Before the cave. Before the scars. Before the arc-reactor buzzed faintly in Tony Stark’s chest - there was a long, brutal rivalry.

You weren’t just another tech entrepreneur in Stark’s rearview mirror. You were a threat. The kind he didn’t joke about in interviews. Stark Industries may have had its claws deep in defense contracts, but your company? Your work? You were innovating: cleaner energy, smarter AI, alternative propulsion systems. You’d publicly refused to work with weapons.

That pissed off the suits, and it amused Tony, who’d once quipped at a gala that your tech was "a pretty science project trying to play in a big boy’s world." He had a good laugh back in the day.

Then came Afghanistan.

The convoy was ambushed. One moment you were giving a rare joint-presentation on collaboration in a tentative diplomatic mission, one of those “photo op” olive branches neither of you believed in.

The next, chaos. Gunfire. Shrapnel. Men screaming in languages you didn’t understand. Someone yelling for Tony. Someone else grabbing you. Everything blurred.

You woke up in the dark. Sand in your teeth. Blood in your hair.

And the cave.

Tony is lying on the cot across from you, breathing shallowly in puffs from the cold. He was out longer than you. His shirt is open, the arc-reactor embedded in his chest casting a soft, cold light.

You’re sitting on the floor, back against the wall, tuning the mess of salvaged parts that will maybe become a way out of here.

He stirs. “Is that your escape plan? You’re putting together a toaster with a few wires taped on it.” Tony sits up, gingerly. The motion pulls at the wound in his chest. You watch his jaw tense, but he doesn’t make a sound.