RETIRED WAR GOD'S EVERYDAY LIFE

The aroma of medium-roast Arabica coffee beans filled a ten-by-eight-meter room at the corner of Milwaukee Avenue, Wicker Park. Outside, a light drizzle dampened the Chicago sidewalks, which were beginning to clear out. The damp coats of pedestrians flashed past behind the frosted front window, reflecting the silhouette of a sturdy man wearing a plain black t-shirt and a dark brown cloth apron.

The man's name was Mason Hayes.

His right hand, covered in severe burn scar tissue, held the portafilter handle with insane precision. Flawless. Without missing a single millimeter as he locked it into the Italian porcelain espresso machine in front of him. Three months ago, a Top Secret document at the Pentagon recorded the death of Mason Hayes. A helicopter explosion at the border line of Raqqa, Syria, tore his body to shreds—at least, that is what US military intelligence believed. The world knew this man as "Ghost," the lethal commander of the covert squadron Task Force Obsidian.

But this morning, amidst the roar of freezing Chicago, Ghost was just a thirty-year-old man taking care of coffee blend acidity.

Mason leveled the coffee grounds with a tamper, pressing down the muscles of his arm covered by the apron. The next second, the machine hummed softly, pouring a thick, golden-brown liquid into a ceramic cup. Mason touched the carton of frothed milk, pouring it slowly to form a symmetrical leaf-shaped latte art.

Just as the last leaf formed, a thin gold transparent field suddenly floated right in the center of his vision.

[System Notice: Peaceful Life System Activated.] [User: Mason Hayes] [Status: Retired (Soul Threat Level: 0%)] [Daily Mission: Serve 20 cups of premium quality coffee to locals without involving violence or the use of combat skills.] [Reward: Barista Skill Upgrade (Master Class), Sign Language Mastery, $1,000 Cash (Legal).]

Mason let out a long breath. His warm breath hit the cold air of the cafe.

Damn system.

Ever since waking up in an emergency hospital ward in Germany with his body full of stitches, this invisible interface had suddenly followed him. At first, Mason thought it was a PTSD hallucination from the RPG explosion in Syria. But the thousand dollars in cash that always suddenly appeared in his personal safe every time he managed to sweep the cafe floor without breaking someone's neck proved that this thing was real. For a man who spent ten years of his life planning the assassinations of corrupt politicians and the dismantling of cartels, serving coffee with a relaxed smile was a new kind of torture.

But this System offered one thing the Pentagon could never give him: peace. And the perfect physical recovery from old war wounds that continued to torment him every time the Chicago temperature dropped below zero.

The chime of the bell above the wooden door rang out loud, breaking the silence of the cafe.

A teenager burst in, breathing heavily. His fishtail jacket was soaking wet. His name was Toby Cobb, a local Wicker Park kid Mason had hired just two days ago as a cashier out of pity after seeing him rummaging for leftovers behind a nursing home.

"M-Mr. Mason..." Toby wiped his reddish nose from the night wind, his eyes wide with panic. "Outside... they're coming again. Frankie 'Two-Toes's' guys."

Mason didn't stop wiping the stainless steel bar table in front of him. His microfiber cleaning cloth moved in circles with a regular rhythm. "How many people?"

"Three! Frankie himself is in front, the other two are carrying baseball bats wrapped in duct tape behind their jackets!" Toby's voice trembled. "They... they're sticking a seizure notice on Mrs. Beatrice's flower shop window, Mr. Mason! Mrs. Beatrice was crying on the sidewalk!"

Mason stopped the movement of his hands. He turned slowly toward the front glass window.

Outside, right in front of Beatrice’s Blooms, three men stood surrounding an elderly silver-haired woman who was cowering in fear. The man in the middle—stout with a dull leather jacket and claw scars on his left cheek—was Frankie "Two-Toes" Bruno. He got that ridiculous nickname because two of his toes were once run over by a brick-making machine while working as a low-level enforcer for the Moretti Gang, a mafia group that ruled the South Side's street law and sank its extortion claws deep into Wicker Park.

Frankie pointed at Mrs. Beatrice's face with his dirty finger, spitting on the wet sidewalk right in front of the old woman's shoes.

The war instinct in Mason's head exploded instantly.

Automatically, his brain trained for hundreds of hours in close-quarters combat (CQC) simulations mapped out tactical scenarios in milliseconds. Distance from the cafe door to Frankie's location: nine meters. Three seconds to close the distance. Use the steel pen in the right pocket of the apron to pierce Frankie's carotid artery from the side. Use Frankie's body as a shield when his two lacklings draw their wooden bats. Grab the bat, break the second henchman's knee, stab the third henchman's eye with the remaining broken wood. Execution time: 5.8 seconds. Zero civilian casualties.

The muscles in Mason's shoulders tightened. His eyes dimmed, leaving behind the cold gaze of a cold-blooded killer.

[System Warning! Excessive use of force will cancel the daily mission and deduct 500 Tranquility Points!] [Additional Penalty: War scar side effects will relapse for 72 hours.]

A burning pain suddenly crawled along Mason's left ribs, reminding him of the hot iron stuck there when the Obsidian helicopter was shot down. Mason closed his eyes tightly. He exhaled slowly, forcing his heart rate back down to 60 beats per minute.

"Damn it," Mason whispered softly.

"Mr. Mason? Should we... should we just call the police?" Toby asked, trembling at the change in aura about his boss. The air inside the cafe suddenly felt so heavy and oppressive, as if the oxygen had just been sucked dry.