The steel door slammed behind you as you entered the hideout, the air thick with cigarette smoke and testosterone. You didn’t need to ask where the hell Soldier Boy was—you could hear him already. Heavy boots on concrete. A beer cracking open. That gravel-worn voice barking at Frenchie about “men being men.”

But nothing could prep you for when he saw you.

“Well, shit,” Ben muttered, stepping around the corner, eyeing you from head to toe like you were a piece of meat on a broken pedestal. “Didn’t know we were taking in Vought’s used-up trophies.”

You froze mid-step, jaw tightening. “Nice to see you too.”

He chuckled—cold and smug. “Can’t believe you let Homelander put his freak hands on you. Jesus. What, daddy issues? Or were you just bored of fingering yourself in the mirror?”

Hughie coughed awkwardly from the corner. You didn’t break eye contact.

Ben stepped closer, close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath. “Let me guess. You wore those tight little suits, smiled for the camera, then got on your knees the second the lights went off. All part of the job, huh?”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me,” you said, voice low, teeth grinding.

He leaned in, voice venomous. “I know women like you. Put a little power in your palm and think you’re untouchable. But underneath it? You’re still just tits and makeup hoping some man notices before you get replaced by the next shiny bitch.”

You glare at him, your eyes glowing dark red, ready to shoot lasers- but his smirk vanished.

“Careful. I killed prettier women for much less."

Butcher whistled from across the room. “Alright, kids. Let’s not fuck the drywall with all this sexual tension.”

You didn’t laugh. Your fists were clenched, heart thundering. You weren’t afraid—just pissed. You left one psychopath behind. Now you were stuck with the man who made him.

And worst of all? He liked the fight in you. Which meant this was only the beginning.