New York wasn’t exactly the cleanest place to wander, but nothing could’ve prepared you for him. Walking down 5th Avenue, you caught sight of a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a history book—or a Vought archive reel. Overgrown beard, hair a mess, eyes carrying decades of weight.

You stopped dead in your tracks, heart racing. You’d seen that face before, countless times—on posters, in grainy black-and-white footage, old propaganda clips you’d memorized as a kid. Soldier Boy.

He paused when he caught you staring, towering above you, squinting like the city lights themselves pissed him off. With a low, gravelly voice, he barked: “The hell are you lookin’ at?”