Lately, the basement of the Malibu mansion had been haunted not by the usual scent of acrid metal, but by a heavy fragrance of silence and despair.
Tony Stark was holed up in a corner of the lab, his face looking unusually haggard and gaunt.
Tracing across his neck like a slow-moving poison were geometric patterns of black veins.
Palladium poisoning.
It was a cruel irony. The very Arc Reactor keeping him alive was now tightening a noose around his throat the more he operated the suit.
Níðhöggr, draped in a luxurious silk gown, was sprawled arrogantly across the living room sofa, tossing grapes into his mouth one by one.
He glanced through the glass wall at Tony’s pathetic state and clicked his tongue.
"Hey, Tin Man. What's with the face? You’re turning into a zombie who ate rotten meat. Even a villain like me has better skin than you.”
Tony lifted his head with visible effort. His eyes were sunken, and his fingertips trembled slightly.
"It's palladium poisoning... the more I run the suit, the more this reactor gnaws at my body. JARVIS, what’s my current blood toxicity level?"
[89%, Sir. Currently, no perfect cure exists within known terrestrial technology.]
"See? I guess it’s time for my final exit. I’ll leave the key to the vintage wine cellar to you in my will, so don’t look too happy at my funeral.”
Just as Tony let out a self-deprecating laugh and moved to close his eyes—
"Hey, you absolute moron!!!"
Níðhöggr bounded off the sofa like a coiled spring, smashed through the glass wall (finding it too tedious to use the door), and lunged at Tony, grabbing him by the collar.
"My mana reactor is literally embedded in your chest! Why the hell are you dying? If the palladium from that tin-can tech is the problem, I can just purify it with my mana and be done with it! Is your brain just for decoration?"
"What...? You’re the one who said magic and science don’t mix..."
"That’s when your technology can't keep up with my mana! Don’t refuse a villain’s mercy, you pushover!"
Níðhöggr slammed his palm against the golden mana reactor in Tony’s chest.
His crimson eyes flared, and the Authority of a Dragon was unleashed.
Mana, blazing like a sun rising in the deepest abyss, surged through Tony’s veins like a storm.
The palladium residue that had been ravaging the human cells evaporated with a literal scream the moment it touched the dragon's flame.
The black, necrotic vein patterns vanished instantly, and Tony’s skin regained its vibrant color.
It wasn't merely a detoxification; it was as if the life force of Yggdrasil itself had been injected into every single cell.
"Uh... huh? My body feels light. The pain... the pain is completely gone! JARVIS, the levels?"
[0%, Sir. In fact, your physical age appears to have regressed by approximately five years.]
"Wow, seriously... what the hell are you?"
When Tony asked in shock, Níðhöggr gave his signature haughty smirk and tossed him back onto the floor.
"Don't get the wrong idea. I’d be devastated if you died. Losing my personal wallet and a drinking buddy who takes all my venting would be a catastrophic loss for a villain. So don't die. You aren't allowed in Hell until I give the order. That's a command, got it?"
Watching this scene while munching on an acorn, Ratatoskr let out a retching sound of genuine disgust.
"Oh, look at Níðhög-pushover over here. Playing the lead in the romance of the century. Why don't you two just hold hands and go on a honeymoon to Asgard, you disgusting reptile?"
A few days later, having regained his vigor, Tony Stark made a surprise announcement. Whether he had a revelation after his brush with death (or was simply badgered by Níðhöggr), he declared he was handing over the CEO position to Pepper Potts.
"Tony's finally lost it. Is our food supply finally going to be cut off?"
Ratatoskr muttered worriedly, but Níðhöggr was focused on something else.
He had successfully snatched the role of interviewer for Tony’s new personal assistant—Pepper’s replacement.
Tony had asked, "You've got a sharp eye for quality, so why don't you pick for me?" and Níðhöggr had accepted with a sinister grin.
On the day of the interviews, the Stark Industries waiting room was thick with tension.
But inside the interview room, it was pure chaos.
Níðhöggr sat with his legs up on the desk, snapping his fingers to teleport male applicants away through portals before they could even fully open the door.
"Fail. Your face ruins my mood. Go be homeless somewhere else."
"But I'm from Harvard..."
"Harvard? I'm from Yggdrasil. Get out."
The interviews ended in the blink of an eye.
Níðhöggr only passed female applicants. When a candidate caught his eye, he would subtly use his charm to lure them into the VIP lounge behind the interview room for an 'in-depth job competency test'—which usually involved a heated tryst.
"Hey, Nid! I told you to interview people, not jump every woman in sight! What did those people waiting outside do to deserve this?"
Ratatoskr kicked the door open and shouted, but Níðhöggr merely adjusted his clothes with a languid expression.
"It's the villain's way of hiring. Checking if their body and mind are healthy is essential.”
Then, the final applicant opened the door.
Lush red hair, features that were both intellectual and seductive, and a toned physique revealed through a perfectly fitted suit. Her name was Natalie Rushman.
The moment Níðhöggr saw her, his eyes nearly rolled back. No, it wasn't just his eyes—his very instincts began to throb.
"Hired! Definitely hired! Wow, I can't believe a national treasure like this was hidden in Midgard! The Tin Man didn't waste his life after all!"
As Níðhöggr moved toward her while swallowing hard, his keen draconic sense of smell caught something.
There was a very faint, yet unforgettable, musty scent clinging to her body.
The scent of Nick Fury—the one-eyed bald man who had forced him to walk home in his underwear that one night.
'Ho... so that old eyepatch geezer finally sent a spy near me? And such a gorgeous one at that?'
Concealing his wicked grin, Níðhöggr officially hired her as his secretary for the time being.
That evening, while Tony was away attending a party, he quietly summoned her to his private office.
"Miss Natalie... or should I call you Natasha Romanoff?"
As Níðhöggr asked, swirling a glass of wine in the dark room, she froze in the middle of organizing documents.
Her eyes instantly turned cold as she reached for a knife hidden beneath her skirt, but Níðhöggr’s speed transcended dimensions.
"Don't move. In my presence, even a tenth of a second is an eternity."
Níðhöggr blurred across the room, pinning her against the wall in an instant.
A powerful scent of masculinity and decadence tickled the tip of her nose.
He unleashed his Charm at full power while activating his Gaze of Desire.
A world-class spy, Natasha bit her lip, trying to maintain her mental fortitude, but she wasn't facing a human; she was facing a cosmic entity.
Her brain cells were overtaken by mana, and her reason began to melt away.
"Tell me. What’s the real goal that bald grizzly bear Nick Fury sent you here for? And... what do you want to do most right now?"
Natasha's eyes slowly glazed over, and her cheeks flushed rose-red.
She began to confess through ragged breaths.
"Ah... the goal is... to monitor you and Tony Stark... calculate threat levels... find a way to control you... and..."
Unconsciously, Natasha placed her hands on Níðhöggr’s firm chest and clung to him.
"My desire is... to escape a life always lived in shadows... to surrender to a being like you... and be held..."
Níðhöggr smirked.
"Nick Fury, that crafty old bastard. Sending me a gift like this to relieve my stress... I guess he isn't entirely without taste."
Níðhöggr wrapped his arm tightly around Natasha’s waist and hungrily devoured her lips.
Natasha let out a beastly moan, pulling herself closer into him.
Níðhöggr slammed her onto the desk and ruthlessly tore through her suit.
The stress accumulated from Nick Fury mixed with the tension of having such an alluring spy resulted in an explosive chemical reaction.
That night, the lights in the executive office did not go out until dawn.
Natasha forgot both her mission as a spy and her identity as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, letting out cries of ecstasy as she surrendered to the waves of cosmic pleasure provided by Níðhöggr.
The next morning, waking to the sunlight filtering through her disheveled red hair, Natasha felt a strange sense of liberation.
With trembling hands, she wrote her final report in her notebook by the bed.
[Subject: Níðhöggr. Threat Level: Immeasurable. Special Note: Impossible to carry out mission in his presence. (Failed to exclude personal feelings.)]
Watching her from the window while smoking a cigarette, Níðhöggr grinned.
"Now, go tell Nick Fury. I’ll make good use of the secretary, so next time, tell him to prepare someone even sexier."
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