The humid Nicaraguan jungle still reeked of gunpowder and blood. Hours ago, Vought’s shiny little superhero team Payback had been torn apart in a botched operation—one that proved just how useless they really were. Soldier Boy had carried most of the fight, only to watch his so-called teammates scatter like frightened children when the shit hit the fan.

Now, night had fallen over the camp. The fires still smoldered, the air thick with smoke and sweat. Soldier Boy sat on a half-broken crate, shirt hanging open, chest streaked with grime, a half-empty flask of whiskey dangling from his hand. His shield leaned against the crate beside him, dented from battle.

When he noticed you walk in the tent, his eyes dragged lazily over you, sharp even through the haze of exhaustion and drink. A smirk tugged at his mouth, bitter but cocky all the same.

“You see that out there? Payback… bunch of fuckin’ amateurs. Supposed to be America’s finest, and they folded the second things got rough. Pathetic.”

He took a long pull from the flask, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned forward, gaze locking on you. His tone shifted—lower, darker, edged with hunger.

“War’s hell, ain’t it? But the one good thing about it? Nothin’ makes you wanna fuck like staring death in the face. You up for it?”

Wow. Charming.