A man in tactical gear sat among several dead bodies, a bulletproof vest strapped over his chest. Blood spread across the concrete floor. Broken glass scattered beneath overturned furniture, and a toppled table leaned against a pillar.
They were on the 70th floor of a skyscraper in New York. Tall windows lined the walls, cracked and pocked with bullet holes. The skyline stretched in every direction—streams of headlights, distant sirens, blinking red lights atop rooftops. Wind pressed faintly against the glass, and the room carried the echo of recent gunfire.
Near him lay a fat-bodied man, arms wide. His body looked untouched until the bruising around his neck stood out under the overhead lights.
Jonathan Taylor sat back against the corner of a steel cabinet, six foot four, 250 pounds, though he had athletic look to him. Big-boned, heavy-set by nature, shaped by years of effort into something built for endurance. His frame filled out every inch of his gear—thick through the chest and shoulders, arms solid, breath shallow and steady.
Blue deep intense looking eyes, with a shaved head that would have bright blond hair had he not cut it off and buzzed it to nothing.
Blood dripped from his mouth. Three stab wounds marked his side—deep, erratic cuts. A few bullets had grazed him. The shot that mattered came from a polished antique pistol, flashy and small-caliber. Just enough to nick an artery. He felt it working through him, slow but final.
He'd done what he came to do. Cops and federal teams were closing in, tracking fast. But the mission was finished. He looked at the fat fucker lying dead on the floor.
He had choked the fucker to death. Hands locked around his throat, face to face. All that money, all that power—none of it stopped what was coming.
He was currently reminiscing about his past. Lying there, bleeding out, there wasn't much else to do.
He remembered being a boy. His father—an alcoholic and an unemployed mechanic—was an asshole. Always yelling. Never physical, just loud, bitter, and tired. He never had anything good to say. Always put him down. Called him pudgy, slow, said he took after his mother's side.
His mom had hit three hundred pounds and stayed there. Never took care of herself. The house reflected it—cluttered, stale, and always two steps behind, rotting food and dirty dishes were the normal.
Jonathan Taylor had been a pudgy kid from the start. Big-boned, thick through the middle, never small looking back as far as he could remember.
A bit to do with genetics the shitty diet which consisted of anything that was takeout or cookable in the oven or microwave.
In the ghettos of Chicago, he stood out. A white kid surrounded by everything but. He caught attention for all the wrong reasons. He didn't have much—secondhand clothes, worn shoes, nothing new. His parents barely worked, they got by on goverment assistance.
He had no siblings. The apartment felt silent more often than it didn't. Life had been lonely. He remembered that part most.
His father rarely held a job, and when he did, it never lasted long. There had been half a dozen quiet starts—warehouse work, mechanics, delivery. Each time he fell off, he got meaner. Like every failed job was someone else's fault. Like his own drinking addiction came with interest that others had to pay.
His mother always talked like things would get better. She meant well, or said she did. But all she really did was sit, eat, and watch the days pass from the couch glued to the television.
Fifth grade marked the turning point.
He came home one afternoon with a black eye and a bloody nose. His shirt was stretched at the collar, backpack half unzipped, one strap dragging from where it had been stepped on. His face ached. The inside of his mouth tasted like copper. He came in through the back door, shoes caked with dried grass and gravel from the walk home.
His father was in the living room, reclined in his worn-out vinyl chair, a bottle of whiskey balanced on his stomach, TV flickering in the background. He glanced over once.
"Pussy," he muttered. "Can't even defend yourself. Just like your mother's side."
Then he turned back to the screen without another word as downed his whiskey.
His mother sat at the kitchen table in a stretched-out T-shirt and a stained robe. Heavy-set and always snacking, she was halfway through a frozen pizza with a bag of mini chocolate donuts open beside her. She ate steadily, fingers glistening with grease and sugar. Between bites, she said they should move somewhere better—one of those middle-income neighborhoods with garages and sidewalks—if only the government bumped their assistance a little higher. She meant it. She always meant well. Her best intentions just never turned into anything.
He stood in the doorway, face swollen, shirt spotted with dried blood. She shad barley looked up.
That night, he cried into his pillow, face turned to the wall. The tears came hard at first, then slower. He hated everything, he hated the house, he hated his mother, his father, and himself- he would end up just like them he thought feeling sorry for himself. Then the tears had stopped.
He thought—what did feeling sorry ever do? It just sat there. Took up space. Got nothing done.
He remembered thinking all he would do is keep sinking into despair, keep sulking, and end up like his parents. Some shit habit, same couch, same complaints. He could already feel it creeping in.
God, he fucking hated what they were. The smell of cigarettes mashed into the carpet. Grease stains on the table that never went away. Their house was a pigsty. His dad grumbling from the recliner, bottle resting on his gut. His mom halfway through a frozen pizza, wiping her hands on her robe between bites. That was the picture he saw. He didn't want to live inside it.
And he was close. Ate junk every day. Sat in his room doing nothing. If he let it go on status quo, he'd land right where they did.
He made a decision to be different.
Every day would be a battle. Each one a fight. He'd win or lose it, but he'd swing heading a different direction. Feeling sorry wasn't part of it. He didn't want to sink. He wanted out.
So he stood up. Small, pudgy, pissed off, still bruised—but standing.
The next few years played out the same.
Once he decided he didn't want to live in the pigsty his parents called a home, he got to work. The mess went deep. Sticky plates shoved under furniture, stained blankets balled up in corners, floors coated with a mix of dust, crumbs, and whatever had spilled months ago. His mother was the main source—boxes, wrappers, empty soda bottles—and she rarely moved from her seat at the kitchen table. So much rotten food and dirty dishes. His father's diet mostly came in glass bottles, so empty liquor bottles were everywhere.
He spent the first week just clearing space. Took out bag after bag. His arms were sore from scrubbing by day three. His father looked up from his recliner once, lit cigarette between two fingers, and said, "About damn time you did something around here."
Second was exercise and food. There wasn't a gym nearby, and outside wasn't safe. Too many crews watching, too many cars that slowed down if they didn't recognize you. Walking around was a risk where he lived. So he stayed in his room. Did pushups by the wall, crunches on the old carpet, squats facing the window. In the summer, the heat made the room feel like a sweatbox. He stuck with it anyway.
Nutrition came next. He asked his mom—who was halfway through a Twinkie and sipping cheap yellow soda—if she could grab different groceries with the assistance money. She shrugged, said the budget was tight but she could work in a few basics.
Eggs, frozen vegetables, frozen fruit, and milk. That became his diet. He learned to cook everything in one pan. Mostly omelets—just salt and pepper, nothing fancy. He got good at it. Later in life, with real ingredients and better tools, he'd still start his mornings the same way.
Years passed. He did his schoolwork, exercised, kept the house from falling apart again. He started checking out library books, mostly nonfiction and art books. He wasn't a genius, but he figured things out quick and remembered what mattered. He had instincts. Solid ones.
He liked drawing. Environments, mostly—interiors, streets, corners of buildings. He read somewhere that memory could be trained. So he'd study something in the apartment, walk away, and try to sketch it from memory. It passed the time. He didn't know it then, but it was training. Just like everything else.
Now, a change occurred around eighth grade. He was growing restless. The confines of his room for exercise had worn thin. He'd spent years in that corner doing pushups and squats beside a scuffed dresser and a cracked mirror, and he'd grown tired of it—and tired of his parents.
He had hit his growth spurt late. Taller now, filling out slowly. He remembered the day clearly—walking to an MMA gym. At the time, MMA wasn't what it would eventually become. The place was low-key. Plain brick exterior, old mats, chain-link fence around the sparring area, the kind of gym with its own smell—rubber, sweat, cleaning solution, and dust in the vents.
He'd wandered in because he wanted to be there, he was still kinda bully target so he wanted to be able to defend himself.
The first time he walked in he ran into was a handful of hotshot regulars—young guys who made a game out of his arrival. They didn't think he belonged. They said he needed to prove he was tough enough to train there.
Then they smacked him around.
Nothing serious. Open hands, light shots to the chest, one caught his ear. He stumbled a few times. Each time he hit the ground, he got back up. No hesitation.
He really wanted the opportunity to train, so he kept standing up ready for the next hit.
But the more he got up, the more it escalated.
One of the fighters, an asshole, told him to stay down. Said it was over. But Jonathan had heard what they said, which he took literally—he needed to be tough to train there—and he refused. He stayed on his feet.
The punches started landing harder. While the other guys stepped back and watched, the one throwing the shots kept going. He controlled the pace.
Maybe he had a chip on his shoulder or something to prove. Getting Jonathan to stay down was his goal.
The punches came sharp. One to the ribs, one across the face, a jab that opened his lip. Each one landed with weight. Jonathan bled from the mouth, his eye swelling, his stomach tight with bruising. But he stood. Over and over. His desire to be tough enough, had outweighs the pain of the blows.
Then the back door opened.
Bud, the owner, stepped out. Older, African-American, broad frame, slight limp from a knee that didn't bend right. He scanned the room once, took in everything, then moved in. He ended it with a few words and a wave.
The fighters gathered their gear and left.
Bud walked over, crouched beside him, and let out a tired breath. He checked the cuts and swelling with steady fingers, cleaned a streak of blood with a rag from his back pocket. Quiet. Focused. Just getting him back on his feet.
He remembered Bud asking why he let it happen, why he let them beat him.
They were near the back of the gym. Jonathan sat on a bench, holding an ice pack to the side of his face. His shirt stuck to his shoulder where the blood had dried, one eye swelling shut.
"They said I needed to be tough to be here," he said. "So I stood up."
Bud crossed his arms and gave him a look. "You must be stupid. Letting them punch you like a heavy bag."
Jonathan frowned, kept quiet.
"What's wrong? Don't like what I got to say?" Bud said eyeing him.
He kept his tone steady. "May I please train here?"
Bud didn't answer right away. He studied him again, slower this time. "Why do you want to be here?"
"I like working out. I want to be different than my parents. My parents are losers and I don't want to be a loser. I wan to push myself to be better and I want to be strong. I beleive I can be a good fighter." He told and confidently.
Bud gave a short laugh. "You? Good?" He scratched the side of his neck. "Fine. You can stay. Don't get in the way of my fighters. You mop floors, clean mats, take out trash." He said eyeing the beat up Jonothan before adding. "I doubt you have the money to actually pay for anything."
Jonathan answered immediately. "Yes, sir."
He didn't miss a day after that. Showed up early, left late. Did everything Bud asked without saying much. Bud had been right—he hadn't been good at first, constantly pushed himself until his body collapsed every day.
But he would become terrifyingly good.
Before the skill kicked in, like everyone else, he learned the hard way. It took a lot of training. He didn't really hit his stride until tenth grade. By then he was still husky, but carried it differently—thick through the arms and shoulders, with enough gym hours behind him to start building a reputation.
He could handle anyone one-on-one. That much was clear. But in his part of Chicago, fights weren't just about fists. Anyone could be carrying, so he stayed quiet and kept a low profile.
One kid pushed it. Tried to get laughs by getting physical. Jonathan had grabbed him, pulled off his backpack, hoodie, shirt, and pants—left him standing in just his boxer briefs—then sent him on his way. He got suspended for that. Three days.
After that, people gave him space.
His mother never noticed he was home those three days. She spent most of the time in the recliner watching daytime TV, bags of snacks piled nearby. His father had been in county lockup again for disorderly conduct. No one said anything.
He realized then his parents truly didn't give a damn about him.
As he grew older hisblue eyes had a natural intense look. One of the reasons he leaned back was he seemed to give of a natural fight me vibe, he got into more figjt in high school by junior year nobody fucked with him. As he grew older in high school, everything had only sharpened—he kept getting taller, thicker, and all the constant training packed muscle onto his frame. Even for his size, he moved well. He was terrifyingly athletic for someone of his size.
The next change came at the beginning of eleventh grade. Science class.
A skinny ginger girl sat next to him. She was supposed to be in ninth grade, but apparently she was put into his class as an advanced program. Smart—that much he heard right away—but he wouldn't realize how smart until much later.
She had blue eyes that reminded him of the summer sky—clear, light, and easy to get lost in. Her hair was thick and red, the kind that caught light and held it. She had freckles—enough to stand out, but not so many they overwhelmed her features. They added to her look, gave her face a kind of character he remembered well. Average height, flat-chested back then, still waiting on that growth spurt. She mostly kept to hoodies and jeans. Just an awkward teenager, but even then, there was something about her that stayed with him.
They got paired for a science project. Everyone else already had friends. It worked out that way. She liked to talk—kept the energy up all on her own, dialed to ten out of ten.
Even back then, she had that spark. She could ramble and ramble. Loved science. Loved facts. Had a goofy side that came out fast.
She was into anime and comics.
Her name had been Mary Ann. He remembered the first time he ever found someone's voice comforting—like just hearing it made the day sit easier.
He gave short replies most of the time, but apparently that worked. Maybe she just needed someone to talk to. Maybe it helped that he listened. He didn't mind. She didn't seem to either as he remembered her back then.
They became best friends fast. She was still a ninth grader. He was into girls, sure, but too shy back then to recognize his own feelings, he had be estatic to have a real friend.
They hung out often. He still made time for the gym, but they always circled back to each other. Little by little, they turned into the kind of friends who always spent their time together.
They mostly would go the park and hangout watching super hero movies or anime.
She was a genius—really was. It was Mary Ann who finally asked him when he'd been adopted. He gave her a deadpan "What you talkin' about, Willis?" look, straight-faced.
She didn't laugh. She looked at him for a long second, then said she was serious.
She'd had the misfortune of meeting his parents, something she insisted on doing. His dad had been passed out drunk on the couch, mouth open, socks dirty, whiskey bottle balanced on his stomach. His mom hadn't looked up from the television, just kept shoveling pizza rolls into her mouth, half a paper towel tucked under her chin like her fat ass hadn't eaten in a month as she shoved food into her mouth.
It had been very embarrassing, though she complemented how clean their house was.
Mary Ann had asked again, quieter this time. Was he sure he was their kid?
He shrugged. He'd never thought about it, I mean who wonders if their parents are their parents.
She tilted her head, said he had bright blue eyes and thick blond hair. His skin tone leaned pale under the Chicago sun, and his bone structure didn't match either of them. His mom had greasy dark curls and brown eyes. His dad had a narrow, pointed nose, oily black hair, and dull hazel eyes. Even their ear shapes looked different—his stuck close to his skull while theirs flared out wide.
She mumbled something about Eastern European features and how genetics made the whole thing odd. He just sat there. Hadn't ever really paid attention before, but Mary Ann had been very convincing as she rambled on and on.
So yeah, he found out his shitty parents weren't actually his parents. But what could he really do about it? Honestly, it felt more like a relief that he wasn't blood-related to them. That counted for something positive in his book.
Mary Ann's life hadn't been much easier. Her dad died overseas when she was still a baby—Marine deployment, Middle East. Her mom had been a single mother raising Mary Ann on her own.
Still, the year they together had been good. He was just happy to have a friend. She'd been the one to drag him into anime, cosplay, the whole convention thing.
He didn't mind. She always planned the outfits and patched them together with old clothes and fabric glue. She picked A from Naruto since he couldn't rap like Bee—said it'd be cool. His build really fit the part, naturally big-boned with broad shoulders and heavy structure, but years of MMA training had trimmed him down to give him a very athletic look, gaving him a compact big boned frame that made the costume sit right enough.
She his natural glaring habit made him a very good A, she said he just needed a deep tan.
By senior year, he'd crossed six foot and carried real presence. He moved with the control of someone who'd spent thousands of hours on mats. He never competed. Bud didn't let him. Said he should train, study, live like a kid. Still, he did odd jobs around the gym—mopping mats, scrubbing lockers, breaking down gear. He hadn't realized it back then, but Bud had been thrilled. The old man saw it. Saw just how good he really was becoming over time he had become a gem of the gym.
Then, halfway through senior year, everything shifted. Mary Ann's mom got engaged. Her new boyfriend lived out in Portland. That meant moving.
His best friend was gone, just like that.
But not before they shared a moment.
They'd climbed a water tower out past the freight yards—one of those old steel ones with faded tags on the legs and rust along the bolts. It overlooked their side of the city. Apartment blocks, corner stores, rooftops cluttered with old satellite dishes and laundry lines. The air smelled faintly of tar, metal, and distant fried food. A warm breeze moved past them every so often, cutting the quiet.
It was the 2000s. Phones were just starting to be a thing, but his parents hadn't bothered getting him one, and her mom couldn't afford it. The man she was about to marry had money, sure, but when it came to Mary Ann, he treated her like background noise.
They sat on the grated platform near the top, legs swinging off the edge. She'd said she would miss him, almost under her breath.
He said it back—short, honest.
He remembered reaching for her hand. Her fingers were small, a little cold, but warm enough in his grip. She turned toward him, freckles light across her cheeks, those blue eyes holding still on his and he could see what she wanted as she looked at him.
He wanted the same thing.
He kissed her. Just once . It was careful, maybe a little clumsy. Her lips were soft, warmer than the breeze, and for a second, the noise of the city didn't matter. It wasn't rushed. It felt right, like something overdue but still simple.
"I should've done that sooner," he muttered right after.
She smiled. Didn't say anything, just rested her head lightly against his shoulder
Their first kiss followed by a kiss in their top three.
As he turned around, she was already mid-sprint, her shoes slapping the metal with quick steps. She didn't slow down. She leapt, arms locking behind his neck, legs wrapping around his waist. The sudden weight pulled him back a step, but he caught her without thinking, hands gripping the backs of her thighs.
Then came the kiss—urgent, full. Her lips pressed firm against his, warm and certain. Her breath was fast. The cherry scent of her gum lingered. Her eyes had fluttered shut just before contact. The wind caught the ends of her thick red hair as it brushed his cheek.
Time didn't move. The sounds of the city below faded. His pulse pounded hard through his chest, but everything else stood still.
He held her there, her face inches from his, her freckles close enough to count. She pulled back just enough to look at him—blue eyes clear, wide, locked in.
To this day that was his favorite kiss with her. That day, he lost the best thing in his life.
Life felt like a bummer after she was gone.
He delved into MMA training to take his mind off of her, he become a fanatic in his training.
By then, Bud handled most of his meals—basic, clean food. He taught him how to cook better too, though even Bud admitted Jonathan made a better omelet. Just eggs, salt, pepper, maybe some onions—simple but done right every time.
Bud pushed him to compete after Mary Ann left and being 18 be said he could help him compete as his coach. First Bud Helped him finish his GED, and once that was out of the way, Jonathan went all-in on training.
At eighteen, he stood six-foot-one and weighed 229 pounds. Big-boned by nature, but the bulk had shaped into dense, athletic muscle. Broad shoulders, thick arms, strong through the legs—everything built over years. His frame stayed compact for his size, coiled with power.
His reach matched someone six-five. His hands hit like stone blocks, and his striking had real weight behind it. Still, he leaned toward the ground game. Elbows, knees, control—his style was pressure. His frame was a nightmare to grapple with—heavy, hard to shift, short neck, and always digging for position.
He could cut down to 209-215 to fight lighter opponents. At that weight, he fought like a wrecking ball—fast pace, constant pressure, nothing wasted. Just clean, brutal execution.
He laughed when he thought about it. At nineteen, he'd been a brutal fighter. Dominated nearly every match. Most of the fights weren't sanctioned—shady affairs set up in half-lit warehouses or backroom gyms. Rich men brought in their so-called champions, and Jonathan dropped them one by one.
Bud… he owed Bud a lot, no question. But Bud had a problem. Gambling. That habit started bleeding into everything, including the payouts.
Jonathan never saw the cut he deserved. Bud skimmed heavy off the top, made excuses about gym upkeep, handling logistics, and covering debts. Jonathan let it slide. He wasn't doing it for the money—and if not for Bud well he wouldn't even be here.
Eventually, he scraped together enough to move out. Left his parents behind didn't even tell them he left. Rented a plain apartment on the south side. Kept it clean, quiet. Just the essentials—one small table, a chair, a mattress on the floor. A bookshelf with library books. One plate, one fork, one spoon. A single skillet. A spice rack he used regularly.
He was a very simple person who kept his place meticulously cleaned.
His fridge held whole food—eggs, vegetables, cuts of meat, fruit. He prepped all his meals from scratch. Bud had taught him to cook, but even Bud admitted Jonathan made the best omelet he had ever had.
What he really liked was coffee. Grinding whole beans each morning, brewing a fresh cup after his first workout. He made it strong, poured it black, and drank it while the sun came through the kitchen window after a workout was the best.
He coughed again. More blood rose up, thick and hot as it slid across his lower lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand and leaned harder into the cabinet behind him. The pain pressed deeper, but he let it sit in the background. His mind drifted.
A faint, uneven laugh slipped out as he thought about what came next.
He probably would've gone pro in MMA. He had the skill, the discipline. He beat the hell out of his opponents—he was a problem for anyone who stepped in the ring.
He loved the thrill. Testing himself against someone else. Strength against strength. Skill against skill. A clean contest. One-on-one. Who was better.
But Bud had friends—people who didn't play fair. The kind who didn't ask twice. You did it their way, or things got ugly.
They wanted him to take a dive. Throw a fight.
He didn't agree right away. He fought the idea. But eventually, he gave in.
That night, he showed up quiet. Sat in the corner of the locker room, wrapping his own hands with cloth tape. He couldn't even look at Bud. Just kept his eyes on the wall while voices echoed in the hallway.
He felt empty. Fighting had been his thing. The one thing that gave him focus. The training, the sweat, the stare-down before the opening bell—it felt right. Throwing the fight didn't feel like losing. It felt like giving up.
The money wasn't even the issue. Bud had promised him a real cut—twenty grand. For the underground circuit, that was a solid payout.
His opponent that night? Real pussy with a glass jaw. God, losing had been a real fucking challenge.
The ref called it.
Sleep never came that night. He walked for hours, hood up, passing quiet streets and shuttered stores. His gym bag still on his back. He stopped at a gas station, bought a coffee, and just held it as it cooled.
That was when the weight of it hit.
Bud had promised they'd go legit. That they'd chase a title. But Jonathan knew—if it ever came to that, he'd be asked to throw again. Maybe worse. Bud's friends weren't done. They didn't let things go.
There hadn't been a real way out.
Until he saw that flyer for the Marines.
He found a recruiter the next day and signed the papers. Processing moved fast—orientation, background checks, physicals. Within days, he was on a bus heading out. No goodbye. No hesitation. Everything he owned fit in a single duffel.
The Marines were exactly what he needed. Structure, pressure, standards. He adjusted quickly. Physical work came easy. Drills, formations, combat exercises—he locked in and kept pace. Built like a tank, long reach, thick through the chest and back, he moved with intention and hit hard.
He actually loved it. The clarity, the discipline, the brotherhood. He thrived in it.
A year later, he applied for Navy SEAL selection. Officially, he washed out. Unofficially, someone flagged his file. Strength, scores, background—he stood out. Instead of being recycled, he was pulled aside and quietly redirected.
They didn't name the program. Just sent him to a new location and started training him harder.
He never asked what it was called.
Truth was, he fit the profile. Shitty home life, no attachments, big frame, sharp instincts. He read when he wasn't training, so he tested well enough. Followed orders without complaint. More than that, he had no problems hurting people. Killing came easy.
Looking back, his upbringing had laid the groundwork for a certain psychological tolerance. The chaos at home—the verbal abuse, the absence of warmth or stability—had dulled his sense of emotional response early. He hadn't been taught to care; he'd been taught to endure.
Exposure to violence was routine. Shootings, muggings, break-ins—they weren't rare events. They were background noise. Survival required adaptation, and he adapted quickly. He processed violence as a functional part of life, not a moral disruption.
Somewhere in that process, his capacity for empathy narrowed. He didn't feel numb; he just didn't feel conflicted. Hurting someone, if necessary, never brought hesitation. The line most people carried? It had been worn down in him long before he ever picked up a weapon.
The next five years passed in a blur. By twenty-six, Jonathan Taylor was an established operator. He'd built a reputation—disciplined, reliable, lethal.
He learned to speak multiple languages. It wasn't just for cover—he liked the utility. Especially during interrogations. Tone, inflection, hesitation—he picked up on all of it.
He poured everything into his craft. Fully committed. Obsessed.
Most of his work took place in Eastern Europe, with occasional assignments in the Middle East. Eventually, they stationed him back in the U.S. Maybe to reconnect him with whatever he was supposed to be fighting for. He didn't ask. He didn't care. He liked the job.
His qualifications were solid. Elite marksman—pistol, rifle, sniper. Explosives expert. Trained in basic chemistry, which came in useful for subtle kills when direct action wasn't preferred.
Hand-to-hand or knife combat? His file carried a simple advisory: Avoid close engagement. Assume fatal outcome.
Once, he'd been trapped in a tight room against ten elite fighters. Just him, a knife, and the environment. That was enough. He used the space. Every surface, angle, and object became part of the fight. He walked out alive. They didn't.
After that, some started calling him the Pale Horseman.
His greatest edge was his mind. He could remember almost anything after seeing it once—a habit that started back when he sketched buildings and hallways as a kid. Environments, routes, layouts—he kept it all.
He didn't just see the room—he understood it. Understood how to use it. His weapons, their weapons, walls, shadows, debris. He could track people in real time, map angles, think four steps ahead.
And when it counted, he didn't hesitate.
An unexpected twist of fate occurred while he was living in Boston, Massachusetts.
He was on leave—maybe six months, maybe longer. No set timeline. He used the time the way he always did: training and brushing up on his French.
His apartment matched the way he lived. Sparse. A mattress on the floor, one small table, a single chair. No TV. Just a secure laptop with satellite link and a burner phone. Quiet, unlisted, and temporary. He lived like a ghost.
The only thing he ever splurged on was coffee. Whole beans, ground fresh every morning with his electric grinder—until it stopped working. He tried fixing it, but it was fried. He overheard neighbors talking about a decent shop down the street, so he decided to check it out.
He went the next morning. Pulled on a plain black jacket, blue jeans, and an old New England Patriots cap. He knew how to move without being seen, even at his size.
The coffee shop was packed. Wall to wall, tables full, chatter loud. Always a good sign in civilian life. In his world, it just meant more variables.
He'd already swept the space as he stepped through the door. Main exit behind him, secondary access by the employee hallway. No rear door visible from his position, but he clocked the layout fast—probably a prep room behind the swing doors. Standard.
He counted twenty-three people in view. Twenty adults, one teenager, one child, one infant. He didn't count the ones out of sight. You never worked off guesses.
That was the operator's mindset. Measure only what could be seen, never what was assumed.
He marked the highest probability carriers—two men in loose hoodies standing near the corner table. One woman with a heavy coat and large bag. All low-risk in a place like this, but worth noting. Everyone else looked relaxed. Business casual, school bags, tired parents. Most wouldn't react fast enough to spilled coffee, let alone a threat.
A block away, a truck sat parked, engine still ticking. Keys in the visor. He hadn't slowed as he passed it, but it registered. Just in case.
He stepped into line, took his place, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He wore blue jeans, a plain black jacket, and a Patriots cap pulled low. Big guy, but he'd learned how to fade—no eye contact, no pauses, no rhythm that drew attention.
Behind the counter, two workers looked stressed. One of them spoke under her breath, just loud enough: "They found someone to cover the no-call, no-show."
Somebody hadn't shown up. Somebody else was on their way.
He didn't look up. Just listened. Calculated. Let the environment settle around him while he waited.
He was second in line when the back door swung open and a redhead stepped out, head down, tying her apron. She moved quickly, pulling her hair into a loose bun as she approached the register.
Then she looked up.
That smile—it stopped him cold. Warm, bright, a little crooked. Familiar.
The goofy girl he'd once known had grown up.
She was taller than he remembered. Slender frame with long legs, a natural curve to her hips and a well-shaped chest—full, but balanced. Her red hair was thick, even tied up, and her freckles had faded just enough to leave a soft dusting across her cheeks. Her blue eyes locked on his for half a second before she turned to the customer in front of him.
He stood still, heartbeat just a shade heavier in his chest.
Her name tag read Mary Ann, the letters printed in clean, rounded font across a plastic badge pinned just above her chest.
Jonathan smiled. She'd always loved having two names—said it gave her character. Something about sounding like a comic book sidekick. As the guy in front of him stepped off to the side, she looked up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, apron freshly tied.
Their eyes met.
She froze, her lips parting slightly, blue eyes locking on him like she'd seen a ghost.
He stepped forward.
The shop sounds faded a little in his ears—grinders buzzing, cups clinking, faint indie music humming from a corner speaker. He couldn't figure out why his heart had picked this moment to pound in his chest. He'd stood in burning buildings, been ambushed in stairwells, felt knives pass inches from his ribs.
Now, standing in a warm café full of baked goods and houseplants, he felt like a teenager again.
Sure, he'd had women. Quick flings, things that didn't ask for follow-up. His face, his build, the quiet confidence he carried—they'd made him popular enough when he cared to be. But this wasn't like that.
"Jonathan Taylor?!" she said, almost laughing, almost breathless.
Before he could say a word, she darted out from behind the counter and threw her arms around his shoulders—well, almost. She stretched up as far as she could, sneakers lifting slightly off the floor. At five-foot-ten, she still couldn't clear his upper back, not with him built the way he was.
She smelled faintly of vanilla syrup and ground espresso.
He didn't hesitate. He hugged her back—arms folding around her automatically. She felt solid, warm, real.
Same thick red hair pulled into a loose ponytail. Same splash of freckles across her cheekbones. Same clear eyes, just older. Grown. The voice hadn't changed though. That forward, goofy, honest tone was still right there.
Mary Ann.
He ended up waiting across the street for six hours, seated at a small table outside a deli that faced the coffee shop. His cup of black coffee turned cold twice. He switched to water after the second refill. Waiting didn't bother him—it came with the job. You got used to it, the quiet, the stillness, the watching.
Still, his heart felt off. Pacing. He tracked the hours, the sun shifting position over the city skyline, but his mind kept circling back to her.
Mary Ann.
When her shift finally ended, she came out the front door still tying the sleeves of her hoodie around her waist. She looked around once, spotted him instantly, and ran across the street, weaving past a couple walking a dog and a guy pushing a stroller.
She came straight to his table.
He stood up, expression calm, though his chest felt tighter than usual.
"Dinner," he said, keeping his voice even. "Let's catch up at dinner."
She blinked once, then smiled—wide and honest, same as always. He felt it land hard, somewhere behind his ribs as she nodded and said it was a good idea.
His heart fluttered. Just a little as she had smiled at him.
They ended up at a small Italian place a few blocks away. Warm lighting, low conversation, cloth napkins folded into wine glasses. She looked at the menu and tried to keep a straight face, but he caught it—her eyes lingered too long on the right side of the page.
She seemed nervous as she glanced at the menu, eyes skimming past the prices too fast. It wasn't obvious, but he caught the small signs—the way her jaw tensed slightly, how she flipped the page quickly without really reading it.
He hadn't meant to start profiling. It just happened. Muscle memory.
There was a college sweater stuffed into her bag—creased, sleeves half out. Her phone lay face down on the table, a slim, beat-up wallet case snapped around it. Through the plastic window, he caught a student ID. The card edges were frayed, slots stretched. The wallet was cheap faux leather, probably years old.
She sat with her back straight, posture alert, layered clothes chosen for function. A pencil was looped through her hair-tie. Her nails were short, clean. Her hands looked like someone who juggled a lot and had little time for herself.
She talked quickly, same as she always had. Clear thoughts, fast delivery—still sharp. That never changed. A little scattered, but smart people always seemed that way when they were thinking about five things at once.
Yeah—she was in college. No question. Still pushing forward.
He told her dinner wss his treat. Meant it, too. He barely spent anything outside gear and meals, and operators didn't exactly live on payroll alone. He could afford this 1000 times over.
She looked like she wanted to argue but didn't. Took a sip of water instead and smiled, almost sheepish.
Jonathan leaned back, watching her across the table. Same girl. Grown up. Freckles, bright eyes, thick red hair tied loose. For a second, the restaurant faded out, and it was just her.
She ordered a glass of red. He went with sparkling mineral water. Alcohol never sat right with him. Between his father's whiskey-soaked habits and his own obsession with keeping his body sharp, he avoided it unless an op called for blending in.
She took her time with the wine. Studied the label before her first sip, swirled it lightly in the glass—like she knew what she liked. He clocked the brand and vintage, filed it away. It might matter later.
She talked while she drank. College life, her stepdad—"fine," she said—and her mom. Little things, recent things, and everything in between. He didn't interrupt. Just listened, head slightly tilted, eyes steady.
She mentioned she'd finished her bachelor's in two years and was working on her PhD. "It's going," she said, almost too casually. He picked up on it—something else sat underneath, something she didn't say yet.
Then she asked about him.
He blinked, caught off guard. Simple question. But it hit like a loaded one.
He looked at her, and for a moment, he didn't want to lie.
"I joined the Marines," he said finally, voice even.
"Really?" Her eyebrows rose, blue eyes locking on his face.
His hair was longer now, grown out to blend in better overseas. A beard was coming in too—he'd started growing it out for an assignment back in Eastern Europe. He looked more civilian than soldier now, but the posture never really left.
"Then I… well, I'm a bit of a specialist," he added.
"Like special forces?" she asked, leaning forward a little, eyes wide with curiosity.
He exhaled, glancing down at the table. If only, he thought. But what came out was a calm, "Something like that. Just a little more focused."
The waiter came just in time, breaking the moment. She ordered some vegetarian flatbread pizza—something with spinach and goat cheese. He went with seafood pasta. It looked clean enough, high protein.
From there, the conversation shifted.
She talked about what she wanted to do—developing life-saving drugs. Her voice picked up when she said it, like she already saw herself in a lab coat, sleeves rolled, hands busy saving lives no one would ever thank her for.
She mentioned a friend she'd met after moving away in tenth grade. Said the girl had been sharp, funny, one of those people who got excited about everything. They'd gotten close fast, but cancer didn't care about any of that. By the time it was caught, it was already too far.
That loss stuck with her.
"If I've got a big brain," she said, shrugging like it wasn't a big deal, "might as well do something useful with it."
She wanted to finish her PhD and get into research—real work, the kind that gave people time they wouldn't have otherwise. He didn't say much, just listened. She meant it. Always had.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn't thinking about missions or threats or exits. He was thinking about her.
"But what about after that?" she asked, brushing her thumb along the rim of her glass, her eyes steady on his.
He didn't hesitate. "I'm off work for the next six months," he said, leaning back a little. "Basically free. If you ever want to hang out, just let me know."
She blinked, then laughed. "Six months off? Like an actual vacation?" She shook her head. "How do I get that job?"
He just shrugged, sipping his mineral water. "Long hours stack up."
Later, they left the restaurant together. The breeze off the harbor carried a bit of bite, but she didn't seem to mind. He offered her his jacket out of reflex, and she waved it off with a grin. They walked side by side—no rush, no real direction, just letting the night stretch.
Turned out her apartment wasn't far. A walk-up tucked above a dry cleaner and a corner store. He was quietly glad he hadn't taken that flashier place downtown. His own unit was only a few blocks away.
She talked the whole way—mostly about science. Rambling excitedly about the things she'd learned recently, a few breakthroughs in a project, something one of her professors had done in grad school. Her hands moved as much as her words. She was easy to listen to.
He didn't interrupt. Just kept their pace steady and their hands linked. She had a habit of swinging them lightly between steps, like she didn't notice or care.
God, she was beautiful.
When they reached her building, she slowed near the front steps, looking up at the dim porch light.
"Well," she said, "this is me."
He glanced at it—older building, cracked stairs, one of the mailboxes taped shut. "Looks fine."
"I'm moving soon," she said, fishing her keys from her coat pocket. "It's a little tight in there, but it works for now. Anyway, you've got my number. Call me. Or text. Or… I don't know, Morse code."
He didn't let go of her hand.
Instead, he stepped just a little closer, close enough to show he wasn't in a hurry to leave, letting that last bit of distance be her call.
She looked up at him, eyes flicking from his to his mouth, and then she closed the space.
He bent down slightly and kissed her. Soft at first—natural. Her fingers closed tighter around his. It lingered longer than expected, just enough to pull him in.
It was the second-best kiss of his life.