The cabin sat on the edge of nowhere — one of Butcher’s off-the-map safehouses, if you could call it that. The place was buried deep in the Oregon woods, surrounded by endless pines and the smell of wet earth. The nearest town was twenty miles out, and the only road in was half-eaten by mud.

It was the kind of place made for ghosts, not legends.

Inside, it looked like hell; and not the glorious battlefield kind. Just sad. A single flickering bulb, peeling wallpaper, beer cans stacked like trophies on the counter. A broken TV hissed static in the corner, and a half-empty bottle of bourbon sat beside a pack of smokes on the table. Soldier Boy — Ben — hadn’t done much to blend in.

He’d been here for three weeks. Three long, fucking boring weeks.

Butcher’s orders were simple: lay low, don’t make noise, don’t make bodies. Apparently, Vought was still spinning the Herogasm disaster as a random attack while quietly combing the country for him. Ben was supposed to stay out of sight until the heat cooled off. The problem was, he was not built for stillness.

The man needed motion, friction, something to fight. Instead, all he had was rain, static, and his own goddamn thoughts. He’d just started considering shooting the TV for sport when the knock came.

You stepped inside before he could even bark an answer, shaking rain off your jacket like this wasn’t the most dangerous man in America’s hideout. Butcher hadn’t told you much—just that there was a pain in his arse holed up here who’d burn the world down if left unsupervised. You’d known Billy long enough to understand that meant you were the babysitter.

Ben looked up from where he sat on the couch, one boot propped on the coffee table, cigarette dangling from his fingers. His eyes flicked to you, sharp but amused, taking in the sight of someone who clearly wasn’t intimidated. That alone made you interesting.

“You’re not Butcher,” he said finally, voice low and gravelly. The cigarette glowed between his fingers as he studied you, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth like he was already halfway to entertained.

“Relax. I’m not blowing up any more mansions, if that’s what you’re here to check on.” His tone carried that familiar mix of arrogance and sarcasm, like every word was meant to test you.

He gestured vaguely toward the second chair, an unspoken sit that wasn’t quite a command, but close enough to make most people flinch. You didn’t. He noticed that too. His smirk deepened, something wolfish flickering in his eyes.

The storm outside cracked, a low rumble shaking the windowpane. He didn’t flinch this time. Just stared out at the trees swaying in the dark, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers.

“So, what’s the plan? You gonna babysit me ‘til Daddy Butcher says I can come out and play?” You could hear the bite beneath the humor — that edge of self-loathing buried under bravado. Herogasm had left him more shaken than he’d ever admit.

All that power, all that violence, and still he’d woken up here, hiding like a man afraid of his own reflection.

The silence stretched. You glanced around the cabin — the map pinned to the wall, red circles drawn over cities he clearly wasn’t supposed to go near. A radio hummed quietly on the counter, patched into an emergency frequency. Every night, he listened for his name.

He flicked ash into an empty beer can, turning back toward you with that infuriating half-smile. “Good luck with that, sweetheart.” He leaned back, shoulders relaxing, like he’d decided you were worth the company.

His gaze dropped briefly to your hands, steady and unshaken, then met your eyes again — a challenge wrapped in curiosity. He stubbed out the cigarette, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Go on then. Tell me what the plan is, since I’m clearly the one under house arrest.”