Nighttime, Queens, New York.
The presidential suite of the Stark Industries hotel glowed under soft ambient lighting. Xingqiu sat gracefully on a silk-upholstered sofa in the living room, his indigo robes pooling around him like spilled ink. His posture was serene—composed, elegant, almost otherworldly against the sleek modernity of the suite.
Tony Stark ambled toward the liquor cabinet in the corner, plucked two chilled glasses from the rack, and poured amber whiskey into one with practiced ease.
He reached for a second glass—then froze mid-motion. Turning slowly, he narrowed his eyes at the figure on the sofa.
"Okay, hold on," Tony said, voice laced with wary curiosity. "You just popped into my suite like you own the place. So let's start simple: Who are you, and how old are you?"
The boy inclined his head slightly. "I am Xingqiu," he replied, his voice clear and melodic, like wind chimes in a quiet garden. "I turned fifteen this year."
Tony stared for a beat—then abruptly shoved the whiskey bottle back into the cabinet.
"Happy!" he barked toward the door. "Watermelon juice. Fresh. Now."
He turned back to Xingqiu, tasting the name on his tongue. "Xing… Qiu? Star… Autumn? Seriously, kid—your parents must've been reading poetry when they picked that one."
Xingqiu offered a faint, patient smile but said nothing.
Moments later, Happy Hogan entered with a tall glass of crimson juice, condensation beading along the sides. He set it on the table, then—after a quick, discreet glance at Xingqiu's refined appearance—pulled out a small notebook.
"Uh… miss?" Happy began, cheeks slightly flushed. "I—I mean, if it's not too much trouble… could I maybe get your contact info? You've got, uh… real class."
Xingqiu blinked. Then, with admirable composure, he cleared his throat.
"I appreciate the compliment," he said gently, "but I should clarify—I'm a boy."
Happy's smile froze. Tony, who'd just taken a sip of whiskey, nearly choked.
"Wait—what?" they echoed in unison.
Tony coughed, eyes watering. Happy stood rigid, mortified.
Xingqiu lowered his gaze, a flicker of embarrassment crossing his features—though he remained dignified.
But then Happy's expression shifted. All traces of awkwardness vanished. He straightened, bowed deeply, and said with sudden, startling sincerity:
"In that case… may I also have your address? For… future correspondence. Professional admiration, of course!"
Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's it. Out. Now."
After ushering Happy out, Tony returned, whiskey in hand, and dropped into the chair opposite Xingqiu.
"So," he said, cutting straight to the bone, "how did you know about the palladium poisoning?"
Xingqiu lifted the watermelon juice, cradling the glass. "I'm afraid I can't say."
Tony took a slow sip, studying him. "With current medical tech, palladium toxicity is a death sentence. So—what's your play? You here alone, or does some shadowy organization have a miracle cure?"
Xingqiu set the glass down. His fingertips traced the rim thoughtfully.
"Perhaps where I come from," he said, smile returning, "we begin negotiations by discussing terms. Only when the price is agreeable does the transaction proceed." He tilted his head. "What are you willing to offer, Mr. Stark?"
Tony arched a brow. "Nope. You walked in here holding all the cards—you name your price."
Xingqiu's smile deepened. "Then I shan't be shy." He leaned forward slightly. "One of three technologies from your Iron Man suit: thermal insulation systems, kinetic dampeners, or—"
"Controlled nuclear fusion?" Tony cut in sharply. He stood abruptly, whiskey sloshing over the rim. "Absolutely not."
He slammed the glass onto the coffee table. "Money? Done. Shares? Take 'em. A private island? It's yours. But the suit's tech? That's non-negotiable. It's mine."
Xingqiu didn't flinch. He waited—patient, still—until Tony's breathing evened out.
"I don't want your money," Xingqiu said softly. "I don't want an island. Only those three systems."
He paused, then added, tone gentle but unyielding:
"…And Mr. Stark, this is a seller's market."
Tony's jaw tightened. "And if I say no?"
"Then our conversation ends," Xingqiu replied. "And you continue on your current trajectory. Palladium builds up. Organs fail. You have… months, perhaps less."
Tony paced—raking a hand through his hair, frustration crackling in the air. He stopped, eyes locking onto Xingqiu's.
"Why do you need it? What if you weaponize it?"
"I understand your concern," Xingqiu said, nodding. "But I assure you—I seek no conquest, no oil fields, no holy wars. I am no agent of your military, nor a zealot. My aim is peaceful advancement."
Tony narrowed his eyes. "But how? What will you do with it?"
"That," Xingqiu said calmly, "is the subject of another negotiation. For now, we decide only this: deal… or no deal."
Silence stretched between them. Tony searched Xingqiu's face—those calm, azure eyes betraying nothing but quiet certainty.
Finally, shoulders slumping, Tony exhaled.
"How do I know you're not bluffing?"
Xingqiu tilted his head. "You don't. But you do know you're dying. And I'm your only option."
Tony looked away—at the glittering skyline of New York, then back at the enigmatic boy in silk and shadow.
"…I need time," he said, voice weary. "This isn't a 'yes' I give over juice and small talk."
"Of course," Xingqiu replied, rising smoothly. "You have twenty-four hours." He bowed slightly, robes whispering against the floor. "I'll return tomorrow evening."
With that, he turned and walked to the balcony doors. A cold night wind slipped in as he vanished into the darkness—leaving Tony Stark
alone, staring into his empty glass, the weight of the world—and his own mortality—pressing down.
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