The bass from the speakers was shaking the floorboards. It was a remix of "California Love," but distorted, too loud and ugly.

  I sat in the corner of the sunken living room, a tumbler of scotch in my hand. The ice had melted an hour ago.

  The party was a disaster. It wasn't a celebration; it was a wake. Tony was drunk inside the Mark IV suit, blasting watermelons and champagne bottles out of the air while a crowd of sycophants cheered him on. He was stumbling, slurring, performing like a circus animal.

  "I think... I think she left me!" Tony yelled into the helmet mic, swaying. "Pepper! Where's Pepper? She doesn't like the... the pi?ata!"

  He blasted a glass sculpture. It shattered, raining shards onto the expensive rug. The crowd roared.

  I watched with a flat expression. I knew what was happening. The palladium was eating his brain. He was terrified, and when Tony Stark was terrified, he self-destructed loudly so no one would hear him scream.

  Then, the skylight shattered.

  Debris rained down as the silver Mark II armor landed heavily in the center of the room. Rhodey.

  The music didn't stop, but the cheering did. The crowd sensed the shift. This wasn't part of the show.

  "Everybody out," Rhodey commanded, his voice amplified.

  The guests scattered. They didn't run; they scurried, like cockroaches when the lights turn on. In thirty seconds, the room was empty. Except for the DJ, who was too scared to move, and me.

  I didn't move. I took a sip of my watered-down scotch.

  "I don't think... you were invited, Rhodes," Tony slurred, raising his repulsor hand. "This is a private... party."

  "You don't deserve to wear that suit," Rhodey snapped. "Take it off."

  "Make me."

  The fight was ugly.

  It wasn't the choreographed sparring of a superhero movie. It was two men in metal tanks brawling in a living room. They crashed through the fireplace. They smashed the grand piano. Drywall dust filled the air like smoke.

  CRASH.

  They slammed into the kitchen island, shattering the marble. Tony swung a wildly telegraphed punch. Rhodey ducked and slammed a metal tray into Tony's helmet.

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  "You're a danger to yourself!" Rhodey yelled, grabbing Tony by the throatplate and throwing him through the glass wall of the gym.

  Tony scrambled up, furious. He charged his repulsors. Both hands. The whine of the capacitors grew high and piercing.

  Rhodey raised his hands, matching the charge.

  "You want to do this?" Rhodey screamed. "Let's do this!"

  They were locked on. Two repulsor beams, point-blank range. If they fired, the feedback loop would level the west wing of the mansion.

  I set my glass down on the side table. The clink was inaudible over the whining repulsors, but the action felt final.

  I stood up.

  I didn't shout. I didn't run between them.

  I just... let it out.

  Sovereign Pressure.

  It wasn't a wind. It was a sudden, crushing change in the atmosphere. The air in the room instantly became heavy, as if gravity had increased tenfold.

  The silence was absolute.

  The DJ in the corner passed out, sliding down the wall.

  Tony and Rhodey froze. It wasn't a choice. Their bodies and the systems inside the suits reacted to a biological imperative deeper than thought. It was the instinct of a prey animal realizing a predator has entered the cage.

  The repulsor whine whined down, choked off by the sheer weight of the presence filling the room. The dust in the air stopped swirling and settled instantly.

  Tony's knees buckled. The hydraulics of the Mark IV whined in protest, struggling to keep him upright against the invisible weight. Inside the helmet, I knew his HUD was flashing red, trying to find a target that didn't exist.

  Rhodey gasped, the air squeezed out of his lungs. He lowered his arms, unable to keep them raised.

  I walked out of the shadows. My footsteps were slow, echoing on the broken glass.

  I stopped ten feet away from them. I looked at Tony, then at Rhodey. My eyes were glowing with a faint crimson light.

  "Enough," I said.

  The word wasn't loud. It was absolute. It vibrated in their bones.

  Tony looked at me through his cracked faceplate. The drunkenness had evaporated, replaced by cold terror. He had known me as a business partner, a friend. But he had never felt this. This was different. This was the authority of a King.

  "Adrian?" Tony whispered, his voice trembling.

  I looked at Rhodey. The pressure eased off him, just enough to let him breathe.

  "Take the suit, Colonel," I said softly.

  Rhodey looked at me, confused, sweating inside the armor. "What?"

  "Take the Mark II," I repeated. "The Air Force needs a win. And Tony..." I looked down at the man in the red and gold armor, slumped against the broken gym equipment. "...Tony needs a wake-up call."

  Rhodey hesitated. He looked at Tony. Tony didn't fight back. He couldn't. He was still pinned by my gaze.

  "Go," I commanded.

  Rhodey nodded, a jerk of the metal head. He engaged thrusters and blasted off through the hole in the ceiling, taking the silver suit with him.

  The sound of his departure faded.

  I exhaled. The pressure lifted. The room returned to normal gravity.

  Tony slumped forward, his faceplate hitting the floor with a clang. He gasped for air, tearing the helmet off. He looked up at me, sweat pouring down his face, his eyes wide and bloodshot.

  "What..." Tony wheezed. "What the hell was that?"

  I walked over to him. I didn't help him up. I looked down at the black veins creeping up his neck.

  "That," I said, adjusting my cuffs, "was the only way to get you to listen."

  I turned and walked toward the exit, stepping over the ruins of his living room.

  "Clean this up, Tony. You have a donut to eat in the morning."