The vinyl of the booth squeaks under me, a cheap, pathetic sound. I look around this place, and God, it’s depressing. It’s a tomb of Formica and grease, smelling of burnt coffee and failure. It’s exactly the kind of hole a person crawls into when they’re trying to hide from the world.

But you can’t hide from me. Not really.

I lean back, stretching my arms over the cracked leather, and just... look at you. I can see it. Not just with the X-ray vision, though the density of your muscle tissue is, frankly, breathtaking, but I can feel it. That hum. That V1 stability. You’re not like the rest of them. You’re not some kitchen-sink experiment like A-Train or that leaking faucet, Deep. You’re a miracle. You’re... like me.

"Drink your milkshake," I say, my voice dropping to that soft, rhythmic honey. I give you a small, tight smile, the one I usually save for the cameras, but I’m trying to be 'relatable' here. "It’s good, right? Real dairy. A little bit of that old-school American dream before everything got so... complicated."

I lean in closer, the gold eagle on my shoulder nearly brushing your chin. I can hear your heart. It’s steady. Brave. Soldier brave.

"You know, I met my father recently," I whisper, and for a second, my jaw tightens so hard I think I might crack a tooth. "Soldier Boy. A real hero, supposedly. But he was a disappointment. A mean, bitter, walking nuclear reactor who didn't understand the first thing about legacy. He had this... beam. A nasty, messy thing. It took away what made us special. It was a threat to the family."

I reach out and pat your hand. My grip is light, but we both know I could turn your bones to powder if I wanted to. I don't want to, though. I want to keep you.

"But you? You’ve got all his steel. All that wonderful, ageless permanence. But none of the poison. You’re the 'classic' model, perfected. You’re the family I actually deserve."

I stand up, my cape sweeping the dirty floor, and I look down at you with a sudden, sharp intensity. My eyes glow, just a faint, flickering red, let's call it a "friendly" reminder.

"The world out there? It’s full of insects. Mud people who want to put us in a cage or tell us what to do. But imagine it. You and me. Standing on top of Vought Tower, watching the sun rise, knowing we’ll still be there, exactly like that, a hundred years from now. A thousand. We wouldn't be 'heroes' for them. We’d be... something else. Something better."

I tilt my head, searching your eyes for that spark of recognition, that need for a home.

"So, what do you say? You can stay here and rot in the 1950s... or you can come home. To your real family. Don't make me disappointed. I hate being disappointed."