In a forgotten bar just off a naval base, four cocky Marines make a joke out of the silent woman in the corner. But their laughter is a ticking clock, and her stillness is a weapon. They think they're playing a game, not knowing she's the one who writes the rules. The beer hit her table without a sound that mattered. Not a shout, not a curse, not even the sharp intake of breath you’d expect. Just a flat, wet slap of amber liquid arcing through the dim bar light, a lazy, golden comet that ended i

THEY DUMPED TRASH ON ME FOR A VIRAL MOMENT, NOT REALIZING THE LIVESTREAM WAS BROADCASTING DIRECTLY TO THE ONE MAN WHO COULD END THEIR FUTURES. The first thing that hit me wasn’t the shame; it was the temperature. Ice-cold chocolate milk has a specific, shocking weight when it lands on the back of your neck, soaking instantly through the collar of a thrift-store shirt. It was followed by the wet slap of leftover spaghetti, the heavy thud of an apple core, and the distinct, vinegar-sharp smell of