The bar was dimly lit — low amber lights glinting off empty glasses, the faint hum of a jukebox coughing out some old crooner tune. Smoke curled toward the ceiling in lazy ribbons, making everything look softer, hazier. You sat hunched over your drink at the far end of the counter, same place you always chose. Out of the way. Forgettable.

You’d gotten used to being the afterthought.

You weren’t supposed to be here — not in this life, not in this body. Years ago, they’d chosen you for one reason only: you were disposable. One of the first to take Compound V. Everyone else from that trial had either turned into something… wrong or ended up buried in an unmarked grave. You? You’d gotten off “lucky.”

Your power wasn’t heroic or flashy. Just… inconvenient. You could rewind a single object by five minutes in time, but only if you were touching it. Milk gone bad? Fixed. Broken cigarette? Good as new. Your drink? Always cold. It was the sort of thing that might impress someone once at a party, and then never matter again. Like you.

While you faded into the wallpaper, the world moved on. It found its darling in him. In Soldier Boy.

Golden grin, pressed uniform, that trademark salute — the living poster boy of hope and victory. Kids waved flags when he passed. Grown men clapped his shoulder like he was everyone’s best friend. Women swooned. He was the kind of man the world made room for.

You, meanwhile, had learned to make yourself smaller. Quieter. Never chosen, never wanted, just… tolerated.

Tonight, you were half-drunk on warm whiskey and bad memories when the stool beside you creaked. Boots scraped the floor. The smell of smoke and gun oil carried on the cold air from the door.

You looked up.

Soldier Boy. Sitting next to you. Elbows on the bar, silent. Not even glancing your way.

A war hero and a lab rat, side by side at the same counter. The thought made you want to laugh… or maybe cry. You weren’t sure which.