“Y/n! Wake up!” My father’s voice, a drill sergeant’s command, sliced through the pre-dawn darkness. “Training starts now.”
I dragged myself out of bed. Three AM. It wasn't about the hour. It was about the ritual. Every day, the same cold efficiency.
My father built Stark Industries, and he intended to build me in his image: ruthless, brilliant, a weapon disguised as an heir. Birthdays were never celebrated. I was homeschooled, isolated. The few agents I spar with are the only ones who know my name. I exist only as an extension of his will.
Two hours with a punching bag, weights. I was already dripping with sweat when he arrived with a man in tow. I stood rigid, arms at my sides, waiting for the assessment.
“Ready to spar?” I nodded, a reflex. “Good. I expect perfection. Nothing less.”
The man came at me, and I dismantled him. Over and over. Each impact, a calculated strike. Each takedown, a demonstration of control. We broke for water at eight.
“Your form was sloppy,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. “Too much hesitation. Predictable openings.”
“Understood, Father.” The words tasted like ash. How could it be sloppy? I was undefeated.
“Remember the expo next week. Observe. Do not speak to anyone. You are a shadow.”
“Yes, Father.” I agreed.
“If you perform well, I’ll take you on a trip with me. The military. They need to see your designs.” He said.
“Yes, Father. Thank you.” It was a chance to prove myself, to demonstrate the value of my work. To earn a sliver of recognition.
“Return to training.” He dismissed me with a wave of his hand.
The man and I resumed sparring. I focused on form, anticipating his moves, correcting every flaw. I pushed my speed, my power, my precision. I tried to anticipate every flaw.
I kept my focus strong, mentally reminding myself of each sloppy mistake. Didn't follow through enough. Late block. Stumble. Too slow of a reaction. Then…
BANG!
A searing pain exploded in my left shoulder. I looked down and saw the crimson blossom blooming on my arm, the bullet tearing through the muscle. My gaze shot up to find my father holding the gun, his face impassive.
“What the HELL?!” The scream ripped from my throat as I pressed my hand against the wound, trying to stem the bleeding.
He didn’t flinch. He pulled out his notepad and began writing. “Preparation for any occurrence during a fight: Failure. Maintaining focus: Failure. Need I go on?”
“Dad, you shot me!” The realization hit me with the force of the bullet itself.
“Yes, and you failed.” He said, as if it was a lesson in physics. “Now go fix yourself up in your room. Training is over.”
I stood there, numb. I didn’t know what to say. I left the training center, heading towards the desk in my room. On occasion it had to be my medical area.
I retrieved the necessary supplies, my hands shaking. Carefully, I removed the bullet. The pain was blinding, but I forced myself to stitch the wound. I spent the rest of the day studying, tinkering with tech, and the shock of my father’s cruelty. I was not his child. I was his project, his little prodigy. And the only lesson I was learning was how to bleed for his ambition.