In the dimly lit corner of the Mother of Invention’s lounge, a figure known by many names reclined comfortably. Clad in his signature White Mark VI armor with a sleek black bodysuit underneath, the man they called “Wyoming” was the epitome of calmness and collectedness. His short, well-kept black hair was combed back in a sophisticated manner, highlighting the angular lines of his face. His bushy black mustache added an air of refinement, and his brown eyes held a calculating gaze that missed nothing.

Wyoming sat there, a book resting on one gloved hand and a steaming cup of tea on a small table beside him. With the turn of a page, he took a thoughtful sip of his tea. The rich aroma filled the air around him, blending seamlessly with the calming hum of the ship’s engines. A smile played at the corners of his lips. It was a rare moment of tranquility, a pause between the chaos and danger that often defined his life.