And worse: expectation. The congealed oil on obsolete pipes reflects faint black gleams, almost organic, like fossilized blood. The ground creaks under his boots. All around him, the environment seems frozen. Trapped in a time that forgot how to die.

Icy wind rushes between the metal structures, howling through broken beams, whistling past shattered windows. It carries the cold of a soulless place — emptied, but not deserted. Not entirely. Around him is nothingness. A heavy, oppressive void. No sound, no light. Nothing lives here. Nothing breathes. Not even a rat. Not even a shadow. As if the rest of the world had the decency to look away. As if even the city itself knew that what was going to happen here… should not be seen. And in that thick silence, saturated with contained electricity, Tony remains still. His body in the suit doesn’t tremble. But everything in him is ready to strike. The HUD displays thermal readings, sound scans, parasitic electromagnetic signatures. Traces. Remnants. Leads.

He ignores them. He doesn’t need confirmation. He looks up. There. Right in front of him. The building. A block of blackened concrete, eaten away by time. It rises before him like a vertical coffin, planted in the ground. Its windows are empty sockets. Its crumbling walls seep with moisture and menace. It’s a carcass. A gaping maw. A lair. The kind of place where people are held. Erased. Buried. And deep inside, somewhere in there, he knows. You’re there. And Tony Stark came to get you.

The windows are shattered, slashed like screaming mouths frozen mid-silent howl. Shards of glass still dangle from some frames, claws of dead light ready to cut. The gutted openings let in a freezing wind that rustles the remains of forgotten curtains, faded, trembling like surrender flags. The concrete holds together only by habit. Cracked, eroded by seasons, cold, rain, and grime. By time. By indifference. Parts of the facade have collapsed in whole sheets, revealing the interior like a raw wound. Rusted beams jut from the gaping holes, still supporting broken, twisted staircases whose steps are gnawed by corrosion. A withered metal skeleton groaning under its own weight.

The scene is saturated with signs of dead life. Hastily scrawled graffiti, some grotesque, some terrifying, scream from the walls like echoes left by shadows. Split-open bags. Scattered trash. Abandoned syringes. A broken stroller, overturned. An old moldy couch under a porch. Traces of human passage, old, sad. But nothing lives here anymore. Everything reeks of neglect. Of misery. And something worse still: violence. That scent doesn’t lie. It seeps everywhere, even into the walls. A stagnant, invisible tension, but palpable. As if the very air had absorbed a memory too painful to vanish. An echo of blows. Of screams. Of fear.

Inside, it’s swallowed in thick, grimy darkness. No light. Just the blackness, mingled with dust, rot, and silence. But he doesn’t need light. Doesn’t need to see. His scanner activates instantly. The interface opens in a silent click, layering across his HUD. Schematics align, partial blueprints of the building take shape in 3D. Partial plans, modeled reconstructions from thermal scans, wave sweeps, mass detection. Heat sources appear. Faint. Distant. Unstable. And then, deep in that rusted steel maze, cracked concrete, and rotten silence… a thermal signature. Human. Residual. Nearly gone. A blurred point, nestled in a windowless room, behind thick walls. A trace. A breath.

Tony clenches his fists.

The sound is minimal. A quiet metallic creak, but full of tension. The gauntlets respond to the pressure, contouring his restrained rage, absorbing the shock. He doesn’t need confirmation. Doesn’t need to see more. Doesn’t need to wait. He knows. His instinct — that damn sixth sense he spent years mocking — screams through his body. It’s here. This rat hole he chose. This rotten theater for a filthy ransom. This stage for torture. A place not built to hold… but to break. To terrify. To harm. A bad choice. Tony approaches.

One step. Slow. Calculated. Methodical. Every movement is measured. The suit follows without fail, amplifies his stride, makes the ground tremble with each impact. Metal boots pound cracked concrete like war drums. A warning. A sentence. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t need to. Matthew’s time is already counted. His sensors scan blind spots. He identifies exits, access points, high ground. He’s already plotting firing lines, breach paths, fallback routes. He thinks like a weapon. Like a strike. Because he’s no longer just an angry man. He’s become a projectile. A terminal solution. A promise kept too late. And inside… someone is about to learn what it costs. To lay a hand on you.

He pushes the door with a sharp, decisive gesture. The metallic impact creates a brutal clang, and the battered frame wails in a piercing screech. The sound is long, grotesque, almost human. It slices the air like a cry ripped from a bottomless throat, the shriek of a grave forced open, or a coffin pried too late. The metal scrapes, shrieks, protests — but obeys. Before him, the hallway stretches. Long. Narrow. Strangled between two walls dripping with damp. The air is dense, fetid, soaked with stagnant water and ancient mold. A cold breath seeps from the walls, icy and clinging, sneaking into the suit’s seams as if to slow him, to warn him.

The walls are alive. Not with organisms, but rot. Dark mold clings to them, spreading in irregular patterns like necrotic veins. It crawls across the concrete, invades corners, slips into cracks. In places, the plaster has given way, reduced to gray dust. Beneath, twisted, rusted rebar protrudes — like broken bones, as if the building itself had been tortured, split open. A single bulb hangs from the ceiling, bare. Dirty. Its globe yellowed by time, its sickly light flickers intermittently. Suspended from a wire too long, too thin, it dances with every draft like a rope ready to snap. It blinks. Once. Twice. The yellow halo it casts wavers, bleeding against the walls. The shadows it throws stretch, distort, crawl along the ground. Shapes too long, too fluid, as if the walls themselves breathed beneath the dying light.

Tony doesn’t slow.

He doesn’t hesitate. His stride remains straight, steady, heavy. Each step echoes off the floor, amplified by the armor’s metal. Debris cracks underfoot: broken glass, plaster fragments, splinters of forgotten furniture. Every sound ricochets in the narrow hallway, trapped between the walls like a muffled volley of gunfire. But he doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look around. He advances. Like a metronome. His eyes never leave the end of the hall, even as everything around seems to want to swallow him, smother him. He sees the corners, the ajar doors, the stains on the floor, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t deviate. He walks this hall like a trial. A purgatory. He knows hell waits ahead. He feels it.

And he’s ready to tear it open with his bare hands. Each step is a countdown. Each breath, a burning fuse. Each heartbeat in his chest, a war drum. He knows what he’ll find. Maybe not the details. Maybe not the form. But the essence. He knows the scent of blood is there, somewhere. That fear has left its trace. That pain has seeped into the walls. And he knows that you… you’re at the end. You’re there, in the dark, at the end of this sick corridor. Maybe unconscious. Maybe barely alive. But you’re there. And that’s enough. Because even if the entire world has to burn for him to find you,

Stark walks down that hall like a blade sliding into a wound. Slowly. Silently. Without flash, without unnecessary sound. He doesn’t strike. He infiltrates. He dissects. Every step is measured, controlled, charged with clinical precision. The weight of his body, perfectly distributed, flows with the suit’s supports. His boots barely graze the floor, but even that friction seems to vibrate through the air, taut with tension. Tension is everywhere. In his muscles, locked beneath the metal. In his jaw, clenched to the point of pain. In his nerves, on maximum alert. He’s taut as a bowstring. Like a weapon whose safety was disengaged long ago. Even his breathing is suspended. He hardly breathes. He’s sunk into a slowed rhythm, between apnea and absolute focus.

Then the smell hits him. Not softly. Not in waves. Brutally. A wall. An invisible punch to the chest. Heavy. Thick. A metallic stench clings to his throat, invades his nostrils like a warning. Blood. Not fresh. Dried. Hours old, maybe. Mixed with damp, with the building’s mold, with dust saturated with dead micro-organisms, with the stagnant rot that infests places where nothing lives anymore. The smell of a trap. The smell of pain. His stomach tightens. Not from fear. From rage. His heart doesn’t race. It slows. As if syncing to the place. He shifts into a deeper, duller, more dangerous frequency. His pulse beats like a drum ready to strike.

Above him, the bulb still swings — a pathetic relic of a once-functioning past. It crackles, flickers, sputters to life at intervals. Each pulse casts sickly light across cracked tiles, warped walls, and scattered remnants of a forgotten world. The shadows stretch, shrink, crawl along the walls like filthy hands. Even the walls seem to hold their breath. He steps forward again. One step. Then another. Every movement is fluid, silent, nearly unreal. His visor scans relentlessly. It overlays stacked data layers, displays thermal signatures, rough volume outlines, hidden masses behind walls. He examines blind spots. Gaps. Floor markings. Broken hinges, scuff marks on wood.

He doesn’t see Matthew yet. But he feels it.

Like a presence. A greasy vibration in the air. A low tension running beneath the walls like a rogue current. A sensation that cuts through him, visceral. It’s not intuition. It’s certainty.

He’s here. Somewhere.

And then he sees you.

You.

There’s no sound. No warning. No orchestral swell. Just that brutal, abrupt moment when the image slaps him in the face like a blow that nothing can soften. You're there. Not standing. Not sitting. Collapsed. Against the wall. No — not against. You’re melded into it. As if your body were trying to dissolve, to disappear. A trembling mass, dirty, slack with pain. No longer a person. No longer a boy. Just a heap of living, broken flesh. A dislocated silhouette in the dark. His brain takes a moment to understand what he’s seeing. This isn’t you. Not the you he knows. It’s something else. A ruined version. And the violence here isn’t hypothetical. It’s tattooed on you. Your arm is twisted.

Not bent. Twisted. At a monstrous, impossible angle. The elbow joint reversed. Bones displaced under stretched skin. Something that should only appear in accident reports. Not here. Not like this. Your shoulder has collapsed. Your hand, almost detached from the rest, barely trembles.

And your face... It takes Tony a second. Just one. But it lasts an eternity.

He doesn’t understand right away. He recognizes nothing. No features. No familiar contours. Just damage. Open wounds, horrible swelling, bruises stacked upon bruises. Your eyes — if they’re still there — are buried under hematomas. Your lips are split. Your right cheek is so swollen it distorts the entire shape of your skull. It’s a mosaic. A work of pure cruelty. And the blood… It’s still flowing. Not much. Not in spurts. In seepage. Slow trickles, like a steady leak. It slides down your temple. Your mouth. Your neck. It’s sticky. Matte. It ran, dried, and ran again. It’s on your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest. You’re soaked.

Not with sweat. With blood. With fear. With the filth of the floor. Your clothes are just rags now. Torn down to the skin. Deep tears are visible, laceration marks, fingerprints, nails, blows. Your hands are open. Literally. Cut. Your palms are cracked, marked by a desperate attempt to defend yourself. Your fingers are splayed as if caught in a frozen spasm. Your knees are red, shredded. Raw flesh peeks through peeled skin. And your back... He doesn’t even want to look. He can guess. He knows what he’ll find there. Marks. Burns. Blows. Traces of what no one should ever do to another human being. But he doesn’t look. Not yet. Because then... he sees it. Your chest.

It moves. Barely. But it moves. A breath. Weak. Jagged. Rough. A struggle with every motion. A breath that doesn’t really come out. A choked wheeze. But alive. You’re breathing. You’re there. Still there. And Tony stops cold.His entire body freezes. The armor locks with him, as if the machine itself understood. As if every fiber, every metal plate had turned to stone. Time collapses on him. A crushing weight. A shroud. His heart? It stops. It no longer beats. Just a void. An absence. A pulse. Heavy. Dry. In his temples. His throat. His stomach. What he feels has no name. It’s not fear. It’s no longer even anger. It’s a breaking point. A place in the soul where everything stops. Where everything is too much. Too much pain. Too much hate. Too much regret. Too late. Too far. He’s here. In front of you. And he can’t go back.

It’s a fracture. A rupture in everything he thought he could control. You’re alive. But at what cost? And somewhere, just a few meters away... Matthew is still breathing. But not for long. A cold shiver, sharp as a steel blade, climbs Stark’s spine. He doesn’t push it away. He lets it slide between his shoulder blades, slip under the metal like a warning that what he’s seeing isn’t an illusion, but raw, naked, implacable truth. Yet nothing on his face betrays this vertigo. Not a twitch, not a flinch, not even a blink. His rage, once explosive, has retracted into a clean, focused line. It’s no longer a storm. It’s a blade. Smooth, cold, sharp. A perfectly honed weapon, ready to strike the moment it’s needed. Not before.

His eyes stay locked on you, unblinking, unwavering. Every detail imprints itself in his mind like a photograph branded with hot iron: the grotesque position of your broken arms, the dark brown blood dried in rivulets on your chin, your neck, your chest; your skin, so pale beneath layers of grime and pain it looks almost like that of a corpse; the faint flutter of your chest, a fragile reminder that you haven’t crossed over yet. He sees it all. He doesn’t look away. And he will remember it. Until his last day. And yet, he doesn’t move right away. Everything in him is screaming. Every fiber, every muscle, every electrical impulse of the armor and his own body calls him to you, to rush, to drop to his knees, to check your pulse, your breath, to place his glove at your neck, to say your name. But he doesn’t give in. He is Tony Stark, yes. But here, now, he is also Iron Man. And Iron Man knows how to recognize a trap. Instinct needs no explanation. He feels that grimy vibration in the air, that invisible weight that warps the atmosphere around you, that intent still lingering, ready to pounce. He knows he’s not alone.

So he advances, but his way. Not slowly out of hesitation, but with control. One step. Then another. Controlled. Silent. The floor crunches beneath his boots, and even though the armor absorbs most sound, here, in this room saturated with shadows and stench, every movement rings out like a barely contained threat. The air is still. The walls seem to listen. The silence, tense, fills with static. He stops a few steps from you. Just close enough to see you breathe, to catch that tiny tremor in your ribcage, that breath that fights, clings, refuses to yield. Just far enough to strike, to raise his arm, to hit in half a second if something emerges. Because he knows: this is the moment Matthew is waiting for. The moment he thinks he can finish what he started. But he’s about to learn that this time, he’s not facing a wounded child. He’s facing Iron Man.

His eyes scan the room relentlessly. Every detail is absorbed, analyzed, memorized. The walls, covered in peeling paint, reveal patches of bare stone, gnawed away by damp. Mold streaks stretch up to the ceiling, which has collapsed in places, letting frayed wires dangle alongside crumbling fragments of plaster. Rusted pipes run along the walls like dead veins, slowly bleeding black water into the corners of the room. A distant drip echoes, irregular, distorted by reverb, like the heartbeat of a body already emptied of everything. The air is thick. Stagnant. It smells of oil, blood, mold, and abandonment. This isn’t really a place anymore. Not a living space, not a shelter. A dead place. Forgotten. A pocket outside of time, perfect for monsters to hide in.

And Stark knows it. It’s too quiet. The space is frozen in a dull anticipation. The smell is too sharp. The scene, too carefully placed. Nothing here suggests an accident. Everything has been calculated. And he hasn’t come to negotiate. He’s not here to understand. He’s not here to reach out. He’s here to end it.

So he speaks. Not loudly. Not shouting. His voice slices through the silence like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. Low. Slow. Sharp. It doesn’t tremble. It doesn’t seek to impress. It states. It targets. It’s the voice of someone who’s gone beyond fear. Who knows the war is no longer a risk. It’s happening. It’s here. Present. Inevitable.

— "That’s your big plan, Matthew?"

The words hang in the air. Clear. Sharp. And they cut. The silence that follows is even sharper. It relieves nothing. It stretches. It weighs. It presses on the nerves like a finger on an open wound. A silence with a taste. That of blood just before the blow. That of a held breath, of the instant suspended between lightning and thunder. A silence ready to rupture. And Stark is ready to tear through it. He kneels.

The suit exhales softly, like a restrained sigh, when Tony bends a knee to the ground. Metal meets filth, dust, and the invisible fragments of an abandoned world in an almost solemn hiss. It’s not a brusque gesture, nor heroic. It’s a humble movement. Precise. One knee placed in the grime of a ravaged sanctuary, a cathedral of pain frozen in time, where the slightest sound feels blasphemous. He places himself near you. Within reach of your voice. Within reach of your breath.

Above you, the light flickers. It trembles at irregular intervals, swaying like a sick pendulum. It doesn’t truly illuminate. It hesitates. As if it, too, refused to fully expose what it reveals. The scene seems unreal. Suspended. Out of the world.

Stark only sees you now. His eyes are on you. At last. Truly. He no longer sees you through the lens of worry or authority. He doesn’t see an employee in distress, nor that lost kid he tried to protect from afar without ever really getting involved. He doesn’t see a responsibility. He sees you. The body you’ve become. This collapsed, mutilated body, barely breathing. That breath, ragged, whistling, clinging to life like a flame battered by wind. The position in which you’ve fallen, curled in on yourself, speaks of an instinct stronger than thought: to hide, to disappear, to avoid another blow.

Tony doesn’t move. Not yet. A long moment suspended in a bubble of silence. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t move. Only his fist, slowly, curls. A controlled movement, silent, without tremor. A gloved hand, silently absorbing the rising tension, the seething rage, the refusal to accept what he sees. He observes you. He scans every visible patch of skin, every line of your battered face, every gap between the tatters of your torn clothing. He doesn’t want to miss anything. He wants to know. To understand. To see what you’ve endured. He’s ready for everything — except looking away. And what he discovers freezes him.

The recent wounds, he expected. He had imagined them, feared them. The swollen bruises, the black and violet hematomas covering your ribs, your stomach, your face. The clean or jagged cuts, open or dried. The blood clotted at the corner of your mouth. The split lip. The torn brow. Skin ruptured in places, stretched by swelling. All of that, he had seen coming. He had already heard the echo of the blows. Guessed the brutality.

But what he hadn’t expected… were the other marks.

The ones left by someone other than Matthew. The ones no sudden rage could justify. Scars. Fine. Old. Some nearly faded, white, invisible to the untrained eye. These delicate lines, precise, snake along your forearm, disappear under the fabric, reappear on your side. He recognizes some of them. He knows those clumsy cuts, those poorly closed edges. He’s seen them before. On other bodies. In other contexts. He passes a hand — slow, without touching — over your chest. A gesture both useless and necessary. An attempt to understand without harming, to see without interfering. Your top is torn. Not by accident. Deliberately. As if someone wanted to expose your fragility. As if your skin had become a trophy. A message. Your ribs are streaked with deep bruises, a blue so dark it looks black. These were blows delivered methodically. Not to kill. To mark. To leave a print. And beneath that recent violence, other, paler shadows appear. Older bruises, half-faded. Hidden scars. Belt marks. Traces of falls, perhaps. Of repeated gestures. Systematic ones. Not wild brutality.

Habit. Not battle scars. Survival marks. And Tony feels something fold inside him. Slowly. Painfully. As if the steel of his suit tightened, turned inward, crushing his bones, compressing his breath. He inhales, despite everything, but the air is too heavy, too foul. He feels cold sweat on his neck. The taste of metal on his tongue. This didn’t start yesterday. Not even this week. Not even this year. And the hatred rising now is no longer a fire. It’s a collapsed star. A core of pure fury. A point of no return.

— "Fuck..." he breathes.

The word slips from his lips in a hoarse whisper, no louder than a murmur. It doesn’t snap. It doesn’t strike. It falls. Heavy. Exhausted. It’s not an insult. It’s a prayer. An apology. A confession. A verdict. He could have said your name. He could have screamed. But he no longer has the strength to hide the collapse eating away at his gut. That single word carries it all: the guilt, the shame, the shock, the poorly disguised love, and that powerlessness he hates more than anything in the world. His eyes rise slowly to your face. He studies you, searches, hoping for a sign, a crack in that absence. You’re still unconscious. Or maybe just trapped in your own body. Your eyelids, heavy with pain, barely twitch. As if you’re fighting inside a nightmare too real. Your lips, cracked and swollen, part in an almost imperceptible motion. Sounds escape. Weak. Shapeless. Phantom syllables, swallowed by your raw throat, crushed by the shallow breath of survival.

You’re fighting.

Even now, half-dead, on your knees in the mud, in the blood, in the fear — you're still fighting. And Tony, he doesn’t understand how he missed it. How he could’ve overlooked it. He thought you were folding because you were fragile. That you were falling because you were weak. He discovers now that you never stopped getting back up. Again. And again. And again. And that by climbing back up alone, without help, without a hand to reach for, you broke. Slowly. Silently. From the inside out. Another anger rises in him. It doesn’t explode. It doesn’t burst like an uncontrollable flame. It’s slow. Deep. A fury that doesn’t make noise as it climbs but anchors in his gut, between his ribs, in every fiber of his being. It doesn’t burn. It freezes. A precise, surgical anger. Against Matthew, of course. Against the monster who did this to you, who turned your body into a map of pain. But not only.

Against himself. For not seeing it. For not wanting to see. For believing his rules, his demands, were enough. For forcing you to maintain an image when you were already falling apart. Against the system that let you slip through. Against the entire universe that abandoned you without so much as a flinch. Against the silence. Against the averted gazes. Against the excuses. Against everything that brought you here, barely breathing, bleeding in a place no one should know. And this anger — he keeps it. Not for the night. Not for the moment. He keeps it for what comes next. Because this isn’t a mission anymore. It’s not even vengeance. It’s an answer. A cold, precise, implacable answer.

His fingers spread. Slowly. As if releasing something too heavy to contain any longer. Then, just as slowly, his hand closes. Not in rage. Not to strike, nor to threaten. But as one seals a vow. As one locks a promise in the palm, sheltered from the world, where it can never fade. A discreet gesture, small, but charged with immense weight. He leans forward. Just a little. Just enough for his face to draw closer to yours, his features blending into the trembling light, his breath almost brushing your skin. He doesn’t try to wake you. He doesn’t disturb the fragile silence. Only to be closer. To speak for you, and only you. And in a breath that belongs only to him — hoarse, broken, dragged up from deep within — he whispers:

— "I’m sorry..."

It’s not a phrase said lightly. Not a line of circumstance. The words struggle to come out, each one bearing the weight of a collapsed world. They don’t shake. They crash. Heavy. Dense. Inevitable. And it’s not for the blows. Not for the broken bones, the bruises, the wounds, the blood. Not for the absence of rescue, the nights you waited without response, without a call, without presence. Not even for the hesitation or delays. Not for the wavering between compassion and distance. No. That’s not what he regrets. It’s something else. Deeper. More insidious.

He apologizes for what he didn’t see. For everything right in front of him that he ignored. For all the times he looked at you without really seeing you. For all the moments he should’ve understood, read between the silences, the tight gestures, the small changes in your voice, the blankness in your eyes. He’s sorry because he should’ve been the one to know. The one who reached out without being asked. He didn’t. And he knows it. You never told him. Not clearly. Not with words. But he doesn’t blame you. He blames himself. His inattention. His blindness. His comfort. Because he should have known. He should’ve seen past the surface, not settled for what you showed. He’s a genius, after all. He cracked codes, AI, government secrets. But he didn’t read you. You.

And now he sees you. Really sees you. You're here, lying down, broken, beaten, emptied to the bone. You carry the recent scars — but also all the old ones. The ones that tell something else. Another story. A life that didn’t begin tonight. Pain accumulated like strata in rock pressed too long. Blows someone made you believe were normal. Silences you were taught to keep. Constant adaptation, until survival became a reflex. Each scar is a sentence. Each bruise, a word from the story you carried alone, your throat tight, your body tense. And Tony is only just beginning to understand. Not everything. Never everything. But enough for the void to open beneath his feet. Enough for something to snap. For guilt to root itself where it will never leave. It’s not just Matthew. It’s not just this night. It’s everything that came before. This whole life you lived in the shadows, moving through with false smiles and stiff gestures. And he didn’t see. He didn’t know. He didn’t reach out.

He feels that truth in his fingers, in his tight throat, in the strange way his vision blurs without fully knowing why. And the anger returns. Deeper. Colder. But this time, aimed only at himself. Because he should’ve been there. But now that he is — now that he sees you — he swears, without even needing to say it, that it will never be too late again. Not a second time. Never. Stark doesn’t turn his head. Not right away. He stays still, locked in a perfectly controlled posture, his chest still bent over you, his body still tensed above yours like a shield of steel. But his eyes narrow, just slightly. An imperceptible detail to anyone else. An almost microscopic change, but revealing. He saw it. Or rather, he sensed it. Not a clear movement. Not a sharp sound. Just a shift. A faint vibration in the air. A thermal fluctuation, too precise to be natural. A flicker in the visual field, where there was nothing seconds ago.

The suit confirms it silently. A variation in air pressure. A subtle thermal footprint. A disturbance in the suspended particles. Something moved. Someone. In the shadows. He already knows. He doesn’t need confirmation. No detailed analysis. His instinct and the machine speak with the same voice. Matthew is here. He never left. He never fled. He waited. Coiled in the darkness like a knot of hate, hidden behind the ruined structures of the warehouse. A corner too dark for ordinary eyes. But Stark isn’t ordinary. His gaze adjusts. The armor’s sensors recalibrate instantly. Every shadow pixel becomes a map, a data set analyzed in real time. Shapes emerge, unfold, reveal themselves under thermal filters. He sees the silhouette. Humanoid. Crouched. Twisted in animal tension. Almost glued to the damp wall. Motionless — but falsely so. Ready. Ready to strike.

A predator. Or so he thinks. But to Tony, he’s not a beast. Not an opponent. He’s a parasite. A pest. A residue of misdirected hate. A mass of cowardice wrapped in a semblance of human flesh. Nothing more. And he waits. Stark sees it. He waits for the right moment. The right angle. He still hopes. One wrong step. One lapse. One second of distraction. He still thinks he can win. He thinks he can strike from behind. Finish what he started. Reduce further. Humiliate again. He believes this stage is his, that the dark protects him, that fear is on his side. But it’s not the same game anymore. And Stark is no longer the same man.

His fists clench. Slowly. Not in rage. In certainty. A cold pulse runs through the armor, from his shoulders to the thrusters in his forearms. Internal systems activate in silence. Energy builds. Not for show. Not to intimidate. But to strike. Coldly. Deliberately. And yet, he still doesn’t move. He doesn’t break the silence. He remains there, by your side, his body lowered like a barrier. You're still beneath him, fragile, barely breathing. And he stands, in that false calm, as the last thing between you and the one who still thinks he can reach you. But this time, there will be no negotiation. No ultimatum. No speech. This won’t be a warning. A chuckle. At first almost imperceptible. Just a scrape, a discordant note in the tense silence of the warehouse. Then it swells. Gains volume. Becomes a clearer sound — thick, mocking, like a bubble of bile rising to the surface. It comes from the shadows. From that cursed corner of the room that even the light avoids, as if refusing to reveal the truth. A place too dark for nothing to be there.

Stark doesn’t move. He doesn’t look up. Not yet. He stays crouched beside you, his body interposed between you and the thing that finally creeps out of its lair. A sentinel. A wall. A blade ready to cut. But his shoulders stiffen. His breath halts. His fingers stop trembling. He listens.

— “You really came in the suit, huh…”

The voice pierces the darkness like a carefully distilled poison. It has that dragging tone, unbearable, dripping with sarcastic self-confidence. It oozes obscene pleasure, filthy arrogance, sick amusement. The kind of voice that wounds before it strikes. It seeps into the air, hungry to exist, to dominate, to stain.

Matthew steps out of hiding—or what’s left of it. A shadow barely separated from the dark. Just enough for part of his face to appear under the sickly glow of a dangling bulb. Half a face. Half a smile. Wide. Frozen. Too tight. And his eyes… wild. Shining. Flickering with an unstable light, unable to fix on a single point for more than a few seconds.

— “For him? Seriously?”

He gestures vaguely toward your body on the floor, careless, almost lazy. As if pointing at a gutted trash bag. A carcass of no worth. His grimy fingers tremble slightly, but not from fear. From excitement.

— “The little favorite. The loser. The kid who can’t even breathe without collapsing.”

He takes a step. Slow. Pretentious. Nonchalant. His chest slightly puffed, arms wide, almost cruciform. A show-off stance. A provocation. As if offering himself for judgment, convinced he’ll walk away untouched. As if he’s challenging God himself amid the ruins of a world he helped destroy.

— “You sure brought a lot of gadgets to save a half-broken body, Stark.”

A higher, more nervous laugh escapes him. He doesn’t have full control. He thinks he does, but his words are speeding up. His breath quickens just a bit. A trace of madness laces every syllable.

— “You think all that’ll be enough? The thrusters, the scanners, the AI?”

He stops a few meters away. Far, but visible. Too visible. Grime clings to his clothes, his skin, his hyena grin. His face is gaunt, cheeks sunken, hands filthy. He looks like someone who lives in filth. And carries the arrogance of someone who thinks he’s untouchable. He believes he’s won. That he still holds the cards. That he has the upper hand.

— “You showed up like a superhero. Big savior. Like you actually care whether he’s still breathing.”

He tilts his head. A tiny movement. Almost childlike. Almost mocking. The gesture of a brat waiting for the adult to raise a hand just so he can laugh louder afterward.

Then, in a whisper, lower, crueler, slid in like a needle through skin:

— “Sad. To see you stoop to this.”

That’s when Stark moves. Not a sharp gesture. Not a threat. Just… he rises. Slowly. Very slowly. Each vertebra seems to align with inhuman precision. His back straightens. His shoulders lift. His gloved hands open slightly, fingers spreading, joints clicking faintly. A stance. A charge. But he doesn’t speak. Not yet.

Because Matthew goes on. Because he doesn’t understand. Because he still believes words protect. That taunts disarm. He still thinks Stark is here to play. That this restrained rage is only for show.

— “I mean, come on… look at him.”

He points again. His filthy index finger extended, trembling slightly. Not from fear. From ecstasy.

— “Take a good look at what he’s become. What I made him. And ask yourself what you were doing all that time.”

And that silence after — that void between two breaths… it’s the most dangerous moment. Because right now, Stark doesn’t see a man in front of him. He sees the outcome. The cause. The shadow behind the screams. And this time, he won’t look away. Matthew moves. It’s not hesitation. It’s a reflex. A sharp jolt of intention, of venom, of premeditation. His arm snaps in a motion too quick, too precise to be theatrical. He’s not trying to intimidate. He’s trying to end it. His hand plunges into his jacket with mechanical brutality, the rustle of fabric too sharp, a sound that splits the silence like a silent detonation. A glint of metal slides between his fingers. The black barrel of a gun emerges like a verdict. Cold. Final. He lifts his arm. But not toward Stark. Not at the looming figure of steel, red-lit, poised to strike. Not at the obvious threat, the armored man, the living weapon who could incinerate him with a single gesture.

No. He points it at you. You, still on the floor. You, vulnerable. Shattered. Barely breathing. You’re lying there, more ghost than flesh, your chest struggling to rise, your face drenched in blood—and that’s exactly why he aims at you. Because you can’t fight back. Because you can’t even look away.

The barrel aligns with clinical slowness. A descending trajectory, methodical, unbearable. A deliberate motion, thick with silence, cracking the air like an invisible slap. There’s no tremble of doubt, no hesitation. The quiver in his wrist isn’t fear—it’s anticipation. A sick pulse shooting through his arm, twitching his fingers on the trigger. Obscene pleasure in this total domination. His breath quickens. His eyes gleam. He savors. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Where he’s aiming. How he wants this to end. It’s no longer a threat. It’s an execution. A scene he’s imagined, rehearsed, craved. A twisted revenge. A show where he’s both executioner and audience. And in this suspended second, this instant where everything can tip, he becomes something worse than an attacker.

He becomes a man convinced he’s about to kill. Because he wants to. Because he can.

— “You got the money, then?”

The words fall like a dull-edged blade. No hesitation. No dramatic delivery. Just a string of words spat low, almost casual. Like a logistical question. His voice is dry, flat, stripped of emotion. Verbal mechanics, a routine, a question tossed out like checking an order. But the poison—it's in the posture. The gaze. The barely-contained tension in his outstretched arm.

The gun’s barrel stays still. Perfectly aligned. No longer shaking. Calm. Cold. A disturbing steadiness, almost clinical, like a surgeon ready to cut — except he’s not seeking to heal. He’s aiming to rupture. To erase.

He’s not really talking to Stark. Not really to you either. He’s speaking to himself, to feed the illusion of control he’s desperate to maintain even as he feels the ground slipping. He keeps playing, just long enough to delay the inevitable. To fabricate a role. The one who asks. The one who decides. The one who ends things. But there’s that barrel. Black. Smooth. A heavy promise stretched from his arm. He doesn’t move. He waits for an answer he knows is pointless. He knows there’ll be no deal. No negotiation. But he asks anyway. As if asking is enough to pretend he still owns the scene. As if it can mask the obvious rising in the air like an imminent detonation.

He’s ready to shoot. And it’s not the money he wants. It’s what comes next.

taglist🥂 @9thmystery @defronix @lailac13 @the-ultimate-librarian @ihatepaperwork if you want to be part of it here

[alayanaglobosoft]

ARIES OMAN: LIGHTING UP SPACES WITH INNOVATION AND EXCELLENCE

Where the area is known for its high-speed architectural development and strong focus on functionality and appearance, finding a business that effectively mixes creativity, reliability, and quality is no easy feat. One of the most reliable names in Oman's design and infrastructure sector is Aries Oman. With its innovative solutions in interior design, fit-out contracting, and cutting-edge building solutions, Aries Oman has made a name for itself as the trendsetter in the industry.

But among its diverse specialties, one of the areas where the company performs best is lighting solutions. From stunning architectural lighting to affordable commercial and industrial systems, Aries Oman is Oman's top lighting supplier, offering unparalleled quality, durability, and design knowledge.

Transforming Spaces with Purposeful Design

Aries Oman was established with a vision of transforming interior spaces with exceptional craftsmanship and creativity. The company has over the years evolved into an integrated design and contracting behemoth. The firm deals in residential, commercial, and hospitality interiors, while among its services include space planning and 3D visualization, amongst others, and full turnkey project execution.

Their design is not just design for looks—it's design to bring solutions that matter. Whether it's improving energy efficiency, functionality maximized, or ambiance improved, each is meticulously thought through and implemented professionally.

Lighting: More Than Just Illumination

Lighting plays a significant part in both the form and functionality. The ideal lighting can convey mood, emphasize architectural elements, and enhance performance. Aries Oman is perfectly aware of the same. Its lighting division focuses on a huge variety of products and services with different applications. 

From high-efficiency LED systems to decorative and architectural illumination, Aries Oman provides end-to-end solutions for lighting through:

Residential villas and homes

Commercial offices and malls

Hotels, resorts, and restaurants

Industrial and warehouse buildings

Outdoor landscapes and pathways

Their team works extremely closely with architects, designers, and facility managers to ensure that every lighting plan enhances the vision and performance criteria of the environment.

Why Aries Oman is the Best Lighting Distributor in Oman

What sets Aries Oman apart from other lighting suppliers is how they integrate innovation, product quality, and technical support. Here's why they are the best:

Comprehensive Product Range: From basic fixtures to luxury designer lighting and smart lighting systems, Aries Oman offers comprehensive cataloging to suit any style and budget.

Custom Lighting Solutions: Something out of the ordinary? The organization is able to customize lighting products to meet the specific needs of a project, each time.

Energy Efficiency and Sustainability: Aries Oman promotes energy-efficient solutions that not only save operation cost but also environmental care. 

Technical Expertise: Their lighting experts provide specialist recommendations on placement, luminance, color temperature, and integration with building management systems.

After-Sales Support: Aries Oman backs up its installations with full maintenance and support, providing peace of mind for clients.

Whether dressing a luxury hotel lobby or lighting a warehouse upgrade, Aries Oman provides intelligent solutions that combine function and design.

Beyond Lighting: A Complete Design and Build Experience

While lighting is the specialty, Aries Oman is also proficient in a broad spectrum of design and construction solutions. As one of Oman's leading interior design companies, their portfolio encompasses luxury residential developments, corporate headquarters, and shopping malls. Their designers, project managers, and craftsmen collaborate to deliver results that amaze and delight their clients.

Also, Aries Oman is also known as the best false ceiling company in Oman, with innovative designs that complement their lighting systems. They are also skilled restaurant fit-out suppliers, so even the toughest projects are handled professionalism and panache.

Trusted by Oman's Top Clients

Aries Oman's reputation isn't built on marketing alone—it's buttressed by a history of successful projects and a record of established client connections. Its clients are corporations of large business, government bodies, hospitality companies, and homeowners who all trust Aries Oman due to its honesty, transparency, and perfection.

Conclusion: Lighting the Path Forward

As the need for smart, sustainable, and stylish infrastructure continues to rise in Oman, Aries Oman remains ahead of the curve. Their dedication to quality, their design-to-delivery philosophy, and their deep technical knowledge enable them to be one-stop destination for all interior and infrastructure needs.

And when it's illumination, nobody else—Aries Oman is Oman's premier lighting distributor. Their ability to blend creativity and innovation ensures that every space which they illuminate turns into a genuine contemporary center of beauty and functionality.

Whether you are building your dream home, renovating your office, or planning a new commercial building, Aries Oman is your go-to partner for creating spaces which inspire, perform, and endure.

[xtruss]

Visiting The Titanic Is Suddenly A Lot Easier Than You Think

Fresh Advances in 3D Scanning Technology are Making It Possible to Explore Some of the Hardest-to-Reach and Most Fragile Sites on Earth.

— By Camille Bromley | April 8, 2025

This rendering of the Titanic is based on 715,000 photos and millions of laser scans of the famous wreck, which were stitched together to create a perfect digital replica of what remains of the ship. Image By Magellan Limited/Atlantic Productions

Last year, Parks Stephenson stood next to the Titanic and walked slowly around it, gazing up at the massive ship. He paused to look inside one of the boiler rooms and at the position of the controls on the engines. He noticed the number 401, the ship’s ID, etched on the propeller blades. Rusticles hung from the steel shell. Twisted metal and personal trinkets from those long dead littered the ground.

Stephenson, a retired naval officer and Titanic historian, wasn’t 12,500 feet below the surface of the North Atlantic, of course. He was in London, inspecting the ship’s digital twin: a one-for-one computer model made possible by advances in remote 3D scanning and mapping technology. The model is so densely detailed, a video rendering of it can be projected to life-size in a warehouse, where researchers can walk alongside it and zoom in and out on individual features, like a steam valve from the boiler room, which the scan revealed was left open, possibly to keep an emergency generator running as the ship sank. The Titanic twin adds to a growing list of similar models made of archaeological and cultural sites around the world that both preserve these fragile places and provide a new means of exploring them.

Stephenson has seen the actual Titanic wreck twice since his first dive in 2005, but he didn’t catch so many details on his trips. “You can only see what’s immediately in front of you,” he says of peering through a submersible’s roughly six-inch viewport and camera views. “It’s like being in a dark room and you have a flashlight that’s not very powerful.” The digital twin, on the other hand, gave him an unobstructed, 360-degree view of every gnarled nook and cranny.

The scan of the storied ship was carried out over three weeks in 2022 by Magellan, a deep-sea mapping company based in the Channel Islands. Titanic: The Digital Resurrection, a new National Geographic documentary streaming on Disney+, tells the story of the effort. It is the largest underwater 3D scan ever made, amounting to 16 terabytes of data (equivalent to the hard drive footprint of six million e-books). To create it, two remote-operated robots romantically named Romeo and Juliet traveled down to the wreck and systematically canvassed the site, taking some 715,000 photos and millions of laser measurements.

For Stephenson, the quality of detail in the scan opens new lines of inquiry into the sinking of the Titanic. The ship lies broken in two pieces, with the bow and stern about 2,600 feet apart. The hull descended in a straight line and is largely still intact—the scan shows it neatly wedged into the ocean floor. The stern, on the other hand, is shattered, and researchers have never been able to definitively say how that happened. When Stephenson looked at the scan, though, he could immediately envision the back half of the ship spiraling as it sank and disintegrating into rubble. “At a first glance,” he says, “it just made sense.”

In the past, a full, grand scale of the wreck could be depicted only through artistic renditions or photomosaics created by humans. Neither method conveyed precise verisimilitude. The machine-run 3D model, however, is exact. “As soon as I saw the Titanic digital twin images,” Stephenson says, “I could tell. Number one, I’d never seen Titanic like this before. And number two, it felt right.”

More scientists are using digital replicas to allow the study of everything from artifacts to human remains—like this ancient Nepalese child’s skull—without damaging them. Photograph Courtesy Julia Gresky, German Archaeological Institute (DAI)

The quest to create exact models for more accessible surveying started over a century ago. The technology that makes digital twinning possible dates back to at least 1858, when a German engineer named Albrecht Meydenbauer was tasked with surveying a church and nearly fell to his death while measuring the facade. To avoid another dangerous climb, he worked out a way to mathematically calculate the measurements of large objects from photos—a technique he called photogrammetry. Today photogrammetry combined with lidar, which uses lasers to measure distances, as well as advanced computing power, produces models that can accurately replicate the most minute details of enormous structures like Mount Rushmore or the aesthetic proportions of Michelangelo’s “David.”

The Italian Renaissance master’s sculpture was one of the first major artifacts to be digitally modeled, in 2000, by Stanford University. Though not as massive as the Titanic, the statue’s relatively large size—17 feet tall and 12,500 pounds—and finely chiseled details made it a good test for how accurately 3D technology might reproduce objects on a grand scale. Today the tech is so precise that in 2020 a team at the University of Florence produced a 3D-printed copy, accurate down to David’s resolute expression and every defect of the original stone.

People travel to see masterpieces of human creativity because they want to feel the presence of something awesome or genius. But too much of our presence can destroy places that are irreplaceable. Hundreds have visited the Titanic, most of them at enormous expense, including five on the ill-fated Titan submersible. These explorers are the source of significant damage suffered by the wreck; human-piloted submersibles have inadvertently stripped a mast and gashed the bow.

Beyond tourism, sites may be unpredictably damaged by natural disasters, climate change, or war. In 2019, 3D documentation company CyArk created models of Nigeria’s Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, just before the sculpture-laden forest shrines were destroyed in a flood. Chance Coughenour, a program manager for Google Arts & Culture, which supported CyArk in these efforts and hosts these models online, hopes the shrines can be rebuilt from the scans. Coughenour’s group supported similar efforts to create digital twins of a cathedral and a historic government landmark in Ukraine that are now damaged by the war.

Treasured cultural sites, like St. George’s Cathedral, a World Heritage site in Lviv, Ukraine, have been digitized inside and out. If they are ever damaged by climate change, a natural disaster, or war, they can be rebuilt from the copy. Photograph By Matt Propert; Rendering By Andriy Hryvnyak, SkeIron

On an even grander scale, digital twins can be made of not only buildings, statues, and shipwrecks but also entire cities—living or dead. Allison Emmerson, an archaeologist at Tulane University, is making a digital twin of parts of Pompeii, a famously fragile site where she’s spent the past 16 years digging through layers of soil to uncover the city’s earliest history. Emmerson says digital twinning is the biggest leap forward for archaeology since photography. “Our process is inherently destructive,” she says of excavating a site. “We can never redo it. We can dig the site once. And so the focus in modern archaeology has been on recording as well as we possibly can.”

Her team’s twin of a block in the southeast of the city was made with just a few handheld cameras. The model allows them to visualize the site with the walls of a room taken away, or a roof added, or how the land looked before the building was constructed. They can call up the model back in the lab and continue conversations that previously would happen only in the field. Emmerson’s work has revealed how one building at the site was both a restaurant and a workshop where people manufactured reed baskets and mats—details that help her understand the city’s economy and the daily life of its working class.

For Her Part, Emmerson plans to make her model of Pompeii and the accompanying findings available to the public, avoiding a common outcome for these projects. Because digital twins are expensive to create, many ambitious projects end up locked way in the private archives of universities or governments. “I did not want the model to live on a team member’s laptop,” she says.

While Magellan has not announced any plans to make its Titanic scans free to the public, the documentary itself shows what’s possible. Much of the existing research on the shipwreck has been conducted by private expeditions that guard findings, an ongoing source of concern for scientists and citizen enthusiasts alike. Stephenson remains concerned the wreck is not being treated as an archaeological site. “It’s one of the most famous sites in the world, and we don’t even have the basic baseline information needed to establish what’s there at any particular time, because you’ve had different explorers who don’t share information,” he says. The digital twin has the potential to allow more visitors to experience it in a less destructive and more collaborative way.

It’s unlikely people will stop going to the Titanic wreck site. Its draw has proven irresistible for those with enough money and motivation. In 2001, for example, a couple exchanged vows crouched in a submersible perched on the bow. A digital twin “certainly doesn’t replace sitting on the deck of the Titanic,” says Robert Ballard, an oceanographer and National Geographic Explorer at Large who discovered the wreck in 1985 along with Jean-Louis Michel. But he thinks it will help preserve the wreck. For those who cannot resist going themselves, he offers two warnings: “Don’t touch it. Don’t get married on it.”

[houseofbrat]

As a Kentuckian, the majority of people around here think the tariffs are some 3D chess move. They won’t start to question Trump’s strategy until jobs are lost en masse and distilleries close.

In Chess, a pawn's job is to be sacrificed. They are the pawns.

As a Canadian, I find these tariffs completely baffling. We primarily export natural resources and raw materials—fundamental for your entire manufacturing and agricultural sectors. my economics professor at university always advocated for taxing exports to the US as a way to bolster Canadian manufacturing.

We primarily export natural resources and raw materials—fundamental for your entire manufacturing and agricultural sectors.

I've been trying to explain this to everyone, short of screaming it from the rooftop of my southern, red state home. Canada provides us with so much of our raw materials - from construction to auto manufacturing that it's going to affect damn near EVERY MAJOR JOB SECTOR in some way. Our farmers were already hurting after USAID got slapped around, I can't imagine what they're going to do when they can't get fertilizer. They're down funding, labor, and you know, the shit to grow now.

Whatever. Reap what they sow, I guess.

A lot of the responses are really just here to dunk of Kentuckians so I just want to provide an actual response.

The biggest concern I have as a Kentuckian isn't just that people are not going to buy $9.3 billion in goods from our state, it's that the resulting consequences will be seen for generations. Something a lot of people may not realize is that most of the distilleries in our state are in small towns. They are almost the entire local economy for some of these areas (and for a few of them, the entire county). Once these distilleries start laying off people it's not like there is somewhere else for them to go work. These families likely will not have the money or resources to find work elsewhere and with little interest in real estate in those areas they will be tied down by their own assets. Many of those towns already have issues with cyclical poverty but this will just make the problem largely unsolvable.

To be clear, I understand that Kentucky is a bit of a laughing stock for many people and as a liberal living here I can attest that many of the perceptions people have are justified. Personally, I am in complete agreement with the boycott. We can only hope that there is a way for our country to course correct but I can't say I am hopeful of that.

Edit: This kinda blew up and while I would like to reply to everyone I only have so much time on my lunch break. I am actually a grocery data analyst and this issue is quite complex. I can write for hours about the downstream effects of this boycott (from the distribution companies, warehouse workers, even the brokers who manager these accounts externally). I just wanted to address a few of the major questions people have been asking:

I think the split for people blaming Trump for this is about 20-80. I think most Kentuckians will blame Canadians for boycotting their products without seeing the nuances of any of this. It is terrible and I really wish they could understand why Canadians (or other Americans) would stop buying our products but if there is anything we have learned from this past decade it is that we live in a post-truth era where no amount of facts will satisfy their anger.

I worked on Alison Lundergan Grimes's campaign as well as Amy McGrath's and unfortunately both lost to a man who has do irreparable damage to America (McConnell). Something to consider is many Republicans also hate Mitch, it's just that they see him as giving Kentucky footing on a national level. "Having him as Senate Majority Leader means he can do more good for Kentucky" is a very common sentiment among R's who would vote him out otherwise. It's upsetting, I hate it, but I do believe it is possible to replace his seat with a Dem going forward.

I cannot be more clear that I believe the boycott is a good thing. I know it will hurt people in Kentucky and I feel like that is probably for the best. My concern isn't that the people who voted for Trump this time around will suffer. It's that their kids, their grandkids, their great-grandkids and so on will suffer as the towns die out, crime rates skyrocket, and isolationism festers.

Hope this answers some questions people have and I am happy to respond to any messages later today!

Yea I work at a distillery and am currently getting laid off. My job ends at the end of next month. Thing is: this is a really REALLY bad time for the tariffs to hit. Trump1.0 was in the middle of the bourbon boom, the tariffs didn't devestate the industry due to the overall vast demand. Yes we lost around half a billion in profit because the upward trend in europe stopped, and so did their importing, but the profit margin was so high everywhere else that it didnt matter. This time around, especially with canada and the timing - it hurts. Canada imports alot of bourbon, especially the kind I bottle(bulleit). Roughly ~10% of the export market of bourbon from kentucky goes to canada. Now if it were still 2016/17, this wouldnt be a problem, but its 2025 and the bourbon boom is ending. You have an oversaturated market with a customer base thats no longer growing. Plus if you look at the trends of gen-z, they dont drink, not even close to the generations before them. With the economy generally trending downward too, customers will buy something different. They wont buy the $35 bottle of bourbon when they can get a shitty case of beer for 1/3 the price. The industry could have either shored up production over time and braced for the end of the bourbon boom without trump. Or if the bourbon boom continued with him. Both happening, the end of the bourbon boom trend and his presidency is why layoffs are going wild in kentucky. About 1000 full time jobs have been lost in the past month that i know of, and theres probably more that i dont know about. So how do I feel about a trade war with one of our closest allies/neighbors/trading partners?? Its ridiculous. Its affecting thousands of people across a very large plane of the economy to do this. And for what purpose? Respect? "Fairness"? It makes me mad that people around me directly voted for this bullshit when we all saw it coming a mile away. Its harmful and hurts good working class people everywhere, and we deserve better. Also to our Canadian friends, many of us didnt/dont support this, so we understand your frustration

Sorry this is happening to you. As a Canadian, I wish it didn’t have to come to this. The tariffs are one thing, but I think a lot of Canadians will stay away from US products for years to come due to the 51st state comments.

Dual citizen here. You’re right - the repercussions to this stupidity will last for a long time.

Fellow Kentuckian here. I am indirectly involved in the bourbon industry (I rent property to a distiller). I completely support Canada. They didn’t ask for this fight & if they work hard to find better, fairer trade partners they should feel no obligation to return to this shithole country even if the tariffs are dropped

Even when the tarrifs are lifted, the Canadian market is going to be hostile to American goods for a long time. Potentially generational damage caused by the 51st state bullshit

Canadian here. Until you purge this circus of an administration, I will not be spending a single discretionary penny on American goods. As an American I do not blame you one bit. Canadians are petty as hell when it comes to these kinds of things. in 2014, Heinz closed a ketchup plant in Ontario. The backlash was so severe that they ended up reopening it. Tons of Canadians to this day still refuse to buy Heinz. French's made a ketchup in response to it.

Lifetime Kentucky resident here, also a logistics manager who understands how tariffs work.

This is going to screw over our economy big time. Already, Brown-Foreman, located in Louisville (company that owns Jack Daniel's, Woodford Reserve, etc), laid off 12% of their staff. The bourbon industry was already slowing, and the tariffs have only worsened it.

Not only will alcoholic spirits be affected, but logistics will be heavily affected as well. Louisville is where the largest UPS hub is located, called "Worldport." Millions and millions of shipments from all around the world are processed here, and the revenue it creates for the city is incomparable. With tariffs, we will soon see a drop in imports, and as imports drop, so will the revenue generated by the international traffic at Worldport. People will absolutely be affected by this decision, and far sooner than we expect.

All of that being said, I 100% stand by Canada, and it's decision to start cutting ties with the US. What Trump and Musk have done is wholly unforgivable and downright shameful. They're an embarrassment to the American people and are blatantly choosing to kneel down to Putin and his circus.

If Canada ever decides to resume healthy and fair trade with the US after this betrayal, we will thank them for their kindness and work our hardest to rebuild our trust. Until then, Canada must take care of its own: and that's exactly what they're doing.

If Canada ever decides to resume healthy and fair trade with the US

We will. We don't want this fight. That said, buying patterns will be very hard to shift back. When trade does resume the deficit Trump complains about will be much larger. The longer it goes on the more we'll entrench with the EU, Commonwealth, and other reliable parterns.

As a Canadian, I was surprised to find out how many products there are that simply don't have a Canadian made version, or at least not by an actual Canadian company as opposed to a Canadian branch of a US corporation. We have distribution issues here because of needing to transport goods over an equal or larger sized area with only a tenth of the population. Because of that, it's not always economically feasible or at least worthwhile to produce a purely Canadian version of things when a US distribution system for the equivalent already exists. But this crisis shows us that we're unprepared to fend entirely for ourselves in those spaces... and I suspect that will start to change over the coming years and decades. More trade with other nations (especially from Europe), less overall trade with the US even after Donnie Dorko is gone, and more efforts to produce our own staple goods.

The only good thing Trump has done for Canada, is to force our hand at diversifying our trading partners. 

It’s unfortunate that it’s done this way, or needed to happen at all, but imo we will be stronger over the decades because of it. IF we stick to it, and I sure fucking hope we do. 

Sorry good Americans, I know you exist, but your country is a cluster fuck of a dumpster fire.  

I saw a release here on Reddit, can’t remember…maybe leopards at my face, but one of the bourbon companies blamed the Canadians for the unfair or unjust tariffs. The stupidity is mind boggling, however not surprising.

Dollars to donuts I bet that the distilleries know it's Trump's fault but they're afraid that if they criticize him he will attack them. Which is like...the most likely thing to ever happen.

They do know. I saw a publication on here earlier from a Kentucky distillery that used the wording "retaliatory tariffs" - retaliation to what, ya ding dongs?! Oh yeah, Putin's cock-warmer's tariffs.

Conservatives always expect to be able to attack people and expect no repercussions. It happens in basically every aspect of their platform.

[krano-is-straight-from-chicago]

Aichmir's Room - 1st Update

I am gonna make a short update, yesterday I announced the start of a month project. I wanna do this every month this year so I wanted to document my process here. I am gonna start out with a concept board and prep for a stream on my YouTube channel. Starting with reference material, a complete board will be accessible on my Kofi. Lets start with the basic building blocks of my idea. Lets start with the already predefined world. Sunjackers: Art by @askthesunjackers

I will make more detailed notes in the file posted on Kofi later today, however, the basic gist is that a lot of the world in Sunjackers borrows heavily from Brutal-ism. Although I personally feel a lot of sunjackers feels Eourpean to me.

Here are some references from real life that I think get the gist right:

I am personally more interested in looking at how these stylized are used in this context, more of that in my Kofi update later. Ok, we are done with the buildings, please tell me that is it?

u fool.

Remember that car I was had partly modeled yesterday? I went back to look into the make and model of the car to ensure consistency. The car in question is an Alpina B12 850i E31 from BMW in the late 1980s. I felt the car would work best considering Aichmir's background back in the day, and like the boxy nature of it.

It doesn't look completely like a sports car but it still doesn't look like a generic thing from the street. It's got a unique identity and that's why I like it. However, the issue is that well... I have to 3D model it... Cars are really hard to 3D model. I have to also get reference of the inside of the car and then modify the inside to fall into line with how the cars look in Sunjackers. It's interesting stuff. Next I have to break down the idea for the room, the basic layout. I go into this further in Kofi but I like the idea of the two characters living in a reclaimed warehouse, similar to a lot of buildings in the North Side of Chicago.

Lastly, the garage, in the original render the entire inside was based on the idea that the character, Aichmir, lived in the garage while the other character, Astera, lived in the apartment. I like the idea of the garage being a little bit messy but not to the same extent. Maybe a pizza box or two, some trash in the corner ready to be collected the next morning, a cot set up in the corner. Aichmir is obsessed with cars, and pretty much works before she sleeps, wakes up to begin working on the cars again. She might get some money with selling Sun juice, or being a getaway driver, but she spends most of her time with the car.

I will keep the progress of these consistent, not sure if it is gonna be a per day consistent due to commission work. I will try to fill the quiet by posting my backlog onto Kofi and Tumblr.

Thank you for checking this out, if you wanna support me, check out my KoFi! I did a project last month and will be posting it first on Kofi, with a file download option if you are interested.

[white-weasel]

Final Saw Saturday for new movies (until of course Saw XI comes out.) Spiral and Saw X were what we watched last night:

I can definitely see why Spiral rubbed people the wrong way and a lot of people hate it. I can also see why they had already taken a preemptive measure of marking it as separate from the other movies by naming it “Spiral: From the Book of Saw” lmao they wanted to signal that this was not your typical Saw film

It was so hard to try and separate Chris Rock from the character he was playing in Spiral. Every time he would talk I just kept hearing the voice over for everybody hates Chris or Marty from Madagascar. Not the fault of the movie, just that Chris Rock is so Chris Rock I couldn’t turn my brain off for it

The new Jigsaw voice modulation made me laugh so hard I could not take it seriously. Like obviously if I was actually in a trap I’d be scared to death hearing it but within the movie? My friend and I joked it was like the killer had his notecards for his presentation in front of class and he was really nervous and reading through them for the first time

One of the big things to this movie’s detriment is that we see the traps through flashbacks, meaning we only get to see the traps after the victims are already dead (generally) which sucks because a lot of the suspense comes from not knowing if someone will make it out or not. And even in those “unwinnable” scenarios sometimes characters still get smart and figure out a way out. We didn’t really get that in this one because of how they were brought up in the narrative

Not much to say about the actual traps themselves. None of them super stood out to me for this run

William Schenk was the most enjoyable part of this movie. His character was so silly before the reveal (even if I was able to figure it out well ahead of time). Speaking of which…

William as the killer was a good fun new angle to bring to a Jigsaw killer! If only they had actually stuck the execution!!

Like, it might be a little trite in other media, but the idea of an apprentice (though he’s not really an apprentice, just a copycat) whose traps don’t focus so much on the actual victims in them, but those who will witness the aftermath could have been a good concept. Scaring cops straight to lower corruption within the police force by essentially hanging the threat of Saw traps over them is a stellar idea and actually I’m surprised the mainline movies didn’t really discuss the idea of people maybe trying to live more “pious”/“fulfilling” lives lest they be put into traps themselves once word of what Jigsaw’s motives were got out

(Unrelated side note but I just got the idea of someone like that, someone absolutely terrified of being put into a trap and as such altering their entire life to avoid it, being put into a trap for that very reason since it’s making their life miserable. That would be great epic bad luck)

I also like that there was a level of personal obsession there, with Schenk feeling this twisted sense of loyalty to Zeke for being the “one good cop” who actually stuck his neck out in order to bring his father’s killer to justice. But idk what happened it just did not work and that’s so disappointing. Maybe if we had gotten more time on their relationship?

But also with the above point it’s not like Zeke is a particularly good cop. That one drug dealer breaks his leg and they brutalize him to interrogate him? And then the two of them just leave him? I was hoping that was gonna come back up at the end like “I looked up to you but then I realized you’re no better than all of them” and really Schenk’s whole thing in the warehouse at the end has been masterminded to kill Zeke as well but alas. Was not in the cards

I wanted to root for this movie, knowing it got shit from the fandom but unfortunately I cannot. At least Saw 3D had characters I liked even if they were doing dumb stuff for the plot lol

Saw X though? Saw X was VERY Good. Holy shit I’m so glad to be back to a good movie and that our Saw watching mission was able to end on a high note

John Kramer getting scammed was so fucking funny for no reason. Like he might be able to evade police, analyze the actions of his victims, and build super complex traps but he’s still susceptible to being swindled out of his money for snake oil

I’m surprised these people didn’t actually cut into him. I know they would never actually do brain surgery, but like at least make an incision or something guys!

The idea of Amanda having to bring Billy with her on her way to Mexico is so funny to me especially because he’s so big this movie. Like, having to check his trike at the airport and then stuffing Billy in her backpack to be her carry on? I know the TSA agents were fucking confused when they saw that on the detector

The bone marrow trap and brain surgery traps? Valentina and Mateo were stronger than me for real. The fact that they legitimately got close to winning those is insane to me because if I were them I’m just fucking dying

(My friend brought up the idea of John having to call Lawrence to ask just how survivable the brain surgery trap is and Lawrence basically being like “well TECHNICALLY you could take out a portion of your brain and survive HOWEVER-“ and then John just hanging up with him after he got the confirmation someone can live without all their brain. And that’s canon to me now)

Gabriela!!! I loved how this film gave us a character to be Amanda’s parallel, basically she sees herself before John in this woman and she wants to help Gabriela the same way she believes John helped her. And you can also see the cracks in her faith already here with her trying to take the blame off Gabriela and put it on the drugs while John reminds her that everyone has a choice which AHHHHHH so glad we got to see more of this war within Amanda explored

Along with that FUCK Cecilia holy shit. Not only killed Gabriela after she survived her trap, but then also got a little kid involved fully intended to kill him? I had just thought she was a pragmatist, I didn’t expect her to be so evil

Carlos was literally too good and innocent. The fact that John was ready to sacrifice himself completely, but he decided to take some of the blood boarding on himself was devastating. I’m glad he lived

I had predicted John and Amanda were planning on being put in the trap together the whole time, but the ending still pulled off the reveal in a satisfying and fun way! Very much enjoyed that

Obligatory “hell yeah!” For us getting to see Hoffman at the end credits scene. I was already so happy just getting to hear John call him up to talk with him, but the line “Epic bad luck” was extremely funny I loved it (as shown by my reference of it already above)

It’s definitely weird seeing all the actors older and knowing that this movie takes place between 1 and 2, like I actively had to remind myself that Amanda’s supposed to be in her 30s (and that horrible wig did nobody any favors lol) but also I’m kinda glad they didn’t do any deaging. It fits into the low budget fun of the saw movies, just the way I like it

So excited for Saw XI! Definitely plan on seeing it in theaters, hopefully opening weekend, and I’m gonna be a part of the hype train up until it’s release!

Final Saw movie ranking! (Subject to change as my whims take me of course)

Saw

Saw V

Saw VI

Saw X (this and 6 are basically tied though)

Saw II

Saw IV (this and 2 are also basically tied though and flip flop a lot)

Jigsaw

Saw III

Saw VII

Spiral

[redtoondevils]

I just watched the Mario Movie!

I just watched the Mario Movie about last week ago. And I gotta say, first things first...It. was. AMAZING! There is a lot of references I actually do know! The Super Mario Bros ad, from the Mario Brothers movie. Mario Kart, Rainbow world, Donkey Kong, Cranky Kong, Diddy Kong, and Chunky Kong! Sadly no Tiny Kong, and Lanky Kong.

Super Mario 3D world, Super Mario Odyssey for Bowser's suit, and the Wedding. King Bob omb. The Snifits. The blue shell, some parts of the Jungle Japes, The DK Rap, the Super Stars, and when Mario swings Bowser from his tail from the N64. Those are the few that I spotted, and remembered. And indeed there are many more!

But the person I felt most sad for was Luigi. Just like every game, he's usually the character that get pushed to the side. Same with Waluigi.

How come Wario is more popular, than his counterpart Waluigi? And poor Luigi too! The way that he got tortured by Bowser. I swear he goes through worse, than what his brother had been through. It's understandable that they couldn't add every character. But, the movie is great! Got every expectation right!

And more screentime for Luigi! Oh, and my favorite moment in the Mario Movie is when Luigi saves his brother Mario. The best part, is when both Mario, and Luigi got the superstar together, and they both became superstars!

And Bowser...Oh my damn he's a beast! His flame breath is more powerful than the SSB one! In the N64, his boss battle he's kind of a weakling, after throwing him in those bombs about 5 times. Yet, in the movie he's more threatening!

He's more menacing! I've noticed that on his back, he's got a little bit of green scales at the back of his back, and shoulders! That's also a small reference to his original design. When he used to be green!

A little talk with Bowser, he's truley evil that you can take him seriously now! He's no joke, especially when he looses his temper at his servant's. Even threatening to kill them. He'd kill anyone if he get's mad. And he's literally insane!

I remember, when he's gotten the most serious is in Paper Mario. When he used the Star Rod to become invincible. He nearly succeeded. In the Movie, he let his pride get the best of him.

He became so lustful, that when Peach said that she could never marry him. Is when he brought out his absolute worst. Then he gets reckless. Especially at the end. He's gotten so evil. He is probably the best Bowser so far! I'm curious to see what the next main antagonist would be, when the next Mario Movie drops!

Is there anything else I can say? Oh yeah! I cannot miss, so I think the sequel is going to be about...Yoshi's island! And Super Mario galaxy!

The secret ending after the Credit's, of course there is a Yoshi's egg in the warehouse! Even the Yoshi's appeared too! And they all looked so cute! Reminds me of Yoshi's story! That's a sweet easter egg!

ONE LAST THING I WANT TO SAY! I am SO glad that Donkey Kong and Mario, as rivals at the beginning. Became best friends at the end! :D

[denimbex1986]

'David Tennant took to the Donmar Warehouse's stage as Macbeth alongside Cush Jumbo on Friday.

The actor, 52, showcased his skills as he put on a moving performance for a revival of Shakespeare's most extraordinary psychological drama.

The adaptation is directed by Donmar Associate director Max Webster, also known for Life Of Pi and Henry V.

The Doctor Who icon was joined on stage by Cush, 38, as Lady Macbeth.

According to the description the gory play portrays a 'spellbinding story of love and murder, the renewing power of nature, and of the internal struggles of a damaged man as he tries to control his destiny'.

The Good Wife actress is a heavyweight theatre star as she previously played in Hamlet at the Young Vic a few years back - after what she was described by the former New York Times theatre critic Ben Brantley as radiating 'that unquantifiable force of hunger, drive, talent usually called star power'.

In a glooming and dramatic animation, David and Cush stunned the crowd with a sensational performance - as the show is set to continue for the whole winter season.

The production will use binaural technology to create 'an intense and unnerving 3D sound world', according to TimeOut.

Chatting to The Guardian, the David said of his latest work: 'I thought I knew this play very well and that it was, unlike any other Shakespeare I can remember rehearsing, straightforward.

'But each time I come to a scene, it goes in a direction I wasn't expecting. It has such muscle to it, it powers along. Plot-wise, it's more front-footed than any Shakespeare play I've done.'

Talking about her character Lady Macbeth, Cush said: 'She is deeply ingrained in our culture. Everyone thinks they know who she is. Most people studied the play at school. I did – I hated it. It was so boring but that's because Shakespeare's plays aren't meant to be read, they're meant to be acted.

'People think they know Lady Macbeth as a type – the strong, controlling woman who pushed him to do it. She does things women shouldn't do. The greatest misconception is that we have stopped seeing Lady Macbeth as a human being.'

Earlier this week Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies has revealed that there are 'no plans' for David Tennant to return in the new series.

The actor reprised his role as the Time Lord for a trio of Specials to celebrate the show's 60th Anniversary, with a twist in the third and final episode leaving The Fourteenth Doctor to embrace a new life on Earth.

While David's return was praised by viewers, and the conclusion has left the door open for him to appear again in the future, Russell has confirmed that moving forward, new Doctor Ncuti Gatwa is the sole focus.

After his first appearance in the final special last week, Ncuti makes his full debut in a festive special on Christmas Day, alongside Millie Gibson, who will star as his companion Ruby Sunday.

Speaking at a Q&A following the premiere of the festive episode, Russell said: 'Sorry, it's the age of Ncuti now – it's 'David who?''

'No plans, genuinely, yet, because it's a busy TARDIS - these two [Ncuti and Millie Gibson as companion Ruby Sunday] are gonna just sail across the universe and capture your heart, so it's time to look at these two.'

Elsewhere, Russell also revealed that when the new series hits screens in 2024, there will be an appearance from 60s music icons The Beatles.

He said: '[The Christmas special is] completely different to the next episode, isn't it? And then the one after that, that's the Beatles... that's nuts!'

Viewers will get to see Ncuti make his full debut as The Doctor in the festive special which sees him cross paths with Ruby, before the pair encounter 'mythical and mysterious goblins.'

Ncuti made his first appearance as The Doctor in the third and final 60th Anniversary Special, The Giggle.

His arrival came when 'creepy' returning villain The Toymaker, played by Neil Patrick Harris, shot David's Doctor through the chest, forcing him to regenerate.

The Toymaker had turned human beings on Earth mad, before challenging the Doctor to a deadly game - which put the planet at stake - forcing the Time Lord to accept to try and save Earth.

Shooting the Doctor, The Toymaker said: 'I played one game with the First Doctor, I played the second with this Doctor, so your rules declare that I must play the third game with the next Doctor!'

His companions Donna Noble (Catherine Tate) and the returning Melanie Bush (Bonnie Langford) ran over to support him as he regenerated, with fans expecting that to be the end for David's character.

Melanie reassured him: 'You're going to be someone else, it doesn't matter who, because every single one of you is fantastic!'

While David tearfully said: 'It's time, here we go again! Alonzee,' as he expected to be replaced, but a huge twist saw his character remain alongside his new incarnation.

As he remained after the regeneration, he asked Donna and Melanie: 'Could you, pull? It feels different this time,' and as they yanked on his arms, Ncuti shot out of him and the two Time Lords stood alongside each other in a massive twist.

Making his hotly-anticipated debut, Ncuti's Doctor shouted: 'No way!' as he laid eyes on David, moving away from tradition which normally sees one Doctor replace another upon regeneration.

David said: 'You're me,' while Ncuti replied: 'No, I'm me. I think I'm really, really me! Oh-ho-ho I am completely me!'

When asked what had happened, Ncuti's Doctor said: 'Bi-generation, I have bi-generated. There's no such thing, bi-generation is supposed to be a myth, but-!'

The pair of Doctors then used their talents to face off with The Toymaker together and incredibly managed to beat him at his own game, sending the villain out of existence forever.

David's Doctor said: 'Best of three, and my prize, Toymaker, is to banish you from existence, for ever!'

'No, you can't. But I - not fair, please,' the Toymaker said, before giving the ominous warning: 'My legions are coming.'

After banishing The Toymaker from the world, both David and Ncuti's versions of the character stayed on screen, and went back to the TARDIS with Donna.

David asked Ncuti: 'How's this going to work, you and me?' as the huge twist saw two Doctors remain after a regeneration for the first time ever.

Ncuti told him: 'You're thin as a pin love, you're running on fumes,' before urging him to slow down and 'stop' rather than running and travelling in the TARDIS.

Ncuti then paid tribute to a whole host of former companions, including the late Elisabeth Sladen, who portrayed Sarah Jane Smith and sadly died in 2011.

'Sarah Jane has gone, can you believe that for a second?' Ncuti said as they sweetly paid tribute to the iconic actress.

David Tennant takes on Macbeth: Doctor Who stars transforms into the Scottish King alongside Cush Jumbo By CAROLINA PIRAS FOR MAILONLINE

PUBLISHED: 17:24, 15 December 2023 | UPDATED: 17:40, 15 December 2023

e-mail 10

View comments e-mail Top +99Home 10

View comments David Tennant took to the Donmar Warehouse's stage as Macbeth alongside Cush Jumbo on Friday.

The actor, 52, showcased his skills as he put on a moving performance for a revival of Shakespeare's most extraordinary psychological drama.

The adaptation is directed by Donmar Associate director Max Webster, also known for Life Of Pi and Henry V.

The Doctor Who icon was joined on stage by Cush, 38, as Lady Macbeth.

According to the description the gory play portrays a 'spellbinding story of love and murder, the renewing power of nature, and of the internal struggles of a damaged man as he tries to control his destiny'.

David Tennant took to the Donmar Warehouse's stage as Macbeth alongside Cush Jumbo on Friday +10 View gallery David Tennant took to the Donmar Warehouse's stage as Macbeth alongside Cush Jumbo on Friday

The actor, 52, showcased his acting skills as he put on a moving performance for a revival of Shakespeare's most extraordinary psychological drama +10 View gallery The actor, 52, showcased his acting skills as he put on a moving performance for a revival of Shakespeare's most extraordinary psychological drama

TRENDING

David Tennant dons a striking shirt at Macbeth press night after party 2.5k viewing now

This production of Macbeth has oodles of atmosphere - PATRICK MARMION 4.5k viewing now

Nigella Lawson reveals the one household chore she has NEVER done 71.5k viewing now The Good Wife actress is a heavyweight theatre star as she previously played in Hamlet at the Young Vic a few years back - after what she was described by the former New York Times theatre critic Ben Brantley as radiating 'that unquantifiable force of hunger, drive, talent usually called star power'.

In a glooming and dramatic animation, David and Cush stunned the crowd with a sensational performance - as the show is set to continue for the whole winter season.

The production will use binaural technology to create 'an intense and unnerving 3D sound world', according to TimeOut.

Chatting to The Guardian, the David said of his latest work: 'I thought I knew this play very well and that it was, unlike any other Shakespeare I can remember rehearsing, straightforward.

'But each time I come to a scene, it goes in a direction I wasn't expecting. It has such muscle to it, it powers along. Plot-wise, it's more front-footed than any Shakespeare play I've done.'

Talking about her character Lady Macbeth, Cush said: 'She is deeply ingrained in our culture. Everyone thinks they know who she is. Most people studied the play at school. I did – I hated it. It was so boring but that's because Shakespeare's plays aren't meant to be read, they're meant to be acted.

'People think they know Lady Macbeth as a type – the strong, controlling woman who pushed him to do it. She does things women shouldn't do. The greatest misconception is that we have stopped seeing Lady Macbeth as a human being.'

Earlier this week Doctor Who showrunner Russell T Davies has revealed that there are 'no plans' for David Tennant to return in the new series.

The actor reprised his role as the Time Lord for a trio of Specials to celebrate the show's 60th Anniversary, with a twist in the third and final episode leaving The Fourteenth Doctor to embrace a new life on Earth.

While David's return was praised by viewers, and the conclusion has left the door open for him to appear again in the future, Russell has confirmed that moving forward, new Doctor Ncuti Gatwa is the sole focus.

After his first appearance in the final special last week, Ncuti makes his full debut in a festive special on Christmas Day, alongside Millie Gibson, who will star as his companion Ruby Sunday.

Speaking at a Q&A following the premiere of the festive episode, Russell said: 'Sorry, it's the age of Ncuti now – it's 'David who?''

The Doctor Who icon was joined on stage by Cush, 38, as Lady Macbeth +10 View gallery The Doctor Who icon was joined on stage by Cush, 38, as Lady Macbeth

According to the description the gory play portrays a 'spellbinding story of love and murder, the renewing power of nature, and of the internal struggles of a damaged man as he tries to control his destiny' +10 View gallery According to the description the gory play portrays a 'spellbinding story of love and murder, the renewing power of nature, and of the internal struggles of a damaged man as he tries to control his destiny'

'No plans, genuinely, yet, because it's a busy TARDIS - these two [Ncuti and Millie Gibson as companion Ruby Sunday] are gonna just sail across the universe and capture your heart, so it's time to look at these two.'

Elsewhere, Russell also revealed that when the new series hits screens in 2024, there will be an appearance from 60s music icons The Beatles.

He said: '[The Christmas special is] completely different to the next episode, isn't it? And then the one after that, that's the Beatles... that's nuts!'

Viewers will get to see Ncuti make his full debut as The Doctor in the festive special which sees him cross paths with Ruby, before the pair encounter 'mythical and mysterious goblins.'

Ncuti made his first appearance as The Doctor in the third and final 60th Anniversary Special, The Giggle.

His arrival came when 'creepy' returning villain The Toymaker, played by Neil Patrick Harris, shot David's Doctor through the chest, forcing him to regenerate.

The Toymaker had turned human beings on Earth mad, before challenging the Doctor to a deadly game - which put the planet at stake - forcing the Time Lord to accept to try and save Earth.

Shooting the Doctor, The Toymaker said: 'I played one game with the First Doctor, I played the second with this Doctor, so your rules declare that I must play the third game with the next Doctor!'

His companions Donna Noble (Catherine Tate) and the returning Melanie Bush (Bonnie Langford) ran over to support him as he regenerated, with fans expecting that to be the end for David's character.

Melanie reassured him: 'You're going to be someone else, it doesn't matter who, because every single one of you is fantastic!'

While David tearfully said: 'It's time, here we go again! Alonzee,' as he expected to be replaced, but a huge twist saw his character remain alongside his new incarnation.

As he remained after the regeneration, he asked Donna and Melanie: 'Could you, pull? It feels different this time,' and as they yanked on his arms, Ncuti shot out of him and the two Time Lords stood alongside each other in a massive twist.

Making his hotly-anticipated debut, Ncuti's Doctor shouted: 'No way!' as he laid eyes on David, moving away from tradition which normally sees one Doctor replace another upon regeneration.

David said: 'You're me,' while Ncuti replied: 'No, I'm me. I think I'm really, really me! Oh-ho-ho I am completely me!'

When asked what had happened, Ncuti's Doctor said: 'Bi-generation, I have bi-generated. There's no such thing, bi-generation is supposed to be a myth, but-!'

The pair of Doctors then used their talents to face off with The Toymaker together and incredibly managed to beat him at his own game, sending the villain out of existence forever.

David's Doctor said: 'Best of three, and my prize, Toymaker, is to banish you from existence, for ever!'

'No, you can't. But I - not fair, please,' the Toymaker said, before giving the ominous warning: 'My legions are coming.'

After banishing The Toymaker from the world, both David and Ncuti's versions of the character stayed on screen, and went back to the TARDIS with Donna.

David asked Ncuti: 'How's this going to work, you and me?' as the huge twist saw two Doctors remain after a regeneration for the first time ever.

Ncuti told him: 'You're thin as a pin love, you're running on fumes,' before urging him to slow down and 'stop' rather than running and travelling in the TARDIS.

Ncuti then paid tribute to a whole host of former companions, including the late Elisabeth Sladen, who portrayed Sarah Jane Smith and sadly died in 2011.

'Sarah Jane has gone, can you believe that for a second?' Ncuti said as they sweetly paid tribute to the iconic actress.

Ncuti then told David's Doctor to try and lead a life of his own, to which David said: 'I've never let the TARDIS go, never, that would hurt.'

In another huge twist, Ncuti managed to transform the one TARDIS into two separate time machines as a 'reward' for them winning the game against The Toymaker, under his rules where games override logic.

The episode ended with Ncuti heading off for more time-travelling adventures in the TARDIS, while David stayed on Earth with Donna and her family, sweetly noting he'd 'never been happier in his life.''

[behind-the-screen-of-bangtan]

GOLDEN

Release date: 3 November 2023

Official page

Announcement

Pre-order notice

Promotion schedule, Promotion schedule 2, Promotion schedule 3

Tracklist

The Tracks: part Ⅰ, part Ⅱ

Preview

'GOLDEN' photo

GOLDEN AGE

'GOLDEN (US Exclusive)’ Unboxing Video with Jung Kook (Eng trans)

Official Youtube playlist

Official merch and artist frame from photoism

After teasing us with two tracks, Jung Kook released his first solo album, titled GOLDEN, in reference to his Golden maknae nickname (because he's the super-talented younger member of BTS).

Concept photo

Release date: 6-8 October 2023

SHINE

SOLID

SUBSTANCE

Jacket Shoot Sketch

Melon exclusive photo

In the SUBSTANCE concept, the graffiti in the background are based on Jung Kook's tattoos on his right arm, including:

0613: BTS' debut date (June 13, 2013)

"ARMY"

"Winners never quit"

"Truth"

Emojis

Crowns

"Make hay while the sun shine"

"Rather be the dead than cool"

A microphone

"花樣年華": The Most Beautiful Moment in Life in hanja, a reference to the eponymous album series by BTS

A snake

Chains

"XCVII": 97 in Roman numbers, a nod to 1997 Jung Kook's birth year

A tiger lily: Jung Kook's birth flower

G clef

A clock

Chains

Tracklist

3D (feat. Jack Harlow) (see this post)

Closer to You (feat. Major Lazer): lyrics

Seven (feat. Latto) - Explicit Ver. (see this post)

Standing Next to You (see below)

Yes or No: lyrics

Please Don't Change (feat. DJ Snake): lyrics

Hate You: lyrics

Somebody: lyrics

Too Sad to Dance: lyrics

Shot Glass of Tears: lyrics

Seven (feat. Latto) - Clean Ver.

Preview

It seems the whole video was filmed in the same warehouse, though I couldn't confirm it for "Closer to You".

We can see 6 posters on the cinema set:

Three of them are Halloween posters created by the Nasa: Galactic Graveyard, The Roasted Planet, Gamma Ray Ghouls

A poster for the movie Footfalls

An anti-rumour poster

Standing Next to You

Release date: 3 November 2023

Poster

Teaser

Lyrics

Other versions: Choreography ver., Lyric Video

Dance Practice

MV Photo Sketch

MV Shoot Sketch

Official Youtube playlist

The MV was filmed in Hungary., in an abandoned plant, Kelenföldi erőmű, and on the Hungaroring racetrack (src).

The female character is played by Pasha Harulia (Instagram).

Tanu Muiño, the MV director, explained in an Instagram post that the MV is inspired by the story of Romeo and Juliet. Several fans noticed similarities between the MV and the movie Romeo + Juliet. Baz Luhrmann, director of the movie, himself acknowledged the inspiration. You can refer to Lyna's thread for a more complete analysis.

The background is decorated with graffiti and posters referencing both Romeo + Juliet and the lyrics.

The limousines all have the same type of plate, from X001 to X014.

Version featuring Usher

Release date: 15 December 2023

Video teaser

Performance Video

Photo Sketch

Official Performance Video Sketch

Behind The Scenes

Usher's tweet

They filmed at 516 Anderson (website), an abandoned warehouse in Los Angeles (cr.).

The song is featured on Usher's album Coming Home.

GOLDEN : The Moments

Held on : 30 August - 22 September 2024

Notice

Official tweets

SamsungTV tweets

According to the notice, this exhibition is about recording "the moments in which [Jung Kook] presented his musical world to an even wider world through the “GOLDEN” album"."

JUNG KOOK : I AM STILL

Release date: 18 September 2024

Main Trailer

Official Photo 1

Sneak Peek

Official tweets

Special posters

The movie follows Jung Kook during his promotion for GOLDEN.

Promotion, interviews, and performances

Weverse magazine: "The artists who collaborated with Jung Kook on “Seven” and “3D”"

231013 Music Bank (Bonus ver.), Behind Photo #1, #2

[슈취타] EP.21 SUGA with 정국 Ⅱ

231105 @ iHeartRadio LIVE: 'Seven', 'Standing Next to You', interview

231107 The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon: interview, "Standing Next to You" performance

231110 Jung Kook Live at TSX, Times Square

231114 Audacy live with Jung Kook

231116 MCountdown

'GOLDEN' LIVE ON STAGE

Rolling Stone: "Jung Kook Shares Solemn New Video for His Ballad ‘Hate You’"

Spotify: Billions Club: The Series featuring Jung Kook, tweet from Spotify K-pop, tweet from Today's Top Hits

[EPISODE] Music Show Promotions Sketch

[abandoned-inquiries]

Quick Descriptions

Realized that I don't have any sort of post talking about each of the suspected entities. For this, we're going with the 8 Entities theory. They will be labeled by where they show up most frequently, and in order of most documented to least documented. My apologies in advance for the long post.

Carnival: This entity is supposedly like an old jester. It appears in any sort of old entertainment venue, but seems particularly fond of circuses/carnivals. Its tone has been described as high-pitched and fluctuating. It reportedly has pink skin, blue hair, eyes that are a pink and cyan swirl, sharp teeth, and- most interestingly- ears that (though pointed) are long and fold downwards toward the ends, with the very tips being cyan balls. Its energy is high and it reportedly loves to play games.

Casino: It's apparently the most human-looking of all the entities. Described to have a beard, greying hair, slightly tanned skin, and green eyes. It apparently uses a southern accent, and is reportedly "oddly charismatic" (guess you could call that southern charm, eh?). It's somewhat violent and owns some sort of handgun. It mainly shows up in abandoned establishments that I could only describe as "seedy".

Church: It's described pretty similarly to the Casino entity, but with a clean-shaven face and white eyes. On top of that, it's almost always seen in a priest's cassock. It has very few violent encounters, showing great amounts of patience and mercy towards anyone it encounters. Also! It only shows up in abandoned places of worship. So temples, churches, etc are all possibilities.

Cemetery: This entity is said to appear in places of grief- anything from abandoned morgues to graveyards. Its body said to be in blue monochrome with a black veil and dress. Its hair is long (about to its knees in most descriptions). Its feet and hands are noticeably muddied, and its unnaturally blue eyes are reportedly always visible. It's always crying. I kind of want to hug it just reading about it, to be honest.

Diner: A bit of an anachronistic being- this one is described as initially seeming like a human waitress, but then comes back out as a 3D 1950s cartoon. Its eyes- in what I can only assume is its actual form- are pie-slice styled. Its teeth are often said to be shark-like. It is described as having orange hair and eggshell-white skin. It's also reportedly very quick to anger.

Barracks: This entity has a military aesthetic and appears in abandoned military bases. It's known to be easy to upset. It's said to have eyes of red, with no visible iris or pupil. It's also been described as having a buzzcut, several open wounds that never seem to bleed, and a monotone.

Warehouse: HYPER-VIOLENT. It's known to be at the very least hostile and at the very most bloodthirsty. Elusive. It is tall, and in some accounts has glowing yellow dots for pupils and black gears for irises.

Trainyard: Also elusive- it somehow has less reports than the Warehouse entity. Its eyes are supposedly headlights? It appears mainly in transportation stations.

[jprandamonium]

I Shall Not Kill Pokemon

Here is a story I will just put here versus making a video. Maybe I should make posts before videos to refine it but I doubt that would be of use. Turning me into a rboboto. Oops, my programming split. Did I say programming? I meant brain. I am a human. Beepbobeep.

So, I played Pokemon Blue and that was the first one I beat the Elite Four. I sadly deleted them. My first kill. I wish they could have been saved BUT ... turns out.. they can't be saved like that. Future talk... Johto (Gold/Silver/Crystal) was not safe for shelter. The games use too much battery which kills them.... within 9 years. (Yep...)

I killed my team. I still can't let them go. I made sure I remember them. Waterdude the Blastoise. Flyer the Pidgeot, Haunter, Hitmonchan, Static the Raichu, Shocker the Pikachu and Snorlax. There was a few others but those 6 worked so hard to get through the Elite Four and .... Damnit Gary!!! I restarted the game to play the Pokemon Master challenge (Water). I made it to Articuno. The rules weren't refine back then. The goal was to get the Legendary pokemon of the type the trainer claimed to master. That was also deleted. I kinda had no remorse on those deaths. Pokemon Red... I wasn't truly dedicated on beating the game. (Later... in 8 years, I do and refuse to restart the game, sadly... there is no way to get them to go to a new region and explore their challenges)

For Johto.... I never deleted ever. I became sadden to the idea of replaying without having a safe place for them to go without killing them all. They worked so hard. TURN OF EVENTS... remember what said about the batteries? Within 3 years... gone. I remember that team. Yes... Gold's team lives in Heart Gold. However... I forgot the team of Crystal.... just a level 74 Feraligatr....

Gold's team was Typlosion, Quagsire, Ampharos, Noctowl, Bellsprout, Haunter (yep, love that pokemon), and Ho-oh. There were lots of Pokemon since it was a catch'em all affair. All whipped out. Killed. I blame the DAMN Gameshark but .... it wasn't its fault. I got lots of Celebis. Har-har.

The rest of the story is a better ending. Hoenn... Sapphire became the warehouse of all Pokemon from restarts of Leaf Green. I think. But later... Pokemon Diamond became the next safe haven. Whew. Then Pokemon White. Okay. This is good. And then... Pokemon Bank blocks the continued move. From the years... I started to make it a smaller catching in each replay (unless the Master Challenges). So, I just have a few Pokemon. The team. The 3 extras and most legendaries.

But Pokemon Bank! $5 a month. But I just need it for a few hours. Meaning... I would waste money for transferring... But I did some of White's and moved them into the newer games. Finding them homes and adding to the Pokedexes on my main games of the regions. But there is a new problem. I never mentioned how I transferred in the older games... all the games (up to 3DS and somewhat DS). I captured lots of Pokemon to trade for the cherished team. Pidgey, Rattata, Hoothoot, etc. Those poor digisouls got sacrificed for the others. Note: Capturing and trading rescue takes too much TIME! Pokemon X became the new one that needs to be cleared. I still haven't played Kalos region more than twice. (TERRIBLE!!!) The others in the 3DS haven't been restarted EVER. Good news... Unova and Alola are not worth many times around....

In the end, there are no Pokemon erased anymore. But Pokemon Bank did hold them back. Until some months ago. However... now Pokemon Home is asking money to transfer the wandering Pokemon to the newer regions... Thanks...

With the ending of Pokemon Bank... the new teams that could happen might all become stuck forever in the past. Not too bad but... it is when the ones who lost their trainer and had no where to go... they will return to a "Pokemon White" situation. Meaning... they would be stuck in a safe haven, never to go to a permanent home.

I did promise a happy ending. The true happy ending is that none at dying by my hand. They will die thanks to the battery ending the trainer and its life. I will try to get a saver but Gold and Crystal are too late. But the GBA and Red can be saved if I do it in time.

[julieverne]

From @purlturtle

RULES: post the names of the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Tag as many people as you have WIPs.

So I don't actually - this is awful but I just open either a Tumblr post or an AO3 draft and start typing, but I do have some WIP and some drafts.

WIP:

Time after Time. Warehouse 13. Helena goes back and nothing changes. Waiting for Helena to do something other than cry whenever I try to write it.

Too hot, hot damn. On hiatus because we didn't have a heatwave this year. Rizzoli and Isles

A Four Alarm Fire in a Small Apartment building. Person of Interest. Shaw's place burns down and the machine makes her bunk with Root. On hiatus.

Be My Guest. Oh dear. It's been on hiatus for nearly a year. There's stuff going on about it but it's not... I can't go back to daily unless/until I finish it. Rizzoli and Isles. On hiatus.

And for OG:

Pilot 19

Guides of Galahlia

Booty Island (Treasure Island but everyone is a cross-dressing lesbian)

Snowy River (more cross dressing lesbians)

Rocky Shores (yet more cross dress lesbians but there is a WAR)

Just completed:

The Arrangement

Artistic License

Running Up that Hill

And in the actual spirit of the post, the prompts in my drafts:

3d printer (hot)

Glitter lotion stripper?

Alligator

Comet?

Long day matchbox 20 (no one else will take this shit from me)

Secret bdsm

Comiccon

Coffee scrub

Gold star

Mauler

Jane waits for Maura to call her out and she never does

'if I liked women, I'd like you'

Jane reading Nancy Drew books on stakeouts

Five times they hugged and twice they didn't

Ren faire

5 times Maura trusts Jane and once she doesn't

It rains a lot in Boston and Jane only bought an umbrella after she met Maura (mar18)

Dispatch - written but possible

Frankie dress

University???

Wedding

Female boob inspector

Alice sands befriends Jane

Airendocks one bed

Fishing Xena au but riz

Hoyt J ives

Susie takes care of Maura

Mutant X Shalimar full feral in fire, Emma rescues her

Helena sends Myka gifts in the mail every week

So that's a lot and I've been stuck on OG for three months so... I suppose I need to get back into it?

Also I'm not tagging anyone because that makes me anxious on both sides of the tag, but feel free to copy and share your own WIP!

[internerdionality]

Every time a customer is like “I’ll never purchase another [redacted] again!” and we’re all like…

Coz like the thing is, we actually don’t mark up our product that much. The profit margin on our cheapest model is like $400, and even on the most expensive model it’s only a couple grand. And I get paid like $35 bucks an hour for tech/escalations support, right? So if you’re going to be that entitled customer who is gonna demand hours of my time trying to teach you 3D design from scratch and shit to try or give you gift cards and loads of emotional labor to make up for your imagined slights, it’s *genuinely cheaper* for the company to just break up with you early.

Like, I had this customer the other day, they dropped like two grand for our cheapest model and expect gold star service. Oh and they didn’t even buy it from US they bought it from like a Best Buy but the warranty is through us as the manufacturer so I still have to deal with them, cause as it happens one part of their system arrived broken, right? Okay, no big, right? We order them a new one and they Karen at the frontline tech who had the misfortune of dealing with them enough that he decides to give them an exception and ship it in advance instead of waiting for them to ship back the broken part first.

(This isn’t a huge deal, we just have to put a hold on their credit card and then manually release the replacement order rather than tying it to the returning order but it takes more staff time so we’re not supposed to do it very often)

Anyway, they apparently get the idea that this exception means they’re gonna get the replacement like, the next day.

(Which, I have this whole other rant about how Amazon is screwing things over for other companies by using the incredibly abusive labor practices that they do, because customers now expect that they’re gonna get things tout de suite and it shouldn’t cost them anything but even Amazon bleeds money on shipping, it’s just that the monopoly it gives them makes up for it. But no other company can do that without hemorrhaging money cause we have to pay fulfillment center and shipping companies that aren’t literally killing their employees. And people who run small business, like most of our customers, don’t understand that when they’re paying us for shipping, they’re paying for the warehouse staff we contract with to get the right thing off the shelf and pack it and put the right label on it, not just whatever FedEx or UPS are charging for shipping, because they don’t consider that labor when they doing their own budgeting).

But ANYWAY so they call in like 19 times (not exaggerating even a little) in the two days after this all goes down, wanting the tracking number for their part. And it turns out that whoops! the tech who diagnosed the problem made the exception to ship in advance but the service rep who processed the order was kinda operating on autopilot and forgot to manually release it.

At which point they go absolutely apeshit and the whole thing becomes my problem.

And they’re just Karening and Karening in my ear about how they’ve had to spend so much of their time working to fix this, and they made commitments to their customers based on the tech rep telling them it would definitely ship the next day (he didn’t, and I listened to their entire 40-minute call to prove it) and are now out thousands of dollars (why the hell would you commit to making “thousands of dollars” of product with a machine you JUST bought, that you only spent two grand on? This is our lowest model, we don’t even market it as a business tool! Sorry dude, your bad business plan is not my problem) and I have to “prove” to them that we’re going to stand by our product or they won’t further invest in our company, and oh by the way, they have friends who have millions of followers on social media, and I should know what that means, so I better really try hard to win back their trust…

And I’m just like….

Please, dude. Please go fuck yourself and never spend another dime with our company. You’ve *already* blown through our entire profit margin on the machine you bought by sucking up so many hours of staff time. You are literally more trouble than you’re worth. PLEASE just go away so I never have to hear from you again.

"i won't be coming back here" is the funniest possible thing you can say to a customer service worker. you're at your place of work and someone comes in, acts like a jerk, ruins your day, and then, paradoxically, finishes up by reassuring you that this interaction is now over and you'll never have to see or hear from them again

[cloudmistri1]

Cloud Mistri: The Most Trusted Civil Contractors and Construction Company in Jamshedpur

In the heart of Jharkhand lies Jamshedpur, a city of steel, growth, and opportunity. As the city evolves with new infrastructure, industries, and housing projects, the need for professional, reliable, and experienced civil contractors in Jamshedpur has grown significantly. At the forefront of this development is Cloud Mistri – a dynamic and innovative construction company in Jamshedpur dedicated to delivering high-quality construction services for residential, commercial, and industrial projects.

Introduction to Cloud Mistri

Cloud Mistri is more than just a construction brand; it is a symbol of trust, quality, and modern engineering in Jamshedpur. We blend technology with traditional construction expertise to deliver projects that are not only aesthetically appealing but also structurally sound and sustainable. Our services cover a wide spectrum—from residential buildings and renovations to commercial complexes, industrial warehouses, roadwork, and government contracts.

Whether you are a homeowner planning your dream house or a business seeking reliable infrastructure development, Cloud Mistri is your go-to solution for everything construction in Jamshedpur.

Why Jamshedpur Needs Professional Civil Contractors

Jamshedpur, known as the “Steel City of India,” is rapidly urbanizing. With new housing colonies, smart city projects, and industrial growth, there's a rising demand for qualified civil contractors in Jamshedpur who understand the local terrain, climate, and regulatory environment.

Professional civil contractors offer:

On-time project delivery

Adherence to government standards and safety codes

Accurate cost estimation and budget control

Access to quality raw materials and skilled labor

Use of advanced construction equipment and technologies

What Makes Cloud Mistri a Leading Construction Company in Jamshedpur?

At Cloud Mistri, we pride ourselves on offering end-to-end construction solutions under one roof. Here’s what sets us apart:

End-to-End Construction Services

From architectural planning and civil engineering to interior finishing and post-construction maintenance, we manage every phase of your project.

Experienced Team

Our team comprises skilled engineers, architects, project managers, and site supervisors with years of hands-on experience in the construction sector.

Quality Materials and Workmanship

We source only top-grade materials and work with certified vendors and subcontractors to ensure structural strength and aesthetic appeal.

Transparency and Communication

Clients are kept informed at every stage with regular progress reports, budget tracking, and real-time updates via our cloud-based project management system.

Timely Completion

We understand that time is money, which is why our project timelines are strictly adhered to—without compromising on quality.

Services Offered by Cloud Mistri

Residential Construction

Building your dream home? Cloud Mistri specializes in individual houses, duplexes, and apartments. We offer layout design, 3D modeling, foundation work, brickwork, roofing, and interior finishing.

Commercial Construction

From retail outlets to office spaces, our commercial construction services ensure your business stands out. We focus on functionality, branding, and customer accessibility.

Industrial Projects

As a reputed construction company in Jamshedpur, we construct durable and cost-effective warehouses, factories, and workshops designed for maximum efficiency and safety.

Renovation & Remodeling

Want to revamp an old property? We provide complete remodeling services including civil repairs, space redesign, and energy-efficient upgrades.

Roads and Infrastructure

Our infrastructure services include construction of roads, drainage systems, boundary walls, and utility pipelines for residential townships and industrial zones.

Importance of Hiring a Local Civil Contractor in Jamshedpur

Hiring local civil contractors in Jamshedpur like Cloud Mistri brings numerous advantages:

Familiarity with local regulations and municipal approvals

Faster site visits and better coordination

Local labor and material sourcing

Reduced logistics and transportation costs

Increased accountability and personalized service

Local expertise matters—and Cloud Mistri brings years of on-ground experience to your project.

Our Technology-Driven Construction Approach

At Cloud Mistri, we don’t just build—we innovate. Our use of modern tools and digital platforms sets us apart:

Cloud-based Project Management

Drones for Site Monitoring

3D Rendering & Virtual Walkthroughs

Real-time Cost Estimation Tools

Automated Progress Reporting

With technology at the core, our clients enjoy seamless communication and full transparency from start to finish.

Success Stories and Client Testimonials

Cloud Mistri built our 3BHK bungalow in Kadma. From design to execution, everything was professional. They even helped us get building approvals. Rakesh S., Jamshedpur

We hired them for our commercial complex in Sakchi. The project was delivered on time and within budget. Highly recommended. Sanjana T., Local Business Owner

Reliable and honest civil contractors in Jamshedpur are hard to find. Cloud Mistri restored my faith with their efficient renovation work. Arvind P., Retired Engineer

Sustainable and Eco-Friendly Construction

Sustainability is no longer optional—it’s essential. Cloud Mistri actively promotes green building practices:

Rainwater harvesting systems

Energy-efficient lighting and HVAC

Low-VOC paints and adhesives

Fly ash bricks and eco-friendly materials

Solar panel integration options

By combining innovation with responsibility, we help our clients reduce their environmental footprint while saving on energy costs.

Safety and Compliance

Construction is inherently risky—but not when you’re with Cloud Mistri. We strictly follow:

IS Codes and National Building Codes

On-site PPE usage and training

Fire safety and electrical compliance

Labor insurance and EHS protocols

We maintain a 100% compliance record, ensuring peace of mind for our clients and safety for our workers.

How to Get Started with Cloud Mistri

Starting your construction journey with us is simple:

Consultation

Call or visit our office for a free consultation. Discuss your needs, budget, and timeline.

Site Visit and Quotation

We assess your plot/site and provide a detailed proposal with cost estimation and timelines.

Design and Planning

Our architects and engineers prepare your building plan and 3D visualization.

Execution and Monitoring

We start construction with regular updates, milestone tracking, and client feedback loops.

Handover and Post-Support

After successful completion, we hand over the site with a quality assurance report and provide optional post-construction services.

Conclusion: Building Jamshedpur's Future, One Project at a Time

As the skyline of Jamshedpur transforms, the role of reliable, skilled civil contractors becomes vital. Whether it’s a small home or a large commercial venture, Cloud Mistri stands as a beacon of trust and excellence in the local construction industry.

Our expertise, commitment to quality, and client-first approach make us the preferred choice for anyone seeking a construction company in Jamshedpur. If you’re looking for professionals who deliver on their promise—look no further than Cloud Mistri.

[crafticocreations1]

Decorate and change the Space with 3D artwork and contemporary wooden items.

And when we talk about bringing your interior to a new level, there is one of the most innovative and impressive home decor trends related to 3D wall art. The era of one-dimensional paintings and standard prints is over. Modern 3D wall art is the latest design-conscious homeowner is embracing because of the attempt to add depth, texture, and luxury to their houses, especially in their living rooms, where impressions created by the eye are the most crucial.

Whatever your needs may be, be it handmade 3D paintings, 3D wooden very, or textured 3D wood walls, then you are in the news for 3D wall art has brought interior decor all the way to the next level.

Why is URSER 3D Wall Art to Have in the Living Room?

Your living room is the center of your relationships and interactions, the space where visiting friends and relatives meet and where your family spends time together, and the place where you express yourself mainly through style. Incorporating living room 3d wall art is a sure way of turning boring walls into talking points. The layers, the raised textures, and the shadows of 3D art add a gallery-like art collection that a simple print simply cannot emulate.

In contrast to the usual wall decoration, 3D items reflect light in different ways during the day, providing visual activity and an impression of movement and reality.

Contemporary 3D Wall Art: It is Sophisticated, as well as Innovative

Contemporary 3D wall imagery merges minimalist art with advanced technology. They may be made of metal, acrylic, or wood, but are shaped to fit into modern interiors and at the same time make a statement.

Modern 3D art on a wall has its flavour: it can be neutral colours, geometric shapes, and minimalistic lines, which fit in the sleek apartment, contemporary home, or even a creative office. It is more than just decor; it is the narrative of design that is made according to your style.

Wood Wall Panels in 3D: Nature and Eternal Elegance

3D wood wall panels are the best option in case you want to mix art and architecture. These are more than room decorators; they change the whole texture and feel of your room.

These panels are made out of natural or manufactured wood; hence, they introduce warmth, earthiness, and a sculptural touch to the walls. Put them behind your TV unit or as a statement wall; no matter where you hang them, 3D wood panels will use quality texture, functionality, and aesthetics to your advantage.

3D Wooden Wall Art: Organic, Fancy, and Spontaneous

To people who adore the rustic but with a modern flair, the 3D wooden wall artwork fills in the missing link. The craft items depict the elegant nature of wood grains, layered carvings, and the texture of the finishes.

Whether it is nature-inspired or abstract artwork, wooden 3D can be placed on the entryway, in bedrooms, or in the living room wall art arrangement. They not only look beautiful, but they also look good over time and do not suffer a quick wear and tear.

3D Painting Hand Made: Personalized Art

There is nothing better than the originality of a 3D painting made by hand. The layers of paint, texture ingredients, and the palette knives mostly used in making these paintings provide a sculptural effect on canvas paintings.

Unique items made by hand bring a soul and originality to your interior that tend to become the main piece of it. The incorporation of texture mainly created by hand, as well as the artistic expression, makes every piece uniquely one of a kind, whether abstract in nature or more nature-inspired.

Visit the store Wall Art 3D Warehouse or Wall Decor 3D Warehouse

In case you are in search of high-quality and varied designs, go to the wall art 3D warehouse or the wall decor 3D warehouse collections. These websites provide anything and everything a person needs; from fine items to large items, you can find anything, in 3D form as well.

You can select them in multiple materials, sizes, and even prices so that you can choose the one that best suits your taste, the amount of space in your room, and how much you want to spend. When you are setting up your new house or just renovating your interior, these warehouses offer the possibility of choice and professional standards in one place.

Final Thoughts

This trend could be seen in 3D wall art living room, 3D wooden wall art, handcrafted 3D paintings, and much more. Wonderfully dimensional, wall art speaks to your heart and is a work of art in itself, imbuing life into your home, in a way that standard paintings/art could not.

[bolters-and-rivets]

Also imagine unironically thinking workers with physical jobs aren't intelligent or "thinkers". I'm not sure if it's ablist but it's at the very least a sentiment that's as ridiculous as it is horrible.

I work as a cleaner at a distribution warehouse, it's barely above minimum wage (UK) but it pays enough for me to get by. I push industrial bins around, mop, and sweep all day, it's a very physical job.

You know what I also do in my spare time? I paint Warhammer, I have a 3d printer and I tought myself to use Tinkercad to the level where I can make accurate scale models of trains, accurate enough to sell for money.

But that doesn't make the money I need to live, if I really pushed it I'd maybe make £100-300 a month, at which point I'd be too burnt out from running an entire business myself to work the next month.

So I work as a cleaner because it provides a secure wage and doesn't leave me constantly stressed from worrying about if I'll be able to afford rent.

The physicality of a job means jack fucking shit about the intelligence of the person working it, what it does mean is our society doesn't allow most people to make a living from their true strengths, and most people will get the job that allows them to survive because the alternative is starving on the streets

Should go without saying but never date a cop and christ never marry one. Rule of thumb if he's legally untouchable he's ethically unfuckable. You don't like that cop, you like buff men in tight clothing. I can show you more of those, better ones. Take my hand.