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'Under Contract' - Part 3

Soldier Boy x Supe!fem!Reader

Trope: fake fiance, messy relationship, DARK

Word Count: 8776 (im sorry)

Series Masterlist PINTEREST Part 2 Part 4

Summary:After years away from Vought, you’re pulled back with an offer too good to refuse. As a child, your parents volunteered you for their Compound V program, training you to break minds from the inside out. Now, to keep your return quiet, you have to play the perfect fiancée to Soldier Boy. It’s only supposed to be a PR stunt, until the line between fake and real starts to disappear.

Warnings: language, mature, MDNI, reader losing her mind abit at the start, soldier boy need I say more, no use of y/n, violence, mention of drugs,

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this one, pls lmk what you think!! Also lmk if you like to be added to the taglist for this fic!!

Morning comes slowly in the penthouse.

The sky outside the massive wall of windows is the dull color of wet concrete, thick clouds hanging low over the city as if they’ve settled there overnight and decided not to move. The early light that seeps through the glass is pale and cold, washing across the polished floors and smooth white walls until the entire apartment looks less like a home and more like an empty museum exhibit. Up this high, the city sounds different. Distant. Muted. Traffic becomes a soft, constant hum somewhere far below, broken occasionally by the faint wail of a siren weaving its way through the streets. The noise barely reaches the penthouse at all. Everything up here feels sealed off from the rest of the world.

Too quiet. Too controlled. The kind of silence that presses in on your ears if you let it. You wake slowly. Not with the usual groggy confusion of someone dragged out of deep sleep, but with the heavy awareness of someone who never really rested at all. Your eyes open reluctantly, blinking against the dull grey light filling the bedroom while your body stays exactly where it is, sunk deep into the mattress as if it weighs twice as much as it did yesterday. For a moment you just lie there. Your mind takes its time catching up. Your muscles ache faintly, the lingering tension of yesterday still locked into your shoulders and neck. Every part of you feels tired in a way that sleep didn’t even come close to fixing. This kind of exhaustion sits deeper than that. It settles in your bones. Your sleep had been shallow, fractured into uneasy stretches that barely counted as rest. Every time you drifted off, your brain dragged you right back into the same loops of memory before you could sink too far. Bright flashes. Camera lights exploding in your face. Reporters shouting questions you didn’t want to answer. And underneath all of that, the older memories clawing their way back to the surface the moment your guard dropped. Fluorescent lab lights humming overhead. Cold metal tables. The distant murmur of voices watching you from behind thick observation glass. You roll onto your back slowly, staring up at the smooth white ceiling above the bed. Your eyes burn slightly. Your chest still feels tight in that lingering way panic attacks sometimes leave behind, like your lungs haven’t quite remembered how to relax again. The events from the night before replay themselves in fragments. The panic. The crushing feeling in your chest as the past bled into the present without warning. And him. The moment that part of your brain keeps circling back to whether you want it to or not. You remember the way his hand closed around your wrist. Firm. Unexpected. Not violent exactly, but strong enough that your power had reacted before you even realized what was happening. For a split second, your mind had reached out automatically. Instinct. Defense. And for that brief, dangerous moment, he saw something. You remember it clearly. The flash in his expression when the connection happened. The subtle tightening around his eyes. Recognition. Confusion. Something sharper buried underneath it. Then it was gone. He’d pulled back immediately, brushing the entire moment aside like it meant absolutely nothing. Like he hadn’t just caught a glimpse of the worst parts of your head. Like he didn’t care. You sit up slowly, dragging a hand down your face as the weight of the thought presses against the back of your skull.

Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he really didn’t give a shit. You swing your legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, elbows resting on your knees while the room settles around you. The massive windows across the far wall reflect the dull morning light back into the space, making the entire bedroom look pale and washed out. The penthouse still feels strange. Too big. Too empty. Too clean. It doesn’t feel like somewhere people actually live. It feels like somewhere people are placed. Stored. Displayed. Your fingers absently trace the edge of the mattress while your mind drifts again, circling back to the same question. Did he actually see anything? Or was it too quick for him to understand what happened? The silence in the apartment stretches long enough that you start convincing yourself the moment didn’t matter at all. Then something breaks the quiet. A thud. The sound is heavy and sudden, echoing faintly through the hallway outside your bedroom. You freeze instantly. Your head turns toward the closed door. For a moment you stay perfectly still, listening carefully while the silence creeps back into place again. Nothing. No voices. No movement. Just the distant hum of the city far below. You start to relax. Then another sound follows. This one sharper. The dull crack of something solid hitting a wall. Your spine straightens immediately. That didn’t sound like something small falling over. That sounded like impact. Your eyes narrow slightly as you focus on the hallway beyond the bedroom door.

A few seconds pass. Then you hear it again. Not a crash this time. More like something being dragged slowly across the floor. Furniture scraping against hardwood. The sound is low, rough, deliberate. It travels faintly through the penthouse before stopping abruptly. Silence returns. You stay exactly where you are. Listening. Your breathing slows automatically as your body shifts into that familiar alertness you learned years ago in Vought’s training facilities. Every small sound becomes sharper. Every creak of the building settling. Every whisper of air moving through the vents. But nothing else follows. No voices. No footsteps. Just quiet. Eventually you exhale slowly and stand up from the bed. It’s probably nothing. The penthouse is huge. Old buildings make noise. Things settle. Shift. You repeat those explanations to yourself while you move toward the bathroom, trying to shake off the unease creeping up the back of your neck.

Still.

The memory of that sound lingers in the back of your mind while you brush your teeth, while you pull on clean clothes, while you run your fingers through your hair in the mirror. Something about it hadn’t sounded accidental. It sounded… angry. By the time you leave the bedroom and step into the hallway, the apartment is quiet again. Completely quiet. The massive living space stretches out in front of you just as cold and pristine as it had been the night before. Sunlight filters weakly through the windows, reflecting off polished surfaces and expensive furniture arranged in careful symmetry. Nothing looks disturbed. Nothing looks broken. No signs that anything had happened at all. If you hadn’t heard it yourself, you might have thought you imagined the entire thing. You hesitate for a moment longer, scanning the apartment one last time. Then you shake your head slightly and head toward the kitchen. You convince yourself it was nothing. Just a noise. Just the building settling. But the unease stays with you anyway. It sits quietly in the back of your mind while the morning drags forward. Waiting.

The dull morning light has spread further across the room now, stretching in pale bands across the dark floors and sleek furniture, but it doesn’t warm anything it touches. The sky outside is still a flat, lifeless grey, pressing down over the city and bleeding into the apartment through the endless glass windows. Everything looks the same. Perfect. Untouched. Too clean. You move toward the kitchen more out of habit than anything else, your body running on autopilot while your mind lags somewhere behind. The unease from earlier still sits low in your chest, quiet but persistent, like something you can’t quite shake.

The kitchen is as polished as the rest of the penthouse, marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, everything placed with the kind of precision that makes it feel like no one is actually meant to use it. You pull open a cupboard, grab the first thing that looks remotely edible, and set it down on the counter. It’s simple. Easy. Something you don’t have to think about. That’s the goal. Keep your hands busy. Keep your mind from drifting back. You move through the motions slowly, mechanically, pulling out a bowl, setting it down, reaching for something else, when the silence behind you shifts. A door opens somewhere down the hallway. You don’t turn around immediately. Instead, you pause, listening. Footsteps follow. Heavy. Unhurried.

They echo faintly against the hardwood floor as they move closer, each step deliberate in a way that makes the air feel tighter with every second. You pick up a knife. Not in a defensive way. Just… something to do with your hands. The footsteps don’t stop until they’re right behind you. Then they go quiet. You feel him before you see him. That presence. Solid. Close. You glance up slightly, catching his reflection in the polished surface of the cabinet in front of you.

Soldier Boy looks like he didn’t sleep much either.

His hair is slightly out of place, not styled the way it had been for the cameras yesterday.A black t-shirt hangs from his body, trying to contain his biceps in the short sleeves, paired with a pair of grey sweatpants, seeming like a poor excuse for this relic to appear more modern. There’s a faint crease between his brows that wasn’t there before, and his jaw is set tighter than usual, like he’s been clenching it for too long. He doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, he moves past you, heading for the counter like you’re barely there. An empty bottle appears in his hand a second later, pulled from somewhere you hadn’t noticed before, and he sets it down with a dull clink against the marble. It’s already empty. Or close enough. You watch him from the corner of your eye while you go back to what you were doing, your hands continuing their slow, methodical movements. There’s something off about him. It’s subtle. But it’s there. The way his shoulders are held too tight beneath his shirt. The way his movements feel just slightly too controlled, like he’s forcing them to stay steady. Your gaze drops briefly to his hand. It’s resting against the edge of the counter. Clenched. Hard enough that the faint creak of the marble carries through the quiet kitchen if you listen closely. Your stomach tightens slightly. That sound from earlier. The one you’d tried to brush off. It settles back into your mind with a little more weight now. You turn your attention back to the food in front of you, trying to ignore it. Trying not to look at him again. The silence stretches.

Then-

“You got a meeting.” His voice cuts through the room without warning. Flat. Certain. Not even slightly curious. You pause, knife hovering mid-motion before you set it down slowly. “How do you know that?” He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t move much at all, really. Just stands there, staring at nothing in particular while the city stretches out beyond the windows behind him. For a second, you think he might ignore the question completely. Then his shoulders lift in a small, dismissive shrug. “Vought called.” Of course they did. You exhale quietly through your nose, wiping your hands against the edge of the counter before turning slightly toward him. He still hasn’t looked at you. Not properly. Just stands there, jaw tight, hand still braced against the marble like he’s holding himself in place. Like there’s something underneath the surface trying to break through. For a moment, you consider saying something else. Asking if he heard the same noise. About the way he looks like he hasn’t slept. About whatever the hell is going on in his head. But the thought dies before it even reaches your mouth. Not your problem. You turn back toward the counter instead, grabbing your things without another word. The air in the room feels heavier than it should. Tighter. Like it’s waiting for something. You don’t stick around long enough to find out what. A second later, you’re moving toward the door, leaving him standing there in the cold morning light. Behind you, the penthouse falls back into silence.

Vought Tower feels exactly the same as it always has, suffocating in its perfection.

Too bright in a way that never quite feels natural, too clean in a way that borders on unsettling, and far too controlled for anything inside it to be considered real. The moment you step through the glass doors, the outside world seems to collapse behind you as if it never existed in the first place, the dull grey sky and distant noise of the city swallowed whole by polished marble floors, artificial lighting, and the quiet, ever-present hum of a machine that never stops running.

Nothing here is accidental, and that has always been the most unnerving part. Everything is designed, curated, placed exactly where it needs to be in order to maintain the illusion that Vought is something stable, something necessary, something untouchable.

You don’t slow as you cross the lobby, your reflection moving alongside you in the mirrored walls while people weave around you in neat, efficient patterns, assistants glued to their tablets, security stationed like statues, employees who glance at you just long enough to recognize you before looking away again as if acknowledging you any further might somehow break protocol. They all know who you are. They just don’t acknowledge it. A handler intercepts you halfway across the floor without needing to be called, already turning on her heel before she even speaks, fully expecting you to follow without question. “Right this way.” Of course.

The elevator ride is short, quiet, and entirely too familiar, the kind of silence that doesn’t invite conversation so much as it discourages it completely, and the higher you go, the more the building shifts around you, the polished corporate façade giving way to something quieter, more insulated, where fewer people move through the halls and the presence of security becomes more noticeable, more intentional.

More secrets live up here.

By the time the doors slide open again, the air feels heavier, like it’s pressing down on your shoulders the moment you step out, and the handler leads you down a narrower hallway than the ones below, one that branches off into a section of the building you don’t remember seeing before, where the silence is sharper and the absence of movement feels deliberate rather than coincidental. She stops outside a closed door and gestures for you to go in, and you don’t hesitate, because hesitation is something Vought notices.

The meeting room is smaller than the others you’ve been in, and that is the first thing that sets something in your chest on edge, because smaller means private, and private means controlled in a way that public spaces never are. There are no glass walls here, no open view into the rest of the building, just solid surfaces and a single long table sitting beneath harsh overhead lighting that leaves nowhere for shadows to settle.

Three executives are already seated when you walk in.

You recognize them immediately, not because you know their names, but because you’ve seen their faces before, always standing just behind someone more important, always just out of focus enough to be overlooked while still holding more power than they ever let on. They’re waiting for you. Watching you. And the moment the door shuts behind you, sealing the room off completely, you notice it, the tension that clings to the air in subtle, almost invisible ways, in the way one of them presses his fingers briefly against the table before stilling them, in the way another avoids meeting your eyes for just a fraction too long, in the tightness of the smile the woman gives you when she finally looks up.

They’re nervous. That alone tells you this isn’t going to be simple. You don’t bother pretending otherwise, pulling out the chair across from them and dropping into it without waiting to be asked, leaning back slightly like you’ve done this a hundred times before, because you have, because this is familiar territory even if the specifics aren’t. “So,” you say, voice flat, uninterested in whatever polite introduction they might have planned. “What do you want.” They exchange a glance, quick and silent, before one of them reaches forward and slides a folder across the table toward you, stopping it just within your reach. You don’t touch it immediately. Instead, you let your gaze settle on them, waiting, because if they want something from you, they can be the ones to say it.

When none of them speak, you finally pull the folder closer and flip it open, your eyes scanning the contents quickly, skimming past the standard clauses and carefully worded conditions that all say the same thing in different ways until you reach the only part that actually matters.

The number. For a moment, your brain doesn’t process it correctly. Then it does. And something in your chest stills. It’s not a small increase, not a bonus disguised as generosity, not a slight adjustment to keep you cooperative. It’s double. Twice what you’re currently being paid, written in clean, undeniable numbers that sit on the page like they’ve been waiting for you to notice them. Your fingers rest against the paper as your eyes lift slowly back to the three of them, your expression unchanged even as something colder settles beneath your ribs.

“…what’s the catch.” The woman across from you smiles, but it’s tight, controlled, the kind of smile that exists purely for appearances rather than comfort. “We need you to deepen the relationship.” You stare at her for a second, then lean back slightly in your chair, one eyebrow lifting in quiet disbelief. “It’s already a fake engagement.” Your tone makes it clear exactly what you think of that. They glance at each other again, less subtle this time, and then the man on the left leans forward, folding his hands together as if grounding himself before he speaks. “We need him to fall for you.” The room goes still. Not empty. Heavy. You let out a short breath through your nose, leaning back further, your gaze moving between them as if waiting for one of them to break and admit this is some kind of joke. “You’re joking.” No one laughs. No one even smiles. That tells you everything you need to know. Your attention drops briefly back to the contract before lifting again, sharper this time.

“Explain.”

And they do, carefully, deliberately, choosing their words like each one matters more than it probably should. “Soldier Boy wasn’t supposed to come back,” the man says, his tone measured. “His reintroduction was… conditional.”

“Strict conditions,” another adds, picking up seamlessly. You don’t interrupt. You let them talk. “And now?” you ask after a moment, because you already know there’s more. “Now we have a problem.” They slide another file across the table, and this one is different immediately, messier, less polished, filled with things they didn’t bother dressing up. Photos. Reports. Internal documentation.

The first image is enough to tighten something in your jaw, a hallway torn apart, walls cracked, blood smeared across the floor in a way that doesn’t leave much to interpretation. The next shows what’s left of a Vought employee being carried out by a medical team, and the one after that is a training room reduced to something that barely resembles its original structure. You flip through them in silence, each page building on the last. “He’s unstable,” one of them says finally, the word carefully chosen, deliberately understated. You keep reading. “If he turns on us,” another voice adds, quieter now, “we can’t stop him.” That makes you pause, not because it surprises you, but because hearing them admit it out loud changes something. You close the file slowly and set it back down. “And you think I can.” They don’t treat it like a question. “We think,” the woman says carefully, “that if he becomes emotionally attached-” You let out a quiet, humorless laugh, cutting her off. “Emotionally attached.”

They ignore the tone. “-then he may be more cooperative.” There it is. You lean forward slightly, resting your arms on the table as you look directly at them, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “You want me to play girlfriend until he’s stupid enough to trust me.” No one corrects you. No one denies it. “And then what?” Another pause. Shorter this time. “We relocate him,” one of them says, the words clinical, detached, like they’re discussing logistics instead of a person. “Somewhere controlled. Isolated.”

“Off the grid,” another adds quietly. “Without incident.” Without a meltdown. Without bodies. Without headlines they can’t clean up. You glance down at the contract again, your fingers brushing the edge of the page, feeling the weight of the number sitting there.

“There is one more thing.” Your eyes lift again. The man shifts slightly in his chair, watching you carefully. “His name.” You frown faintly. “…what?”

“Not Soldier Boy,” he clarifies. “That’s branding.” A brief pause. “Ben.” The name lands differently than anything else they’ve said. Quieter. More human. “Benjamin,” the woman adds. “But he responds to Ben.” You don’t react immediately, but something about it lingers longer than it should, slipping past the surface and settling somewhere deeper whether you want it to or not. “We believe,” she continues, choosing her words carefully, “that using it may help establish a more personal dynamic.” Of course they do. They want you closer. Not just physically. Psychologically. Emotionally. You lean back again, exhaling slowly, your gaze drifting back down to the contract.

Ben.

The name echoes faintly in your head, unwelcome and persistent. You tap your fingers once against the table. “And if he doesn’t fall for it?” Another glance passes between them. Colder this time. “Then we reassess.” You don’t ask what that means. You already know. Your attention settles on the contract one last time, the number staring back at you with all the weight of what it represents, more money than you’ve ever seen offered, more than enough to walk away from all of this for good if you play it right. Your fingers rest against the paper for a moment longer. Then you reach for the pen. No hesitation. No second thoughts. You sign. The scratch of ink against paper is quiet, but it feels louder than anything else in the room. Final. When you slide the contract back across the table, the shift in the room is immediate, subtle but unmistakable, the tension easing just enough to tell you they got exactly what they wanted. You stand without another word. No questions. No negotiation. The deal is done. And as you walk out, the name lingers again, quieter this time but heavier somehow.

Ben.

Not the symbol. Not the weapon. The man underneath. And as the door closes behind you, one thought settles in, sharp and unavoidable. That’s the part they need you to break. And it’s probably the part that’s going to break you right back.

The elevator ride down feels longer than it should, not because of the time it actually takes but because of the way the silence stretches, pressing in on you from all sides while your reflection stares back from every mirrored surface, sharp and controlled in a way that has long since become second nature, the kind of expression you learned to wear in places like this where even the smallest crack can be noticed, recorded, and used against you later. The quiet hum of the machinery fills the space, steady and mechanical, and for a moment it almost feels like you’re still part of it, like stepping into Vought Tower automatically slots you back into the role they built for you, no matter how long you’ve spent pretending you got out. Your hand drifts unconsciously toward your jacket, fingers brushing against the folded contract tucked safely inside, and the weight of it feels heavier than it should, as though the ink hasn’t just sealed a deal but locked something else into place that you won’t be able to shake off so easily.

When the doors finally slide open, you step back into the lobby without hesitation, moving through the space with the same detached awareness you arrived with, ignoring the way people subtly shift around you, the brief flickers of recognition that never quite turn into acknowledgment, the silent understanding that you exist within their world but not alongside them. Outside, the air is colder than you expect, the grey sky unchanged, heavy and unbroken as it stretches over the city, and for a brief moment it almost feels like nothing has moved at all, like the entire world is stuck in the same dull pause you walked into earlier. The car is already waiting, because of course it is, and you slide into the back seat without a word, the door shutting behind you with a muted finality that cuts you off from everything outside in an instant.

At first, you don’t think about anything, letting your head rest back slightly as the car pulls away from the curb, the movement smooth and controlled as the city begins to slide past the window in a blur of muted colors and indistinct shapes. It’s easier not to think, easier to let your mind go blank and sit in the quiet, but that never lasts long, not when there’s something sitting in the back of your head demanding attention. Eventually, your thoughts circle back to him. To what they told you. To what they expect you to do.

Soldier Boy.

The name doesn’t sit the same way anymore, not after everything you just heard, not after the way they talked about him like he’s a problem waiting to explode rather than a person who was ever meant to exist outside of their control. The version of him the public sees has always been carefully constructed, polished into something people can admire without ever questioning what sits beneath it, a symbol wrapped in patriotism and nostalgia, presented as something solid and dependable when the reality is anything but. War hero, American icon, the original supe, titles that were built for him, not by him, shaped and repeated until they became inseparable from his identity whether they were true or not.

But you know better.

You’ve always known better, because you’ve seen what Vought does behind closed doors, and you’ve lived through the kind of conditioning that turns people into something useful at the cost of everything else. The truth they bury under all that image is heavier, darker, filled with decades of violence that never get framed the way they actually happened, because violence is easy to sell when you dress it up as heroism and call it necessary.

He wasn’t made to be a hero. He was made to be effective. Everything else came later. And the more you think about it, the harder it becomes to ignore the uncomfortable realization that settles in alongside those thoughts, because the differences between you and him aren’t as clear as they should be. Vought built him. That part is undeniable. But they built you too, just in a different way, using different methods, shaping you into something quieter, something less visible but no less dangerous. You were trained in controlled environments, taught how to use your abilities with precision, how to get inside someone’s head and tear them apart piece by piece without ever leaving a mark on the outside, while he was thrown into open conflict, into situations where destruction was expected and even encouraged as long as it served the narrative they were trying to sell. Different tools, same intention. You shift slightly in your seat, your gaze drifting from the city outside to your faint reflection in the glass, barely visible now but still there, still watching.

Both of you were raised to hurt people, and no amount of rebranding or justification changes that fact, no matter how much Vought might try to frame it differently. You were taught to weaponize fear, to dig into the worst parts of someone’s mind and hold them there until they broke under the pressure, while he was taught to do it with force, to leave destruction behind in a way that couldn’t be ignored or hidden as easily. Two sides of the same system. Two outcomes that look different on the surface but lead back to the same place. The only real difference is what happened after.

Your jaw tightens slightly as that thought settles, heavier than the rest, because as much as you might hate admitting it, you managed to step away in a way he never did. It wasn’t clean, it wasn’t easy, and it sure as hell wasn’t complete, but you got far enough to breathe, far enough to exist outside of their immediate control, even if they still had ways of pulling you back when it suited them. You became smaller in their world.

Less important.

Something they could afford to let slip through the cracks until they needed you again. He never had that option. He stayed exactly where they put him, exactly what they made him, a symbol they couldn’t afford to lose and a weapon they never fully figured out how to control, which means every part of him was held onto tighter, shaped more aggressively, forced into something that served their needs whether it cost him anything or not. And now they want you to fix it. Your fingers curl slightly against your knee as the thought settles in, heavier than anything else that’s come before it, because what they’re asking isn’t simple manipulation, no matter how they try to frame it. They want you to reach past everything they built into him, past the image and the violence and whatever else is buried under decades of being treated like something less than human, and find whatever is left underneath.

If there is anything left. The name they gave you lingers in the back of your mind, quieter than everything else but impossible to ignore.

Ben.

It sounds wrong in a way you can’t quite explain, too normal, too human compared to everything else attached to him, and that alone makes it more dangerous than anything they put in that file. Because if there’s still a part of him that responds to that, a part that remembers being something other than what they turned him into, then this job isn’t just about control. It’s about getting close enough to see it. And as the car continues through the city, the buildings passing in a blur that barely registers anymore, one thought settles in with uncomfortable clarity, threading through everything else you’ve been trying not to think about. You might understand him more than you should. And that’s exactly what’s going to make this dangerous in ways Vought doesn’t even seem to fully grasp.

By the time the car pulls to a stop outside the penthouse, the sky has already darkened into something heavy and oppressive, the earlier grey settling into a deeper, more suffocating shade that hangs low over the city as though it is pressing everything beneath it into silence. You remain seated for a moment after the engine cuts, your gaze fixed on the entrance ahead while your thoughts continue circling the conversation you just walked out of, each detail replaying itself whether you want it to or not, the contract tucked into your jacket feeling less like an opportunity now and more like something binding, something that has quietly locked you into a situation that is going to demand far more than Vought ever bothered to say out loud.

When you finally step out of the car, the cool evening air hits your skin sharply enough to ground you, though it does little to ease the tension that has settled into your chest, because the unease from earlier hasn’t left, it has only grown, threading itself through everything else until it becomes impossible to ignore. The building lobby is as pristine and controlled as ever, but even that familiar artificial calm does nothing to dull the sense that something is off, and by the time you reach the elevator and begin the ascent back up to the penthouse, your body is already bracing for something you cannot quite name.

The hallway outside the apartment is dimmer than it should be, the lighting functional but distant, casting long shadows that stretch unevenly across the floor, and when you reach the door, your hand pauses briefly against the handle, a small moment of hesitation that you cannot entirely justify but do not ignore either. Still, you push past it, unlocking the door and stepping inside.

The darkness is immediate and complete in a way that feels wrong, not simply the absence of light but the absence of life, because there is no soft glow from the kitchen, no flicker from a television, no low hum of music filling the space, nothing to suggest that anyone has been occupying this place in any normal sense. The silence presses in the moment the door closes behind you, thick enough to feel, heavy enough to make your awareness sharpen instinctively as your eyes begin adjusting to the dim outlines of the room.

Something is wrong, and you know it without needing proof.

You take a slow step forward, your movements deliberate now, careful in a way that suggests your body has already made a decision your mind has yet to fully process, and as the shadows shift slightly with your movement, the stillness of the space becomes more noticeable rather than less. That is when you hear it.

A voice.

Low, rough, uneven, carrying from somewhere deeper in the apartment.

It is not directed at anyone, not shaped into conversation, but instead spills out in fragments, muttered under breath as though the words exist solely for the person speaking them, slipping in and out of clarity in a way that makes it difficult to grasp their meaning all at once. You remain still for a moment, listening, trying to piece together what is being said, but it comes through broken, disjointed, pieces of something larger that refuses to settle into anything coherent.

You move further into the apartment.

Each step is quieter than the last, your focus narrowing as the sound grows clearer, pulling you toward the center of the living space where the shadows begin to give way just enough for shapes to take form.

And then you see him.

Soldier Boy stands in the middle of the room, his figure partially outlined by the faint light filtering in through the massive windows, the city beyond barely visible through the darkness but enough to cast a dim glow across his skin. He is shirtless, his body slick with sweat that catches what little light there is, tracing the lines of muscle down his back and shoulders, each movement of his chest uneven as he drags in breath after breath that never seems to settle. The room around him is in ruins, not disordered in any casual sense but violently, deliberately destroyed, as though whatever happened here was not accidental but the result of something that could not be contained. A chair lies broken near the far wall, its legs splintered clean through, while the glass coffee table has been shattered at one corner, cracks running across its surface in jagged lines that reflect faint fragments of light. The wall itself bears a deep indentation, as if something struck it with enough force to leave a permanent mark, and the air carries a sharp, metallic edge beneath the lingering scent of sweat and something else you cannot quite name.

His breathing is wrong, too fast and uneven, each inhale pulling sharply, each exhale leaving just as quickly, as though his body has not yet realized that whatever he is reacting to is no longer happening, or perhaps never stopped happening at all.

When he shifts, just slightly, enough for you to catch a glimpse of his face, the unease in your chest tightens into something heavier, because his eyes are not focused on anything in this room. They are distant, unfixed, locked onto something that exists somewhere else entirely, something you cannot see but he clearly can.

The muttering continues, fragments slipping through more clearly now, names, commands, half-finished orders that break apart before they can fully form, and it becomes obvious that this is not speech but memory forcing its way out whether he wants it to or not.

You step forward carefully, your voice cutting into the space with measured caution.

“Soldier Boy-”

The reaction is instantaneous and violent in a way that leaves no room for adjustment, because the moment the name leaves your mouth, his entire body shifts, snapping toward you with a speed that feels less like movement and more like impact. One second he is across the room, and the next he is on you, the force of it slamming you back into the wall hard enough to rattle through your entire body, knocking the breath from your lungs before you even have time to react.

His hand closes around your throat, tight and unyielding, lifting you off the ground with a strength that makes resistance feel pointless the second you try it. Your feet leave the floor immediately, your hands coming up instinctively to grab at his wrist, your fingers digging in without effect as your body strains against a grip that does not so much as shift under your effort. The pressure tightens almost instantly, cutting off your air in a way that is both immediate and terrifyingly efficient, your lungs pulling in nothing as your chest rises uselessly against the lack of oxygen. Up close, his face is worse.

There is no recognition there, no awareness, only something wild, something fractured, something that has nothing to do with the present moment. “You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is low, edged with something dangerous that feels far removed from anything resembling control. “Who the hell sent you.” Your vision begins to blur at the edges, dark spots creeping in as the lack of air hits harder, faster, your grip on his wrist tightening even as your strength begins to falter, your body already starting to react to something it cannot fight its way out of. Your mind scrambles for something, anything, that might cut through whatever the hell he’s trapped in, because brute force isn’t going to work, not against him, not like this, and for a split second your thoughts flash back to the meeting, to the quiet, calculated way they handed you that one piece of information like it was nothing.

Ben.

The name hits your tongue before you can second guess it.

“Ben-” It comes out strained, broken by the pressure around your throat, but it’s enough. Everything stops. Not completely. But enough to matter. His grip tightens first. Reflex. Violent. His eyes snap fully to your face, and for the first time since he grabbed you, there is something sharp and present in them, something focused and dangerous in a completely different way than before.

“What the fuck did you just call me?” The shift in his voice is immediate, the distant edge gone, replaced by something colder, something grounded in the present in a way that feels just as threatening. Your fingers twitch against his wrist as you struggle for air, your chest tightening painfully as your lungs burn, but you force the word out again, quieter this time, more deliberate despite the strain.

“Ben-”

“Don’t,” he snaps, the word cutting through the space between you like a blade. His grip tightens again for half a second, just enough to remind you how easily he could crush your throat if he decided to, his expression twisting into something darker, something sharper, like the name itself has struck a nerve he doesn’t let anyone near.

“Don’t call me that.”

The reaction is immediate and real in a way nothing else has been so far, not the confusion, not the violence, not even the disorientation of whatever memory he was trapped in, and for a split second it throws everything off balance, the tension shifting into something more focused, more dangerous in a way that is harder to predict. And that is when your instincts kick in. Not because you want them to. But because you don’t have a choice. Your power lashes out.

It does not ease in or ask permission; it forces its way forward, slipping past the physical space between you and him and plunging straight into his mind with a sharpness that feels almost violent in itself. The shift is immediate, disorienting in a way that leaves no room for adjustment, because one moment you are in the penthouse and the next you are somewhere else entirely.

The noise hits first, overwhelming and mechanical in its precision, the echo of alarms and synthetic gunfire bouncing off sterile white walls that stretch endlessly into shadowed corners, each sound calibrated to make the body react, to force the muscles to tighten and the mind to fracture. Explosions aren’t random, they’re controlled, measured bursts in a simulation chamber, each one meant to push him past instinct into sheer reflex, and every fraction of a second is recorded, monitored, analyzed. Lab technicians shout orders from behind reinforced glass, their voices clipped, emotionless, cold, telling him where to move, when to strike, when to react, and when he falters, when even a fraction of hesitation shows, the consequences are immediate, a blast of synthetic pain across his chest, a floor that shocks beneath his boots, a dangling weight to test grip and endurance, each moment engineered to break him, to reshape him into the weapon they wanted.

The smell is antiseptic at first, clean and sharp, clinging to the metallic tang of machinery, but it mixes quickly with sweat and blood, his and whoever else they throw into the trials with him, a brutal crucible of human bodies tested to exhaustion. The air is heavy, thick with ozone and disinfectant, stifling and inescapable, filling lungs that already feel too tight as every breath is timed, monitored, analyzed, pushed to limits that no ordinary human could endure.

Images slam into your mind next, not in sequence but in fractured, relentless flashes: him in the center of a room, restrained and stripped to test endurance; monitors flashing numbers that measure heart rate, reflexes, and nerve response; lab-coated figures circling like predators as he fights simulated enemies, mechanical limbs, armed drones, and humans alike, each “opponent” meant to test speed, accuracy, reaction time, pain threshold, mental focus, every move cataloged, every failure noted. Faces twist with calculated terror, screams and orders echoing against steel walls, all blending together in a blur, until the only thing left is the rhythm of survival, react, strike, survive, repeat.

Orders are shouted from behind glass, names assigned like inventory, commands designed to reduce identity to function, stripping away everything that isn’t performance. Each test is another layer of control, another measure to see how far he’ll go when pushed to the edge, and beneath it all, there is a fire, raw and unyielding, burning through the conditioning, a relentless survival instinct that neither Vought nor the endless tests can fully extinguish. Each trial leaves him more scarred, more precise, more dangerous, a weapon honed to the razor’s edge, but at the cost of something deeper, a mind stretched thin, a humanity chipped away in calculated increments until the hero everyone celebrated is nothing more than the sum of his tests, conditioned to obey, trained to kill, pushed to fight beyond the limit.

Rage.

Not controlled.

Not directed.

Just endless, burning, tearing through everything else until it becomes the only thing left. Your power pushes further without restraint, dragging more of it to the surface, forcing it into the open whether he wants it there or not, and for a moment it feels like too much, like you are being pulled under something you cannot hold onto, your veins slowly turning black as you push.

Then it stops.

Abruptly.

Violently.

Like something has been cut off midstream. You are back in the penthouse, back in your body, back in his grip, but something has shifted. His hand loosens. Only slightly, but enough. Air rushes back into your lungs in a sharp, painful inhale that leaves you gasping, your body jerking as it tries to recover, your vision snapping back into place in uneven fragments as the world steadies around you. His expression changes, not completely, but enough to matter, because there is something else in his eyes now, something that was not there before, something closer to awareness, to recognition, even if it is buried beneath layers of confusion and residual tension. His grip falters for half a second.

You take it.

Twisting sharply, you force yourself out of his hold, your feet hitting the ground hard as you stumble back, your hand flying to your throat as you drag in air that still does not feel like enough. The room falls silent again, except for your breathing and his, both uneven, both heavy, both struggling to settle. He stares at you, and this time there is something behind it, something present, something that suggests he knows exactly where he is now, even if he does not like it. Your pulse is still racing, your body still tense, your mind trying to catch up with everything that just happened, because that was not just aggression, not just anger, but something deeper, something ingrained, something that has been sitting under the surface for far longer than Vought ever admitted. And as the silence stretches between you, thick with everything neither of you is saying, one thing becomes painfully clear. You didn’t just see his past. You just touched the part of him he refuses to let anyone name.

The room falls silent after the intensity of what just happened, the tension so thick it presses against the chest, and Soldier Boy doesn’t move immediately. Instead, he walks past the couch with a slow, deliberate rhythm, almost like he’s pacing off the residual storm in his mind. He doesn’t glance at you, doesn’t acknowledge the sweat on your brow or the slight tremor in your hands, only moves toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and slides open the balcony door with a metallic groan that echoes in the cavernous penthouse. The city sprawls below, indifferent to everything that just transpired inside, a glowing grid of lights under low clouds that mirror the storm of chaos he carries inside him.

He pulls a blunt from his pocket and lights it, inhaling deeply, smoke curling up toward the darkened sky, a ritual that seems to center him, something tactile to hang onto while his mind slowly untangles the wreckage of what just happened. You expect him to be alone out there, to brood, to isolate himself like he usually does, but the second you step onto the balcony behind him, cigarette already lit, the amber tip glowing faintly in the dark, you feel him stiffen. Not much, just a flicker of attention, the kind that says he notices but isn’t willing to show it fully.

You lean against the railing, smoke trailing in lazy spirals above your head. The night air is cold, carrying the sharp tang of rain on asphalt and the faint stink of exhaust from the city below. For a second, you simply exist side by side, the two of you separate yet tethered in some unspoken understanding. You can almost feel it, the faint recognition of another person who’s used vices as a way to control the chaos inside themselves, a way to breathe while the world burns both in your minds and around you. The city sprawls beneath you, a restless grid of flickering lights and traffic hum, but you barely notice it, lost instead in the tension that hums between you and the man leaning against the balcony railing, the blunt glowing faintly between his fingers. He exhales slowly, smoke curling upward, tracing lines in the air like a warning, a marker of territory.

“You know,” he starts, voice low, gravelly, carrying both irritation and curiosity, “that thing you did back there, dragging me through… whatever the hell that was, it’s not something I’m a fan of.” You take a long pull from your cigarette, letting the smoke fill your lungs before letting it escape slowly. “Not a fan?” you echo, voice calm, even though your chest still feels like it’s rattling in your ribcage. “You mean the part where you literally tried to crush my throat like I weighed nothing? That part?” He snorts, a short, sharp sound that carries both exasperation and something close to grudging recognition, though he’d never admit the latter. “Yeah. That. Not my favorite. It’s… weird. Makes me think too much about stuff I don’t want to think about.” His eyes flick toward you, sharp, calculating, and then back to the city below, as if the sight of you reminds him of the chaos that just unfolded inside the penthouse.

You lean casually on the railing, smoke curling lazily between your fingers. “Funny,” you say, “I’d say you’re the one giving me a reason to think. Don’t act like it didn’t happen, Ben. You attacked me, and now you’re whining about being inside your own head.”

His head snaps up at the name, eyes narrowing dangerously. “Don’t call me that,” he spits, voice sharp, almost a growl, “not now. Not ever. How the hell do you even know that?” He takes a step closer, stance rigid, jaw tight. “And the least you could do is tell me your name if you’re gonna throw mine around like it means something.”

You let a slow smirk creep across your face, embers glowing on the tip of your cigarette. “Oh, I could tell you,” you say evenly, “but why would I give you that kind of ammo? You don’t strike me as someone who’d handle it with… grace.” He flinches slightly at the tone, irritation flashing across his features, but he doesn’t move. “Grace? I don’t care about grace. I care about respect. I care about knowing who the hell I’m dealing with, not some faceless thing with a spark in her hands trying to make me dizzy.”

“Not my problem,” you say coolly, dragging in another slow pull of smoke. “You chose to get physical first. I responded. That’s the rule of survival, Ben, you act like a weapon, you get treated like one.” He lets out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head slightly, the blunt glowing faintly in the dim light as he drags on it again. “Yeah? Well, congratulations. You’re a weapon. Weird, messy, intrusive. Can’t say I like it. Can’t say I trust it either. But… aware. I’m aware.” You tilt your head at him, letting the cigarette dangle from your fingers, eyes flicking over his tense posture. “Awareness works both ways,” you say, voice clipped. “I know what you are, Ben. Every scar, every twitch, every messy piece of rage you try to hide behind that swagger. I can feel it. Just don’t act surprised when I call you on it.” He grits his teeth, shoulders stiffening, jaw tight, and mutters under his breath, exhaling smoke toward the city, “Figures. Chaos follows me home, and now it’s got a name. And you won’t even give me yours. Great.”

You take another slow drag of your cigarette, watching the smoke curl into the night, the tension sharp and brittle between you. “Names are irrelevant,” you say quietly, almost teasing, almost dangerous. “I’m just… your problem for tonight.”

He slams a hand lightly against the railing, eyes narrowing, voice low and dangerous. “Problem or not, I don’t like being in the dark. Not even a little. Figure that out.”

The city hums below, indifferent, endless, sprawling, while the two of you stand on the balcony, side by side yet worlds apart, smoke drifting between you, tension wound tight and dangerous, unspoken threats and instincts flashing in every glance, every twitch of muscle, every inhale of smoke, the night stretching endlessly, heavy, raw, and unresolved, and neither of you willing to let the other forget it.

A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this one! Pls lmk what you think!!

Part 4

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