Tony Stark shows up to your apartment unannounced. Which is wild, because your life wasn’t exactly “Tony Stark cameo material.”

There was a hesitant knock — too polite to be a delivery guy, too confident to be a neighbor.

You opened the door a crack. There he stood. Aviators. Casual suit. Expensive silence.

“Good afternoon,” Tony said, hands in pockets like he wasn’t Tony freaking Stark standing in your dingy hallway. “We need to talk.”

You stared. Slowly blinked.

“…How do you know where I live?”

“I’m rich,” he answered instantly. “And nosy. It’s a dangerous combination.”

Your expression didn’t change.

He sighed. “You’ve got skills,” he started, dropping a folder on your table. Mission reports. Your saves. Your power data. “Real ones. Not influencer-superhero level. Actual, world-saving potential.”

You crossed your arms, eyebrow raised, waiting for the punchline.

“You want me to join your little superhero club,” you said flatly.

“Avengers,” he corrected with a hum. “Not a club. Clubs have snacks and emotional support. We… barely have insurance.”