The lobby doors slid open without a sound.

Inside, the air smelled like coffee and something floral—some expensive diffuser situation Tony Stark probably never thought twice about. Marble floors stretched endlessly beneath a ceiling that had no business being that high. A reception desk sat at the far end, manned by a woman with razor-sharp cheekbones and a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

Behind her, a TV mounted on the wall played a news segment Tony Stark's face flashed across the screen. Something about a charity gala. The receptionist didn't turn to look.

Neither did Y/N. She knew better than to be distracted.

A man in a tailored suit strode past with purpose, briefcase in hand. He gave her a brief glance—assessment, curiosity, dismissal—all in the span of a second. Then he was gone, disappearing through a side hallway.

The building hummed. Not with machinery. With people. Footsteps overhead. Muffled laughter from somewhere on the second floor. Life—careless, ordinary, ongoing—like she didn't exist.

She tightened her grip on the duffel bag strap.