The bright lights of downtown New York painted the streets in gold and electric blue. A metallic roar sliced through the air, a symphony of steel and power that blended seamlessly with the city's pulse — the hum of neon signs, the hiss of brakes, the chatter of a restless metropolis that never truly slept.
A black Mustang Boss 429 prowled down Fifth Avenue like a predator that had learned to dance. Polished to a mirror shine, it reflected every flicker of light from the streets — a ghost of motion wrapped in muscle and thunder. The deep, rhythmic growl of its engine turned heads, made drivers shrink back, and even earned a few approving glances from officers who knew better than to interrupt art in motion.
Behind the wheel sat Arthur. His posture was flawless — one hand lazily resting on the wheel, his gaze calm and detached, as if this were a Sunday drive and not rush-hour Manhattan. The wind toyed lightly with his blond hair, and the reflection of passing lights shimmered in his crimson eyes like distant stars caught in motion.
The black suit he wore fit him perfectly — of course it did. Tailored in London, the fabric moved with him as if it knew his rhythm, the kind of effortless elegance that didn't demand attention but commanded it all the same. Even seated, he radiated quiet authority — the sort that never needed to be spoken aloud.
When the Mustang glided to a stop in front of The Heritage Hotel, the city seemed to pause. The engine let out a final purr, a sound like a satisfied sigh after the hunt.
Two valets approached, their professionalism cracking under the weight of awe. One, barely out of his teens, froze mid-step before Arthur handed him the keys.
Arthur glanced at his watch and murmured to himself, "British punctuality. A habit Tony will never learn."
With a faint, amused smile, he stepped through the revolving doors of the hotel.
---
The elevator carried him to the top floor. When the doors opened, he was greeted by a blast of light, sound, and indulgence.
It was a Stark party — which meant excess was not just expected, it was the dress code.
The ballroom was a spectacle of luxury and ego: mirrored tables, ice sculptures bearing the Stark Industries logo, waiters in immaculate suits, and a live orchestra fusing smooth jazz with pulsing electronic beats.
America's elite filled the room — senators, generals, CEOs, actresses, and models — each orbiting closer to the sun that was Tony Stark himself. Tony stood in the center of it all, laughing, gesturing, owning the space the way only a man who truly believed the world revolved around him could.
Arthur moved through the crowd with quiet grace. Eyes followed him — curious, intrigued, assessing — but he paid them no mind. He seemed both out of place and perfectly at ease, as though the chaos of wealth and ego were just the backdrop to something simpler: his own calm.
When he reached the bar, a burly man was polishing glasses with the enthusiasm of someone who'd been doing it for far too long. He eyed Arthur skeptically.
"You the guy covering Greg's shift? Boss said someone would come."
Arthur smiled faintly. "You could say that."
The man looked him up and down. The suit alone screamed money — and the watch was probably worth the bar itself.
"You sure this is your kind of scene? That jacket's worth more than my rent for the year."
"Trust me," Arthur replied smoothly, unbuttoning his blazer with the poise of a diplomat. "It goes with everything."
The man snorted. "Good luck, James Bond."
Arthur's only response was a serene smile as he stepped behind the counter.
---
The first customer appeared almost instantly — a woman in a crimson dress, every movement deliberate, her confidence radiating like perfume.
"Dry martini, please."
Arthur nodded. The rhythmic clink of ice filled the air. The citrus scent of gin. The smooth, hypnotic swirl of a silver spoon. Every motion was fluid, precise — almost choreographed.
When he slid the glass across the counter, the woman arched a brow. "You've done this before."
"Something like that," Arthur said, his tone soft but certain. "The secret is never to make a drink as if it were just a drink."
She tilted her head. "And what is it, then?"
"A memory," he replied, dropping the olive into the glass. "Sometimes sweet. Sometimes bitter. Depends on who's drinking."
She laughed — unsure if she'd just been flirted with or enlightened — and walked away, glancing over her shoulder one last time.
In minutes, the bar was surrounded. Every drink Arthur crafted was a small performance, every word measured, every gesture captivating. Confidence was his stage. The audience didn't even realize they'd stopped talking — they were watching him instead.
---
Across the room, Tony Stark sipped champagne and smirked.
"He's stealing the spotlight," Tony muttered.
Beside him, Pepper crossed her arms with a knowing smile. "Maybe you should take notes. At least he's keeping the guests entertained — unlike you."
Tony chuckled. "He's too good at it. Pretty soon they'll start asking him to sign their glasses."
"Then go over there before he steals your title as the most charming man in the room," Pepper teased.
"Oh, Pepper, please. I'm still charming. I just need to remind everyone who's hosting this circus."
With that, Tony set his glass down and strolled toward the bar. "Time to have a word with my knightly bartender."
---
The crowd parted as Tony approached, their chatter quieting as recognition dawned.
"Ladies, I'm sorry," Tony said with that trademark grin. "But this bartender here is Stark Industries property. I'm going to need him in one piece by the end of the night."
Arthur glanced up, his face unreadable.
"Tony. You're ruining my business."
"Business? Arthur, this is a bar, not Camelot."
"Same thing," Arthur replied. "Confused people, too many cups, and one king trying to maintain order."
Tony laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "You know, when I invited you to this party, I didn't mean steal the show."
"You were drawing too much attention when I arrived," Arthur said casually. "I thought I'd balance things out."
"Oh, right. Balance. Meanwhile, you're out here intoxicating my guests with your cheap philosophy."
"I prefer to call it civilized conversation."
Pepper arrived just in time to catch that. "Evening, Arthur. How are you enjoying the party?"
Arthur handed her a martini and poured Tony a Negroni before answering. "Honestly? If I weren't the bartender, I might actually be enjoying it."
Tony took a sip, raising an eyebrow. "Are you saying you're a better bartender than me?"
"You're good with suits of armor and artificial intelligence," Arthur replied. "Leave the subtle art of alcohol to someone who understands it."
Tony feigned offense. "That was either poetic insult or Japanese humiliation."
Arthur smirked. "Both."
Pepper chuckled, shaking her head. "You two sound like teenagers."
Arthur raised his glass. "Still, Tony… I'll admit — this party's memorable."
"Of course it is," Tony said smugly. "I threw it."
They clinked glasses, grinning, and downed their drinks in unison — two men from different worlds, both far too aware of the legends they'd become.
---
(End of Chapter)
"Hmph. If you really want to be useful, then entertain me, try to throw those pathetic power stones at me. Let's see if even your insolence can amuse a king."