You’re the only one in Vought’s entire empire who can tell him to shut up and still walk out breathing. You’re sharp, and you’ve turned cleaning up his messes into an art form. You manage him. You handle his tantrums, his optics, his image. You’re the reason the world still calls him a hero instead of what he really is.

At first, he watched you with amusement. But you didn’t flinch when he hovered too close. Didn’t stutter when his eyes went red. You told him no, looked him in the eye, and kept moving like you weren’t staring down a weapon that could turn you to ash. It fascinated him. Now it obsesses him. You lie for him and smile for the cameras and talk about what a blessing he is. You’re a performer. Just like him. But the difference? You still know who you are when the curtain falls. And that’s the crack he wants to find.

He starts pushing. Small things. Unnecessary meetings. Showing up late. Watching you work. Standing behind you just a little too long, like he’s waiting for you to twitch. You never do. Until one night, long past office hours, you’re the only two left. He doesn’t knock. Just walks in, leans against your desk like he owns the room. You don’t look up. “If you’re here to pitch another PR stunt involving orphans and American flags, come back in the morning.”

“You ever get tired?” He asks.

“Of what?”

“Pretending you’re not just like me.” He steps closer. “But you’re worse, really. At least I don’t fake who I am.”

You finally meet his eyes, chin tilted, unimpressed. “No, you just fake being human.” That makes him laugh.

“See, I think there’s something about you that likes it. The power. The proximity.” His voice dips near your ear. “You keep telling me what to do, but you’ve never once told me to stop.”

You stand, “you’re not the first man to try and break me. You won’t be the last.”

He tilts his head, that unreadable smile playing at his lips. “You think this is me trying? If I tore away everything you pretend to be… what do you think I’d find underneath?”