The basement beneath my estate didn't exist on any county zoning maps.

  Above ground, the house was a masterpiece of modern architecture- massive panes of reinforced glass, steel beams, and minimalist white walls sitting on a secluded cliff in Malibu. Below ground, it was a temperature-controlled, hermetically sealed vault built into the bedrock.

  A gentle, steady lo-fi hip-hop beat played from a Bluetooth speaker on the corner of my workbench.

  I leaned over the table, a magnifying visor pulled down over my eyes. In my right hand, I held a wooden cotton swab, lightly dipped in a specialized solvent. I was working on a 15th-century Venetian landscape, meticulously rolling the swab over a darkened patch of varnish that had accumulated five hundred years of dirt.

  Roll, lift, check the cotton. The swab came away yellowed. The blue of the painted sky underneath breathed for the first time in centuries.

  It was tedious, microscopic work. One heavy-handed wipe could strip the paint and ruin the history. But I had time. That was the one thing I had in abundance. Patience wasn't a virtue for me; it was just a byproduct of immortality.

  A soft chime interrupted the lo-fi beat. The music paused.

  "Mr. Raizel," the crisp, automated voice of my estate's interface spoke through the speakers. "Ms. Potts is at the main gate. She apologizes for the lack of notice."

  I set the swab down and pushed the visor up.

  "Let her in. Have the kitchen prepare a pot of Earl Grey. Real leaves, not the bags."

  "Right away, sir."

  I took off my apron, washed my hands at the stainless steel sink, and took the private elevator up to the main house.

  By the time the elevator doors opened into the sunlit, glass-walled living room, Pepper was already pacing. She was in a sharp grey pencil skirt and a white blouse, clutching a tablet to her chest. She looked exhausted. There were faint, dark circles under her eyes, barely hidden by makeup.

  "Adrian, I am so sorry to intrude," Pepper said, stopping her pacing as I walked in. "I know you like your weekends quiet, but the legal department is threatening a walkout, and I really needed an executive signature."

  "Sit down, Pepper," I said, gesturing to the white leather sofa.

  She hesitated, looking at her watch, but her shoulders slumped. She practically collapsed onto the cushions, setting the tablet on the glass coffee table.

  I sat in the armchair opposite her just as a muted dumbwaiter opened in the wall behind me. I retrieved the silver tray, poured a cup of tea, and slid it across the table to her.

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  "Drink," I said gently.

  She took the cup, the fine china clinking slightly because her hands were shaking. She took a sip and let out a long, shuddering breath. "Thank you."

  "The Expo," I guessed, leaning back and crossing my legs.

  "The Expo," she confirmed, rubbing her temple. "Flushing Meadows is a logistical nightmare. We're rebuilding the entire 1974 Stark Expo grounds. The permits alone require a small army of lawyers. And Tony..."

  She stopped, biting her lip.

  "Tony is being Tony," I finished for her.

  "Worse," Pepper said, her voice dropping. "He's erratic, Adrian. He's always been reckless, but this is different. He's canceling board meetings. He's giving away his private collection, he donated a Rothko to a boys' club in Brooklyn yesterday. He's acting like a man who..."

  She didn't finish the sentence. She couldn't.

  But I knew.

  Tony was dying. The palladium core in his chest, the very thing keeping the shrapnel out of his heart was slowly poisoning his blood. Every time he put on the Iron Man suit, the toxicity levels spiked. He was spiraling, trying to secure his legacy before the clock ran out, and he was too proud and too terrified to tell the woman sitting in front of me.

  "He's hyper-focused on the Expo," Pepper continued, scrolling on her tablet and pushing it toward me. "He says it's his father's legacy, but he's throwing money at it like there's no tomorrow. I just need you to look over these budget approvals. If you sign off on the Phase Two construction, I can keep the contractors working through the weekend."

  I didn't look at the numbers. I picked up the digital pen and signed my name on the glowing screen, transferring my majority authorization to her files.

  Pepper blinked, surprised. "You didn't even read the margins. It's nearly four hundred million dollars."

  "I trust you, Pepper," I said calmly. "Stark Industries didn't survive Obadiah Stane because of Tony's armor. It survived because you held the foundation together."

  She looked down at her tea, a faint blush hitting her cheeks. The validation seemed to knock the wind out of her sails.

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, giving her my full attention. This was the "Noblesse" aspect of my soul. I couldn't cure Tony's blood toxicity, that was his hurdle to overcome, his catalyst to synthesize the new element. But I could shield the people caught in his blast radius.

  "Listen to me," I said, my voice carrying a quiet gravity. "Tony is chasing ghosts. He feels the weight of the world on his shoulders right now, and his coping mechanism has always been deflection. He pushes people away by making a mess."

  Pepper looked up, her eyes glossy. "I just don't know how to manage him right now. He won't let me in."

  "You don't manage him," I replied. "You manage the company. Let him build his Expo. Let him play his part. But do not let his chaos break you."

  I reached across the table and tapped the edge of her tablet.

  "Take the rest of the day off. The contractors have their money. The lawyers have their signatures. Go home and sleep."

  Pepper let out a dry, tired laugh. "If I turn my phone off, the company might actually catch fire."

  "If it does, I'll buy us a new one," I said without a trace of a joke.

  She stared at me for a moment, then smiled. It was a real, genuine smile. The frantic energy that had followed her into the house finally dissipated.

  "You're a very strange man, Adrian," she said, finishing her tea and standing up.

  "I prefer the term partner," I said, standing with her. I walked her to the elevator.

  Before the doors closed, she looked back. "Will you come to the opening ceremony? Next month in New York?"

  "I'll be there," I promised. "Someone has to make sure he doesn't accidentally blow up the globe."

  The elevator doors slid shut.

  I stood in the quiet living room for a moment, listening to the ocean waves crashing outside. Tony was running out of time. The black veins were creeping up his neck, and Justin Hammer and Ivan Vanko were already moving.

  I turned and headed back toward the basement stairs. The 15th-century painting wasn't going to clean itself, and I needed the distraction. The loud years were coming back soon enough.