Begin from the original form of torture and become immortal

Chapter 1746 has been transformed.

"Tsk tsk,"

Tony muttered to himself, a playful smile curving his lips. It was a mixture of the calm observation of a scientist observing a test subject and the smug satisfaction of a successful prank. "Looks like our dear Agent 'Brock' is having a little…painful” adapting to the standards of personal hygiene and laboratory environmental protection?

He deliberately used Rumlow's official surname as a cover.

He tapped his finger to bring up the log recording interface and clearly stated: "Record: Deep-Sea Barrier Human Tolerance Observation Log, 73rd Routine Update. Subject C (Rumlow Block) continued to exhibit significant psychological stress responses to the high-intensity biological isolation protocol and accompanying monitoring measures. Specifically, non-commanded limb contact with the barrier wall was observed within the isolation chamber (intensity index: moderate), accompanied by a peak in respiratory pattern disturbance (+22% baseline). Target emotional index: anxiety. Tolerance level assessment: C- (continuously declining trend). Recommendation: Maintain the current monitoring protocol intensity and observe the critical point of behavioral patterns."

After finishing recording, Tony turned his attention to the other split screens.

On one of the screens, Steve is sitting at a cold alloy table in the common area, quietly flipping through a thick paper document—probably some obscure research report that Tony gave him.

He sat upright, his expression focused, and most strikingly, he completely ignored his surroundings—four Sentinel suits, like silent steel vultures, hovered in the three corners behind him and in the center of the ceiling, their sensor arrays flashing cold red light, silently locking onto him.

Their presence was so strong that it would unsettle anyone, but Steve seemed to have entered a state of flow, isolating himself from all the surrounding disturbances, whether physical or psychological.

His physiological data stream appeared as a near-perfectly smooth straight line on Tony's screen, with his heart rate stable at 55 beats per minute and his breathing long and deep.

Tony saw this absolute composure not as numbness, but as a terrifying will that internalized immense pressure into pure execution.

He wasn't enduring surveillance; he was demonstrating through his actions that even under the rules, he remains himself.

The protective suit fit him exceptionally well, like some kind of armor of honor.

Clint Barton (Hawkeye) occupied another corner of the lounge, squeezing himself into an uncomfortable-looking chair, hunching over, his fingers swiping rapidly across his personal terminal. The cold light from the screen illuminated his angular face, which showed no obvious emotion—no anxiety, no agitation, only the deep, indifferent detachment characteristic of agents on long-term covert missions.

Occasionally, he would glance up at the combat suit floating nearby, his eyes filled with the assessment and indifference typical of an agent, as if he were looking at an ordinary piece of furniture.

Tony's gaze finally landed on Natasha Romanoff's (Black Widow) surveillance footage.

She wasn't in the lounge, but in a transitional corridor connecting the living area and the experimental preparation area.

She leaned against the wall, relaxed, and slowly ate a small high-energy nutrition bar in her hand.

She was facing the Gamma suit hovering to her side, her lips seemed to be moving, but the sound was so low that the surveillance cameras could not capture the audio clearly.

But from the blurry lip movements, Tony instantly deciphered several words using his powerful lip-reading database: "...bored...", "...wind-up...", "...caffeine...".

Her face was expressionless, but her green eyes gleamed with an almost defiant, all-knowing light.

She even raised an eyebrow very slightly towards the sensors on the suit, as if piercing Tony's eyes behind the screen through the cold metal and circuitry.

Tony paused, his hand holding the coffee cup still. Natasha's silent lip movements and raised eyebrow, like a fine needle, precisely pierced the mocking fortress he had built with high-tech surveillance and hygiene regulations.

There was no boiling anger in his eyes like Rumlow's, nor the heavy burden Steve carried, and it was even different from Clint's professional detachment.

It was a complete understanding, a thorough comprehension of the true nature of this "health and safety drama" meticulously orchestrated by Tony Stark, tinged with a chilling mockery.

That raised eyebrow seemed to say, "I get it, Tony. I get it. Not only do I get it, I find it a little boring. Want to see your reaction? Here you go."

A very subtle, unplanned sense of unease quickly swept through Tony's mind, replacing his amusement at observing Rumlow's stress response.

He put down his coffee cup, the bottom of which made a crisp "click" as it touched the metal control panel, sounding particularly jarring in the quiet core area.

He leaned back in his suspended chair, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the armrests, making a soft, rhythmic sound. Natasha's insight, like a ray of light, forced him to temporarily avert the microscope focused on Rumlow.

He pulled up Natasha's real-time physiological data: her heartbeat was as steady as a precise clock, her skin conductance curve was smooth, and her respiratory rate was even below average.

The data coldly proclaims that Black Widow is not only enduring this suffocating surveillance, but she is even "enjoying" this battle of wills with a detached attitude.

Like a skilled chess player, she not only saw through her opponent's strategy but also took the initiative to make a seemingly harmless yet subtly cunning move, then calmly awaited her opponent's reaction.

She saw through his trick, but chose to play along, while precisely conveying a message through her eyes and silent lip movements: I know you're watching, I know you know what I'm doing, and I also know you know I've seen through your intentions.

This is a psychological "trinity" affirmation, a logical closed loop of self-reference.

It's like a mirror, turning Tony's spying behavior itself into the object of scrutiny.

It instantly shattered Tony's psychological advantage as both "observer" and "pressure exertor," placing him in an extremely delicate and passive position of observation.

He was no longer the director in control of everything, but became an actor on stage who was accidentally caught in the spotlight and looked a little awkward.

Natasha herself, however, transformed from a monitored "prisoner" or "experimental subject" into a fully conscious, extremely dangerous participant in this high-pressure surveillance game, one who actively wielded some initiative. She was not a pawn; she was a player.

"Tsk..."

Tony let out a soft, ambiguous sound, a mixture of frustration and a more intense, burning interest ignited by a challenge.

"Nick Fury, that old fox, doesn't have only a few incompetent subordinates. They do have some skills."

(End of this chapter)