RETIRED WAR GOD'S EVERYDAY LIFE

7

The cold wind slammed the narrow alley door behind Ashland Avenue. The sound of police sirens wailed in the distance, answering the chaotic chorus of car horns trapped in total gridlock.

Mason landed on a pile of wet cardboard without making the slightest sound. Tucked tightly against his right arm, Claire Montgomery still had her eyes closed. The girl's body shook violently, her breath coming in fast, ragged gasps as she fought off hysteria.

"You can open your eyes now, Miss," Mason's voice sounded low, calm, and steady—not sounding at all like a man who had just vaulted a two-meter-high wall while carrying a human being.

Claire opened her eyes slowly. Her trembling fingers still clutched tightly to Mason's black t-shirt. Realizing they were now inside a dark, quiet alley far from the chaos of Ashland Avenue, Claire jerked backward until her back hit the brick wall.

"D-don't come closer!" Claire screamed, her voice raspy. Her swollen eyes stared at Mason with a mixture of fear and extreme confusion. "Who... who are you?! Are you one of their guys too?!"

Mason reached into his pocket with slow movements to avoid triggering the girl's panic. He pulled out a clean white cloth handkerchief and extended it.

"If I was one of their guys, you'd be in a car trunk right now instead of standing in this alley," Mason said flatly. "Wipe the blood off your face. That's not yours."

Claire stared at the handkerchief, then up at Mason's face. The man in front of her wore no mask. His face was sturdy with a firm jaw, and his eyes... those eyes held no flash of fear or greed like the criminals Claire often saw on the news. Those eyes were profound and calm.

With shaking hands, Claire took the handkerchief and wiped away her bodyguard's blood stains from her left cheek. "M-my bodyguard... Uncle Tom and Sam... they..."

"They were dead before your car stopped," Mason cut in bluntly, delivering a bitter yet undeniable truth. "A 7.62 caliber bullet pierced the windshield and hit their chests. You're lucky your car's steel plating held back the rest."

Claire covered her mouth, tears spilling over to wet her cheeks once more. "Who... who are those people? Why do they want to kill me?"

"They don't want to kill you. They want to kidnap you," Mason adjusted his jacket. "Your father owns Montgomery Corp. In a city like Chicago, having a rich father makes you the easiest target to extort military contracts."

Mason glanced toward the mouth of the alley. The System signal in his vision notified him that three police patrol units were combing a two-hundred-meter radius from the explosion site. Valerie Vance must be raging out in the field, mobilizing every District 1 personnel to hunt down the "coffee guy" who ran off with the key witness.

[System Notification:] [Side Quest Completed: Claire Montgomery Successfully Secured!] [Reward Received: 10% Ownership of Montgomery Corp Stock (Legally registered under Apex Holding LLC), Industrial Technology Blueprint Access.] [Current Tranquility Points: 2,500 Points.]

"We can't stay here," Mason said, turning around. "The police will be combing this alley any second."

"W-wait!" Claire stepped forward hesitantly. "Where are you taking me? I... I have to call my father!"

"Your phone is crushed inside the car, Miss Montgomery. And if you call your father right now using a payphone, your communication lines are most likely already hacked by the people chasing you," Mason glanced back briefly. "Come with me if you want to survive. Or stay here and wait for the next hit squad to arrive."

Claire swallowed hard. Her fear of the situation far outweighed her suspicion of Mason. With no other choice, she quickened her pace, following the broad back of the sturdy man through the dark labyrinths of Wicker Park alleys.

One hour later.

The exterior of The Quiet Nook looked peaceful, as if the bloody tragedy on Ashland Avenue had happened on another planet. The warm yellow hanging lamps cast a soft glow over the wooden tables. Toby was busy wiping down a corner table while occasionally glancing out the window with an anxious expression.

The back door chimed softly.

Mason entered first, followed by Claire, who walked hesitatingly while pulling Mason's oversized heavy coat tighter around herself.

"Mr. Mason!" Toby nearly dropped his cleaning cloth. "Good grief, where have you been?! Outside is packed with news about a shooting—uh? Who... who is this?" Toby's eyes widened at the sight of the disheveled elite schoolgirl standing behind his boss.

"Take her upstairs. Give her warm water and a blanket," Mason ordered briefly without breaking his stride. "Don't let her near the windows."

"R-right, Mr. Mason!" Toby nodded eagerly, gesturing for Claire to follow him up the wooden stairs leading to Mason's private living quarters.

Mason walked behind the bar counter, turning on the tap to wash his hands and face. The cold water refreshed his skin, washing away the lingering scent of gunpowder. As he dried his face with a small towel, the front cafe door chimed loudly.

Mason wasn't surprised. He had already calculated this woman's arrival time.

A woman in light green medical scrubs layered beneath a thick brown coat walked in with tired, graceful steps. Her face was extremely pale, and dark circles shadowed heavily beneath her clear gray eyes. Her dark blonde hair was tied up messily in the back.

Dr. Rosalind Finch. Chief trauma surgeon from Northwestern Memorial Hospital.

Rosalind didn't even look around. She walked straight to the bar counter, collapsing onto a high stool with a heavy sigh, as if every ounce of energy in her body had just been drained dry.

[Key Character Detected: Dr. Rosalind Finch]

[Status: Critical Exhaustion & Mental Stress (16-Hour Non-Stop Surgery Shift)]

[Secret Mission: Provide proper recovery nutrition to stabilize the target's physical condition.]

[Reward: Emergency Medical Expertise (Chief Surgeon Level), Complex Pharmacology Knowledge, +300 Tranquility Points.]

Mason stared at the woman. As a former commander who had often seen his squad collapse after three consecutive days of combat, Mason knew Rosalind's current physical state all too well: severe hypoglycemia accompanied by a drastic drop in blood pressure.

"The cafe is about to close, Miss," Mason said quietly, picking up a clean porcelain mug.

Rosalind looked up slowly, her fatigued eyes gazing at Mason. "Please... I just need something warm. Anything. Black coffee... or hot water..." her voice was hoarse and trembled slightly.

"Black coffee will only constrict your blood vessels further and make your stomach vomit, Doctor," Mason replied coldly yet efficiently.

He didn't touch the espresso machine. Instead, Mason grabbed the water kettle, brewed dried chamomile tea leaves, and mixed them with two tablespoons of pure organic honey, a squeeze of fresh lemon, and a dash of cinnamon. Simultaneously, Mason reached into the toaster, took two slices of whole wheat bread, and spread them with mashed avocado seasoned with a pinch of sea salt and a soft-boiled egg on top.

The savory aroma of toasted bread and warm herbal tea suddenly filled the air around the bar counter.

Mason placed the plate and mug right in front of Rosalind. "Eat this first. Then we'll talk about drinks."

Rosalind frowned, staring at the food in confusion. "I didn't order this. And I don't have the energy to eat—"

"This isn't a request, Dr. Finch. It's a prescription," Mason interrupted firmly, pointing at the food with his chin. "Eat, or I'll call an ambulance to take you back to your own workplace."

Rosalind looked into Mason's eyes. There was something about the man's tone that was completely indisputable—a natural authority typically held by senior chief surgeons or field commanders. Too exhausted to argue, Rosalind reached for the cup of warm tea and took a slow sip.

The sweetness of the honey and the warmth of the lemon hit her tongue instantly, sending a wave of warmth straight to her chest. The nausea from an empty stomach that had tortured her since evening slowly faded away. Without realizing it, Rosalind picked up her fork and began eating the avocado toast. Every bite restored a flush of color to her pale cheeks.

Mason watched the way the woman ate out of the corner of his eye while wiping a plate. "Sixteen hours in Trauma Bay 1?"

Rosalind stopped chewing, looking at Mason in surprise. "How did you... how did you know?"

"The scent of ChloraPrep antiseptic on your coat sleeve is very strong," Mason answered casually. "There's a slight reddish indentation at the bridge of your nose—a sign you've worn surgical magnifying loupes for over eight hours straight. And your right index finger has pressure marks from monofilament suture thread."

Rosalind stunned. She laid down her fork, examining the man behind the bar counter with an entirely new gaze. "You... you're not just an ordinary cafe owner, are you? Who are you? A former paramedic? Or a doctor whose license was revoked?"

"I'm just a guy who knows how to observe details," Mason stated flatly.

[System Notification:]

[Target Condition: Stable (Stress Level Reduced by 45%)]

[Secret Mission Completed!]

[Reward Received: Emergency Medical Expertise (Chief Surgeon Level) Activated!]

Mason's vision flickered momentarily as thousands of medical data points—ranging from complex anatomical incision techniques and gunshot trauma management to emergency anesthesia dosages—installed directly into his cerebral cortex within milliseconds. The man held his breath for a split second as his head pulsed slightly.

Rosalind flashed a faint smile—her first genuine smile of the day. "Well, whoever you are... thank you. This food... feels like it saved my life."

"That's my job," Mason replied.

Bang!

The front cafe door suddenly kicked open roughly from the outside until its wooden hinges creaked loudly.

Two sturdy men in thick black leather jackets burst in. One of them clutched his stomach, which was soaked in fresh blood, while the second man pointed a Glock 17 pistol with a shaking hand straight at Mason and Rosalind's chests!

"LOCK THE DOOR! FAST!" the armed man screamed hysterically, his eyes wild and red with panic. "DOCTOR! WE KNOW A DOCTOR CAME IN HERE EARLIER! TREAT MY FRIEND RIGHT NOW OR I'LL BLOW YOUR HEADS OFF!"

Instinctively, Rosalind jumped up from her stool, her face turning pale again at the sight of the black-barreled pistol locked onto them. "Blood... he's bleeding heavily!"

"Treat him here! Now!" the man screamed, cocking the firearm in his hand.

Mason stepped slowly forward, shifting his position with absolute precision to completely shield Rosalind's body behind his broad back. His cold eyes stared straight down the barrel of the pistol, which was less than two meters away.

"You chose the wrong place to ask for help, friend," Mason said.