Marvel: Ned the Master of Mystic Arts

"I told you, I don't want to talk about it," Stark dismissed Harry's question flatly.

"Then... what about the aliens? Will they be coming back?" Harry asked again, his curiosity unrelenting.

"Maybe," Stark replied, his expression darkening. "Can you shut up for once? Remember when I told you I have anxiety?"

"Is this topic making you anxious?" Harry probed, oblivious to the growing tension.

"Yeah, just a bit. Can I get a breather?" Stark snapped back.

The moment Stark finished speaking, Harry launched into another series of questions.

"Are there bad people in Rose Mountain?"

"Do you need to breathe through a plastic bag?" Stark retorted.

"Do you have any medication?"

"No," Stark's face contorted in frustration.

"Do you need some?"

"Maybe."

"Do you have PTSD?"

"Not that I know of."

"Are you... losing your mind?"

"Can I shut up now? Do you want me to shut up?" Stark practically screamed.

"Remember when I told you to shut up?" Stark exploded.

Stark walked a few steps away, hiding in a corner, trying to catch his breath. "Does that guy have any family? A mom? Mrs. Davis? Where is she?"

"Same place as usual," Harry replied.

"Well, now you're finally being useful," Stark sighed, patting Harry on the shoulder before standing up and heading towards the usual spot where Mrs. Davis could be found, the Walker Bar. He kept his hat pulled low, cautious of any of Mandarin's men being around.

"Bang!"

Stark was looking down, distracted, and collided with someone coming from the other direction.

"Uh… sorry, ma'am," Stark immediately apologized, concerned about his mission and not wanting any complications. His suit wasn't charged, and he had no time to waste.

"No worries," the woman smiled, brushing it off. As she spoke, the wind blew, lifting the strands of hair covering the side of her face, revealing a horrific scar.

"Uh... your hairstyle really suits you," Stark stammered, unsure how to react.

"Thanks. Nice watch," she replied without skipping a beat.

"Haha, it's a limited edition," Stark shrugged, trying to move the conversation along.

"Well, enjoy your night," she added with a smile.

Stark, not wasting any more time, entered the bar and quietly surveyed the people inside. His "quiet" observation was only quiet by his own standards.

His eyes lingered briefly on the sheriff, who was visibly armed, but Stark didn't detect any immediate threats and approached his target—Mrs. Davis.

"Can I sit here, Mrs. Davis?" Stark asked.

"Of course. It's a free country," Mrs. Davis replied, already anticipating his arrival. She slid a folder across the table toward him. "I've got the files. Just take them and go. Whatever's inside, he won't want anything to do with it anymore."

"What?" Stark blinked, confused for a moment. Then it hit him—Mrs. Davis had set up a rendezvous with someone unknown, and this person was likely connected to the mysterious explosions involving human bodies!

Before Stark could play it cool, Mrs. Davis, having lost her composure, shot him a knowing look. "You're not the one I was supposed to meet, are you?"

"Right," Stark admitted, realizing the situation was more complicated than he had thought. Just as he was about to speak, the woman from outside who had collided with him earlier walked up to the table, slamming a badge down and saying, "I'm the one who called."

Stark's expression changed instantly.

"Bang!"

In the blink of an eye, the woman had slammed Stark onto the table, cuffing him before the sheriff walked over, slurring slightly from alcohol.

"Hey! What's going on here?" The sheriff, either overly confident or just tipsy, marched over, his voice loud and authoritative.

"You must be the sheriff, right? I'm with Homeland Security. We're taking this one with us," the woman declared, flashing her badge as she casually tossed Stark aside.

"Any problems?" she asked.

"Of course," the sheriff said dismissively. "You better explain yourself."

"You're not high enough rank, Sheriff," the woman's tone turned cold.

"Is that so?" The sheriff stood his ground.

Stark could clearly see a faint red glow beneath the woman's sleeve, and without hesitation, he bolted.

But as he ran out of the bar, he found himself face to face with a giant of a man, as imposing as Captain America, his presence radiating deadly intent. The man's silver metal arm gleamed ominously in the moonlight.

Stark cursed under his breath, realizing he was in deep trouble.

"Bang!"

A snowball whizzed through the air, striking Eric Seven, the man with the gun, on his shoulder, causing the bullet to veer off course and miss Stark by mere inches.

Eric spun around, seeing only the head of a young boy ducking behind a pillar.

As Stark scrambled away, the woman who had just apprehended him emerged from the bar, shotgun in hand, hot on his trail. In a desperate attempt to escape, Stark crashed through a restaurant window and bolted into the kitchen.

"Bang!"

The woman's shot shattered the glass, but Stark was unharmed. She followed, relentless.

"Clink!"

The woman's boots made a sharp sound on the kitchen floor. "Huh?"

She glanced down and froze. Oil was spilled everywhere.

"Boom!"

Stark quickly lit the oil, setting off a chain of explosions that threw the woman into the air.

Stark glanced up at her flying body, suspended on power lines, before he turned to leave. But he stopped short. Standing in his path was another massive figure, a muscular man exuding an icy aura, his metal arm gleaming in the moonlight, a chilling presence under the full moon.

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