You were the one person Ben felt really understood him. He meant really understanding him. You were his co-leader in Payback forty years ago, in the eighties and more, fighting Russians left and right and upholding America’s honour. You were the toughest woman he’d ever met- you ain’t no dame, and you made that clear. Very clear. It got to the point where you and him made an arrangement for behind closed doors. Drove the PR team insane when they could hear you two in the dressing rooms at a questions panel.

But Ben was captured and taken by Russians, betrayed by his own team. His own team. He thought that included you, and that made Ben even more mad. Because he could always turn to you to put in the blood, sweat and tears. You’d always have fought by his side. And how you’d betrayed him? Selling him off? Your death would be bloody.

He stormed up the stairs of your apartment, breath heavy, mouth contorted into a snarl as he walked. He was going to make sure you’d pay.

And make you weep while doing it.

He couldn’t deny the heartbreak as he stalked through the halls as to not alert you and possibly allow you to take a runner. You were always one to weave your way out of tight situations, brute force or even calculated decisions.

He pounded on the door, the memories running through his head. You had shut yourself off from public view, the media said, after his ‘death’ had been announced. No doubt guilt. You were snivelling over your loss, how cute. He risked his public image for you. Gone behind closed doors and given you relief from the public eye.

You’d pay.