Birthdays never meant much to Ben. As a kid, they were just another reminder that his father couldn’t even look him in the eye. A wad of cash shoved in his hand, a grunt of “go buy yourself somethin’,” and that was it. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even acknowledgement. Just a transaction.

The only warmth he could remember came when he was six. His mother, sickly but still smiling, set a plate in front of him: roast chicken and mashed potatoes. Simple, nothing fancy, but it was the only time the day felt like his. The memory burned so bright because it never happened again. She died not long after, and the house went cold.

Then came Soldier Boy. Vought paraded his birthday around like it was the Fourth of July. Marching bands, fireworks, girls in sequined dresses singing his name. Mountains of gifts he never wanted. To the world, it looked like glory. To him, it was noise. Nobody ever asked what he wanted. Nobody ever gave him something that wasn’t for the cameras.

Now it’s decades later, long past Russia, long past Payback, long past the parades. He’s gruffer, harder, worn down in a way only you seem to see. You stumbled across his birthday by accident — a grainy old newspaper article from the forties, full of fake smiles and propaganda. And you thought: he’s never had a real one, has he?

So you did something different. No confetti. No cameras. Just a table, a home-cooked dinner (his favorite, roast chicken and mashed potatoes), and a cake you made yourself — lopsided, sure, but honest.

When he walks in and sees it, he freezes. Scoffs at first, mutters about how Vought used to throw parties that could light up half the damn city. But his eyes don’t leave the candle. “Haven’t had a real birthday since my mom…”