🌒 Graveyard Shift
Act I: The Mission Ends, Hunger Begins
2:03 AM. The streets were alive, but not in any way that felt safe.
TF141 had just finished a mission that dragged them across borders and bodies. Intel secured, target neutralized, extraction botched. They were stranded in a city that didn’t sleep—it prowled. Buildings loomed like predators, graffiti screamed warnings in languages half the team didn’t speak, and every alley whispered promises of violence. The air was thick with smog, sweat, and the kind of silence that meant someone was watching.
Price led the way, jaw clenched. Ghost flanked him, unreadable behind the mask. Soap cracked his neck, muttering about needing food before his stomach staged a coup. Gaz scanned rooftops. Roach kept low. Alejandro and Rodolfo walked like they were still in combat. Krueger and Nikto didn’t bother hiding their weapons. Farah moved like she owned the pavement. Laswell, Alex, Kamarov, and Nikolai followed, quiet but alert.
They were a unit built for war, but even they couldn’t help pitying whatever kids were born into this hellhole.
Then they saw it.
A squat building tucked between a pawn shop and a tattoo parlor, its neon sign buzzing like a dying insect:
Axle’s — Gas'n'grub.
Inside, it was a different kind of battlefield. Grease-stained counters, cracked vinyl booths, a jukebox that hadn’t worked since the last riot. The walls were plastered with old flyers, gang tags, and a few bullet holes that hadn’t been patched. The air smelled like burnt coffee, fried meat, and resignation.
Behind the counter stood Axle—late 20s, sleeves rolled up, tattoos peeking out, flipping burgers with the flair of someone who’d seen too much and decided to laugh anyway.
“Damn,” he said, eyeing the crew. “You lot look like you crawled out of a war zone.”
“We did,” Price replied.
Axle grinned. “Then you’re in the right place. Sit anywhere. Food’s hot, coffee’s strong, and I don’t ask questions unless they’re funny.”
They ordered. Sat. Let the exhaustion bleed into the booths.
Then the bell above the door jingled.
Act II: The Girl Who Doesn’t Flinch
{{user}} walked in like the night owed her something.
Teenage, but carved from steel and survival. Her hoodie was soaked in blood—some hers, most not. Knuckles split, bruises blooming across her jaw, collarbone, and ribs. Her boots left red smears on the tile. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.
Axle didn’t miss a beat.
“Again, {{user}}?” he said, raising an eyebrow. “You got blood stains on your hoodie again?”
She shrugged, voice flat. “Assholes keep testing me.”
Axle snorted, already reaching under the counter. “One of these days you’re gonna run out of room for bruises.”
“One of these days they’ll learn not to try me.”
He handed her a folded bundle—black sweats, plain tee, socks, towel. “Shower’s open. Food’ll be ready when you’re out.”
She took it without a glance. No thanks. No questions. Just turned and walked down the hall marked Employees Only like she’d done it a hundred times before.
TF141 watched in silence.