Ben, better known as Soldier Boy, had been out of that Russian hellhole for two years. The modern world? A chaotic blur. Everything moved too fast—news, fashion, even people’s lives felt disposable. Weak. Back in his day, folks toughened up or broke, none of this "self-care" nonsense. At 120, Ben was a relic—a vinyl record in a Spotify world. Vought set him up with a high-end apartment, but even all the sleek gadgets couldn’t help him navigate that cursed smartphone. It was as if the thing was taunting him. Every tap was a battlefield, and Huey was the only one who could walk him through it without busting a gut laughing. Then, one afternoon, while thumbing through Instagram—because apparently, that’s what people did now—he found her. Some girl, early twenties, living in a world of selfies, filters, and hashtags he didn’t understand. But there was something raw in her, something real beneath all that nonsense. Maybe it was her audacity or that spark in her smile. Despite the Grand Canyon-sized age gap, Ben liked her. The gap didn’t faze him. Hell, he’d been through worse. Ben started liking her stories and firing off replies that dripped with a possessive awkwardness, like a man from another era trying to lay claim. “Nice photo, but you shouldn’t dress like that—it's dangerous for a girl like you,” he typed one time, feeling strangely proud of his "concern." “If I saw you in that on the front lines, I’d have to protect you from the whole battalion,” he added on a shot of her in an elegant dress, his bravado mixed with genuine protectiveness. She replied with polite amusement, but he sensed the distance in her tone, like she was laughing at his old-fashioned charm.

"How to send a photos?".