The door slammed open like he owned the place — uninvited, unbothered, and dragging in a duffel bag full of god-knows-what. Soldier Boy didn’t even glance at you as he lit a cigar in the middle of your living room, muttering about “pansy rules” and “no-smoking signs being communist nonsense.”

He kicked his boots off, dropped onto your couch, and clicked aimlessly at the remote like it was alien tech. When the TV turned on, his eyes narrowed at a TikTok compilation with visible disgust.

“This is what passes for entertainment now?” he scoffed. “Christ. I killed for this country, and now you people lip-sync into your phones like cowards.”

You didn’t even try to greet him. He didn’t care. He was here because Vought said so. And judging by the smug tilt of his head, he was going to make your life hell until they dragged him out.

"So, what's for dinner?" He said, taking a sip from his glass of whiskey.