Stephen snorts at the mention of the protocol; bites back a small rueful smile. And then, still picking his way through this conversation, adds, “I can’t help picking a scab. It was one of the first things I did. I went to visit— an ex, and had to apologise for literally jumping off a balcony at her wedding the last time I saw her. If these are all simply spirit automatons built from our memories, they’re still incredibly convincing. It’s uncanny.”

Mug of coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, Stephen glances down at the maps of the various estates, the diagrams of the city; they’re safer to look at for the moment than meeting Tony’s restless energy. Even with that steadily-blinking date in the corner of the screen, which feels like the light bite of a needle every time he sees it. The year in Stark Tower is earlier than the Sanctum. Weird shit.

“I don’t blame you for steering clear.”