Proof that Tony Stark has a Heart

Chapter!!!

*Warning: Violence*

I steered the car along the left-hand lane, leaving the glow of King's Cross Station behind. The streets gradually thinned, rain-slicked cobblestones replacing the bustling asphalt of central London. My tires hissed softly as they rolled through puddles, tiny splashes smearing across the windshield. From my seat on the right, I watched familiar landmarks fade into shadows, the hum of the city giving way to a quieter rhythm. The faint scent of wet stone and petrol drifted through the slightly cracked window.

Relief washed over me. After the chaos of the day, the quiet streets felt like a small blessing. I thought of Grimmauld Place — its hidden entrance tucked away, its secrecy a comfort I hadn't realized I needed until now. The car's headlights carved a path through twisting streets, and I let myself relax, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease. The engine's hum vibrated under my palms, steady and reassuring.

A black cab drifted past in the opposite direction, passengers lost in their own world, while I followed the invisible map of memory and instinct. The faint aroma of coffee and fried food drifted from a late-night café, mingling with the wet chill in the air. Soon, the brick walls and wrought-iron gates of Grimmauld Place would rise before me, unassuming to anyone passing by but a sanctuary to me and those I cared about. A flicker of warmth stirred in my chest, a rare moment of contentment.

I eased the car forward as the traffic light flicked green. Anxiety stirred briefly — the weight of the city pressed in — but I pressed the accelerator, the engine humming beneath me, grounding me. I was almost home. Almost safe.

Then, in an instant, everything shattered.

A massive armored truck slammed into the side of my car with a deafening crash. Metal screamed against metal, glass exploded, and a sickening crunch reverberated through me. Panic ripped through me, raw and immediate, as the impact tore the steering wheel from my hands. The world outside became a blur of streetlights, neon signs, and rain, twisting and tumbling around me.

The car rolled again and again, each flip accompanied by bone-jarring thuds. Twisting metal and snapping glass rang in my ears. Every nerve screamed as the seatbelt straps bit into my chest. Rain stung my face through the shattered windows, mixing with blood and the sharp tang of petrol. I felt utterly small, utterly powerless.

Then — silence, broken only by the distant wail of sirens and the occasional drip of water from the torn roof.

My head throbbed with a deep, pulsing ache. Glass pressed against my cheek as I tried to lift it, but my head refused to obey. Every movement sent sharp jolts of pain through my body. Rain trickled in through the broken windshield, cold and insistent, mixing with the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. My lips and tongue felt swollen, sticky, foreign.

My vision blurred. Streetlights and neon signs outside swirled in dizzying loops. The hum of the city — once comforting — was now distant and muffled, replaced by the groaning metal of the crumpled vehicle, the soft plink of water dripping inside, and the faint hiss of steam from the engine. Desperation gnawed at me. I can't die here. I can't. Then a sharp, guilty relief stabbed through me — Lucas isn't here. My three-year-old son, safe at home, unaware of the chaos outside. I'd never forgive myself if he'd been with me.

I tried to speak, to call out, but the words came out as a weak, strangled gasp. Pain wrapped around me like a vice, squeezing my chest and limbs. Fear was a living thing in my chest, heavy and insistent, threatening to drag me under. I closed my eyes, fighting the creeping darkness at the edges of my consciousness.

Through the haze of blood, rain, and smoke, I saw movement: the armored truck had stopped a few feet away. Two figures climbed down from the cab, stepping carefully onto the wet street. The smell of leather, oil, and damp metal reached me even through the broken windshield. They moved toward my mangled car with deliberate, almost ominous precision, and a chill of dread coiled tightly in my stomach.