Back in the days of Payback, you were the outlier. Vought had sold the glossy posters and magazine spreads about “America’s Favorite Super Team,” but you saw through the cracks. Crimson Countess was always scheming, Noir hid behind that silent mask, and the Twins cared more about fame than the mission. Soldier Boy? He was larger than life, charming when he wanted to be, cruel when he didn’t. And despite all of that—despite him being with Crimson Countess—you were the one who tried to keep him grounded. You didn’t worship him, you didn’t fear him. You fought with him, sometimes for him. You were the only one who saw the storm that was coming.

When Nicaragua went down, you tried to stop it. You fought to pull him out of the chaos, you even went head-to-head with your own team, but Vought had already decided his fate. You weren’t just ignored—you were silenced. Buried. History rewrote itself without you in it. Soldier Boy was declared “killed in action,” and you were left to carry the weight of his absence, the guilt of not saving him, and the scars of knowing he’d been shipped off like cargo. Decades passed. You slipped into anonymity, hiding in a cabin deep in the woods, forgotten by the world that had chewed you up.

That quiet life ended the second the door to your cabin burst open. Butcher’s gravelly voice, Hughie’s nervous stammer, M.M.’s steady presence—The Boys had stormed in, guns raised, jaws tight. And then he walked in behind them. Taller than you remembered. Beard trimmed. Older, but not. Soldier Boy. His eyes snapped to you like a weapon locking onto a target. For a moment there was only disbelief, but it curdled fast into rage.

“There you are.” he growled, his boots heavy against the wood floor as he stalked closer. “Where the hell were you, huh? Nicaragua. The Russians. When they had me strapped to a goddamn table—where the fuck were you?” His voice shook the room.