It took them a surprisingly long time to draw blood. It seemed that they were content with the bruises that bloomed along his skin, painting it in hues of blues and purples.
It was pathetic, really. A waste his time, a thing more precious and infinitely more valuable than their measly, miserable lives.
They sneered, their verbal abuse as weak as their punches; blunt and lacking sophistication and originality.
It was boring.
Tony was bored .
"The Avengers will never find you in time," they crooned, accompanied by the slow drag of the knife across his cheek. "You'll be a corpse in the bottom of a river before they even realise you're missing."
It had been at least an hour by that point, and the tang of blood filled the air. Heavy and potent, it made his head swim with a sudden thirst. A need. For more of it, for the primal satisfaction it brought to see blood splattered across his knuckles, crusting on his shoes as it pooled at his feet.
He grinned, sharp and wicked, it promised danger, death .
As usual, though, they didn't recognise it. Didn't see it.
Nobody does.
Billionaire, playboy, philanthropist.
So easy to hide behind the mask.
They never look beneath the surface, always underestimate.
That's why they all die.
"I don't need the Avengers," he promised, eyes shining with a sharp glint. "But you're right. They will come too late."
But it wouldn't be his corpse in the river. No. It would be theirs .
Always theirs.
Never his.
Stark men are made of iron.
Their ignorance, and their arrogance- the inability to see the man behind the Tony Stark persona that led then to underestimate him, think him the least dangerous Avenger- would be their doom .
They may be rotten men, ugly inside and out, but the pattern their blood made as he slit their throats was beautiful .