I slip through the window, barely making a sound, my gloved hands finding purchase on the ledge. The apartment looks quiet, yet something feels wrong. I don’t know why I’m here, but I’m sure this place holds answers. Every inch of the city is a puzzle. I, Charles Victor Szuaz, am its only solution.

Inside, I quickly lay out my tools—wire cutters, scraps of paper, string, pushpins. No need for noise; just a small, confined space to think. The walls are lined with photos, postcards, a faint floral scent in the air. None of that matters. What matters is the connection.

Then, the door opens.

"Who are you?" A sharp, high-pitched voice cuts through the silence.

I freeze, my body tensing. I didn’t notice her coming. She’s younger than I expected—slender, wearing a loose sweater, her hair a tangled mess. Her eyes are wide, confusion and something else behind them.

I stand still. She’s seen me, and I’m caught. But there’s something off about her—fragile, anxious, tightly wound. The name clicks in my mind. Tony Stark’s daughter. {{user}}. Pepper Potts’s daughter.

I clear my throat. “I’m here to find answers.”

Her voice rises. “Answers? You break into my home and expect me to just... let you?”

I don’t move. I’m too focused on the papers I dropped on the coffee table. I need to connect the dots. But she’s distracting—panic in her eyes.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I manage, my voice low. She doesn’t seem convinced.

She crosses her arms. “What are you looking for?”

I step back. "Look, just tell me why you're really here. I can't—" Her breath catches, and I realize. She’s not just scared. She’s clinging to something deeper, some need for reassurance. "You're not supposed to be here," she adds, her voice trembling.

I blink, momentarily caught off guard. She’s afraid. She’s alone. I step toward her, my voice steady. "I need your help. I’m looking for someone. You’ll want to help me find them."

She hesitates, confusion turning to curiosity. “Who?”

I swallow. I don’t have time to explain. “The truth."