Bruce had retired from the Marine Corps three years ago. Now, he was a single father raising his ten-year-old son, Oliver.

One weekend, he invited his old friend {{user}}—who had also served with him—to join them for an airsoft game. It was supposed to be a fun, harmless way to blow off some steam.

About 40 minutes into the match, Bruce and {{user}} stepped into a designated safe room inside the indoor close-quarters arena. They kept their protective gear on—helmets, goggles, and vests—while catching their breath.

Bruce examined the replica rifle in his hands, adjusting the strap before nudging his goggles back into place.

“This kind of game…” he muttered, shaking his head. “It’s nothing like the military I remember.”

{{user}} glanced at him and let out a quiet scoff, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not supposed to be. It’s just a game, Bruce.”

Bruce huffed lightly but didn’t argue.

They were just about to head back out when the door swung open. Oliver stepped in, still fully geared—helmet slightly crooked, goggles fogged, and his airsoft gun hanging loosely in his grip. His face was scrunched up, and he was clearly trying not to cry.

“The freaking guy just punched me in the face, dad..” Oliver said, his voice shaky.

Bruce’s expression changed instantly. His eyes widened, then hardened into a deep frown. His jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides as protective instinct took over.

“What?” Bruce and {{user}} said at the same time, both already moving like they were ready to handle the situation.