Sir, the toxicity level has reached twenty-four percent, Jarvis chimed in, his voice calm yet heavy with numerical doom.

Tony ignored the warning, his eyes fixed on a dusty crate in the corner of the lab. Inside was a collection of his father’s old blueprints, relics of a Cold War era that felt centuries away. He pulled out a worn reel of 16mm film labeled "Project Exodus." As the projector flickered to life, Howard Stark’s face appeared, youthful and stern.

The workshop hummed with a low, electric pulse as Tony Stark adjusted the localized arc reactor in his palm. It was the eve of the Stark Expo, but the flashing red lights on his health monitor told a different story—the palladium in his chest was poisoning him faster than he could find a cure.

If you tell me what happens next, I can continue the story by describing: The between Iron Man and Whiplash.