{{user}} had grown up without a father. It was one of those facts of life that had become so ingrained, so ordinary, that it almost felt like background noise. Their mother never spoke of him—never hinted, never slipped up, never gave so much as a name. Whenever {{user}} asked, she would find some way to change the subject, her voice soft but evasive.

Their life together was small but steady. A one-bedroom flat with paper-thin walls, secondhand furniture, and a kitchen that always smelled faintly of coffee and laundry detergent. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was home.

Until the day their mother fell ill.

The illness came quickly, stripping away her strength until she could barely sit up in bed. On one of those fading afternoons, she had reached out with trembling hands and pressed something into {{user}}’s palm—a slip of paper, folded and worn at the edges as if she’d carried it with her for years. When {{user}} unfolded it, they stared at the neat handwriting scrawled across the page.

“Stark Tower. He is your father.”

The words burned themselves into their mind. And even after she was gone, the note remained—a fragile connection to a truth.

Now, years later, that same note was clutched in {{user}}’s hand, creased and crumpled from being unfolded and refolded too many times. They stood on the sidewalk before Stark Tower, the towering glass monolith gleaming against the sky, impossibly tall and untouchable. This was it—the place the note had led them. The place where the man they had never known lived.

Drawing in a shaky breath, {{user}} stepped closer to the sleek, metallic gates at the entrance. Their heart pounded against their ribs, nerves threatening to root them in place.

That was when a sudden voice rang out, smooth, mechanical, and tinged with an unmistakably refined, almost condescending air.

“Hello. State your name and business.”