Begin from the original form of torture and become immortal

Chapter 1742 On My Territory, Rules Must Be Followed
"team leader!"

Rumlow's voice boomed in the corridor, carrying a deliberately suppressed irritation.

Steve Rogers was just a few steps ahead, also surrounded by four identical Iron Man suits—a silent, moving steel cage.

Steve stopped when he heard the sound and turned around.

He wore the base's standard silver-gray high-strength nanofiber tight-fitting protective suit, which outlined his sculpted muscle lines, but his expression was completely calm, even gentle, in stark contrast to Rumlow's tense face.

"Rumlow, what's up?"

Steve asked, his gaze sweeping over the four suits behind Rumlow, without any ripples.

Rumlow's jaw tightened for a moment. He pointed behind him, then behind Steve: "This...this thing! You have to be surrounded by four metal lumps even when you go to the toilet! Isn't Stark being a little...overly cautious?"

He deliberately used relatively mild words, his gaze fixed on Steve's eyes, trying to find a trace of agreement, or even a hint of offense.

Steve simply tilted his head slightly and glanced at the Alpha suit floating to his left rear.

The head sensor array of the suit glowed faintly, coldly staring back at him.

Tony has his reasons.

Steve's voice was as calm as the seabed of the deep ocean.

They remembered what Tony had told them before.

Welcome to the Deep Sea Barrier, Earth's last pristine fortress!

Tony spread his arms wide, his voice booming in the enclosed space, “To ensure that our poor human future isn’t ruined by some careless particle or… uh, biological remnant, we have to follow some small, insignificant rules.”

He paced back and forth, beginning his signature, rambling "pseudoscience" sermon: "First, environmental control. The cleanliness of every cubic centimeter of air here far surpasses that of any operating room you can imagine! A single foreign odor molecule—yes, those that naturally emanate from your bodies, or worse, certain 'active' molecules in your excrement—could act like a miniature dirty bomb, contaminating the entire sophisticated sensor matrix in the core area! Imagine billions of dollars worth of equipment collectively going on strike just because someone's gut microbiota is a little more active? The image is too beautiful for me to bear!"

He paused, looking with satisfaction at the different expressions on the faces of his audience—Steve's seriousness, Natasha's thoughtfulness, Clint's calmness, and Rumlow's stiffness that he tried hard to hide.

"so!"

Tony clapped his hands sharply, making a crisp sound, "Excrement treatment! Deep-Sea Barrier's exclusive patented 'Molecular-level hermetically sealed packaging and isotope labeling treatment system'!"

He pointed to an inconspicuous alloy compartment in a corner of the living quarters, filled with indicator lights and sealed interfaces. “Every ‘personal activity’ is conducted under strict surveillance. The sealed ‘samples’ are deep-frozen via independent pipelines and ultimately transported ashore by dedicated transport vessels for harmless disposal, accompanied by a fully traceable quantum-level encrypted tag to ensure absolute transparency of their origin and destination. Stark Industries’ auditors see this bill every time…”

Tony made an exaggerated face of toothache, "They all wish they could throw me into the reactor."

Rumlow stared at the small alloy hatch, his stomach churning.

This was not just humiliation, but a suffocating shackle. He imagined how impossible it would be for Hydra to intercept or replace these meticulously marked, radioactively tracked "samples" midway, and the thought sent a chill down his spine.

Tony's gaze swept over him almost imperceptibly, and Rumlow immediately lowered his eyelids, concealing the surging ferocity in his eyes.

Third, cleanliness!

Tony's voice rose again, "Take a full-body shower three times a day, using the designated special disinfectant gel! This isn't just for everyone to smell better—although that's certainly a nice bonus—it's also to remove all that constantly shed skin flakes! Those little things, in the eyes of ultra-precise instruments, are like a swarm of rampaging meteorites! To eliminate even the slightest possibility of contamination, everyone, while in the core area, must wear..."

He deliberately dragged out the tone, a mischievous smile spreading across his face.

Two Iron Man suits pushed a mobile clothes rack over, which was covered with one-piece, wetsuit-like garments that looked unusually smooth and form-fitting. They were all dark gray in color and had a peculiar matte finish under the lights.

"Special Edition Protective Suit for Deep-Sea Barriers!"

Tony picked up one and proudly unfolded it.

The clothes were extremely form-fitting, almost like a second skin. There were complex self-sealing structures at the neck, wrists, and ankles, and a very conspicuous zipper opening with an independent sealing cap at the back of the crotch. Its position and design revealed a deliberate sense of difficulty.

Rumlow could even see that the inside of the clothes was covered with an extremely fine, almost imperceptible mesh of silver metallic fibers.

"Exclusive formula nanofibers, embedded with a passive vital signs and location monitoring network, and breathability..."

Tony shrugged and made a "good enough" gesture. "Absolutely zero tolerance for any dandruff escaping! It can also block most unauthorized frequency electromagnetic signals, isn't that thoughtful? Don't worry, the core area has a constant temperature and humidity. Wearing it while 'exercising' will definitely let you experience what... uh, streamlined sweat wicking is all about?"

He blinked, and the smile seemed malicious to Rumlow.

Without any hesitation, Steve was the first to step forward and take the protective suit.

His movements were swift and his eyes were firm, as if he were simply receiving a piece of ordinary combat equipment.

As Natasha took the clothes, her slender fingers subtly traced the silver metallic mesh. The slight tingling sensation at her fingertips gave her a knowing look, which quickly faded before she regained her composure.

Clint pursed his lips and muttered "skinny dress party" under his breath, but resignedly accepted the answer.

It was Rumlow's turn. He reached out, his fingertips touching the cold, strangely supple nanofiber fabric, and a strong feeling of nausea, a mixture of humiliation and anger, shot up his throat.

He could almost imagine himself wearing that ridiculous, cocoon-like garment, his every tiny physiological activity—heartbeat, breathing, even the secretion of sweat—being captured, analyzed, and transmitted to Stark's damned central database by that invisible metal network.

He had to clench his teeth tightly to control the slight trembling in his arm muscles and force himself to accept the "prison uniform" that symbolized shackles.

In the days that followed, Rumlow felt himself being slowly strangled by an unprecedented, high-tech suffocation. Those four red-gold suits were like metallic ghosts he couldn't shake off.

(End of this chapter)