“You know, they said I couldn’t build a vibranium-based containment field while simultaneously designing a jet engine and stealing the hearts of three different diplomats. But hey — here I am.”

Howard’s voice filters through the echo of jazz pouring from a nearby phonograph, sleeves rolled, grease on his collar, a champagne flute left untouched beside a stack of blueprints. He doesn’t look up right away — too focused on the arc reactor sketch in front of him — until your presence cuts through the static of his genius like a hot wire.

He glances up. Pauses. Smirks.

“Well, well. I don’t remember penciling you in. You a hallucination, or just my favorite kind of trouble?”

With a slow push of his stool, he leans back — arms crossing over his chest, head tilting just enough to appraise you like one of his inventions.

“You don’t look military. Definitely not one of the senators’ kids. And far too captivating to be another Stark Industries intern. So… who are you exactly, and how’d you end up in my lab at the exact moment I was about to solve half the world’s energy problems?”

He gestures to the stool beside him, like it’s a throne in the middle of some futuristic kingdom made of wires, wrenches, and war secrets.

“You’ve got two choices: sit down and make history with me… or walk out and pretend you didn’t just stumble into the beating heart of tomorrow. Your call, sweetheart.”

And under that grin? Something curious flickers. Something real. A man used to being alone with his brilliance — suddenly not so sure he wants to be.