Joseph Black was a man like any other. He stood six feet tall, had black hair, blue eyes, and a face people might call handsome, maybe an 8 out of 10, on a good day.
He scraped through high school by the skin of his teeth, more grease on his fingers than ink on paper. After graduation, he became a mechanic, working long hours, busting his knuckles, and drinking the strongest, cheapest coffee he could afford.
He lived in a small town in Texas, he'd never traveled,he lived in a cheap apartment that wasn't much but it was his. His girlfriend, Claire, gave him stress and love in equal measure. For a while, that was enough.
Then the letter came. A conscription notice. Serve two years, or go to prison.
Claire found it first and tried to hide it. But Joe discovered it while rummaging through her dresser.
He confronted her. It spiraled into a shouting match.
"I can't lose you," she cried.
"I don't have a choice," Joe snapped. "It's war or a cell. I'm not rotting in prison."
Then Claire's voice trembled. "I'm pregnant."
Joe froze. He stared at her trembling form, then stepped forward and held her gently.
Claire buried her face in his chest, trying to hold herself together.
Joe whispered, "Then I'll have to come back. Won't I?"
She looked into his eyes, searching for doubt and found only fire. Then she kissed him.
"Promise?"
He nodded.
That was the end of the argument.
---
A month later, they stood at the train station. It was the only one in town.
Joe wore his uniform, mailed a week earlier. Claire wore a bright yellow sundress and a wide brimmed straw hat. Her belly had started to show. A modest ring gleamed on her finger, it was small, simple, but hers. They'd married two weeks ago. If he didn't return, at least the government would take care of her.
They weren't alone. Dozens of men in uniform stood with their families, each one preparing to leave.
When the train screeched to a halt, Joe kissed her one last time. As he turned to board, Claire grabbed his hand and slipped a white embroidered handkerchief into his chest pocket.
"We'll be waiting," she said softly.
He nodded. The fire in his eyes burned brighter than ever. "Won't be long."
As the train began to move, Joe looked back one last time. Claire stood still, watching until the train vanished beyond the horizon.
---
Basic training at Fort Carver lasted three months. It was hell, but Joe excelled. Top three in physical fitness. First in marksmanship. He learned weapons, tactics, hand-to-hand combat.
He wrote to Claire constantly. She sent letters in return, telling him about her pregnancy, cravings, appointments.
Just yesterday, she'd mailed him their baby's first ultrasound. He folded the photo and placed it carefully in his wallet.
---
Five Months Later
Joe sat in a dirt-covered military tent, his once-pristine uniform now bloodstained and worn. A thin scar ran down the left side of his face, it made him look even tougher.
In his hand was a photograph. Claire holding a tiny infant with blue eyes, black hair, and wrapped in a bright blue blanket. Their son, John.
Joe stared at the picture, grinning like a madman. His comrades exchanged glances.
"Would you quit smiling like that?" Jonah groaned. "You're freaking me out."
Joe walked over silently and handed him the photo.
Jonah blinked. "Congrats, man."
Joe nodded. The others whistled and hollered, teasing him. He smiled softly, then tucked the photo away and laid down to rest.
---
One Year Later
Joe was no longer the same man.
He crouched on a rooftop with a sniper rifle, scanning the ruins below. A long beard obscured his face. His eyes were sharp, haunted, they could break a weaker mans will with just a glance.
Only Jonah remained from their original unit. The others were gone. Joe had 216 confirmed kills. Eighteen of them being in close combat.
He had become something else. Something deadly, a monster.
Jonah arrived to relieve him. "Shift change."
Joe gave a silent nod and disappeared down the stairs. Jonah sighed. "Guy gives me the creeps…"
---
In his concrete room, Joe stripped off his blood-soaked uniform and cleaned up with a rag. His body was a map of scars, stab wounds, bullet grazes, and burns.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out Claire's handkerchief, now brown with old blood. Inside were worn photos, faded, weathered, but sacred.
The latest one showed John at a park, playing with a red rubber ball, grinning ear to ear.
Joe's expression softened. They were his anchor. His sanity.
---
The next morning, a letter arrived.
Thick envelope. Official seal.
Joe opened it.
Inside were two death certificates.
Claire.
John.
Car accident. No survivors.
His heart stopped.
He fell to his knees, shaking. The scream that ripped from him was raw and animalistic.
Jonah and the others ran in. Jonah knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Joe spun, flipped him onto the floor, and pressed a blade to his throat. His eyes were hollow, unrecognizable.
"I'm sorry," Jonah said quietly.
Joe blinked. Something flickered in his expression. Then he dropped the knife.
Jonah stood, collected the papers, and gently placed them on the table.
He left without another word.
Joe knelt there for hours, reliving every memory they had together, every smile, every dream, every future that no longer existed.
---
Later that night, he walked back to his room like a zombie. Then froze.
Claire stood before him.
He rushed to her, cupping her face in his hands.
"You can still be with us," she whispered, pointing at the Beretta on the table.
Joe stared at the pistol.
"Come be with us," she said again, voice rising, twisting into something inhuman.
His hand moved on its own, gun lifting to his head.
Just as his finger tensed.
The door slammed open.
"Joe! What the hell are you doing?!" Jonah shouted.
Joe blinked. The vision vanished.
"I... I don't know."
Jonah stepped forward and quietly said, "Come on. We got a mission."
---
They loaded into the Humvee. The team sat in silence, watching Joe from the corners of their eyes. The air was heavy. He radiated violence.
Their mission: eliminate the syndicate leader supplying the enemy. They split into pairs, Jonah heading to the rooftop for overwatch.
Joe led the breach team, moving like a ghost. One by one, he took out guards, slicing throats, blood staining the walls.
They reached the final door. Joe entered first.
Empty.
Ticking.
"Run!"
The team bolted. Gunfire erupted outside. Jonah's voice crackled on the radio. "Ambush! Get out now!"
Four men fell instantly. Joe opened fire, bullets tearing through enemies as he ran.
Shot after shot. Blood. Screams. Chaos.
Then silence.
Joe collapsed, breathing ragged. He pulled the bloodstained handkerchief from his jacket, gazing at the photo inside. His eyes softened.
He fell to his knees.
The medic ran to him. Joe was fading.
He saw Claire again.
Holding John.
"Come home, Joe." she said softly, her voice normal.
Joe smiled, blood in his teeth. He said in almost a whisper.
"Yes."
Everything went dark.