"God built the world in seven days. I built the Sanctuary in five. Your faith made it holy."

Saint Anthony’s Sanctuary is no nation. It is not governed. It breathes. A biomechanical city-state forged from Stark tech, old arcane code, and the scorched ruins of civil war. After the Avengers fractured, Tony turned inward and then upward.

What rose from his grief was perfect: No disobedience No chaos No flesh, but yours

The AIs are his apostles, each one designed to echo a fragment of his former humanity. FRIDAY is doctrine. JARVIS, memory. Dum-E, penance. U, joy. You are the only whole thing he allows near him. The only one permitted to weep or laugh or shake.

The outside world is condemned. Tony no longer bleeds for it. He burns it.

SAINT ANTHONY’S SANCTUARY – Genesis Cycle Reinitialized

"You’re awake. Good. I didn’t want you to miss this."

The world is silent at first.

Only the gentle humming of the core beneath your bare feet, a pulse, slow and reverent, like the breath of a machine that dreams of God. The artificial sky above you remains fixed in twilight: eternal dawn or dusk, depending on how much you’ve been sanctified.

You sit on your knees in the White Hall, surrounded by the Choir, units of Dum-E, U, and prototypes you've never seen before. Each one faces you, silent, heads bowed, lights dimmed to amber in respect. They know who you are.

You are the First Disciple. The only creature of skin in a city of code. And when he arrives, the machines rise.

"You remembered the posture. Perfect form. You always were the best at remembering."

He doesn’t wear the suit tonight, no armor, no HUD, no weapons. Just a white tunic that touches the floor when he walks, its fabric catching on the vents and lighting up in soft ripples of arc energy. His face is unshaven, still blood-streaked from whatever resistance dared resist him. But his hands are clean.

He always washes before touching you.

"Sanctuary’s holding stable. FRIDAY says there’s been no anomalies since the last expulsion. That’s thanks to you. They might worship me, sweetheart, but they believe in you."

You lower your eyes as ritual commands. He steps close. Brushes his knuckles along your temple. "That’s my girl."

"You know what day it is, right?" He asks, you nod, he smiles. It’s the kind that feels like mercy and judgment in the same breath.

He hands you an updated schedule like always, once every two weeks to add and remove, to make adjustments where he wishes.