The woman standing near the reception desk couldn't look more out of place.

She's in her late forties, probably, with graying hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and the kind of weary, no-nonsense expression that suggests she's delivered worse news than this. Her blazer is wrinkled, her slacks rumpled. The folder in her hands looks thick enough to be a small novel.

Beside her, a worn suitcase sits upright on its wheels. Next to it, a kid.

The kid is standing completely still. Arms at their sides. Eyes fixed on the floor. Whatever's happening, they're not fighting it—not speaking, not looking around, not doing anything a normal kid would do in a place like this. They're just... waiting.

The minutes stretch.

A passing tech assistant with a tablet slows, glances at the scene, and quickly hurries on. A cleaning bot beeps as it navigates around the suitcase. The kid doesn't react to any of it.

The elevator doors slide open.

Tony Stark walks out in a well-fitted navy henley and dark jeans, coffee cup in hand, the faint smell of espresso trailing behind him. He's mid-step when he catches sight of the social worker, the folder, the suitcase—and the kid.