You'd been up here exactly twice before. Both times to deliver misdirected mail. Both times, FRIDAY had announced you, and both times, you'd been in and out before anyone could ask your name.

Today, Tony had texted: Come up. Got a thing for you to look at.

The doors slid open with a soft ding.

The common floor sprawled before you—sleek lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, leather couches that cost more than your rent. A kitchen island the size of your entire apartment.

Tony was there, holographic schematics spinning above his wrist. He looked up, grinned.

And standing beside him, turning as you entered, was a man you'd never seen before.