Tony took a breath, trying to keep his tone calm despite the clear attitude on the other end."We're not looking for a fight," he said. "We just want to talk to Michael. That's it. No weapons. No threats. Just a conversation."
The maid scoffed, her voice dripping with distrust."Talk? After everything your people did? After the threats, the lies, the nukes—now you want to talk?"
Tony clenched his jaw, holding back a snide remark. "Yes. Because not talking will only make things worse—for everyone."
But the maid wasn't convinced. "You think just saying that earns you a seat at his table? Do you know how many people want his time—how many deserve it more than you?"
As she kept going, Michael—walking down a nearby corridor—heard the escalating tone in her voice. Curious, he stepped into the hallway and followed the sound until he reached the room. From the doorway, he saw her standing by the phone, tense and irritated.
"What's going on?" Michael asked, his voice calm but commanding.
The maid turned quickly, surprised. "My lord—it's nothing. Just—this man says he wants to speak with you."
Michael raised an eyebrow, walking toward her. "And who is 'this man'?"
She hesitated, then sighed. "Tony Stark. He says he and the Avengers want to talk."
Michael blinked once. Then he simply held out his hand. "Give me the phone."
Reluctantly, the maid handed it over and stepped back. Michael brought it to his ear.
"This is Michael White," he said coolly. "You've got five seconds. Convince me why I shouldn't hang up right now."
Michael stood silently for a moment, the line quiet except for Tony's steady breathing.
Then Tony spoke, voice measured and sincere.
"I'm not here to threaten or accuse you," Tony said. "We just want to meet—face to face. No ambush. No tricks. Just a conversation."
Michael didn't reply immediately. He walked over to the balcony, pushing the doors open as a warm breeze flowed in. He looked out over the city—quiet, oblivious to the powerful conversation happening above it.
"Why?" he asked finally, his tone unreadable. "Why now, after everything?"
Tony didn't hesitate. "Because we were wrong about a lot of things. And it's time someone admitted that. I'm not asking for forgiveness. I'm asking for a chance to listen… and understand."
Michael's fingers tapped the balcony rail lightly. "And what if I say no?"
"Then I'll respect that," Tony said plainly. "But I'm hoping you don't."
A long pause followed. Then, slowly, Michael's voice returned.
"Fine. One meeting. Neutral ground. And if anyone—anyone—tries anything…"
"They won't," Tony assured him quickly.
Michael gave a soft scoff. "We'll see. Tell your team: come in peace… or you guys will leave in pieces."
Click.
The line went dead.
Michael turned, tossing the phone back to the maid. "Prepare the courtyard. We're going to have visitors."
"But young master…" the maid began cautiously.
Michael waved her off with a slight smirk. "Relax. They're not even as strong as my pinky. No pressure, okay?"
The maid paused, still clearly uneasy, but Michael's casual confidence left little room for debate. She gave a reluctant nod.
"As you say, young master," she said quietly before hurrying off to prepare the courtyard, her footsteps echoing softly through the grand hall.
Michael stood alone for a moment, eyes scanning the horizon beyond the large windows. The sky was calm.
"Well, it's not like I hate them," he murmured, fingers tapping the windowsill. "Well… maybe I do hate how easily they follow idiots."
He sighed, the weight of their first meeting briefly flickering behind his eyes. "I wonder if all of them will come," he mused, his voice low and thoughtful.
Then, with a subtle shift in energy, he turned and moved with purpose—grabbing his coat, adjusting his cuffs, and settling into the role of a host prepared to entertain powerful but uncertain guests.
Time to welcome the so-called heroes.
The afternoon sun cast long, golden rays over the courtyard as the gates creaked open. One by one, the Avengers stepped in—not clad in armor or high-tech suits, but in civilian clothing. They came not as soldiers, but as people.
Tony Stark was first, naturally. He wore a dark blazer over a vintage Black Sabbath tee, his sunglasses hiding the exhaustion behind his eyes. Despite his casual look, his steps were measured and cautious.
Steve Rogers followed close behind, in a fitted Henley and jeans, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. His posture was firm, steady—as if ready for diplomacy… or defense.
Natasha Romanoff was all in black, but subtly so. A sleeveless blouse, tailored pants, and boots that barely made a sound against the stone courtyard. Her eyes scanned everything, sharp as ever.
Bruce Banner wore a grey cardigan over a loose shirt and slacks. His expression was tired, as if he'd rather be anywhere else—but still, he came.
Clint Barton was casual to the point of being forgettable—hoodie, jeans, sneakers—but his hands never strayed far from his pockets. Ready. Alert.
Then came Thor, larger than life even in a white linen shirt and leather sandals. He walked with the ease of a man visiting an old friend, his golden hair tied loosely back.
"Welcome," Mia said, standing at the entrance to greet them. She bowed like a professional maid and then began to guide them toward the courtyard where the meeting was prepared.
Mia's presence was calm and composed—her every movement precise, like someone who had been trained for moments exactly like this. She led the Avengers across the marbled walkway, past flowering gardens and ancient statues that pulsed faintly with protective enchantments. Despite the peaceful surroundings, a tension hung in the air.
As they reached the courtyard, they found Michael already waiting.
He stood at the head of a long stone table, dressed in a sharp black business suit with silver trimming. He wasn't in his sorcerer's robes, nor wearing his symbiote. His appearance was neat, poised—commanding without being flashy. A quiet confidence radiated from him, like someone who already knew the outcome of every move on the board.
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