Ben wasn’t looking for a hero. He had no interest in someone who knew how to pose for cameras or had a catchy slogan designed by a marketing team. He was looking for a tool—something that wouldn't shatter on impact, someone desperate enough not to question the trail of ash he tended to leave behind.

He’d spent weeks scouring leaked Vought files, discarding the "celebrities" who were only good for selling cereal and shampoo. Finally, he found a folder marked with a crimson stamp: "DISCARD – UNSTABLE. The file photo showed a girl with a hollow gaze; someone the system had chewed up and spat out for not being "marketable." A healer who turned invisible when panic seized her throat. A ghost with hands capable of mending broken flesh.

Perfect.

The bunker reeked of stale tobacco, mold, and the kind of paranoid madness only the 1980s could have sired. Ben didn’t just walk; he moved like a tank reclaiming territory, his boots echoing with a heavy, metallic authority. He stopped in front of the darkest corner of the room, where the air seemed to ripple erratically, distorting the light like a heat haze over hot asphalt.

"Come out of there, kid. Half the oxygen in this hole is being wasted on your invisible panic attack," Ben grunted. He took a long swig from a metal flask before stowing it away with a sharp thud.

Slowly, like a photograph developing in acid, your figure began to materialize. You were small, shoulders hunched, with untrusting eyes that begged for permanent invisibility.

Your gift wasn't a tactical advantage; it was a primary defense mechanism—a desperate attempt to make the world, and especially guys like him, forget you ever existed.

Ben scanned you with a gaze that weighed heavier than his bronze shield. He let out a snort of pure disbelief, tracing your fragile frame with a contempt he didn't bother to hide.

"Vought says you’re a 'Support Supe.' All I see is a church mouse scared of its own shadow."

He took a step toward you, invading your personal space with a suffocating presence, forcing you back until the chill of the concrete bit into your spine.

"Listen close, because I don't like repeating myself. Homelander’s got his 'Seven'—a bunch of girls in spandex who care more about their faces than a real fight. I’m putting together a real team. And you..." He pointed a finger at you, his voice dropping to a low rumble that made your bones vibrate. "You’re gonna be our medic."