Chapter 1: The Fall of a Genius

I'm suggesting to everyone to read the tags and the synopsis, as well kepp in mind that I'm not perfect nor the best author that will remember every small detail.

I will do my best to write a good story but if you're the type of person that when the story doesn't go like you want it to, immediately complain on the comments or reviews, i want to deeply apologize.

For the inconvenience

Of

Not

Giving

A fuck.

Good read.

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The morning air was crisp, mingling with the faint smell of asphalt and exhaust fumes as a man in his late thirties trudged through the bustling streets of New York City. He wore a faded leather jacket over a turtleneck sweater, his hands stuffed into the pockets as he weaved through the early crowd. Horns blared, vendors shouted, and the city vibrated with its usual chaotic energy. Turning a corner, he arrived at a newsstand tucked between a diner and a bodega.

The stand was modest but well-kept, stacks of newspapers and glossy magazines piled neatly on the counter. Behind it stood an elderly man with thinning white hair, a lined face, and an easy, almost knowing smile. His glasses caught the morning light as he greeted passersby with a cheerful nod. His energy seemed timeless, as though the grind of the city couldn't touch him.

"Morning." the man said, stepping up to the stand. He glanced at the front page of a neatly stacked newspaper. "How much?"

The old man's grin widened as he held up a hand, gesturing with a single finger. "One dollar."

The man fished a bill from his pocket, exchanged it for the paper, and nodded his thanks. As he walked away, he unfolded the crisp pages and scanned the bold headline.

[GENIUS BILLIONAIRE TONY STARK ARRESTED FOR WAR CRIMES.]

The article went on to detail Stark's conviction after months of grueling trials. The once-celebrated inventor had been found guilty of selling weapons that had fueled conflicts across the globe. The damage was catastrophic: countless lives lost, cities reduced to rubble, and Stark Enterprises in shambles.

Stark, the paper reported, had been sentenced to a high-security prison known for housing some of the most dangerous criminals in the country.

The man let out a low whistle. "Rich bastard finally got what he deserved."

From behind the counter, the old man sighed softly. "This wasn't his fate."

Startled, the man turned back to respond, but the old man, and the stand, were gone. The spot where it had been was empty, as if it had never existed.

....

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the Parker household. The home was modest but cozy, with well-loved furniture and sunlight spilling through the lace curtains in the kitchen. Aunt May, an elderly woman with kind eyes and a weathered apron, stood at the counter, humming softly as she buttered toast.

"Peter!" she called, her voice warm but firm. "Breakfast is ready!"

Upstairs, Peter Parker was in his small, cluttered room. The walls were lined with shelves packed with books, models of scientific equipment, and a corkboard filled with equations and blueprints. A pull-up bar hung in the doorway, and Peter hung from it effortlessly, his lean, muscular body moving with practiced ease.

'Three hundred and twenty-three...three hundred and twenty-four,' he counted mentally, before letting out a breath and switching gears. 'The square root of 28,561...'

"169." He smirked as he rattled off the answer aloud, then dropped down gracefully, his bare feet landing silently on the carpet.

He glanced around the room, his brow furrowing slightly. His reflection in a mirror caught his eye: sharp features, tousled brown hair, and a physique that hinted at years of discipline. He grabbed a plain gray T-shirt, pulling it over his head, and slid into a pair of jeans.

"Coming, Aunt May!" he called as he headed downstairs.

In the kitchen, Uncle Ben was seated at the table, flipping through a newspaper and sipping coffee. He was a broad-shouldered man with a kind, steady presence, the kind of person who always seemed to know what to say.

"Morning, kiddo." Ben greeted with a smile.

"Morning, Uncle Ben." Peter replied, sliding into a chair.

The three of them shared a quiet moment as they ate. The clink of forks on plates and the faint hum of the radio in the background filled the room.

"So.." Aunt May began, her voice casual, "..when's that school trip to Oscorp?"

Peter glanced up, swallowing a bite of toast. "End of the week. Friday."

Uncle Ben nodded thoughtfully. "Good. Remember, Peter, knowledge is important.."

Peter's lips curled into a smirk. "And knowledge is power."

Ben shook his head, his expression serious but gentle. "No, Peter. It's a means to help others. Don't forget that."

For a moment, Peter held his gaze before offering a half-hearted smile. "Yeah… sure, Uncle Ben."

Breakfast finished quickly, and Peter stood, grabbing his backpack. "Thanks, Aunt May. See you guys later."

"Be safe, Peter." May called after him, her brow creased with concern.

....

The subway was crowded, as usual, the rhythmic clatter of wheels against tracks filling the car. Peter leaned against a pole, earbuds in, but his mind wandered. The city outside the train windows blurred into streaks of gray and blue.

The train screeched to a halt, and Peter stepped off, emerging into the sunlight near Empire State University. The campus buzzed with activity, students hurrying to classes or chatting in groups on the lawn.

"Morning, Parker!" someone called.

Peter turned, raising a hand in greeting. A small smile played on his lips as more classmates waved or nodded at him. He walked confidently through the crowd, his presence commanding respect without effort.

He entered the large lecture hall, where students were already settling into their seats. Conversations filled the air, punctuated by laughter and the rustle of notebooks.

"Hey, Peter!" a girl near the front called.

"Morning, guys." Peter replied, his tone warm but casual. He made his way to the back row, where he preferred to sit, and dropped into a seat.

The professor, a tall man with silver hair and sharp glasses, entered the room and called for silence. The students quieted, their attention shifting as the lecture began.

Peter leaned back, a faint smirk on his face as he listened. He already knew most of the material, but he didn't mind. His sharp mind thrived on challenges, and he often found ways to push himself beyond the curriculum.

As the class progressed, Peter's thoughts briefly wandered to the Oscorp trip. He couldn't deny his curiosity about the company's cutting-edge research. 'Knowledge is power,' he thought again, his smirk returning. But deep down, he knew it was more than that. It was a tool, a weapon, a means to carve out his place in the world.

For now, though, he focused on the lecture, the faint hum of the projector and the professor's steady voice anchoring him to the present.

....

The clang of the iron gates closing behind him echoed through the stark, concrete halls. Tony Stark, once hailed as a genius inventor and billionaire playboy, walked into his new reality without hesitation. His tailored suit had been replaced by the standard-issue orange jumpsuit, the sharpness of the fabric a far cry from his usual silks and wools.

The guards flanked him, their faces unreadable as they led him through the labyrinth of Ryker's Island Prison, a fortress for some of the most dangerous criminals in the country. The air was heavy with the stench of sweat, steel, and faint mildew. The distant shouts of inmates created an unrelenting hum, punctuated by the occasional slam of a cell door.

Tony's expression remained impassive. His brown eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the environment as he walked. Each step resonated with deliberate calm, his shoulders squared. He didn't flinch when prisoners banged on their bars or hurled curses at him.

"That's Stark?" one inmate growled, leaning against the bars of his cell, his arms crossed over a tattooed chest.

"Rich boy's in for a wake-up call." another sneered, spitting onto the floor as Tony passed.

He heard every word, but his expression didn't waver. He had spent weeks in court, accused of selling weapons that caused widespread destruction, fueling wars that devastated lives across the globe. The verdict had been inevitable, the evidence overwhelming. But if there was regret, or fear, he didn't show it.

As they reached the cellblock, the head guard stopped in front of a numbered cell. "Stark. This is home." he said gruffly, unlocking the door.

Tony stepped inside, his gaze flicking over the small, grim space. The cell was barely wider than his outstretched arms. A metal cot with a thin, stained mattress hugged one wall, while a rusted sink and toilet sat bolted to the other. The single window near the ceiling let in a narrow strip of gray light, casting faint shadows across the concrete.

The guard locked the door behind him with a resounding click. "Lights out at nine. Don't cause trouble."

Tony didn't respond. He turned toward the bars, his hands resting loosely at his sides as he looked at the prisoners across the way. They stared back, some curious, others predatory. A wiry man with scars tracing his jaw grinned at him, his teeth yellowed and uneven.

"Well, well, well... Mr. Stark." the man drawled. "How's it feel to be one of us now?"

Tony tilted his head slightly. "I'll let you know when I figure that out."

The man laughed, though it carried no warmth. "You'll figure it out soon enough. This place chews up men like you."

Tony turned away without another word, sitting on the edge of the cot. The mattress groaned under his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. His mind, however, was already working.

'Ryker's Island.' he thought. 'High security. Limited resources. Most escape attempts fail because they focus on brute force. The key is finesse.'

He glanced around the cell again, his gaze lingering on the bolts in the cot, the plumbing in the sink, the wiring just barely visible near the light fixture. Ideas began to take shape in his mind, each one refined as quickly as it appeared.

The sound of heavy footsteps brought him back to the present. A guard passed by, shining a flashlight into each cell. Tony leaned back against the wall, tilting his head up to stare at the ceiling.

From outside his cell, another inmate called out, "Hey, Stark. Bet you regret all those missiles now, huh? Bet you wish you'd stayed in your penthouse."

Tony smirked faintly, though the expression didn't reach his eyes. "Regret's a waste of time. I focus on what's next."

The inmate scoffed. "Good luck with that in here."

As the night settled in, the noise of the cellblock died down. Tony lay on the cot, hands folded behind his head, his thoughts moving like clockwork.

He might have been stripped of his wealth, his reputation, and his freedom, but he wasn't broken. He wasn't done.

This was just another problem to solve.

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I will update the chapters through the next days