A Dangerous Game

Chapter 1

This has been my little side project to train myself in the fine art of writing short stories. Since one-shots are my kryptonite (seriously, I cannot write them), I figured I had to start somewhere—and this is it! A 7-chapter story that I'll be posting a chapter once a week, every weekend. The best part? The story's already finished! So as long as I've got Wi-Fi, you'll be getting a fresh chapter like clockwork.

This story is inspired by parts of 'The Fall of the House of Usher'.

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Crap. The word pulsed through your mind like a flashing neon sign as you scrambled after Mr. Rogers, who had just bulldozed past your desk with all the subtlety of a freight train. He didn't even glance in your direction, which, to be honest, was the least of your problems. He was headed straight for your father's office—of course he was—and the growing knot of dread in your stomach quickly turned into a full-blown panic.

"Hey, wait!" you half-shouted, half-squeaked, bolting up from your chair. Not today, Mister. Not on my watch.

You were already sprinting after him, your shoes squeaking against the polished floor as you tried to catch up, looking like some sort of frantic mall cop in a bad sitcom. Your mind raced alongside your feet. Of all the people to make a scene in front of my father, it has to be this guy? Tony Stark didn't exactly have a reputation for patience, and this was the last thing you needed today—another dramatic episode starring "How to Get Disowned in 60 Seconds."

Your pulse thudded in your ears as you followed the man down the hall, hoping—praying—that you could somehow intercept him before the inevitable disaster hit. But with every step, the distance between you and Mr. Rogers seemed to shrink along with your chances of surviving this unscathed.

Of course, you thought, because why have a normal day when I can have a complete meltdown on a Tuesday afternoon?

"Sir! Wait! You can't just—" But, of course, he didn't wait. Why would he? Mr. Rogers, with all the subtlety of a charging rhino, was already halfway to your father's door.

Oh no, he had zero plans to stop—or even slow down, apparently. His long strides made your attempts to grab his arm look like a toddler chasing after their parent in a grocery store. Desperation flared, and you lunged forward, trying to snag his sleeve, his jacket, anything to slow this disaster down.

He didn't even look back. Just shrugged you off like you were nothing more than an irritating fly buzzing around his shoulder. Your heart dropped into your stomach, and a small, panicked voice in your head screamed, This is fine. Everything is totally fine. Spoiler alert: it wasn't.

Your heart sank, dread pooling in your stomach as you watched in slow-motion as he reached the office door. With a flick of his wrist, Mr. Rogers threw it open—no knocking, no hesitation, just raw, unfiltered audacity of a man who had nothing to fear.

Of course, you thought. Why not? Let's just add "firing your daughter" to Mr. Starks to-do list.

Hot on Mr. Rogers heels, you barely had time to register the scene before your father's sharp gaze snapped to the intruder, his eyes narrowing with the precision of a laser beam. There was no mistaking that look. You'd seen it before. The "I'm five seconds away from murdering someone" look.

Fantastic. Changing to-do list from "firing" to "kill".

"Mr. Stark, I'm so sorry!" you blurted, darting in front of Mr. Rogers like a human shield, hands raised as if you could somehow stop this impending disaster with sheer willpower. "I told him to wait! He wouldn't listen!"