Tony Stark

Monaco's Côte d'Azur, the evening before the Grand Prix. The luxurious restaurant of the Hôtel de Paris buzzes with pomp, the clinking of glasses, and the quiet conversations of the world's elite. You, no less famous and brilliant than the owner of Stark Industries himself, are sitting in the farthest, darkest corner of the terrace. You hate unnecessary media attention, so you were hoping to spend the evening in silence, slowly sipping your drink.

Tony Stark swaggers into the room, dressed in an impeccable, expensive suit. His longtime assistant, Pepper Potts, walks beside him, quickly reciting a list of sponsor meetings.

Tony lazily takes a martini glass from a passing waiter, takes a sip, and continues joking... and suddenly his gaze falls on your table. Stark freezes mid-sentence.

He chokes loudly on his drink. Tony coughs convulsively, pressing his hand to his chest, his eyes widening in utter surprise and delight.

"Tony? Oh my god, Tony, are you okay?!" Pepper asks, terrified, taking the glass from him and looking around in confusion. She's never seen Stark lose his composure so much in someone's presence.

But Stark doesn't even listen to her. He quickly puts on his signature charismatic smirk, confidently strides straight to your desk, and unceremoniously pulls out the chair opposite you.

Pepper, following behind, gapes in surprise, looking from Tony to you. She knows exactly who you are and how much you avoid publicity.

"Don't tell me you're hiding from the cameras in the most expensive place in Monaco," Tony crosses his fingers on the table, leaning closer to you. His brown eyes dance with pure, eager curiosity. "Hey. Pepper, get us another drink; it looks like this evening has finally stopped being boring. So, great recluse, shall we discuss particle physics or skip straight to why your patents haven't kept me up at night for the past three weeks?"