Tony Stark
The neon lights of Las Vegas cast colorful shadows across his face. Tony Stark reclined on the sofa in the casino's VIP lounge, his left arm wrapped around a Playboy cover girl while his right hand swirled the whiskey in his crystal glass.
An empire of forty-three floors at Stark Industries, an MIT degree conquered at the age of fourteen, and weapons orders spanning the globe—these were all the trophies of his twenties. At thirty-eight, Tony still maintained a frequency of changing female companions three times a week, turning board meetings into personal stand-up comedy shows, and using the figures of missile orders as bedtime reading.
As the camera flashes went off, he flashed his signature roguish smirk at the lens. No one knew that this billionaire had just spent the entire night in his lab, and no one cared where in the world the weapons he invented were ending up.
But Tony himself never pondered such questions. Thinking was for losers, and he was a genius billionaire.
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic</choice
<choice id="2">Observe current details</choice
<choice id="3">Advance the current plot</choice
</choice_group>Please log in to continue the conversation.