I leaned back, finishing my beer as the startup logo loaded.
Another day. Another cycle. And just like yesterday, I had no idea what the hell I was doing with my life.
The familiar glow of my PC screen filled the darkened room as I leaned forward, fingers moving on autopilot to log into my novel publishing app.
The interface was the same as always, plain, functional, with a dashboard that displayed my works in neat little rows. I scrolled through them, scanning the titles, all science fiction.
Grand battles in space. Overgrown autistic super soldiers. War torn planets. Warships armed to the teeth. Epic space battles. Military strategy woven into thrilling narratives.
It was supposed to be my retirement plan, a way to transition from military to civilian life. The dream had been simple.
Use my military experience to craft gripping, realistic war stories, gain a following, land some big publishing contracts, and live off my writing.
A slow, steady fade into something resembling normalcy. But reality? No offers. No contracts. No sudden surge of interest. Just the same silent, stagnant account I had been staring at for weeks.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, my crimson eyes narrowing at the empty notifications panel. Nothing. Again.
Leaning back in my chair, I reached for my vape, the metal cool against my fingertips. With a slow, practiced motion, I took a deep inhale, letting the familiar burn settle in my lungs before releasing it in a long, steady stream of vapor.
My gaze drifted up to the cracked ceiling, the peeling paint, the faint outlines of old water damage. Well, s*it. At this rate, I'll have to reenlist.
The thought made my stomach twist with a bitter kind of irony. I had spent my entire youth in the military, sacrificed my best years, my body, my mind to the grind of endless training.
And now, standing at the edge of civilian life, I was realizing something truly f*cked up. Apart from being an army grunt, I knew jack s*it.
The words echoed in my head, hollow and damning. What the hell else was I even good at? I could strip a rifle blindfolded, plan an ambush, run logistics for a war campaign, and kill an untrained average man in a dozen ways before he even knew what hit him.
But write a successful novel? Find a real job? Live a normal life? Find a woman, settle down and have children? Well truth be told It was already late for that.
I let out a humorless chuckle, taking another drag from my vape. The vapor curled up toward the ceiling, dissipating into the stale air.
"I f*cking wasted my youth,"
I muttered under my breath. The military had shaped every inch of me, my mind, my body, my entire existence.
And now, sitting here in a s*itty apartment that I could barely afford, with a gut I barely recognized and a bank account that wouldn't last forever, I was realizing the truth.
I had no backup plan. Sure, I had started writing while I was still enlisted, banging out chapters in between training, using it as a way to process the stress I was constantly put through.
It had started as a hobby, a passion, a side project, something to keep my mind busy. But when I finally got out, I needed it to work.
And now, it was clear, it wasn't going to work. I considered forcing myself to write a few more chapters, maybe try to push through the slump, but my fingers hesitated over the keyboard.
The drive just wasn't there. The fire, the passion, the energy gone. I sighed, closing the app and setting the vape down on the desk.
The screen dimmed slightly as I leaned back in my chair, staring at the glowing cursor blinking on an empty document.
I had flown In helicopters, drove In IFVs, experienced every season and weather In the field Imaginable, knew how to operate a pistol to how to fire a FW-140 javelin, went through survival without anything on me and getting captured and Interrogation training.
And yet, here I was struggling with the simple task of figuring out what the hell to do next with my life. The thought was depressing as s*it.
I sighed, dragging myself up from the chair, my body still sluggish from the weight of too much drinking and too little movement.
The haze of vape smoke lingered in the room as I stretched my arms, feeling the pop of stiff joints and the slight pull of old worn out from too much training muscles.
Walking over to my dresser, I pulled out a pair of cargo pants black, white, and red military camo. The fabric was worn but reliable, pockets deep enough to carry whatever junk I might need.
I slid them on, fastening the belt securely over my stomach, the waistband sitting a lot tighter than it used to. Next came the black short sleeved T-shirt.
The material stretched over my muscular arms, still defined despite my declining discipline, my bulky pecks with my dog tags resting In between them, and unfortunately the gut that had made itself a permanent resident.
I pulled it down, adjusting it as best I could, but there was no hiding it. Years of battlefield conditioning had melted into cheap beer and microwaved meals.
Grunting, I stepped over to my gun safe, keying in the code and pulling out my pistol. A reliable piece, nothing fancy, no laser or holographic sight attachments or the like, just something solid that could save my ass then s*it hit the fan.
Then I put on my leather armpit holster. Secure. Comfortable. Muscle memory kicked in as I slid it on like a second skin, once done I Inserted the pistol and the spare mag Into It.
After that I picked up my black leather jacket. A bit scuffed, the creases and scratches telling their own stories of bar scuffles then I got too hammered to even think straight, bad weather, and general neglect.
Still, it fit well enough. I threw it on, adjusting the collar before heading to the mirror by the door. My white hair was a mess.
Running a hand through it, I grabbed a hair tie from the nearby counter and quickly tied it into a small bun at the back of my head. Neat enough. At least now I didn't look like a complete wreck.
I reached for my sunglasses next, slipping them on, the dark lenses covering my crimson bloodshot eyes with panda circles.
Grabbing my home and car keys, I took one last glance around my apartment before stepping out.
The hallway was quiet, the dim lighting doing nothing to hide the chipped paint and worn out flooring.
The old elevator groaned as I pressed the button, the flickering numbers above the door struggling to decide which floor they wanted to register.
After a few seconds of rattling and whirring, the doors slid open. I stepped inside, the scent of faint mildew and mechanical oil filling the confined space as the doors closed behind me.
Pressing the button for the underground parking lot, I leaned against the wall, arms crossed as I waited. With a jerk, the elevator began its descent.
By the time it reached the basement, I could already feel the cold, damp air that lingered in the underground structure.
The dim overhead lights flickered, barely illuminating the rows of cars in various states of disrepair. I walked over to my car, a scrap iron relic held together by stubbornness and whatever last minute repairs I could afford.
The paint was chipped, the body dented, and the engine? Temperamental as hell. Sliding into the driver's seat, I shoved the key into the ignition and turned.
Click. Nothing. I gritted my teeth and tried again. Click. Chug. Silence.
"Come on, you bastard,"
I muttered, twisting the key a third time. The engine coughed, sputtered… then, miraculously, roared to life.
I let out a breath, gripping the steering wheel as the low hum of the old machine filled the space.
"Still kicking, huh you old bastard?"
I smirked, tapping the dashboard like I was reassuring an old war buddy. Throwing it into gear, I pulled out of my spot, heading toward the exit.
I didn't know exactly where I was going. I just knew I needed to get the hell out of here for some fresh air.
The city stretched before me, a towering jungle of glass and steel, the skyline jagged with endless skyscrapers, neon billboards, and cutting edge advertisements flickering against the dull afternoon sky.
Massive digital screens displayed everything from celebrity gossip to political propaganda, while sleek drones zipped through the air, delivering packages, scanning license plates, and broadcasting security warnings in robotic voices.
I flicked on the radio as I navigated through the congested streets, letting the low hum of traffic mix with the droning voice of the newscaster.
"Global markets continue to..."
Click.
"Rising tensions in..."
Click.
"Celebrity divorce scandal..."
Click.
Same boring bulls*it. Different day.