Marvel's Iron Lady

"What? Why are you the only one who made it back? Where are the others?!"

A rough male voice suddenly rang out nearby, tinged with anger as if barely suppressing an explosion of fury. His wrath was directed at his trembling subordinates, and it was clear that the source of his frustration was on the verge of boiling over.

"The Americans put up a strong resistance, boss. We lost a lot of men capturing this woman from their convoy."

"The others stayed behind to cover my escape, blocking the U.S. forces. After that... I don't know what happened."

There was a brief pause, followed by the sharp sound of a slap. Someone had been hit, falling to the ground and colliding with something, producing a clattering noise. The man's angry voice roared again, followed by a string of curses.

"Damn it, you idiot! A fully manned squad couldn't handle a small U.S. transport convoy, and you let them wipe out our men? Why didn't you die there instead!"

"Boss... please, spare me. I did bring her back. I captured the woman you wanted!"

Another moment of silence fell, broken by the sudden crack of gunfire that echoed harshly in the confined space. The next sound was the dull thud of a body hitting the ground.

The captive woman, bound to a chair, flinched in terror at the gunshot, desperately struggling against the ropes that held her in place, her body writhing in fear.

The rough sack covering her head was yanked off abruptly, and the sudden light that flooded her vision allowed her to once again see the world around her.

She quickly took in her surroundings and the grim situation she was in.

In front of her stood a man wearing sunglasses, staring at her with a twisted grin.

On the ground, a lifeless body lay in a pool of blood, growing colder by the second.

Around her were terrorists, their faces hidden by scarves and their belts heavy with automatic weapons. The stench of gunpowder and sweat permeated the air in the dim, smoky cave—a veritable death trap from which there seemed to be no escape.

Several thick ropes, woven from rough hemp, tied her tightly to the rickety chair she was sitting on. She felt an overwhelming sense of suffocation, the constriction of the ropes making even the slightest movement impossible.

Her arms were bound tightly behind her, ropes wound around her chest after circling her back. The black stockings on her legs had been torn and snagged by the coarse fibers of the ropes. Her knees and ankles were similarly bound to the legs of the chair, leaving her completely immobilized.

Despite this tight confinement, her clothing remained intact, with no signs of being torn or disturbed—a small relief amid her dire situation.

"Although this meeting may not be under pleasant circumstances, I must still say... welcome to Afghanistan, ma'am."

The bald man standing in front of her removed his sunglasses and bent down in an exaggeratedly gentlemanly bow. He wore what he likely thought was a friendly smile, but combined with the wolfish gleam in his eyes and the scars on his face, the effect was terrifyingly grotesque.

"Who... who are you people? Do you know who I am? How dare you treat me like this!"

Her face betrayed her panic and fear, emotions that only seemed to excite the terrorists surrounding her. Their leering eyes and wicked grins grew more pronounced the more distressed she appeared.

"I'm warning you! Release me immediately, or you'll regret it!"

Her words briefly caught the bald man off guard, but he quickly erupted in laughter. His subordinates, following their leader's lead, joined in, filling the cramped cave with their mocking laughter.

"Ma'am, it seems you still don't understand the situation."

The man stepped forward slowly, removing a worn leather glove from his right hand, revealing a weathered and cracked hand that looked as though it had endured countless hardships. It was a frightening sight.

"You're in a place that not even the U.S. military knows about. You're completely alone here, and whatever power you think you have means nothing to us. Threatening us will only make your situation worse."

As he spoke, the man reached out, his rough hand brushing lightly against her pale cheek. He closed his eyes as if savoring the fleeting sensation, as if he wished to burn the smooth texture of her skin into his memory forever.

In the barren desert of Afghanistan, in this desolate, godforsaken place, women were both a necessity and a disposable commodity.

The women captured by his men were never as beautiful as the one before him—usually just tools for venting their frustrations. But this woman, clearly an American, with soft, delicate skin and a slender, graceful figure—she was different. A rare prize from a powerful, wealthy background.

However, he knew all too well—no matter how tempting, they could not touch her. Not yet. Not until she had fulfilled her purpose.

He slipped his glove back on and took a photo from one of his men, placing it in front of the woman. Her eyes fell on the picture, and for a moment she seemed to freeze, before her expression twisted in anger. The man smiled brightly at the sight.

"You see, we brought you here today because we need your help with something. We need an expert in military engineering to help us recreate the glory of this weapon. This is your creation, after all—you must know how to build it again."

"You've got some nerve. Why should I help a bunch of terrorists build missiles?"

"Because you don't have a choice. Unless, of course, you want to become nothing more than a plaything for my men, bearing children. Otherwise, you have no other option."

She glanced at the missile in the photo, then at the dirty, foul-smelling men around her, and reluctantly nodded.

"A wise decision. Due to the language barrier, I've arranged for an assistant and translator to help you communicate with my men. Whatever you need, just ask. As long as you build the missile for me, we will let you go."

With that, the man gestured to his subordinates, who rushed forward to untie her. Their rough handling and deliberate touches made her skin crawl, but she bit her lip and tried her best to avoid the unwanted hands, her brow furrowing in disgust.

48 Hours Earlier—

Due to a strategic shift by the U.S. military in the Asia-Pacific region, the U.S. Department of Defense organized a new round of weapon bids and exhibitions. Many private military-industrial companies brought their latest technological products to participate in the event, and naturally, Stark Industries, led by Miss Stark, was among them.

Stark Industries had officially been inherited by Miss Stark, and things were running smoothly. She had brought in a group of trusted confidants to occupy key positions within the company, a move that had stirred up some internal conflicts.

In order to suppress the instability within the company, Miss Stark decided to showcase a new set of weapon technologies at the exhibition, using it as leverage to secure further cooperation with the U.S. military, thus quelling the opposition within the company by delivering tangible results.

Stark Industries had already signed a series of weapon contracts with the U.S. Department of Defense. That very night, a shipment of military goods, including three of their latest missiles, was loaded onto a U.S. transport plane and flown directly to Bagram Air Base in southern Afghanistan.

After the U.S. military's exhibition concluded, the Department of Defense invited several collaborating private military companies to a smaller, private awards ceremony, held in the heart of Las Vegas, Nevada.

As a loyal partner of the U.S. military, Stark Industries was naturally among the honored guests. In fact, Miss Stark had already been selected to receive one of the awards—a decision that, while she found somewhat trivial, was strongly encouraged by Obadiah Stane.

"She's a true patriot, a brilliant businesswoman, and a scientist who, through her cutting-edge technology, has safeguarded the world's freedom and stability, as well as the dignity and interests of the United States."

At the podium stood Lt. Colonel James Rhodes, dressed in a smart, dark military uniform, his chest gleaming with medals under the spotlight. His brow was slightly damp with sweat, and the dark hall before him was packed with camera lenses.

"As the liaison between the U.S. military and Stark Industries, I'm proud to work alongside such a true patriot."

With that, he lifted the crystal-clear trophy beside him, holding it up for the audience to see.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the recipient of this year's Peacekeeper Award, the current president of Stark Industries—Miss Antonia Natasha Stark."

He recited the speech that had been given to him the night before. However, as the ceremony reached its climax, there was no sign of Miss Stark coming up to accept the award. Her familiar face was nowhere to be seen among the crowd, leaving many of her business partners exchanging puzzled glances.

On stage, Lt. Colonel Rhodes looked increasingly awkward, while in the audience, Obadiah Stane sighed helplessly. Ignoring the curious stares from around him, he slowly stood up, ready to smooth things over for his notoriously unpredictable "niece."

That girl's personality was just like her father's—always making a scene, even at such critical moments. Did she not realize that such stunts could make people resent Stark Industries, damaging the company's reputation and inviting opposition?

In the end, amidst polite applause, the elderly Obadiah Stane, who had diligently served Stark Industries for decades and recently stepped down as CEO, made his way to the podium to accept the award on her behalf.

"Thank you, Colonel Rhodes—this is quite the trophy, and I'm sure she'll love it."

"No problem."

Rhodes smiled wryly, shaking his head. He was all too familiar with the erratic nature of the Stark family. Once Miss Stark set her mind on something, not even a team of horses could drag her back.

"Of course, I'm not her, but I've watched that girl grow up. She has a lot of shining qualities, though she's inherited a few flaws from her father, which I'm sure many of you have noticed."

The audience chuckled at Stane's humorous remark. Many in attendance had long known both Howard Stark and his daughter, and they were well aware of the similarities between the two.

"Honestly, both father and daughter share the same flaw—they're too absorbed in their work. I thought retirement would give me a bit of peace, but as you can see—looks like I'm still needed."

With a sigh and a shrug, Stane spread his hands in mock resignation, earning a wave of knowing laughter from the crowd.

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