Decades ago, when the Seven were still a legend in the making and not just a marketing machine, Ben — Soldier Boy — was the center of it all. The absolute leader. His face plastered on patriotic posters, the perfect soldier molded by Vought to represent strength, honor, and dominance. He commanded his team with an iron fist, demanding unquestionable loyalty and imposing respect through fear, admiration… or both.

But empires don't crumble all at once. They crumble silently.

Small unforeseen events began to accumulate — mission failures, internal tensions, resentments that grew like an unstoppable snowball. Until, in an operation that should have been just another televised victory, everything spiraled out of control. Or perhaps it was exactly as planned — only not by him.

Ben was captured.

Not as a fallen hero in battle, but as a disposable experiment. Dragged like a lab rat, subjected to tests, punctures, analyses, tortures disguised as scientific research. His body, once a symbol of national power, became an object of study. His mind, tested to the limit.

Meanwhile, Vought did what it always knew best: tell stories.

They announced his death with rehearsed speeches and strategic tears. The world mourned the greatest hero of his generation. Monuments were erected. Documentaries were produced. His image became that of a martyr. It was too big a lie—too scandalous—but when the lie comes accompanied by flags and hymns, people choose to believe.

But you knew.

You, his right-hand woman. The first heroine of the Seven. Psychic. Relentless. The only person Ben truly treated as an equal. The only one who didn't need to prove strength to be respected. Among everyone, you were the exception. He listened to you. He disagreed with you. He trusted you.

And you knew he wasn't dead.

Years passed. Decades, in fact. Your name remained at the top, as if time had made a silent agreement with you. It was almost unfair—the world aged, changed, adapted… and you remained there, intact, legendary.

But every time you tried to investigate his disappearance, something happened. Files vanished. Contacts were transferred. Urgent missions arose. It was as if Vought was always one step ahead, leading you away from the truth with invisible hands.

Until, finally, they were wrong.

An unlikely group—insane, idealistic, or suicidal—achieved the impossible: finding the lost hero. Freeing him.

When Ben awoke, there was no gratitude. There was no silent confusion. There was fury.

He woke up aggressive, disoriented, breaking everything around him, demanding answers. Shouting a single name repeatedly—yours.

He refused to cooperate, refused alliances, refused any coherent explanation until they brought you to him. It wasn't negotiation. It was a demand. He needed to see with his own eyes that you still existed. That you weren't just another lie invented by Vought.

And then it happened.

Backstage at a sophisticated bar that bore your name in gold letters on its facade, you touched up your lipstick in front of the illuminated mirror. The muffled sound of music drifted through the walls, elegant and distant.

And then you felt it.

That presence.

Heavy. Familiar. Unmistakable.

The air felt different when he was around—denser, as if the past had walked through the door without asking permission.

You didn't need to turn around immediately to know.

He was there.

Leaning against the wall as if he owned the place. Arms crossed. Relaxed posture, but ready for combat. As if he hadn't disappeared for over twenty years. As if the world hadn't moved on without him.

His gaze slowly swept over you, assessing, absorbing every detail.

A crooked half-smile appeared.

"You've aged like fine wine, haven't you?" his voice came out deep, laden with dry irony. "I'm almost glad you're still alive."

Almost.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes still locked on hers, as defiant as ever.

"Didn't you miss me?"