So Fragrant

In the deafening applause and the endless clicking of shutters, the heir of Stark Industries, the synonym for genius, America's biggest playboy Tony Stark strolled toward the podium.

He skillfully answered the reporters' various tricky or teasing questions, his witty responses drawing wave after wave of laughter.

Over a dozen minutes later, he pressed his hands down to signal for silence in the room.

After making sure every camera was aimed at him and every photographer had their finger on the shutter, he first glanced at Pepper Potts, then at Obadiah, who was smiling with a cigar in his mouth.

Just as the latter thought this fat chicken was about to lay another golden egg, Tony took a deep breath, faced the reporters, and said with unwavering resolve: "I saw young soldiers being killed by the very weapons I created to protect them."

Obadiah's face changed.

The reporters got excited!

"I also realized that I was becoming part of this irresponsible world... I woke up. I understood that beyond making weapons, I could contribute more to the world. So, I decided..."

Obadiah strode toward the podium but was stopped by Tony's loyal bodyguard Happy. The "click-click" of cameras filled the room as everyone waited for the next earth-shattering words from the man on stage.

"I've decided to shut down the Stark Industries weapons division, effective immediately!"

"Mr. Stark!"

"Can I ask..."

"..."

The whole place erupted. Stopped by Happy, Obadiah shot a hateful glare at his nephew still chatting away on stage, tossed his cigarette aside, and left the press conference without a word.

This surprise was way too damn big!

"So, do you think it's real, Yuri?"

Mark looked up at the newly installed TV, using his fork to pull a piece of steak from the boiling hot pot and drop it onto his plate.

He'd been dead set against this Chinese-style dinner at first, but after Yuri's strong recommendation and the old man from the bookstore's vivid descriptions, he'd tentatively sat down.

"Damn, that's good!"

Yuri had been glued to his laptop since Stark said "shut down the Stark Industries weapons division," frantically operating like other transmigrators he'd learned about, using all his funds to buy up Stark Industries stock at this golden opportunity.

Hearing Mark's question, he didn't even look up: "Who cares if it's real or fake? Tonight, plenty of people are gonna jump off rooftops, and plenty of reporters are gonna be writing all night."

Mark cut into the steak soaked in broth and sauce, stabbed a piece, and shoved it into his mouth. Panting from the heat as he enjoyed his meal, he mumbled his opinion: "I think it might be real!"

"You know, a rich second-gen like you who voluntarily goes to the Middle East for a summer internship is probably one of a kind on Earth. Tony Stark's just a playboy—after going through life and death in Afghanistan, he's bound to change something."

"Maybe... this is his change?"

Yuri nodded half-heartedly, and the old man just kept stuffing his face. Both were busy with their own things, completely ignoring whatever profound point Mark had just made.

"Fuck!"

Mark cleared the meat from his plate and was about to chew out the two rude bastards when he heard the doorbell ring.

Yuri and the old man both looked up: "You get the door!"

Mark cursed out each of their immediate family members, grabbed the steak knife still in his hand, and stomped downstairs: "This shop's closed! Are you blind or something, knocking at this hour... Tony Stark?!"

Tony stood there in a sharp little suit, a retro and flashy gentleman's hat on his head, both hands crossed over his stomach resting on a walking cane. He smiled and gave a slight bow to Mark, who reeked of hot pot: "So, not going to let me in?"

"Oh, sorry!"

Mark discreetly tucked away the steak knife, opened the door, and stepped aside to let Tony in.

Happy, who'd just been blocking Obadiah on TV, followed close behind. After taking a few deep sniffs on the first floor, he asked a question Tony was also curious about: "What's that good stuff you're eating?"

"Fire boiler!"

"Hot pot!"

Tony raised an eyebrow: What the hell is that? Is it even edible?

Mark closed the door and led the three of them up to the second-floor dining room.

"Hey! Yuri!"

Tony greeted Yuri warmly as soon as he walked in, then helped himself to two sets of utensils from the cabinet, handed one to Happy, and squeezed in unceremoniously between Yuri and the old man.

"This little brat's got no manners—way worse than you, Yuri!"

Old Man Rogers moved his stool far away from Tony with obvious disgust, bluntly complaining about America's famous playboy's character.

Yuri, caught in the crossfire, looked up in confusion. The guy who'd once fought a thousand enemies solo in the Middle East as a summer intern stubbornly retorted: "Don't compare me to him—I'm not that bad!"

The TV host was narrating Tony's earlier move with exaggerated flair, while the man himself sat at the steaming table, copying Mark by using his fork to spear a slice of lamb Yuri had put in and shoving it into his mouth.

After chewing a few times, his skeptical face suddenly lit up with surprise. He pointed at the copper pot that looked like something from a creepy fairy-tale witch's potion bottle, nodding and giving a thumbs-up: "Damn, that's good! Really!"

After a few rounds of drinks and plenty of food.

Yuri clinked glasses with the sweating Tony and asked: "So what are you here for? Dodging cover girls fighting to jump into your bed, or reminiscing about the deep friendship we built in the Middle East?"

"To hell with deep friendship!"

A bit tipsy, Tony patted his gentleman's hat—which he refused to take off even while drenched in sweat—stood up with half a glass of wine, leaned on the sofa, and let out a long burp.

"Come on, Yuri! Hit me with that damn hypnotism of yours!"

"I, Tony Stark, fear nothing!"

Upon hearing this, Happy and Mark exchanged a glance. The former had no idea what his boss was talking about, while the latter vaguely understood some of the truth.

As for the Old Man?

This old man, who shared the same name as Captain America, clearly lacked superhuman alcohol tolerance. Two bottles of brandy down, and he was already sprawled across the table, snoring loudly.

"Mark!"

"Happy!"

Yuri and Tony locked eyes and spoke their next words in unison: "Trouble carrying this old man back to his Bookstore."

Happy and Mark exchanged another look: These two were acting like they'd rehearsed it. Anyone watching would think they were filming a scene.

"Let's go, let's go, Happy. Give me a hand."

Mark hooked his arms under the Old Man's armpits, while Happy lifted his legs. The two, who had never received any formal medical training, carried the Old Man out of the Restaurant using the same technique as hauling a corpse off a battlefield.

Once the two had disappeared from sight, Tony's reek of alcohol seemed to fade a little. He drained the last of his glass, stood tall with his cane planted on the ground, and fixed his gaze on Yuri, who was still eating at the table.

"You know what, Tony?"

Yuri fished the last piece of meat from the Copper Pot, stuffed it into his mouth, chewed it down, and washed it away with a gulp of wine: "I really want to be friends with you. And between friends, you don't throw hands!"

"So... how about a trade?"