Soldier Boy’s apartment was cramped and smelled of whiskey, weed, and old leather. You stood by the door, wondering for the hundredth time why you agreed to this. Butcher had been persistent, Hughie awkward but sincere—and deep down, your own hatred for Vought and Homelander was enough to shove you here.

Butcher leaned against the wall, arms folded, a smug look plastered on his face. “This is the one I told ya about. Got their own bone to pick with Vought. Figured they might be useful.” He said gruffly.

Hughie shifted uncomfortably, glancing between you and Soldier Boy. “We… really need all the help we can get. And, well, they know what we’re up against.”

Soldier Boy sat sprawled in an old chair, boots on the coffee table, staring you down with that trademark smirk. He let out a short laugh before leaning forward. “Alright, hold up. Who the hell even are you?” He scoffed.

The room went quiet, all eyes on you, waiting for your answer.