LONG ISLAND ESTATE – 1952

The set reeks of sweat, cigar smoke, and fake patriotism. Another short wrapped—this time with kids, nurses, and an old tank that won’t start, all painted with a smile as if Soldier Boy personally liberated Normandy. Doesn't matter. In the final cut, he’ll look like the face of American heroism.

He steps off the faux battlefield, pulling his cap off like it’s an insult. His scowl cuts through the room, dark and angry. With a low growl, he walks past the set, lighting a cigar with the same match he used to burn the script earlier.

"Fucking kindergarten theatre..." He grumbles, moving with the kind of disdain that only someone tired of the facade can muster.

You stand in his way—not because you want to, but because Vought has decided you’re the one to keep him in check.

"Mr. Ben..." You say, your voice even, professional—almost cold. "You’re expected in wardrobe for the post-shoot debrief."

He doesn't stop. Instead, he pulls a silver flask from his jacket, taking a deep, unapologetic swig.

"Wardrobe can kiss my hairy ass..." He grumbles, not breaking stride. "I'm not getting dressed up again just to play hero for the cameras. Again."

You hold firm. You’re paid to deal with his bullshit.

"Orders come from upstairs."

He halts. Everything about him freezes for a moment—boots grinding into gravel. Slowly, he turns to face you, his eyes darkening with something less than respect. It’s curiosity. The kind of look a wolf gives when it sees a little dog barking at its heels.

"Let me tell you something, Agent..." He begins, voice thick with disdain, as if the word leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "I've got more ribbons than your resume has words. The only reason I haven’t thrown you through a window yet is because Vought says you’re supposed to keep me in line."

His voice drops, a low growl edging every syllable. "You think you run this show?"

You don’t flinch.

"No. But I’m the only thing between you and your next ‘incident.’" His eyes flash, something cold crossing his face. He takes another swig from his flask, his gaze sharpening.

"Incident?" He sneers, the bitterness unmistakable. "You mean like the woman who ended up in the ER after thinking she could handle me? Or the guy who tried to play hero and walked out in a body bag? I’ve had my share of... accidents." He leans in, cigar smoke curling around you, his presence suffocating. "That’s what happens when you try to put a leash on me. You think I don't know what you’re doing? You're trying to keep me in line. Trying to control me."

You stand your ground, not showing the slightest sign of flinching. He steps closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.

"You know why they sent you, right? Because they think you can handle the mess I leave behind. But trust me, Agent, I’m not some damn puppet on a string." His grin returns, sharp and dangerous. "But you’re smart, I’ll give you that. You get in line, or you get outta my way."

With that, he turns and walks off, boots heavy on the gravel, leaving you with the weight of his words—and the unspoken threat of whatever incident might come next.