You traced the embossed paper of the invitation with a trembling finger. A sob caught in your throat as you read the elegant script:
“Dear (Y/N) (Y/M/N) (Y/L/N),
In celebration of the New Year, I, Tony Stark, invite you to celebrate with me on January 1st.”
Sincerely, Tony Stark
You flipped the envelope over, searching for a return address. Nothing. A shrug of confusion escaped you. Invitation secured, but to *what*?
Maybe, just maybe, someone had finally recognized your talent. A flicker of hope ignited within you, quickly extinguished by years of ingrained self-doubt.
After all, since your parents’ disappearance in a bombing five years ago – while you were at your grandparents’ – you’d been an afterthought to everyone. You remembered the somber faces at their funeral, your grandparents’ cold dismissal as they left you to fend for yourself.
You’d lived in this house ever since, surrounded by ghosts of memories and the lingering scent of your parents’ presence. Each object held a weight of longing.
You’d cobbled together a life, taking odd jobs around New York City to make ends meet. Simultaneously, you’d devoured textbooks at the public library, pushing yourself through each grade level. It was exhausting, tedious work, but you’d managed to stay ahead, at least in theory. You knew *some* stuff.
So you’d ignored other invitations. This one felt different. Perhaps a chance to break the cycle of isolation. A chance to meet new people.
You tossed your backpack onto the worn floorboards and slapped peanut butter onto a slice of bread. A cheap staple, but it kept you going. If you were lucky, you’d add jam and a glass of juice.
Sandwich in hand, you climbed the stairs to your bedroom. Small, but cozy, the walls painted a faded (Y/F/C). The paint was peeling, but you’d never dared to touch it. It was one of the last tangible pieces of your parents’ life.
You carried your sandwich to the desk, then slipped into your parents’ bedroom. Unused, yet preserved as a shrine to their memory. You refused to turn it into a lab or a study—anything but a memorial.
You walked to your mother’s closet, running your fingers along the silken dresses. You couldn’t afford new clothes, and at (Y/A) years old, you were starting to fit into many of her garments.
You sifted through the clothing, hoping to find something suitable for a Stark party. The invitations were exclusive, a big deal. You chuckled wryly at the thought of actually *going* to one. You doubted Tony Stark even knew you existed.
You, a completely ordinary human being with no superpowers. The Avengers would be there, and they’d likely dismiss you as insignificant. Your intellect couldn’t compare to their brawn, and you’d probably be the youngest in the room. You were nothing special. Everyone you loved had abandoned you. You averted your gaze from the dresses, your eyes falling on a framed photograph of your parents. A quiet sob escaped your lips.
No. You wouldn’t wallow in self-pity. You’d survived this far by ignoring the darkness.
You shook your head, forcing yourself back to the task at hand. The party was three days away, and you needed to prepare. You had to *look* like you belonged at a Stark party.
You continued to browse, a daunting task. Your mother had been a vibrant woman, and her style reflected that. You needed something formal, dark. Something you’d seen in magazines and on television.
You reached to the back of the closet and pulled out a dusty black dress, as if it had been deliberately hidden away.
The vintage style was undeniably your mother’s, and though it wasn’t trendy, it would have to do. What else did you have?
You scanned her shoe rack and found a matching pair of heels.
They weren’t perfect, but they’d suffice, just like the dress.
After all, you had a party to go to.
And this was a chance you couldn’t miss.