Before then, there was another ten seconds lost as the Crimson Dynamo came to a rest at Nick's side, quiet and still. His head swiveled around, strange, dark eyes on Nick, like he counted out and meditated a breath before he could go on. As much as Tony stared, hearing his own breath echoed back to him and tasting the metal in it, he didn't really see Nick like he meant to. He saw ridges and lines and edges to anchor ideas onto: every possible outcome calculated, recorded, and listed by percentage of likely occurrence. Most of them involved death. Tony wasn't a fan of that kind of finality.
Without a word, the ten seconds come and gone between them, the Dynamo's head turned away to consider the door between them and all of those possible deaths. More time was lost as he leaned against it, palms flat, like he could sense its density through the touch, but Tony just felt dizzy. That was five-point-two seconds, Tony trying to remember when the last time he had a drink was, before the Crimson Dynamo's fingers were digging into the metal until he was gripping handfuls of it. It screeched and whined, the grinding sound carrying down the empty hall behind them, like it could have been heard all the way outside. Another four-point-seven seconds, and the concrete around the doors was giving away, crumbling without releasing the doorframe as it came out of the wall.