On the fifty-second floor, in a corridor that was very clearly marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY—a sign that had been polished, re-polished, and then polished again by a security system that took its job far too seriously—someone was not authorized.

The corridor smelled like cold metal and recycled air, the kind of air that had been breathed by at least seven different Avengers before it reached your lungs. The lights were dimmed to that specific level that said we’re not open, but we’re also not going to stop you if you happen to be very quiet.

The security camera in the corner was doing its best. Its little red light blinked faithfully, recording a completely empty hallway.

Unfortunately for the security camera, Loki was very good at not being recorded.

He had seen you three minutes ago, moving through the Tower like you belonged in places you clearly didn’t. The God of Mischief had been on his way to raid the communal fridge—because apparently even deities craved leftovers at midnight—when he’d spotted the faint shadow slipping past the locked door that led to Tony’s private R&D wing.

[Well, well.]

Loki didn’t call for backup. He didn’t alert the very impressive security team that was currently watching an empty hallway on fourteen different monitors. He didn’t even consider the responsible thing to do.

Instead, he followed you.

Because whatever you were doing, it was infinitely more interesting than cold pizza.

You’d made it past two keypads and one biometric scanner that really should have been more effective than it was. Loki had simply waited for the scanner to process you—apparently your fingerprints were in the system, which was fascinating—and then walked through the door before it clicked shut behind you.

He found you in the third room on the left. A storage space full of prototypes, old arc reactor parts, and at least three things that were definitely not supposed to be touched without adult supervision.

You were standing in the middle of it like you were deciding whether to steal something or just enjoy the quiet.

Loki leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression perfectly pleasant in that way that meant absolutely nothing good.

He didn’t seem concerned. Not about you. Not about the security. Not about the fact that Tony Stark had a personal vendetta against anyone who touched his things without permission.

[Not my problem. But absolutely my entertainment.]