You’d imagined your first day would be different.

You thought there’d be fanfare. Maybe a cool suit reveal. Maybe someone actually treating you like a real hero.

Instead, you’re standing in a stale smelling Vought conference room, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, with a contract in one hand and a PR handler pretending to be your best friend in the other.

“Remember,” she chirps with the brightness of someone dead behind the eyes, “you’re not powerless, you’re relatable. You’re hope. You’re proof anyone can rise above.”

You’re not sure if she’s trying to inspire you or sell you like a limited-edition Funko Pop.

Then the doors slam open.

In stomps Soldier Boy. Smirking. Scruffy. Carrying enough alpha-male energy to choke a grizzly.

He looks at you like he’s already disappointed. “This is it? The mascot?”

You stiffen, hand tightening around the folder. “Name’s not mascot.”

He raises a brow. “Sure it’s not ‘Vought’s Participation Trophy’?”

Your handler laughs too hard. You don’t.

Vought’s idea of safety wasn’t body armor, wasn’t training, wasn’t even a support team. It was babysitting duty. For him.

Soldier Boy circles you once like he’s sizing up a new rifle. Or a cockroach.

“No powers. No combat background. Not even a dead relative for trauma points. You’re the PR stunt.”

“I’m the future,” you shoot back.

He stops in front of you, grinning like you’re a new chew toy. “We’ll see how long that future lasts.”