The blinds were drawn, muting the winter light into a dull haze. Across the desk, Sergei Orlov lit a cigarette, the ember flaring briefly in the gloom. His voice was even, his words deliberate.
"You've attracted attention, Anton. Not all of it… constructive. The Ministry believes your facility would benefit from formal oversight. A dedicated unit could be stationed on-site—military personnel to safeguard operations and ensure uninterrupted production."
Anton's tone was polite, but the edge was there. "Oversight or surveillance?"
Orlov's lips curved faintly. "Security without oversight is an illusion. Our proposal ensures that supply chains, distribution, and infrastructure remain protected. The more we know, the more we can shield you from unnecessary interference."
Ivan leaned forward, his voice cool. "And the more you know, the easier it is to copy our work." Googlᴇ search 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅•𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾•𝗇𝖾𝗍
Orlov didn't flinch. "In strategic industries, secrecy can sometimes be mistaken for instability. Without clarity, partners hesitate, approvals take longer, and… opportunities fade. Cooperation would keep everything predictable."
Anton's reply was measured. "Predictability works both ways. If no one knows where production takes place, no one can… mishandle it. That seems predictable enough."
Orlov tapped ash into a tray, his tone still calm. "As you wish. If that is your position, the Ministry will respect it. Just remember—in the absence of coordination, unforeseen complications have a way of multiplying."
Anton inclined his head in polite dismissal. "I think we'll manage. Thank you for your concern."
Orlov lingered for a moment, then rose and left without another word, as he needed to report about the meeting to the military and the president.
Ivan waited until the sound of the front door shutting echoed through the office. "Are you sure that was wise? You just told them nothing."
Anton leaned back in his chair, lighting his own cigarette. "They don't care, Ivan. And neither do we. Luthar's protection is worth more than their entire Ministry. If something happens, he'll handle it."
Ivan's brow furrowed. "And the resources to keep building?"
Anton smirked and pulled up a message on his data pad—Justin Hammer's logo flashing at the top. "Our American friend wants to partner. His facilities, his money, our designs. He thinks he can use us, In reality, he's just become a tool for us. We let him build in America, we take what we need, and if we're smart, we can cause headaches for Tony Stark at the same time."
Ivan's eyes narrowed. "And what about Hammer once he gets technology, won't he get out of control?"
"That's not a concern. Russia won't notice for a long time, and Hammer will realise the mistake far too late. We use him, then step away before the fallout and take away all the armour. Same with the Russians. The trick is control—every suit built must be under our control. Resources, facilities, money… all feeding us, not them."
Ivan gave a slow nod, a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "And in the end?"
Anton exhaled a stream of smoke. "In the end, the armor is ours, the factories are ours, and the world will be too busy tearing itself apart before they realize we are gone."
He stubbed out the cigarette and rose, motioning for Ivan to follow. The two made their way through a narrow hallway, their footsteps muffled on worn industrial carpeting, until they reached the unmarked steel door at the back. Anton keyed in a code, a mechanical lock disengaged, and they stepped inside.
The safehouse was quiet but alive. The air was warm with the scent of machine oil and faint ozone, the tang of electrical discharge clinging to every surface. A low hum came from the racks of servers along one wall, indicator lights blinking in steady patterns. Across from them, a bank of monitors displayed real-time feeds from the true factory, hidden deep in a remote, unlisted location. Robotic arms swung through arcs of precision, sparks flaring in bright, silent bursts as welding drones stitched armour plating together. Conveyor systems carried completed segments into shadowed storage bays.
Anton settled into the primary control chair, his fingers moving across the holographic interface. Commands flowed through encrypted channels, relayed to the hidden facility without revealing its coordinates. On the workbench beside him, a scaled-down armour joint rotated slowly, servo-motors cycling with a soft whine as Ivan adjusted its calibration.
"They'll think this is the factory," Ivan said, glancing around the room. "If they're watching, they'll only see prototypes and scraps."
Anton's mouth twisted into a faint smirk. "Let them watch. It keeps their eyes off the real prize."
Beyond the walls of the safehouse, the first ripples of the meeting's aftermath were already spreading.
In Moscow, the Ministry's request for "oversight" shifted into something sharper. The Federal Security Service began compiling surveillance logs, cross-referencing Anton's movements, and dispatching plainclothes teams to shadow any associates. Listening posts were activated, monitoring encrypted transmissions in hopes of catching a trace of the factory's location.
Across the ocean, in the gleaming confines of Stark's Malibu lab, Tony Stark leaned over a fresh arc reactor core, its new palladium-free element glowing softly. Fury stood beside him, silent as Tony muttered calculations, the faint whir of J.A.R.V.I.S.'s processors filling the air. By the time the reactor was sealed, Fury had already begun the process of assembling a "specialised response unit"—one capable of countering emerging tech threats. The roster would need the right balance of skill, discretion, and loyalty.
Within S.H.I.E.L.D., another conversation was unfolding behind closed doors. Men and women whose loyalties lay with Hydra studied the roster as it formed, inserting names, removing others, and ensuring that when this new security team was activated, it would already be compromised from the inside.
Back in the safehouse, Anton leaned back in his chair as a batch of encrypted schematics finished uploading to an offsite server—Justin Hammer's personal inbox. Somewhere in New York, Hammer would soon be smiling at the designs he believed were a gift. In truth, they were the time bomb; once exploded, they would take away him and the stark.
Ivan shut down the prototype joint with a hiss of vented pressure. "How long are we going to continue this? Shouldn't we go and take our revenge?"
Anton lit another cigarette. "It's not the time yet; it's better to finish the work that has been assigned to us, as for the revenge, it's just a matter of time."