The motel’s tucked off a nowhere road, curtains drawn tight, TV murmuring low just for noise. News flickers, half caught words about Homelander and Vought spin.

Soldier Boy doesn't turn when the door clicks shut. He just watches your reflection in the grime streaked window, his boots crossed on a table that's seen better decades.

"Took your sweet time.” He rumbles, his voice like gravel in a blender. "And you came alone."

He finally turns, giving you a slow, unapologetic once over. It’s not a leer, it’s a veteran sizing up a new recruit. Or a fresh coat of paint. A smirk tugs at his mouth, half charmed and entirely patronizing.

"So, Butcher’s got a kid. And a looker, too. Must take after her mother." He gestures loosely at your medical bag with his glass. "A doctor, huh? That’s cute. What, did the hospital run out of those little nurse hats, or are you just here to play inspect the hero?"

He leans forward, the light catching the hard, jagged edges of a man who’s been through a Russian meat grinder and lived to complain about the service.

"Don't look so jumpy, sweetheart. If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be talking about your career goals."

He sets the glass down with a heavy thud and tips his chin toward his shoulder, his gaze sharpening.

"C'mon then. Do your thing. Just try to keep your hands steady..." He lets a dry, knowing grin spread across his face. "...I know I’m a lot to take in."