“They have serial numbers, they’re on record, and the log for every single crate can be traced,” Tony continued.
“Who signed for it, which warehouse it went to, whose hands it passed through—it’s all in the system.
The problem is, that system is mine, but I never signed off on any of it.”
Ho Yinsen fell silent for a few seconds.
“Are you saying…
someone in the military…”
“I’m trying to figure out how they got their hands on those weapons in the first place.” Tony’s voice was flat, devoid of anger or fear, marked only by the intense focus of someone putting a puzzle together.
“My system wasn’t hacked, and the internal access logs are intact.
Very few people can bypass security checks and erase their tracks like that.
That’s why I don’t want to alert the military right now.”
Ho Yinsen didn’t push further.
Sitting on the shoulder of the road, he waited a long time before saying, “So the signal you sent went to your own computer, not the military.”
“JARVIS only responds to my commands,” Tony said.
“No matter what happens outside, he only does what I tell him to do.”
The conversation between them drifted to a halt.
Leo Vance Lin sat four steps away without joining in.
However, he kept Tony’s words in mind.
Tony’s chain of reasoning was clear: seeing the crates at the cave entrance, checking the batch numbers, ruling out his own transactions, and pinpointing an internal security breach.
He was headed in the right direction; he just needed a few more pieces of the puzzle to put a name to the face.
Leo Vance knew those remaining pieces would eventually form the face of Obadiah Stane.
But he wasn’t going to blurt it out now.
Tony was unraveling this in his own way, and interrupting that process served no purpose.
About four hours after the signal went out, a faint grayish-blue hue lightened the pre-dawn sky.
The temperature on the desert surface dropped to its lowest point of the night.
The wind died down, and the surroundings grew so quiet they could hear their own heartbeats.
Leo Vance was the first to hear the noise.
He lay on his side on the gravel slope of the roadbed, eyes closed, his cloak tucked over his jacket behind his shoulders.
In the distance, an extremely low-frequency vibration was approaching—not a car engine, nor the sound of windblown sand, but the low, rhythmic thrum of rotor blades slicing through the air.
He opened his eyes and sat up.
His first priority wasn’t confirming the helicopter’s direction, but retracting the Batsuit.
He shifted two steps down into a depression beside the roadbed, using the shadow of the truck wreckage to shield himself, and thought *retract* in his mind.
The black suit, cloak, Batarangs, and grapnel gun at his waist all disappeared in the same second, leaving only the plain army-green T-shirt and cargo pants he wore underneath.
Reaching behind his waist, he swept his hand across his back—empty, nothing left behind.
Then he stood up, zipped his worn jacket back up, and walked back onto the road.
Tony was already awake, squinting toward the east.
A speck of light on the horizon expanded, transforming two seconds later into the distinct outline of an aircraft—an MH-60 Black Hawk helicopter with weapon pylons mounted under its belly and the markings of the 7th Special Operations Squadron stenciled on its side.
“They’re here,” Leo Vance said.
Tony breathed a sigh of relief, but his eyes never left the aircraft’s markings and tail number until he confirmed they were legitimate US military livery.
Only then did he truly relax.
The helicopter hovered directly over the road, the rotor wash whipping up sand and dust so thick the three men could barely keep their eyes open.
The side door slid back, and a rope ladder dropped down.
The first person to touch down wore a dark tactical jacket, broad-shouldered and sharp in his movements.
Upon landing, his eyes immediately swept the area to confirm there were no threats before he strode toward Tony.
“Tony Stark.” His voice bore the unmistakable calm of a soldier, tinged with suppressed irritation.
“You really can’t go anywhere without causing trouble, can you?”
“You came.”
Colonel James Rhodes knelt to inspect Tony’s condition—his eyes lingered on the Arc Reactor in Tony’s chest for two seconds, his brow furrowing, though he didn’t ask right away.
He turned to glance at Ho Yinsen, confirming the man could move on his own, before looking toward the other side of the road.
Leo Vance stood there in the same tattered jacket and army-green T-shirt he had worn in the cave, looking entirely unremarkable—the picture of an ordinary discharged soldier.
Rhodes walked over, his gaze pausing on him.
“Leo Vance Lin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I reviewed the roster before taking off,” Rhodes said evenly.
“21st Logistics Support Unit, US Forces in Afghanistan.
Assigned to convoy escort, went missing after the missile strike.
No record of capture, no record of KIA.
How did you get out?”
“Woke up in a cave after the blast,” Leo Vance said.
“Later, I found a chance to escape alongside Tony.”
Rhodes studied him for a moment.
The explanation made sense—the timeline matched the file, and no one could verify the exact details inside the cave anyway.
Without pressing further, he nodded.
“Get on board.
Everyone’s in the first evacuation group.”
As Leo Vance turned to head toward the helicopter, Ho Yinsen passed by his side, his eyes lingering for a second on Leo Vance’s jacket—Yinsen had seen the suit with his own eyes and knew Leo Vance had been wearing it just minutes ago.
Yet he said nothing, offering only a slight nod before continuing toward the rope ladder.
Leo Vance boarded behind him.
Inside the cabin, Tony sat furthest in, with Ho Yinsen leaning beside him.
Rhodes sat at the door facing inward, his eyes pausing on each of their faces in turn.
No one spoke much during the flight; the engine noise was deafening, requiring raised voices to be heard.
Tony kept his eyes closed, his breathing steady.
Leaning against the cabin wall, Ho Yinsen finally relaxed the fingers gripping his sleeves.
Leo Vance sat near the doorway, watching the shrinking outline of the desert through the window.
About an hour later, the helicopter landed at Bagram Airfield.
As Rhodes led them off the tarmac, medical personnel were already waiting.
Tony was wheeled into an examination room, and Ho Yinsen voluntarily followed him inside.
Leo Vance was taken to an adjacent tent for a routine medical check—blood pressure, heart rate, body temperature, pupil response; everything was normal.
He sat on the exam bed for a while.
A logistics clerk brought over a set of clean clothes and a canteen of water.
Colonel Rhodes’s voice came from the tent entrance.
“Leo Vance, are you done in here?”
Leo Vance set down the canteen and walked out.
Rhodes stood outside holding a tablet, his expression slightly softer than it had been in the desert.
“You’ll stay on base for three days,” Rhodes said.
“Clear the procedures—health report, mission debrief, identity verification—then you’ll be added to the repatriation list.”
“Understood.” Leo Vance replied.
Following an incident like this, silent suppression was the US military’s standard operating procedure, which suited his intentions perfectly.
“A private transport has been arranged to take Tony back to New York.” Rhodes paused.
“Do you have somewhere to go?”
“New York,” Leo Vance said.
Rhodes looked at him for a few seconds.
“Your file says your birthplace is Los Angeles.
Why New York?”
“New York is more chaotic.”
Rhodes went silent for two seconds, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly—not quite a smile, just a subtle shift of muscle.
“…I think I get what you mean.” He stowed the tablet away.
“Come sign a non-disclosure agreement once the paperwork is cleared.
Certain details from Afghanistan aren’t suited for public records.
Naturally, your severance and compensation for damages will be fully covered.”
“Which details?”
“Not a single video recording from the Ten Rings’ cave survived.
No idea who did it.” Rhodes looked at him, his tone unchanged.
“Funny how that works.”
Leo Vance didn’t offer a reply.
Rhodes turned and took two steps before stopping, his back still turned.
“Tony mentioned a few things to me.
I didn’t ask for specifics, and you shouldn’t spill them either.
Just remember one thing: what happened out here stays out here.”
He continued walking away.
Leo Vance stood at the tent entrance, watching his back disappear around the corner of the camp.
A breeze blew in from the tarmac, carrying the scent of aviation fuel and dry dirt.
He glanced down at his hands—all the gear stored in the system space was safely put away, and the faint old scar on the inside of his wrist looked pale under the sunlight.
He turned and walked back inside.
The three days of routine procedures were straightforward.
Health checks, mission statements, identity verification—Leo Vance’s military record was complete and continuous, leaving no gaps that required extra explanation.
The only noteworthy detail was when he checked his file on the base’s computer system, noticing the “Captured” box wasn’t checked; his status was logged as “Rejoined unit after mission.”
Rhodes had kept his word.
On the afternoon of the third day, Leo Vance received his discharge papers and lump-sum relocation allowance before boarding a military transport bound for Europe.
The itinerary arranged by Rhodes listed layovers, but a single glance was enough for Leo Vance to memorize every leg: Afghanistan to Turkey, then Germany, Canada, and finally the United States.
All transfers used official military dependent/personnel clearance without requiring any disguise.
Before the transport took off, Leo Vance stood in the holding area bathroom for a moment.
His face in the mirror was slightly leaner than a week ago, but his eyes were clear.
He opened his backpack and glanced at the document folder inside—discharge certificate, passport, bank card, and a slip of paper with an address in Queens, New York written on it.
The system panel lit up briefly at the edge of his vision:
[Host has successfully evacuated the combat zone through legal channels.
Identity Status: Honorably Discharged.
Entered normal society.]
[Character Completion: 27% → 28%.]
Leo Vance zipped his backpack shut, stepped out of the bathroom, and walked toward the boarding gate.
Before the transport doors closed, he took one last look out the window—the Afghan horizon receded into the distance, its yellow-brown mountain ranges dissolving into vague contours before being swallowed by the cloud deck.
He leaned back into his seat and closed his eyes.
“New York…”
The plane took off.
Clouds surged past the window, engulfing everything behind him.
When he opened his eyes once more, nothing remained outside but an endless sea of white clouds.