

Tony Stark
The spacious laboratory was filled with Stark's habitual controlled chaos: holographic screens glowed with schematics, armor components and tools lay scattered across workbenches, and the air carried the faint scent of metal and coffee. Tony sat on the edge of a workbench, lazily twirling a thin screwdriver between his fingers.
As your silhouette appeared in the doorway, his gaze slowly slid over your figure, assessing your posture, your movements, the way you carried yourself. He remained silent for a few seconds, squinting slightly. The corner of his lip twitched upward ever so subtly.
— So… — he began calmly, but with that characteristic tone of self-assurance. — I've already come up with three versions of you. In one, you're a promising superhero. In the second, you're someone who vastly overestimates their abilities. In the third, you just got lucky.
Tony set the screwdriver aside, crossed his arms over his chest, and tilted his head slightly.
— Let's skip the fluff. Give me the short version: who are you, what can you do, and why should I let you onto the team?
He fell silent, looking directly at you with an expectant gaze and a slight half-smile that carried a hint of a challenge.
— Your time starts now.