Marcus washed it down with a sip of coffee, finally taking a real look at what she was wearing.
Not the baggy flannel or worn-out jeans from the motel anymore.
Emma’s tailoring department had clearly been busy — a custom-fitted tactical jacket, deep forest green with pale yellow paneling along the ribs and shoulders, somewhere between high-end motorcycle gear and something built for a fight.
Black leather gloves ran seamlessly past her wrists, not an inch of skin showing.
“New gear fits,” Marcus said, nodding at the jacket.
Marie looked down at her sleeves, brushing a thumb over the fabric.
“Some team showed up at like eight in the morning to measure me for this. Emma stopped by after and said I can’t be walking around looking like I crawled out of a swamp if I’m gonna be seen with her.” She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, and she wants me on some official list now. Had to pick a fake name or whatever.”
Marcus rested his elbows on his knees.
“And you went with the one I gave you.”
“Rogue.” She let out a breath, a small smile tugging at her mouth.
“She asked, my mind went blank, and that’s what came out. Kind of fits, though. Emma seemed to like it too'”
She shifted closer on the bench — no hesitation in it, none of the flinching from a week ago.
Her shoulder settled against his arm and stayed there.
The silence stretched, comfortable, broken only by the faint hum of the building’s ventilation.
“You know,” she said, staring out across the empty gym floor.
“It’s not so bad in here.”
Marcus paused halfway through his bite.
He looked at her.
“I mean it.” She pulled her knees up onto the bench.
“The food’s amazing. The beds are soft. Nobody’s kicking down doors or shooting at us. First time in I don’t even know how long that I’m not looking over my shoulder every five seconds. It’s actually kind of nice.”
Marcus swallowed slowly, watching the relaxed slope of her shoulders, the way she was finally letting her guard down.
“Yeah.” He bumped his shoulder against hers, keeping his voice steady.
“It’s not so bad, Rogue.”
The pale blue interface flickered to life in his peripheral vision, the glowing text overlaying the empty gym mats in front of them.
[Bond Milestone Reached: Identity & Trust.]
[The Bonded Heir has accepted the Host-designated title. Psychological Anchor heavily reinforced.]
[Reward: +100 Merit Points.]
[Current Balance: 160 Merit Points.]
Marcus didn’t react physically, just closed out the screen with a slow blink.
A hundred and sixty.
It was still a long way from the five hundred he needed to buy her the permanent Control perk, but the math was finally moving in the right direction.
He crumpled the burger wrapper and tossed it, the ball of paper arcing perfectly into a trash can near the door.
The casual, effortless precision of the throw was just another quiet reminder of what the Peak Human upgrade had done to his nervous system.
He stood up, grabbing his black jacket off the bench.
“Don’t get too comfortable,” Marcus said, sliding his arms into the sleeves.
“Emma’s not paying for room service so we can sit here all night.”
Rogue blinked, finishing her coffee.
“Wait, we’re actually going? I figured she’d just watch Hammer embarrass himself on the penthouse monitors.”
“Emma doesn’t do anything secondhand if she can help it.” Marcus checked his pockets — phone, keycard.
“She wants front row for the disaster, not a recap.”
He looked at her.
The easy quiet from a minute ago was already gone.
Tonight was the Expo.
Tonight, Hammer was about to put live weapons into hacked drones, and Vanko was about to turn Queens into a mess.
The bet he’d made with Emma a week ago was coming due.
Marcus stepped closer, his voice dropping, all the earlier warmth gone from it.
“Listen to me. Whatever happens tonight, you stay next to me. I don’t care who’s talking, I don’t care what Emma’s security tells you to do. If I say move, we move. No questions. No hesitating. Understood?”
The coffee cup came down on the bench. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
Rogue stood, adjusting her gloves, jaw tight.
She didn’t flinch at his tone — just gave one firm nod.
“I’m right behind you.”
“Good.” Marcus turned toward the doors.
…
Stark Expo— Main Pavilion VIP Suite, 8:15 PM.
The bass from the main stage vibrated through the reinforced glass of the VIP suite, a low, constant thrum in the floorboards.
Down below, bathed in strobes and pyrotechnics, Justin Hammer was dancing.
It was exactly as painful to watch as it sounded.
Emma stood near the glass, a flute of champagne loose in one hand, wearing a flawless white suit, watching the cheering crowd with the kind of cool indifference she seemed to reserve for anything beneath her.
“This is your apocalyptic threat, Marcus?” Her voice cut easily through the muffled roar.
“A second-rate salesman doing a soft-shoe routine in a tuxedo?”
Marcus stood a few feet back from the glass, hands in his pockets, eyes locked on the stage.
Beside him, Rogue stayed still, back against a concrete pillar, eyes flicking between the crowd and the suite’s exit doors.
She hadn’t forgotten his warning.
Below, Hammer grabbed a microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen… I give you the United States military’s newest sword and shield! The Hammer Drones!”
The stage floor split open.
Hydraulic lifts pushed four lines of heavily armed bipedal mechs into the spotlight.
The crowd roared.
A second later, a silver-and-black War Machine suit dropped out of the sky and landed on the stage, the rotary cannon on its shoulder gleaming under the lights.
Emma took a slow sip of her champagne, turning from the window to face him.
“I’ll admit, the presentation’s loud. But these are remote-controlled toys.” A thin smile.
“The bet was that he’d be a legitimate threat. Right now he’s a heavily armed clown. Get your pen ready — we’ve got a lifetime contract to review in the morning.”