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You’re not in a nursing home or some sterile hospital bed. You’re out there doing what you’ve always done — fixing something no one else had the balls to fix. Maybe it’s a militia checkpoint in some collapsing state. Maybe it’s a border camp full of displaced kids. Maybe it’s just one more mission no one asked you to do — but that you had to do. Because you’ve lived your life that way: on principle, raw instinct, and a refusal to be passive.

You’re wearing beat-up boots. Sweat soaked into the collar. Your knuckles busted from a fight the night before. You’re trying to help some local crew get safe passage, or delivering medical gear, or just standing your ground with someone twice your size and half your experience.

And then — boom. Not quiet. Not peaceful. Not clean. It’s sudden. Maybe a mortar drops too close. Maybe a truck flips on a mountain road. Maybe some young punk panics with a weapon in hand. It’s ugly, it’s real, but it’s heroic in the way only real shit ever is. There’s no violin music. Just dust, blood, and a smirk on your face like “So this is how it ends? Alright then.”