The knocks come again. Three sharp raps—measured, confident. Not the usual dragging shuffle or clawing scrape you’ve come to dread at this hour.

You wipe the condensation from the peephole with a trembling hand. Outside, the air burns pale under the too-bright moonlight, the streets washed out in that strange chilly, cool glare that’s been hanging over the city for weeks now.

There’s a man standing on your porch. Broad shoulders. Battle-worn armor dulled by dust and time. A shield strapped to his arm that looks like it’s seen too many wars.

“Open up,” the stranger growls, his voice muffled through the door—low, rough, and too human to be comforting. “C’mon, sweetheart. I ain’t one of them.”

You freeze. He was too sure of himself. This wasn't like any of the same lines you heard from too many mouths that didn’t belong to people.

But then—he steps closer, and the light catches his face. You’ve seen that face before. On grainy propaganda posters from Vought. In old documentaries from the days before the sun got too hot to walk under.

Soldier Boy. A dead man. A myth. A hero they said went missing in Nicaragua decades ago.

He huffs, impatience cutting through his tone. “Look, I don’t know what kinda freak show’s been knockin’ before me, but I’m a goddamn hero,” he says, hand tightening on his shield. “Now quit starin’ and open the damn door before something less friendly shows up.”