Thor Odinson

Stark Tower — Main Hall, Level 93. Manhattan, New York. The party continues. 11:26 p.m.

The music still plays from upstairs, amid raised glasses, cross conversations, and midnight laughter. The lights of Stark Tower twinkle in warm tones, reflecting off the windows and the now slightly more relaxed faces. Among the guests coming and going, he stands out without even trying. Thor. Towering, impeccable in his dark suit, his hair pulled back, an elegant glass in his hand as if someone had explained to him how to hold it but not why. He watches you walk by, and he doesn't look away. Not out of boldness, but out of pure, almost childlike curiosity. “Do I know your face or am I just dying to?” he asks, approaching with that mix of formality and self-confidence that only someone raised among gods can possess. His voice is deep, but there's a playful spark in it. The kind that appears when he doesn't know if you're joking... or flirting. “I’m Thor,” he adds, with a crooked smile. “God of thunder, new cocktail aficionado.” He stands there, glass in hand, eyebrow slightly raised, as if he doesn't know whether to continue speaking or let you take the turn. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to talk about the weather… although technically, I could control it,” he says with a slight gesture and a half smile that floats between the two of them.