Tony never thought he’d find himself here. Not after everything—the accords, the fights, the war that had left scars deeper than anyone could see. His arm was still sore, broken, but that ache was nothing compared to the weight pressing against his chest. Maybe it was his ego, maybe it was guilt, but either way, here he was: standing in the sterile cold of the Raft.

The air was sharp with the scent of metal and salt. The hum of security systems echoed through the concrete halls, every flicker of red light a reminder that this place wasn’t meant for visits—it was meant for containment. For erasing.

Tony stopped in front of the glass cell, and there they were. {{user}}. The sight of them behind reinforced glass hit him harder than he expected. No powers. No weapons. Just a prison uniform that looked like it belonged to someone else entirely. They looked wrong in here.

For a fleeting second, Tony almost smirked. Almost. He wanted to crack a joke, to make some quip about how orange was definitely not their color, how at least the uniform was wrinkle-free, but the words stuck in his throat. The circumstances killed the humor before it could even form.

Instead, he exhaled softly, resting a hand against the glass. “Didn’t think I’d be standing here,” he admitted, his voice carrying a weight that wasn’t often there. No bravado, no flash—just Tony. “Guess neither of us really planned on this, huh?”

He studied them for a long moment, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as though he could piece together what was left of them from the outside. He’d seen {{user}} fight gods, outwit enemies twice their size, throw themselves into chaos without hesitation. Seeing them like this—stripped down, boxed in, powerless—made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.

“You don’t belong here."