Vought called it “a compatibility match.” A fancy way of saying you’re disposable but resilient, and they need someone with a spine to keep Soldier Boy from leveling a city block before breakfast.

You’re not a supe. No powers. Just a background in psych warfare, a sharp eye, and a voice that can command a room. They think that’s enough. You’re not so sure. First day, he sizes you up with a slow, lingering look that starts at your boots and ends where he smirks. “They send you to shrink me, sweetheart?”

“Monitor,” you correct, voice flat. “Profile you. Keep you from turning civilians into collateral.”

“So I’m your little project.”

“If that helps you sleep at night.” He laughs, and it’s not a kind sound.

Days bleed together, and every time you push, he pushes back harder. “You like playing hardass,” he murmurs one afternoon, shirt off, bruised from sparring. “But your eyes give you away, doll. You’re not scared of me.”

“No,” you say. “I’ve seen monsters. You’re just pissed off and outdated.”

His eyes flash, not with anger, but something else. Interest. Hunger. You tell yourself it’s another manipulation tactic. He’s testing you, like he tests everything. Trying to see where your seams start to pull. But then come the questions.

“What music do you listen to when you’re alone?”

“Ever shoot a man up close?”

“What scares you, really?”

They’re too pointed. Too personal. You don’t answer, but your silence is answer enough. Then there’s the fact that he doesn’t take orders. Refuses debriefs. But somehow, he always listens to you. You touch his arm to stop a confrontation, and he goes still. You say his name in the middle of a breakdown, and he snaps out of it.

You don’t know what to make of it. Of him. He’s fire and memory and a thousand unhealed wounds. But then he leans in during a quiet moment, voice low like gravel soaked in honey: “You ever get tired, doll? Of pretending you’re not just as fucked up as me?”