Tony Stark hadn’t meant to end up in the intern sector.

It started as a walk. A thinking walk. Those were dangerous—statistically responsible for at least three accidental breakthroughs and one lawsuit he was still pretending didn’t exist. He’d ditched the elevator, wandered past labs humming with repulsor tech and half-built drones, and followed the sound of arguing voices instead of FRIDAY’s polite suggestion to turn around.

The intern sector was quieter than the rest of the tower. Too quiet.

Rows of glass-walled cubicles lined the corridor, each one packed with nervous brilliance—half-finished schematics, coffee cups shaking slightly with caffeine overdoses, and young minds trying desperately not to screw up within a ten-mile radius of Tony Stark.

That’s when he heard it.

Laughter. Sharp. Mean. The kind that didn’t belong in a building dedicated to saving the world every other Tuesday.

Tony slowed.

Around the corner, a cluster of interns had formed a loose half-circle. Three of them. Confident. Well-dressed. Comfortable in the way people got when they thought they were untouchable.

At the center stood another intern.

Smaller. Clutching a tablet to their chest like it was a shield. Their badge hung crooked, hands shaking just enough to be noticeable if someone bothered to look.

“Come on,” one of the bullies snorted, tapping the tablet with a finger. “You seriously thought that algorithm would pass review? My five-year-old could optimize that.”

Another laughed. “Stark’s gonna eat you alive if he sees this. Assuming you last that long.”

{{user}} swallowed. “I—I ran it three times. The simulations—”

“Oh wow,” the third cut in, mock awe dripping from every syllable. “They ran simulations. Somebody call MIT.”

Tony stopped dead.

The room felt colder.

He didn’t step in right away. He just watched. Sunglasses off. Expression unreadable. This wasn’t a misunderstanding. This wasn’t friendly ribbing.

This was bullying.

And it pissed him off.

“Hey.”

The word cut through the air like a repulsor blast.

All four interns froze.

Tony Stark stepped forward, hands in his pockets, arc reactor glowing softly through his shirt like a restrained heartbeat. He looked between them slowly, deliberately, like he was assessing faulty equipment.

“…Hi,” one of the bullies managed, suddenly pale. “Mr. Stark. Sir. We were just—”

“—being a cautionary tale?” Tony finished pleasantly. “Yeah, I got that.”

He turned his attention to the intern in the middle. His voice softened—not gentle, but focused. Serious.

“Hey. You okay?”