Under the brilliant sun of Monaco, the racing circuit had been transformed into a chaotic battlefield.
In the middle of it all, F1 machines were torn apart like mere sheets of paper, and the scent of burning fuel permeated the air.
Ivan Vanko—known as 'Whiplash'—was driving Tony Stark into a corner with eyes soaked in madness.
Every time his whips, crackling with blue electricity, cut through the air, a sharp rupture sound assaulted the eardrums.
"Stark! Today, I shall tear down the castle your family built on a foundation of blood!"
Vanko roared and swung his whips downward.
Tony desperately reached out to deploy his Mark 5 suit case, but the lightning-fast whip was quicker.
At the very moment a lethal high-voltage current was about to pour over Tony's head, a crimson blur intervened between them, ignoring the laws of space.
CRACK—!!
A sound that shattered worldly common sense echoed out.
Appearing with his decadent black hair fluttering in the wind, Níðhöggr was tightly gripping the electromagnetic whip—sparking with tens of thousands of volts—with his 'bare hand'.
"Hey, Mr. Electric Eel. It’s problematic if you handle someone else's wallet so recklessly. This tin can still owes me quite a lot for 'settling accounts'."
There wasn't even the smell of burning flesh from Níðhöggr's palm.
Dragon scales that surpassed even 'Uru', the metal of the gods, lay dormant beneath his humanoid skin. To him, this crude electricity crafted by humans was nothing more than a pleasant, mild warmth.
Vanko tried to pull his whip back in a panic, but Níðhöggr's arm remained as unmoving as a massive mountain range.
"Wha... What? Who the hell are you?! How can a human body hold my whip with—!"
"Human? Haha, please refrain from such insults. Me? I'm just the calamity gnawing at the roots of the universe that you were lucky enough to encounter today."
Níðhöggr smiled languidly and gave his wrist a light flick.
In an instant, Whiplash's whips—made of high-grade tungsten alloy—warped and melted like taffy under extreme heat, twisting into a grotesque spiral.
Níðhöggr then used the very same whips to wrap around Vanko’s body.
"This part's a bit spicy. Can you handle the heat?"
As Níðhöggr infused a trace of mana into the end of the whip, the arc reactor device Vanko was wearing overloaded and exploded, sending the man into a fit of screams.
The weapon that was supposed to be the pinnacle of modern engineering was reduced to scrap metal by a single draconic gesture.
"Hey, you damn reptile! Cut it out already!"
A heavy, stinging smack landed on the back of Níðhöggr's head just as he was about to enjoy the climax of the battle.
Ratatoskr, having closed the distance in his humanoid form, had delivered a fierce disciplinary slap.
"Ow! Why’d you hit me, you rat! I was about to finish this with some style! It was a chance to spread my infamy throughout Midgard!"
"Infamy, my ass! If you use even a little more power here, the very foundation of Monaco will sink! Don’t you see Tony over there with his jaw hitting the floor? If you’ve turned it into scrap, hand it over to the recycling crew! My steak is getting cold!"
Ratatoskr hoisted the foaming Ivan Vanko, who was trapped in the heap of twisted whips, like a piece of luggage.
Then, he casually tossed him toward the Monaco police officers who were charging in with riot shields.
"Hey, officers! Delivery's here! Take good care of him!"
While the stunned police collected Vanko, Tony Stark—who was only halfway into his suit—staggered forward.
He stared at Níðhöggr's perfectly unscathed palm and muttered in hollow disbelief.
"He caught it with his bare hands... JARVIS, are you done analyzing his palm? Is that actual biological tissue?"
[Sir, the analysis only returns a result of 'unknown high-density energy body'. It completely ignores the laws of molecular arrangement in modern science. In short, he is a walking violation of the laws of physics.]
"I might sell you one of my scales later, so feel free to study it then, Wallet. Though the commission will be expensive."
Níðhöggr flashed a wink and strode toward Natalie... no, Natasha, who had been watching the whole spectacle from the VVIP section with a complex gaze.
A luxury hotel suite overlooking the Monaco sea, following the suspension of the race.
Natasha Romanoff stood on the terrace, buffeted by the cold sea breeze, locked in a deep internal conflict.
She was the 'Black Widow'. A S.H.I.E.L.D. spy trained to maintain her cool under any circumstance, digging into a target's weaknesses to extract information.
But right now, her fingertips were trembling ever so slightly.
'I have to report this. I have to report this monster’s strength to Director Fury and suggest a way to control him. That is my mission.'
Natasha traced her fingers over the hidden marks Níðhöggr had left near her neck.
The heat of the previous night, and the overwhelming martial prowess she had just witnessed on the circuit.
Inside her, the cold ego of a spy clashed violently with the primal instinct that had been crushed under the weight of an entity far greater than any she had ever known.
As she was muttering bitterly to herself, a cool yet intoxicating scent of wine drifted from behind her.
"I’m not sure about the sun, but I think I can control you well enough. Don't you think, Natasha?"
Natasha instinctively spun around, reaching for the wire hidden at her thigh.
However, Níðhöggr was already pressed right against her chest.
He gently caught her slender wrist and pinned her against the wall.
"Natalie—or should I say, Natasha. What does that old man with the eye-patch, Nick Fury, keep whispering in your ear? Did he tell you to report our one-night stand? Or did he order you to steal one of my scales?"
"Níð... I have a mission to monitor you. You’re a calamity that threatens the balance of this world. I... I have to stop you."
Natasha desperately tried to maintain her icy gaze.
But the moment Níðhöggr's crimson eyes flared with a shimmering golden light, every defensive wall she had painstakingly built collapsed like a sandcastle.
Níðhöggr had stripped away his playfulness and unleashed his 'Charm' in full force.
The air in the room grew thick and sticky with pink mana. Natasha felt the suffocating precursor to a pleasure that overwhelmed the senses.
As Níðhöggr’s fingers trailed slowly down her jawline to caress her neck, the strength left Natasha's legs.
"Mission? Loyalty? Those are just childish games played by humans. Natasha, you know exactly what’s trying to burst out from the depths of your soul. You aren't attracted to 'bad men'. You want to submit to an 'absolute power' that can completely dismantle you."
Níðhöggr's languid, low voice bored through her eardrums and straight into her brain.
Though her reason screamed one last time, her body was honest.
She buried her face into Níðhöggr's broad chest, moaning in a voice thick with damp longing.
"Ah... no... You really are... the most wicked dragon in the universe..."
"That’s right. I'm a very bad villain. So tonight, as payment for that, I’ll make sure you're completely broken."
Níðhöggr lifted Natasha by the waist and tossed her onto the bed.
Discarding all her pride and duties as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, Natasha clung to him desperately, seeking solace only within the embrace of the great calamity named Níðhöggr.
And so, the spy's espionage romance succumbed to the overwhelming demonic charm of a cosmic dragon, turning into a passionate chapter of a 'Villain's Chronicle'.
At the same time, Nick Fury, the man with the eye-patch, slammed his desk in fury at the crackling static and the severed report coming from Natasha's end of the radio.
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