He didn’t know he was threatening a man who had spent the last four years dismantling targets twice his size. I didn’t flinch. I simply caught his wrist in mid-air.

Brock tried to pull back, but he couldn’t move. The color drained from his face as I applied just a fraction of pressure. The entire parking lot went dead silent. I leaned in close, looked him dead in the eye, and whispered… “Do you know what the sound of a snapping wrist sounds like?” But before he could answer, I pulled something out of my pocket that made his knees hit the floor it’s not a weapon. It’s not a phone. It’s my military ID.

And I hold it in front of his face with two fingers, letting it dangle like a verdict. His eyes track the card. He reads the words “U.S. ARMY” and “SPECIAL FORCES” and the name beneath it: mine. His breath hitches.

“I’ve taken down warlords for less than what you just did,” I say, voice low but steady. “You have five seconds to apologize to my sister before I decide to teach you a lesson you’ll remember every time it rains and your bones ache.”

Brock’s tough guy mask shatters. He blinks rapidly. Sweat beads at his temple. He drops to one knee like a collapsing statue and stammers, “I—I’m sorry, Kelly. I didn’t mean—”

“Louder,” I growl.

“I’M SORRY!”

Kelly doesn’t say anything. She just stands slowly, wiping her scraped palms on her jeans. Her face is red, eyes wide. She’s shaken but not broken. Not anymore.

I release Brock’s wrist, and he collapses onto all fours, gasping like he’s just come up from drowning.

His two sidekicks, suddenly unsure of their role, take an instinctive step back. I turn toward them, my gaze heavy.

“You two want to make a scene too?” I ask.

They shake their heads. One of them mutters, “No, sir.”

“Then get out of my sight.”

They don’t need a second warning. They bolt, dragging Brock with them, who stumbles like his legs have forgotten how to work.

The parking lot remains dead quiet. A few students have gathered in the distance, phones out, but I don’t care. Let them film. Let every bully in this place see what happens when they lay a hand on my sister.

I turn to Kelly. “You okay?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Then she lets out a shaky laugh, half nerves, half disbelief. “That was… insane.”

I offer her my hand. She takes it. Her grip is tighter than I expect. She’s trying not to cry.

“Come on,” I say, guiding her to the truck. “Let’s get out of here.”

We climb in. I pull out of the parking lot with slow, deliberate calm, though my jaw still aches from how tightly I’m clenching it. I glance over at her. She’s staring out the window, biting the inside of her cheek.

“Talk to me,” I say.

She stays quiet for a beat. “They’ve been bothering me since the start of the semester,” she says, voice small. “Started with dumb stuff. Comments. Blocking my way in the hallway. Then they started grabbing my backpack, pulling my hair. I told the principal. He told me not to exaggerate.”

Of course he did. I grip the wheel tighter.

She finally looks at me. “I didn’t tell Mom because I didn’t want her to worry. And I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

“That’s not your job,” I say. “To protect us. We protect you.”

She blinks, and the first tear slips down her cheek.

“I missed you so much,” she whispers.

I don’t say anything for a second. I’m not great with words like that. But I reach across and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

We drive home in silence, but it’s not the heavy kind. It’s the kind where things are finally starting to settle. I glance at the rearview. Nothing’s following us. No rooftops. No threats.

Just trees. And sky.

Mom’s in the kitchen when we walk in. She’s stirring a pot of chili and humming to herself. She turns when she hears the door.

“There’s my hero!” she says with a warm smile. Then her face falls when she sees Kelly’s scraped hands and torn jeans. “What happened?”

Before Kelly can answer, I step in. “We had a situation at school. It’s taken care of.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?”

I shrug. “Probably not.”

She crosses her arms, lips pressed into a line. Then she nods slowly. “All right. But if I get a call from the school—”

“I’ll handle it,” I say.

She sighs, relents, and returns to the stove. “Chili’s almost done. Wash up, both of you.”

Kelly heads to the bathroom, and I go to my room, the old one with posters still on the walls from when I was seventeen. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my hands.

They’re steady. Not trembling anymore.

I left a part of myself overseas. Parts you don’t get back. But some things remain. Reflexes. Anger. That coiled sense of readiness.

But I didn’t expect it to be my sister who needed those instincts.

Not here.

Not at home.

At dinner, Kelly talks more. Tells Mom about Brock and the other guys, how it’s been building. Mom listens, horrified, but proud that her daughter is opening up. And when Kelly says, “But he won’t mess with me again,” with that quiet steel in her voice, I know she believes it.

Later that night, I sit on the porch with a beer. The stars are out. Peaceful.

But peace doesn’t sit still in me. It never has.

I hear the door creak behind me. It’s Kelly. She sits next to me, legs crossed, hoodie zipped up.

“I told Jenny what happened,” she says after a moment.

“Yeah?”

“She said the video’s already all over Snapchat.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“She said people are calling you the Terminator.”

I chuckle. “Could be worse.”

We sit in silence again. Then she says, “You’re not staying, are you?”

I glance over. She’s not accusing. Just asking.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Came back to get my head straight. But now…”

“But now you see what you left behind,” she finishes for me.

I nod.

She stares ahead. “I wish you’d been here sooner. But I’m really glad you’re here now.”

And then, a noise.

A car engine. Not just any car—one of those obnoxious, low-rumbling, testosterone-filled trucks. It pulls up across the street.

My body reacts before my brain does. I’m on my feet, scanning, fists clenched.

Brock steps out.

Alone.

He doesn’t swagger this time. He walks slowly to the edge of the street. Looks over.

“I need to talk to you,” he calls out.

I don’t move. I just wait.

Kelly stands beside me.

He raises his hands like he’s surrendering. “I just want to say… I deserved everything you did today.”

Silence.

“I’ve been a jerk. To a lot of people. But after what happened… I don’t know, man. You scared something into me.”

Still, I say nothing.

He shuffles, awkward. “I’m gonna tell the principal what I did. I’ll take the suspension. Or whatever.”

Then he looks directly at Kelly. “I’m sorry. Like, really sorry.”

Kelly crosses her arms. She doesn’t speak.

After a few seconds, Brock turns and walks back to his truck. He starts it up and drives off.

Kelly exhales. “Did… did that just happen?”

I nod, still watching the taillights fade.

The porch feels a little quieter. A little safer.

She nudges me. “You’re not the Terminator, you know.”

“No?”

“You’re more like John Wick with a moral compass.”

I laugh.

And for the first time in years, it feels real. Not the forced kind you do to show people you’re okay. But the kind that bubbles up because maybe—just maybe—things are finally going to be.

We sit under the stars a little longer. The night doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels full.

Of something better.

Maybe even hope.