My cart in Queens had become part of Central Park's heartbeat. It was late 2009, a chilly November evening; dusk had settled, and the park's bare tree branches reached into the sky. We were in Iron Man 2 territory—Tony Stark had just cracked the code for a new element, something like vibranium, inspired by his father's notes, to fix his Arc Reactor. It was about a month and a half since I'd given him my Ottoman Sherbet; he'd solved his palladium poisoning issue, though only he and JARVIS knew. Me? I was clueless about that, just keeping busy at my cart. The döner skewer spun, köfte sizzled on the grill, and kaymaklı Kahramanmaraş ice cream filled cones. Mesir Macun and Ottoman Macun sold like hotcakes—Turkish Coffee, salep, tea, and oralet warmed the chatter around me. My new Baker (Master) profession had me diving into simit; with Machinery & Engine Mastery (Rare), I'd built an oven from scrap—an old fridge motor, rusty metal sheets, and some ingenuity. My sesame-crusted, crispy simit paired with Turkish tea was the talk of the park.
That evening, I was packing up; the sun had set, and the park's lights cast a soft glow. I'd cleaned the döner skewer and let the oven cool when a shadow approached. I looked up—a red-haired woman in a dark coat, walking gracefully toward my cart. Natalie Rushman—aka Natasha Romanoff. "Here we go," I thought, but a smile spread across my face. "Evening, Miss Natalie," I said cheerfully. "What brings you to the park this late?" She gave a faint smile. "Just out for a stroll," she said, her voice carrying a warmth that softened her usual controlled tone. Natasha was working for S.H.I.E.L.D. as Tony's assistant in Iron Man 2, but right now, she wasn't a spy—she felt like a friend. "Fancy a tea?" I asked, holding the teapot. "Sure," she said, settling onto a small stool by the cart. I poured a glass of strong tea, set a fresh simit beside it, and said, "Enjoy." I grabbed a glass for myself and leaned against the cart.
As she sipped, she caught me off guard. "Who's Ali Bozkurt?" she asked, her eyes locking onto mine—not probing, but genuinely curious. "Good question," I said with a laugh. "Where do I start?" I wiped my hands on a cloth and began. "I'm just a guy who had to jump into life without even finishing high school," I said. "Lost my parents, became an orphan, dropped out to wait tables and wash dishes. Started from nothing." Of course, I couldn't tell her I wasn't from this world or about the system—that secret stayed locked tight, even from a girlfriend (not that I had one). "I'm sincere, respectful, bit of a joker," I said. "My life's a tragicomedy, but it keeps moving, one way or another." Natasha held her cup, and for the first time, she laughed—a real, warm laugh that lit up her eyes and softened her face. "Your smile… it's really nice," I said. "You should do it more." She paused, then said, "Thanks, Ali," her voice gentle, like she wasn't Black Widow just then, but simply Natalie.
She bit into the simit. "This is great," she said. "Goes perfectly with the tea." "Turkish style," I said, grinning. "Simit and çay—kings of conversation." With glasses in hand, we sank into talk. The park's quiet was filled with the clink of tea glasses and the crunch of simit. "You're handsome, talented," she said out of nowhere. "No girlfriend?" I choked on my tea, coughing. "Between scraping by and surviving, I never had time to think about that stuff," I said, scratching my head with a sheepish grin. "Seriously?" she said, raising an eyebrow, not mocking but intrigued. "Dead serious," I said. "Life's had me running so fast I couldn't stop to breathe—love? What's that?" She looked into my eyes. "But you're here now," she said, "and you're doing pretty well." I smiled. "Thanks," I said, feeling a strange warmth inside—romantic or friendly, I couldn't tell.
The air grew colder, but our chat stayed cozy. The tea ran dry, the simit vanished. She stood. "I should go," she said, but paused. Then she leaned in and kissed my cheek softly. "Whoa…" I thought, my face flushing as I touched my cheek. "Thanks, Ali," she said. "Tonight… it was nice." She smiled, then melted into the park's darkness. "I'm blushing," I muttered, leaning against the cart. Natasha Romanoff—Black Widow—had kissed my cheek. My heart raced; was this friendship, or was something else sparking? I couldn't figure it out, but a flicker had ignited inside me.
That same evening, in Malibu, Tony Stark was in his garage, testing his new Arc Reactor. Per the new element—vibranium-like, drawn from Howard Stark's notes—had cured his palladium poisoning. Holding a glass of my Ottoman Sherbet, Tony turned to JARVIS. "This sherbet… that street vendor kid saved my life, Jarvis," he said. "Ali Bozkurt's contribution cannot be overlooked, sir," JARVIS replied, displaying what little was known about me on a holographic screen: "25 years old, Turkish descent, mobile vendor in Queens. Orphaned, education incomplete. Despite adversity and life's hardships, he persists—selling döner, macun, sherbet, and simit." Tony smirked. "There's something about this kid," he said. "Natalie was right—I like him." He took a sip of sherbet. "Way better than chlorophyll," he added.
Back in Queens, packing up the cart, I was still replaying Natasha's kiss. The system stayed silent—no tasks, no rewards—but I felt at peace. "Sincerity must feel like this," I said to myself, holding an empty tea glass. Under the park's dim lights, I walked home. Tony's gratitude, Natasha's smile… my life was a tragicomedy—orphaned, uneducated—but that night, for the first time, it felt truly good. Ali Usta, mobile vendor, wasn't just serving food in the MCU—he was serving friendship, and maybe something more.