??? POV:
Every day started the same.
Wake up in the middle of the night — sweating, breath ragged, haunted by memories that refused to fade. Scenes I'd give my soul to forget flashing behind my eyelids like a reel of someone else's nightmare. But it was mine.
Always was. Always will be.
My feet hit the warm carpet as the comforter slid down my chest. The house was silent, too silent. The kind of quiet that reminded you of how loud your thoughts really were. I turned to the clock.
4:35 A.M.
Right on time. Like always.
Name's Terry Wallace.
Sometimes I'm Uncle Terry. Sometimes I'm just T. Sometimes I'm called things not even worth repeating. Names. Numbers. Slurs. Classifications. Labels.
I've been everything: a soldier, a special agent, a war vet, a POW, a damn science experiment.
But the one thing I've never been?
At peace.
Even before all that — before the boots, before the orders, before the body bags — I was just another kid lost in the hood. No father. No guidance. Just anger bottled up like a grenade without a pin.
I didn't want peace.
I wanted revenge. Answers. Someone to feel the kind of pain I felt every damn day.
I never got that either.
The life I chose? It chose me first. I survived it — somehow — and now I'm something new. Something I never thought I'd be.
A father figure.
A second chance.
A chance to right the wrongs baked into my bloodline like trauma in the bones.
And every morning, I wake up and I get to it.
KNOCK.
My knuckles met the wood of a door I knew better than my own.
Same knock. Same time. Every day.
The door opened.
Elena Harvey stood there — same eyes, same warmth, but carrying years that hadn't touched her face yet. You'd think she was in her thirties if you didn't know better, but her eyes... her eyes told another story. One of a mother who lost a son. A woman who wakes up every day pretending the world didn't take what it had no right to.
Elena Harvey.
Mother of Kendrick Vale Harvey. And David "DJ" Harvey.
Lord knows the hell she's been through.
Still standing. Still fighting.
Still raising that boy of hers alone.
I couldn't let the system build another me out of DJ.
So I stepped in. Not 'cause I had to. But 'cause somebody had to.
"Hey, Ellie," I said with a warm smile. Sweat still clung to me from my early workout, steam still rising from my skin post-shower. It was just before 7 A.M.
She shot me a look. "What I tell you 'bout calling me that proper-ass name, Terry?"
We locked eyes. Held it. Then burst out laughing like old times.
"Good morning, T," she smiled, stepping aside. "Sleep any better last night?"
"Nah, same as always," I said, brushing it off as I sank into the couch, flipping on the morning news. "But I'm a soldier. I'll thug it out."
She didn't push. She never really did. But that look in her eyes? She always knew. Always knew.
I wasn't okay. Hadn't been for a long time.
I had PTSD, anxiety, BPD — all the alphabet boys. Suppression was my specialty. Always had been. Therapy was new. The pills they offered? Not for me.
I seen what the government slips into those.
"Mmhm," she hummed, setting two mugs of coffee down — mine always black. "Still don't wanna talk, huh?"
"Not today," I said with a half-smile.
"Figures," she muttered, sipping. Scrubs on. Hair in a messy bun. Her bones looked tired. Eyes even worse. You could see it in the way she moved — slow, heavy, stretched thin. A trained sniper like me could pick up on it a mile away.
"You got enough weight on your shoulders, E," I said gently. "Don't worry about me. Therapy's a start, that's what matters."
"Mmhmm," she rolled her eyes. "I still don't see why you paying all them white folks to talk when there's Black folk right here who'll get it for free." she didn't understand. The things I knew weren't just about no regular ol' war, no disrespect to any veterans. The secrets I knew were close to scratching the surface of the truth of the world.
"Girl, please. These fools wouldn't understand a problem if you handed them the answer key."
She snorted into her mug. "You got a point."
We sat in that golden silence, sunlight spilling through the blinds, steam curling into the air.
7:00 A.M.
I checked my watch.
"Here he come," I said.
From down the hall came DJ — all bones and yawns, dragging his limbs like a zombie, school uniform wrinkled like he slept in it.
"Mornin', Mama. Mornin', Uncle Terry," he mumbled, flopping into a kitchen chair.
I grinned. "Boy look like he just got jumped by a pillow fight. You been up on that 3K again?"
"Shut up, Uncle T!" he barked, mouth full of eggs.
"Watch yo mouth," Elena warned, flicking me in the back of the head before scolding us both. "And you, grown-ass man acting like a fool."
She packed his lunch, handed him an umbrella, the usual morning ritual. DJ snatched them with teenage resentment, shooting me side-eye while I laughed under my breath.
"Thanks, Mommy," he said, jaw tight.
"You're welcome, baby. Now get going with your uncle before y'all late. I love you. And stay away from them fast-ass girls at school!"
"Yes ma'am!" DJ hollered, bolting toward the car.
She tossed me a house key. "Here, T."
I frowned. "What's this for?"
"You always here anyway. And I need you to pick up milk, bread, and lactaid. WHEAT bread, tryna get off that white, my hips getting too wide. I need you to go, because I get off too late and Wallmart racist."
I nodded, pocketing the key. "Got it. And E… be real. You ain't ever giving up that white." I said as I snorted with my nose.
She squinted at me. "T, I swear to God—"
I darted out the door before she could finish.
The car ride was quiet — for five whole minutes.
Then I smirked and turned toward DJ.
"So… a girl, huh?"
He groaned, head in his hands. "Oh, brother."
"C'mon. Spill the tea, or whatever the hell y'all say."
He sighed. "Alright… brown skin, track star, face card valid, built like Thanksgiving..."
I raised a brow. "Say less."
"She gave me her IG. Dean caught me walking her to class without a pass. Mama wildin' now."
I nodded. "Aight, look. That dean was trippin', and your mama, well… she a mama. But real talk? If you're doing all this just to get her attention, she might not be good for you. Keep it P, DJ. Don't overextend. 'Cause when you stretch yourself too thin? People will let you snap and expect you to fix yourself alone."
He sat there, thoughtful. I liked that about him. Smart. Coachable.
"Hey, you coming to tryouts?" I asked. "You'd be a hell of a QB. 15 and already 6'3. We get your conditioning right, sky's the limit."
"Yeah, I'm in. Got my gear in my bag. Physical in Coach O'Shea's office."
"Dope. Go get it, go getter."
"Be good?"
"Do good."
He stepped out.
Then, he turned back.
"Hey, T!"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for everything. Since Kenny went missing… you've been like the Pops I never had."
I smiled.
Didn't say a word.
Just watched him run off as the bell rang.
30 Minutes Later – Groker's
I was grabbing the groceries when I heard it:
"Grown-ass man drinking lactaid."
I looked to my left. Eric Fulton — lil' dumbass always hanging by Groker's like it was a club.
"Lil' boy sucking dick," I fired back without hesitation.
He froze. I kept walking.
Then my phone rang.
[Unknown ID]
My blood ran cold. Only one person had clearance for my encrypted line.
I answered.
"Geronimo?" I said.
"Stilton," the voice replied — then silence.
Just static.
That was the code.
"He's back."
My hand clenched the shopping basket so hard my knuckles went pale.
The name of Kenny's favorite childhood book. Only two people alive knew that code.
Then—
"Sir! You didn't pay!" a voice called behind me.
But the world was already gone.
The storm outside matched the storm in my chest. I sprinted through the sliding doors into the rain, throwing myself behind the wheel and speeding off toward HQ as the milk in the jug next to me sloshed around in protest to my reckless driving.
Toward answers.
Toward hope.
Toward Kenny.
Please God… Let it be Kenny.