On the illuminated streets of downtown New York, a metallic roar cut through the air like the city's own melody. The deep, steady growl of the engine was almost a song—a symphony of steel and speed blending with the constant hum of neon signs, the distant screech of brakes, and the relentless murmur of the great metropolis.
A Mustang Boss 429, black as night and polished to reflect every drop of light, advanced down Fifth Avenue with wild elegance. The engine's rumble made pedestrians turn their heads, drivers ease off the gas, and even a few police officers exchange knowing glances—torn between issuing a ticket or simply admiring that living piece of history devouring the asphalt.
Behind the wheel, Arthur maintained impeccable posture. One hand on the steering wheel, his gaze calm—almost bored—as if he were cruising down an empty country road on a lazy Sunday. The wind tousled his blond hair just enough, and the reflection of blue and red lights danced in his crimson eyes with a distant gleam.
The black suit he wore looked tailor-made for him—and it was. British cut, perfectly fitted to his frame, the fabric moved naturally with his body, following his gestures with almost theatrical elegance. Even seated, he radiated quiet authority—the kind of presence that needed no words to impose itself.
When the Mustang came to a smooth stop in front of The Heritage Hotel, the world seemed to slow for those passing by. The engine fell silent with a final growl, like the satisfied sigh of a beast after a hunt.
Two valets approached immediately, visibly impressed. One of them—likely the younger—froze for a second before accepting the keys.
Arthur merely lifted his wrist, checked his watch, and murmured as if speaking to himself:
"British punctuality. A habit Tony will never learn."
With a soft chuckle, he walked through the revolving doors of the hotel.
---
The elevator carried him to the top floor, and as soon as the doors opened, he was greeted by an explosion of light, sound, and elegance.
It was the kind of party only Tony Stark could conceive—and afford. The ballroom overflowed with a mixture of luxury and eccentricity: mirrored tables, ice sculptures bearing the Stark Industries logo, waiters in impeccable attire, and an orchestra playing modern jazz infused with electronic beats.
America's elite paraded through the hall, engaged in animated conversations—senators, generals, CEOs, actresses, and models—all eager to be close to the man of the hour. And Tony, of course, stood at the center of it all, radiating the kind of charisma that honestly believed the world revolved around him.
Arthur crossed the room calmly, ignoring the curious glances that followed him. He seemed both out of place and perfectly at ease, as if the elegance of the setting were merely a backdrop to something far simpler: his own serenity.
When he reached the bar, a burly man was polishing glasses with a bored expression. Upon seeing Arthur approach, he tilted his head.
"You the substitute for Greg? The boss said someone would come cover his shift."
Arthur smiled faintly.
"Let's say I am."
The man looked him up and down—Arthur was wearing an expensive suit, an expensive watch, and had a look that was definitely not that of a bartender.
"You sure this suits you? That jacket of yours probably costs more than three months' salary here."
"Trust me," Arthur replied, unbuttoning the jacket with a diplomat's elegance before removing it, leaving only the vest. "It goes with everything."
The man let out an incredulous laugh and shrugged. "Good luck, James Bond."
Arthur answered only with a calm smile before taking his place behind the counter.
---
The first customer approached almost immediately—a woman in a red dress, confident gaze, and the posture of someone well aware of her own power.
"A dry martini, please."
Arthur simply nodded. The sound of ice clinking in the glass, the citrus scent of gin, the perfect swirl of the spoon as he prepared the cocktail… Every movement was precise, rhythmic, almost hypnotic.
When he set the glass before her, she raised an eyebrow, impressed.
"You're quite skilled at this, aren't you?"
"Something like that," Arthur replied. "The secret is never to prepare a drink as if it were just a drink."
"And what else would it be?"
"A memory. Sometimes sweet, sometimes bitter." He smiled as he added the olive. "It depends on who's drinking."
The woman laughed, unsure whether to interpret it as a flirtatious line or a profound reflection. She took her glass and walked away, still glancing at him over her shoulder.
Within minutes, the counter was surrounded. Every drink Arthur prepared became a small spectacle—the kind of thing only someone absurdly self-assured could pull off without seeming pretentious.
---
On the other side of the ballroom, Tony Stark watched the scene with a half-smile and a glass of champagne in hand.
"He's already becoming the center of attention…" he chuckled.
Beside him, Pepper crossed her arms, equally amused.
"You should learn something from him. At least he's being competent and entertaining the guests—unlike you," she teased.
"He's being too competent, actually. In a minute, people will start asking him to autograph their glasses," Tony joked.
Pepper laughed.
"You'd better go over there before he steals your title as the most charming host of the night," she said.
"Charming I still am. But… appearances must be maintained." Tony set his glass down and walked toward the bar. "Time to have a word with my knightly bartender."
---
The women at the counter made room when Tony approached, recognizing the host.
"Ladies, I'm terribly sorry," he said with his usual smile. "But this bartender here is exclusive property of Stark Industries. I need him in one piece until the end of the night."
Arthur looked up without changing his expression.
"Tony. You're sabotaging my business."
"Your business? Arthur, this is a bar, not a round table," Tony mocked.
"Same thing. Confused people, glasses everywhere, and a king trying to keep order," Arthur replied with a laugh.
Tony burst out laughing, clapping him on the shoulder.
"You know that when I invited you to the party, I didn't mean for you to steal all the attention, right?" Tony teased.
"You should have known that would happen. Besides, you were drawing far too much attention when I arrived, so I decided to balance the scales a little," Arthur shot back.
"And what about the drink tab? You're literally intoxicating the guests with your bargain-bin philosophy," Tony countered playfully.
"I prefer to call it civilized conversation," Arthur laughed.
---
(End of Chapter)