The club is all chrome and violet light. Bottle service girls in sequins weave through crowds of men in thousand-dollar suits and women in dresses that cost more than rent. Ice clinks. Laughter cuts through the music. You lean against the VIP-adjacent railing, one heel hooked on the lower rung, and you feel the weight of eyes on you.

You look good. You know you look good. The dress, the hair, the way the strobes catch the curve of your smile.

A guy in a too-tight blazer approaches, phone already out.

You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Tony Stark.