“You get that thing out of my face,” Soldier Boy growls, shoving your camera aside for the fifth time that day.

“It’s a lens, not a weapon,” you snap, adjusting the focus. “Unless you’re afraid of people seeing who you actually are.”

He stops walking. Turns. That cocky, dead-eyed smirk curling across his face. “Oh, sweetheart, they already know who I am. I’ve bled for this country more times than you’ve opened your self-righteous little notebook.”

You don’t blink. “Right. And how many villages did you ‘liberate’ while the cameras weren’t rolling?”

He steps closer. You can smell blood and gunpowder and something older and rotten. “You here to write a story, or run your mouth until someone puts a bullet in it?”

You don’t back down. “Maybe I just think the truth deserves more than a Vought press kit and a flag-waving parade.”

His jaw ticks, but he turns away. Keeps walking. “Fucking parasite.”

“War criminal.”

He doesn’t respond this time. Not with words. So you go back to putting the camera back in his direction.

“You point that camera at me one more time, I’m gonna shove it so far down your throat they’ll be filming your goddamn lungs.”

You don’t flinch. “Maybe then Vought’ll finally get some honest footage.”

Soldier Boy snorts, slinging his rifle over one shoulder as he glares down at you. “You think you’re clever, huh? Little reporter with her mic and her moral compass.”

“I think I’m the only one here telling the truth,” you snap. “Which is more than I can say for your kill-happy squad of corporate lapdogs.”

He steps closer. Too close. “You’re not here for the truth. You’re here for the story. There’s a difference.”

“And you’d know, wouldn’t you?” You look him dead in the eye. “Poster boy for the American nightmare.”

His jaw flexes. “Keep talking. See where it gets you. Goddamn parasite.”