#unknown gender reader

The acrid scent of gunpowder mingled with the metallic stench of fresh blood rising from the expensive Persian rugs. The once opulent ceremonial hall of the mansion now resembled nothing more than a desolate slaughterhouse. The crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, shattered by a hail of bullets, had crashed onto the oak table, reflecting the flickering, feeble light from small fires that had yet to burn out.

The cleanup crew moved in silence. Dressed in logo-less ash gray hazmat suits and gas masks, they swiftly sorted through the bodies, collected shell casings, and used chemicals to erase all biological traces. Outside, the low rumble of a camouflaged military helicopter's rotors sliced through the air, ready for takeoff at the first sign of trouble. The superhuman entities who had carried out this massacre had been ordered to retreat ten minutes prior to avoid the attention of the state police. To Vought, they were merely crude weapons that needed to be wiped clean after being stained with blood; the real work was only just beginning.

Stan Edgar stood amidst the rubble, his polished Spanish leather shoes untouched by a single drop of blood. The young man’s face remained cold and impassive before the horrific scene surrounding him. He carefully pulled off his leather gloves, casting his gaze toward his subordinates, who were using specialized equipment to crack open the wall safe of the recently deceased kingpin.

Vought should not be here, at least not in any legal capacity. However, this is a black operation covertly approved by a high-ranking department in Washington. The objective of this sweep is not merely to take down a gang, but to root out a massive underground network, a "ghost" that has manipulated illicit financial routes and transcontinental smuggling operations for over a decade. Your old organization was powerful enough to shake even a few seats in the Pentagon, and that is why Vought was hired as the hatchet man. Edgar needs those classified documents and Swiss bank account codes located in this room to serve as a stepping stone for his future seat as CEO. He does not trust anyone beneath him, much less the puppets who only know how to use brawn, which is why he is forced to personally stand at this precipice of danger.

"Sir, the safe is open." A technician said over the radio. "But... it is empty. There is no cash, no bonds, and no research microchips."

Edgar was not surprised by the empty safe. A sophisticated black financial distribution system spanning both sides of the Atlantic could not be brought down just by a few punches from Soldier Boy or a government sweep. It was too massive to vanish overnight. Unless, this massacre was entirely within the calculations of the person behind it. Someone had proactively cleared everything out, left the doors wide open, and used Vought's hand to clean up the battlefield.

Edgar stepped over the shattered glass fragments, personally pushing open the heavy ebony doors to enter the study. The vast room was submerged in darkness, with thick red velvet curtains drawn tight, blocking out the flickering light from the fires outside. There was no scent of blood. Only the smell of old paper and the faint aroma of herbal tea lingered in the air.

In the center of the room, a small figure sat enveloped in the leather armchair that had once belonged to the late boss. You sat there, nonchalantly turning each page of a goatskin bound notebook.

He stopped five paces away from the chair. His hand rested idly on a suit button, a sign that he was on guard. His subordinates intended to move forward, but he raised a hand to signal them to remain outside.

"A child." He uttered the words in a flat tone that did not show a hint of emotion. "I didn't think the person operating a money laundering network through five Caribbean banks was a girl who hasn't even reached adulthood yet."

You flip to the next page and the dry sound of rustling paper echoes through the silence.

"Age is always the best disguise, Mr. Edgar." Your voice sounds youthful with a hint of childish laziness, yet your composure is chilling enough to make the soldiers standing behind Edgar grip their guns tighter.

You snap the notebook shut with a sharp thud of thick paper hitting together. You look up and lock your eyes directly onto the man across from you.

"Vought's five minutes late." You tilt your head while looking at him. "Soldier Boy spent too much time torturing the boss in the outer room. It was a useless waste of muscle. You should've told him to smash the generator system first so the film canisters in that safe wouldn't have automatically triggered the acid self-destruct mode."

Edgar's pupils contract in an instant. He slowly takes another step forward and fixes his hawk-like eyes on you.

"You have wiped all the data." Edgar said, his voice dropping a notch. "And you chose to stay. That means you have a proposal more valuable than what was lost."

You flash a slight smile, but it does not reach those cold eyes. You rest your chin on your hand, your fingers tapping lightly on the table in a steady rhythm.

"I just want to find a more interesting place to work." You look straight at him. "Mr. Edgar, do you want to possess the CEO chair of Vought, or do you want to be dragged down into the mud along with Soldier Boy's scandal tomorrow morning? The choice is yours."

___

The screams inside the soundproof interrogation room on the fourth basement level could not leak out. The halfmeter thick concrete walls provided complete insulation, trapping the foul sounds of blood and the gasps of utter despair.

Under the flickering fluorescent lights, a middle aged man, the former media representative of Vought, was tied tightly to a steel chair bolted to the floor. His face was deformed, swollen, and drenched in blood. He had attempted to smuggle research documents about the experimental version of Compound V to the press in exchange for a flight to East Germany. Edgar’s security team had captured him alive at the airport, but an hour of violence that broke three of his fingers still could not pry open his tightly shut mouth regarding the hidden location of the original file.

You sit on the freezing metal table three steps away, legs dangling, slowly examining your fingertips. Your oversized white shirt remains crisp and smooth, contrasting completely with the filthy chaos on the floor.

"Get out." You uttered a blunt sentence, your voice so calm that it felt misplaced in the room filled with the scent of blood.

Two burly guards glanced at each other, then silently retreated. They were afraid of you, or more accurately, afraid of the strange child standing in Edgar's shadow.

You jumped down from the table, the soles of your shoes hitting the cement floor with a dry thud. You approached the man who was gasping for breath and looked down at him. As he parted his blood soaked eyelashes to see the newcomer, you did not strike him. You only slowly pulled a small utility knife from your pocket; the thin, sharp blade reflected the pale light from the ceiling lamp.

You did not stab his chest, nor did you slit his throat. Your act of violence contained no anger; it was as precise as a surgeon. You took hold of his mangled hand and gently pressed an intact finger down onto the steel tabletop.

"Do you know." You whispered. "That simple injuries often fail to produce the desired result when someone is as stubborn as you are."

After speaking, you used the tool in your hand to begin a process that was slow, deliberate, and intense. You focused on your task with a chilling level of precision.

The man reacted with a cry of agony that filled the room. His body strained against the restraints, the metal chains clashing loudly as he struggled.

"Where are the files?" You asked, pressing the knife point a millimeter deeper and giving it a slight twist. The bone-deep agony radiating from his nerve endings made the man's eyes roll back, as a mixture of saliva and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

"In... in the freezer... at the safe house in Queens! Under the ice tray!" The man shrieked, his psychological defenses completely shattered.

You withdrew the blade. You turned to the guard standing frozen in the corner of the room. "Go get it."

The door swung open, and Stan Edgar stepped in. He glanced at the prisoner, who was struggling to remain conscious, then looked at you. His gaze lingered on the scene and the utility knife in your hand.

"I need him alive to testify at the military court once the files are recovered." He said, his voice low and cold.

Casually pulling a tissue from the table to wipe the blade clean, you assured Edgar that the target would survive. He stared at you for a few seconds before giving a slight nod, a silent acknowledgement of the effectiveness of your methods.

The sound of the candy clicking against your teeth as you lazily sucked on it blended with the rustle of a thick stack of documents. You sat huddled in a swivel chair, your right hand rhythmically tapping a pencil on the desk, eyes still glued to the list of names marked for "purging" this quarter by Vought.

A massive shadow suddenly engulfed the cramped space of the basement. There was no knock. The thick steel door, usually bolted shut, was now kicked open violently, slamming against the cement wall behind. The pungent stench of pipe tobacco and cheap Bourbon instantly flooded in, overpowering the familiar scent of your ink.

Soldier Boy stepped inside, his polished gold eagle crested alloy shield slung across his back. He nonchalantly unbuckled his combat helmet and tossed it onto your pile of files. Without so much as a glance at you, he pulled a wooden chair from the corner, sat down, and propped his mud caked boots right onto your desk, inches away from the IBM PC.

"Hey, kid." He grunted, his voice low, raspy, and thick with that old school American grit. He pulled a small cardboard box from his tactical jacket and tossed it hard into your lap. "Take it. Some fans in Ohio gave me this. It’s sickly sweet. I can’t stand the damn things."

You looked down. It was a box of butter cookies wrapped in cellophane, tied with a pink bow like a lover's gift, a luxury so vibrant it was almost farcical in this basement reeking of blood. You did not touch the box, only looked up at him with the eyes.

"I told you not to barge in here, Soldier Boy." You said. "Stan Edgar won't be pleased that his ultimate weapon is loitering in the Strategic Management Office."

"Fuck your Edgar." Ben scoffed, lazily lighting up a cigarette as a puff of grey smoke drifted toward the flickering fluorescent ceiling. "That prick really thinks he’s got me on a leash? And you, drop that goody-two-shoes act. It’s making my fucking ears bleed."

You still remember it as clearly as the first time Ben found this place six months ago. That night, he had just returned from a massacre in Nicaragua, reeking of gunpowder and the blood of rebels. He kicked down the cellar door, barging in with the intent to crush the throat of the one who had been covertly pulling the media’s strings, turning him into a pawn on Edgar’s political chessboard. He expected to face a formidable spy or some old fox from the Pentagon.

But when he burst in, he only found you, a young person eating instant noodles while watching televison, with a blank look on your face, completely devoid of fear. Seeing him walk in with murderous intent, you nonchalantly raised your utensil and asked. "Want some?"

He froze in the middle of the room. His green eyes bored into you, filled not with surprise, but a complex gaze, half-hatred, half-pain. He was not looking at you; he was looking into a mirror. In you, he saw the eyes of someone whose humanity had been shattered too soon, the same look he saw in the mirror whenever he thought of his father. He realized Vought was turning you into a machine, just as they had turned him into a soulless, muscular icon.

That night, the shield was never lifted again. Every time he finished a mission, he would come here. He had toss expensive toys and milk onto your table even though you were not an infant, ready to crush the skull of anyone who dared look at you with disrespect.

"Skipping dinner again, aren't you?" Ben suddenly nudged the edge of the desk with the tip of his boot, causing the entire computer to jump slightly.

"I already had your cookies. Quit your whining." You glared at him.

"Fuck’s sake, that shit’s sugary as hell, makes my mouth feel like it’s rotting." Ben growled, but those massive, calloused paws of his clumsily nudged the cookie tin a bit closer to you. "Look at you, skinny as a rail. What the fuck is Edgar feeding you, printer ink? Tomorrow I’m having someone haul some goddamn steak down here for you."

You gave a half assed hum while peeling back the cellophane. Your eyes suddenly snagged on a pink sticky note, covered in gaudy heart patterns, plastered to the corner of the box. Pure bratty curiosity kicked in; you ripped the note off immediately, cleared your throat, and stared right at the man sprawling like he owned the chair, before reading it word by word.

"To my dearest hero..."

Ben paused mid motion, cigarette halfway to his mouth, as a sudden twitch unsettled his brow.

"​I saw you on the tube yesterday, and that low angle shot of your massive [CENSOR] bulging under those red, white, and blue tights totally drove me wild. I swear to God I had to [CENSOR] myself three times in a row just dreaming about those rock hard, veins popping hands of yours [CENSOR] around my neck.

Are you on patrol tonight, sugar? My bedroom door is unlocked. No roses on the bed, baby. Just a painted on vinyl nurse outfit that’s so tight it’s practically [CENSOR] and a giant tub of strawberry flavored [CENSOR]. Just use that super soldier strength of yours to break the door down, [CENSOR] me right on the table, and [CENSOR] me until I can't even lift my damn [CENSOR] anymore. Come on, big boy, let me get a taste of the strongest weapon on the planet... Hugs and wet kisses. Your sweet Cherry Pie."

Unable to hold back any longer, you burst into a fit of laughter, your shoulders shaking uncontrollably. "Gross! There’s even a big lipstick kiss mark right here! You’re quite the ladies' man, aren't you, old man?"

"Goddammit, shut your filthy mouth right now, kid!"

The bearded man instantly barked a curse. He lunged forward, snatched the scrap of paper from your hand, crumpled it into a ball, and hurled it straight into the trash can in the corner.

Amused, you chuckled gleefully and pulled out a butter cookie, taking a crisp bite.

The basement on the fourth floor had originally been nothing more than a lifeless concrete box. But after nearly two years, it had begun to exude the scent of life, a chaotic medley of printer ink, strawberry candy, and cheap beer.

1983 was a frantic year for Vought. Stan Edgar’s master plan to integrate Supes into the national defense system had entered its final stretch. His visits to this basement became increasingly sparse; instead, thick stacks of documents regarding black budgets were funneled down through the ventilation shafts. As he climbed the corporate ladder, the amount of media trash that needed clearing only grew. But to you, that only meant more free time to spin in your chair and tease the burly man currently occupying your desk.

"Hey, old man. You've bought the wrong one again."

You spoke while kicking your toes hard against the side of the battered mini fridge tucked in the corner. This fridge was the only thing making a steady hum in the room, a buzzing sound that used to give you a headache, but now you’ve grown used to it. You swung the door wide open, revealing a messy row of red soda cans mixed with Ben's strong green labeled beers.

"You got eyes in your ass or what? It’s a goddamn blue label. Don't be a dumbass."

Ben grumbled, sprawling on the tattered leather couch he had hauled up here from the dumpster three months prior. Without even bothering to open his eyes, he blindly groped the table for his Zippo.

"I told you to buy the blue one!" You pulled out a red can and slamed the fridge door shut. "Told you to buy that last time, this one is ridiculously fizzy, it just makes my throat feel choked. You deliberately bought the wrong one, didn't you?"

"Check your attitude, brat. You're lucky I'm sharing at all." The man let out a scoff and sat up abruptly, snatching the can from your hand. He rapped the lid hard against your forehead, making it sting. "Now chug the damn thing before I dump it all over Edgar’s precious paperwork. You’re skinny as a twig, quit acting like a diva."

You rubbed your forehead, muttering a German curse word you had picked up from some of Frederick Vought’s old documents, then hopped up to sit on the table.

Ben’s presence here did not just mean a pile of empty beer cans; it brought the entire chaos of the Payback group with it. Every time he showed up with a fresh scratch on his face, you knew he had just had another scrap with Crimson Countess.

"Where's your firecracker girlfriend today? I saw the news, Countess 'accidentally' torched a convenience store in Chicago. Edgar's shelling out two mil just to keep the mayor's mouth shut."

"Don't you ever mention that crazy bitch in my presence again." Ben spat into the trash can, his face darkening. He loathed that Payback group, and he hated even more having to play the part of a "golden couple" for the cameras. "Bunch of useless failures. Without me, that team was nothing but a cheap ass fucking circus. The TNT twins and Swatto couldn't do worth a damn, and Mindstorm? That hack just spent all day hiding in a hole."

You let out a soft laugh, pulling the dartboard down from the wall.

"Alright, want to make a bet, old man?" You held up three metal darts, winking at him. "Whoever hits Edgar's nose wins. Loser buys dinner."

"You’d miss ten out of ten shots, kid. You got arms like wet noodles." Ben roared with laughter, stepping forward and snatching two of the darts from your hand.

Miffed, you threw the first one. Just as he predicted, the dart went a full meter wide, thudding into the rough concrete wall. You clicked your tongue, but before you could throw the second one, a large hand suddenly enveloped yours from behind. The sharp scent of Ben's cigarettes brushed against your ear. His immense strength forced your fingers into position, compelling you to lift your elbow to a precise angle.

"Look at that colored prick's nose." Ben muttered, his voice rumbling in your ear like distant thunder. "Relax your wrist. Let it fly!"

He applied a powerful shove to your hand. The dart sliced through the air with a whistle, pinning itself squarely in the middle of Stan Edgar's nose on the poster.

"Ha! See that, kid?" Ben roared with glee, clapping you so hard on the back that you nearly face planted onto the desk. He let out a mindless, triumphant laugh, as if he had just crushed the Axis powers at Normandy rather than simply cheating at a childish game.

You rubbed your back, laughing along with him. Those were the rare moments when this basement ceased to feel like a windowless cell. It felt like home.

But those joys always flickered out when the fluorescent lights died at midnight. The antiquated ventilation system of the 80s left the basement bone chillingly cold at night. You had a habit of staying up late to finish Edgar’s secret files, eventually drifting off at your desk with your head pillowed on the keyboard.

Before the winter sun could even break the horizon, a sharp chill down your spine jolted you awake. But as you made a slight movement, you realized something incredibly heavy was draped over your shoulders.

It was Ben’s military green tactical leather jacket. It reeked of pipe tobacco, Bourbon, and men’s cologne. The oversized jacket completely enveloped you, trapping a lingering warmth against the basement’s frigid air. You peered up through the gap of the upturned collar; the sofa across from you was empty. He was gone, likely departed long ago for the press conference.

___

The night wind atop the Vought tower was cold enough to freeze even the boldest lies. But at this height, at least you did not have to smell the wretched ink of the basement, and Ben did not have to face his own hollow, manufactured smile on the giant billboards lining the boulevard.

You screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the howling wind from above. Ben nonchalantly grabbed the collar of your shirt, hoisting you up like a small kitten before stepping over the steel railing of the fire escape. He took a light leap, landing on the highest rooftop of the tower. The impact from his aged legs made the concrete floor quiver slightly, yet he set you down with such precision that not a single drop was spilled from the two cups of ice cream you were cradling in your arms.

You stumbled to find your footing, threatening to make him mop the floor if the ice cream spilled. 

"Shut your fucking mouth." Ben chuckled contemptuously. He unbuckled the heavy golden shield from his back, tossing it onto the floor with a thud before sitting down beside it. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and struck a light. An ember flickered in the misty Manhattan night, reflecting a face full of rugged lines and the exhaustion he always had to conceal before the television cameras.

You sat down next to him, placing the two ice cream cups onto the polished golden shield, turning the "ultimate weapon of America" into a makeshift picnic table. You pulled an old radio cassette player from your bag, its plastic casing was heavily scuffed, and pressed the Play button firmly with your fingertip. The screeching of the tape hummed for a long moment before the rebellious, driving rhythms of 80s Rock n' Roll erupted, shattering the silent atmosphere. This was the kind of music labeled as "depraved" and banned from broadcasting on Vought's mainstream channels at that time.

"What the hell is this shit?" Ben frowned, his ears twitching at the piercing sound of the electric guitar. He tapped his finger against the radio’s casing. "Back in my day, music actually had a soul, a damn melody. This long haired shrieking sounds like a bunch of stuck pigs."

"You're an old fossil, what do you know?" You muttered, crunching on the wafer from your sundae. "This is the future. In twenty years, everyone’s gonna forget those dusty marches of yours, but Rock n' Roll? That’s immortal."

"Hell, I’m the only immortal thing around here." He grunted under his breath. But despite the cursing, the corner of his mouth hitched into a faint smirk. He took a long, deep drag of his cigarette. Feeling a sharp gust from the Hudson whipping your coat around, he let out a low grumble and shifted his massive frame, cutting off the wind. He sat there like a solid wall of muscle, shielding both you and the two ice cream cups on the shield from the grit and the cold.

The two of you sat in silence, soaking in a rare moment of peace. You took a big spoonful of ice cream, the cold sweetness washing away the bitter tang of those basement days. You looked up at the pitch black sky, where the faint stars were being swallowed whole by the city lights.

At that very moment, the jarring melody from the cassette player suddenly shifted into a somber guitar solo, dragging out long silences. Your eyes instinctively drifted toward the top secret Vought laboratory just a few blocks away, the same place where, this morning, you had spotted a peculiar personnel report approved by Stan Edgar’s signature. A project codenamed "Replacement Product."

Resting your chin on your knees, you gazed sideways at Ben’s profile, now shrouded in a veil of cigarette smoke, and let out a casual remark, shattering the silence.

"Hey Ben... do you ever think that somewhere in that godforsaken building, they’re breeding something just to take your throne?"

Ben paused. The cigarette in his hand froze mid air. He turned to look at you, his green eyes narrowing slightly. "Found something else in basement, have you?"

"Nothing at all." You replied, twirling a plastic spoon in a cup of half melted ice cream. Your voice was half-jesting, half-earnest, yet your gaze was deep and hollow, staring into the void. "I'm just thinking. A corporation like Vought would never bet everything on a single person. Right now, who knows, there might be a child waking up in a windowless room, staring at the ceiling, carrying your exact bloodline. A child being taught that it must fly, be strong, and... at the very least, be more obedient than you."

Ben fell silent for a moment, then he burst into laughter, a laugh full of pride yet laced with the emptiness of someone who had stood at the peak for too long. He flicked his cigarette ash straight onto the concrete floor, his voice dripping with disdain.

"Those lab rats can churn out all the toys they want, but nobody replaces me. I’m Soldier Boy. There is no 'second version'."

You said nothing more, simply looking down to finish the last spoonful of ice cream.

"The ice cream's melting. Wolf it down and get back." Ben grumbled. He roughly used his large hand to ruffle your hair, pulling you back to reality.

"I know! Stop messing with my hair, old man!" You yelled, switching off the radio and leaping onto his back, forcing him to carry you down the emergency stairwell.

In January 1984, while New York was being battered by a record breaking blizzard, there was no white snow in the remote limestone canyon beyond the border where Stan Edgar had deployed you for your first field operation. There was only the thick, reddish smoke of gunfire and blinding clouds of dust.

To him, an analytical machine, no matter how intelligent, was only as useful as the tangible results it produced on the battlefield. You were ordered to embed with a covert task force to decrypt the enemy's massive, antiquated computer system and retrieve hard drives containing the corporation’s illicit transaction records. The Payback squad was responsible for clearing the perimeter. The plan was flawless on paper, until the deafening roar of a directional mine tore through the air.

"It's a trap! We're being ambushed!"

The ground beneath your feet shuddered violently, hurling you into a rocky crevice. The impact was so severe that a searing pain shot through your shoulder, and your walkie talkie was smashed to pieces. Volleys of heavy machine gun fire raked the task force's position, turning the security guards into mangled corpses in a matter of seconds.

You lay prone on the ground, chest heaving from a lack of oxygen, struggling to reach for the bag containing the hard drives. Through the black smoke, you were stunned to see the silhouettes of the other Payback members retreating hastily via jet at the edge of the canyon. They were fleeing. Or rather, they had received orders to withdraw all along.

This is a pilot campaign where Stan Edgar is willing to accept a one hundred percent casualty rate for the ground team, as long as the documents are recovered. And you, an underage brat with no identity, not on any records, are the most perfect pawn for him to discard without leaving a single trace. Truly a beautiful day.

The screech of a shoulder fired missile tears through the air, heading straight for the rock where you are taking cover. You shut your eyes tight, both hands clutching your head. Throughout all those years, you always thought this world was just a meaningless stage operated by the exchange of interests and dark violence. You lived like a ghost, and if you had to die in this pretty little corner because of Edgar’s betrayal, it would just be a logical conclusion for a tool.

A thunderous, disastrous explosion echoes right above your head, but the pain you anticipate does not come. Instead, a massive pressure weighs down on you, shielding your entire body from the sharp rock fragments that are spraying out like rain.

"Goddammit, don't let go of that bag!'"

Ben roars, his voice coarse and raspy from gunpowder smoke and rage. He spins around, roughly hoisting you up with one hand, pressing you tight against his steel chest, while his other hand lifts a shield to block bursts of large-caliber bullets thudding into his reinforced back plate. He carries you as he charges straight out of the enemy’s bombardment zone.

Ten minutes later, he drops you onto a safe patch of grass behind a mountain range, far from the combat zone. His private helicopter is already waiting with its engine running. Ben removes his helmet, throwing it violently to the ground, the blue veins on his neck throbbing with anger. He wipes a smear of blood on his cheek, hissing through gritted teeth.

"You're out of your damn mind, kid? That son of a bitch tells you to die, and you just lay there like a good little soldier waiting for the end?!"

You stumble to your feet, your clothes caked in mud and gray ash. You look at him, your voice stripped of its usual snark and arrogance, shaky and lost in the void.

"Edgar doesn't need me anymore... I'm just a pawn. This goddamn company never saves what isn't worth trading. Why did you come back? You could be court martialed, you could lose everything-"

Ben freezes. He looks down at you, those eyes that usually burn with rage suddenly softening into a look of sheer helplessness and bitter resentment. He lunges forward, his massive hands slamming onto your shoulders, shaking you hard as if trying to snap you back to reality.

"Trade value? My ass! You got shit for brains or something?" He roars in your face, his breath reeking of gunpowder. "Vought is a pack of bastards and Edgar’s a cold-blooded prick, but you don't have to learn their trashy way of living! Look at yourself, for Christ's sake..."

He exhales sharply, his grip loosening, but his gaze remains locked onto yours.

"You're just a kid! And a man's job is to make sure kids don't die on his watch. You hear me, you little brat?"

His words are wrapped in foul mouthed insults, but they hit you like a sledgehammer, shattering the cold armor you built around yourself. For the first time, someone is using force on you, not to torture, not to use you, but to force you to live like a human being. The unconditional sacrifice and the strange, protective logic of this "terrible" man have left a permanent mark on your world.

You bowed your head, watching your dusty, trembling fingers.

"Take my helmet, get on the plane quickly before I lose my temper and throw you back into the ravine." Ben muttered, then turned and walked away first.

You clutch the man's heavy helmet to your chest, gently wipe away the tears welling up, and then quickly run after the enormous shadow ahead.

To deceive a "fox" like Stan Edgar, your faked death had to be the most perfect thing he had ever witnessed.

You knew all too well that Edgar would scrutinize the scene down to the last millimeter. Therefore, the charred hard drive bag, the meticulously staged bloodstains matching your blood type on the ravine wall, and even the casualty report from the security team... All were part of your calculations before the second missile could strike.

You had given it your all. In the months that followed, you remained hidden in the darkest corners of information networks. You intentionally leaked false intelligence regarding Nicaraguan guerrilla defense density into Crimson Countess's computer, forcing her into a state of panic and compelling her to request Soldier Boy’s backup. You utilized underground financial algorithms to freeze a portion of Edgar's black budget, forcing him to delay the campaign's progress to buy more time for Ben. You even indirectly sent anonymous ultimatums to the members of Payback, exposing Edgar’s plan to purge them once Soldier Boy was gone, fueling internal suspicion to break their solidarity. You and Ben no longer maintained contact. It was for the best.

However you underestimated the corporation's cruelty, and Ben's pitiable arrogance. He was far too confident in his golden shield. He never believed those he deemed 'useless scum' like Payback would dare betray him. His ultimate protection plan crumbled before a weapon you hadn't even accounted for, a specialized Russian sedative, combined with a humiliating backstab from the very teammates he once despised.

By the time you received the final tracking signal from Nicaragua, it was already too late. The helicopter carrying him had vanished. Vought announced he had died heroically to save the world, while Stan Edgar officially ascended to the pinnacle of power within the corporation.

October 1984. Early snow fell upon the national cemetery, where Vought had erected a colossal bronze statue to commemorate "America's greatest hero".

You stood huddled behind an old pine thicket, his oversized military green leather combat jacket covering you from head to toe, hiding your face beneath a gray wool beanie. You could not help but smirk bitterly at the stone mass before you. The scent of tobacco, alcohol, and the pungent sting of Benzedrine on the jacket's collar had faded over the years, but the warmth from his words that night remained like a flame seared into your chest.

You gently reached out to stroke the jacket's coarse leather, your hollow gaze fixed on the vibrant wreaths and the artificial tears of the Vought media circus below.

"Ben..." You whispered into the freezing void, your small voice swallowed by the howling blizzard.

Then, turning his back, his figure, swallowed up by the enormous coat, gradually disappeared into the swirling white snow.

You will return. And this time, you will not fail.

___

A gravelly voice, thick with a British accent, calls your name, or rather, calls out to you.