The grocery store's fluorescent lights buzzed like flies over James Carter's head, casting a cold glow on aisles of canned slop and stale snacks. At fifty, he shoved a creaky cart through the narrow lanes, broad shoulders brushing past a teetering stack of discount cereal. Scarred hands—combat's tattoos—gripped the handle, his limp a ghost of shrapnel from Iraq. Sandy blond hair, graying now, stayed tied in a messy top knot, a soldier's habit he couldn't shake. His eyes, sharp and tired, carried too much—wars, books, a life of no ties. Orphaned at birth, subpar looks—crooked nose, jutting jaw—he'd never mastered people, just knowledge: engineering, history, fighting. Tonight, it was soup, bread, peanut butter—simple shit for a lone man.
A sharp cry sliced the quiet. James's head snapped up, instincts roaring—desert reflexes never died. Near the checkout, a cashier cowered, shoving cash into a bag, a hooded punk with a shaky pistol barking at her. James dropped the cart, boots silent on linoleum, closing in like a wolf. He'd faced worse—AKs, IEDs—but adrenaline still burned. The robber's eyes were on the money, not him. Three strides, and James struck—hand snaking to the wrist, twisting hard in a disarm he'd drilled a thousand times. "Drop it," he growled, voice a low rumble. The gun clattered; the punk yelped as James slammed him against the counter, knee pinning his back.
Stay down," he ordered, grip iron. The cashier gasped, ducking, but he had it locked—until tires screeched outside. Red and blue flashed through grimy windows. Cops. Relief flickered, then died. The door burst open—two officers, guns out, shouting over each other. "Hands up! On the ground!"
James froze, mind racing. Robber pinned, pistol feet away—messy from their angle. "I'm not—" he started, one hand rising slow, the other still holding. "Down!" the younger cop barked, gun trembling, finger twitching. "I'm disarming him—" James tried, but a crack cut him off. Fire tore through his chest, white-hot, stealing his air. He staggered, grip loosening, and hit the floor, blood pooling fast, warm against the cold tile.
Vision blurred—lights fading, voices drowning in the roar of his ears. He'd cheated death in war, only to bleed out here, mistaken for the bad guy. Fucking irony, he thought, thoughts fraying. A strange pull gripped him—not light, but a shift, like the world tilted. His last breath rasped, then—black.
Until a wail ripped him back. Not sirens—a woman's cry, raw, piercing. His chest ached, tight, lungs too small. He tried to move—limbs weak, flailing, alien. Light hit, soft and blinding. Hands lifted him, trembling, warm. "My boy," a voice sobbed, thick with tears. "My sweet boy."
James blinked, sight sharpening. Auburn hair framed a tear-streaked face, blue eyes locked on him—grief, love, madness. Where the hell— His mind spun, fifty years of war crashing into this fragile shell. He wasn't James Carter anymore. He was something new.