The Revolutionary Heroes / Rising of the Shield Hero

After Gramps passed, it was like all the little bits of me that used to be mine—my peace, my space—slipped away. I used to kick back with some anime or zone out playin' FPS games, you know? Just forget about the world for a minute. Those were my moments, my escape.

But then, it all changed.

Even when I'd try to watch my shows or play a game, I'd hear his damn voice. "You gonna sit there all day, or you gonna do something with that life of yours?" Ain't like he was crackin' a joke anymore. It was like his voice was always there, a reminder I wasn't alone. And when I'd lose in a game—miss a shot or get stuck in some dumb spot—there he'd be again, like a ghost in my ear, "You're better than this, Aaron. Get your head in the game."

At first, I hated it. I just wanted some damn peace. But then I realized… it wasn't like he was tryin' to judge me. Nah, he just wanted me to do better. It was like an anchor, in my own messed-up head. When I'd be playin', I'd hear his voice and just roll my eyes, but deep down, I needed it. I needed him there.

Sometimes, I'd lose a match, just sit there starin' at the screen, pissed off. And then Gramps would hit me with his voice again, like he was right beside me. "It's just a game, kid. But that don't mean you can't try your damn best." It was the same ol' stubborn, tough-love crap he always used to say. Like he was still sittin' there, gettin' on my nerves. But in a way, it helped.

I couldn't remember when it started, but I stopped carin' if his voice was there. It was like he never left. He was still around, still givin' me hell when I slacked off, but also pullin' me up when I needed it most. I wasn't alone anymore. Not really

It didn't make the hurt go away, but it gave me somethin' to hold onto. So yeah, I'd keep playin'. And I'd keep hearin' him. And for once, that was enough.

One night, it was past midnight, but I wasn't tired. I was deep in Arena Breakout, dodgin' bullets, takin' out sweats left and right on my mobile. Time just slipped away from me like it always did when I got lost in a game. Didn't care about the clock or the world outside my little bubble, my hands flyin' over the screen, head down, focused.

But then I heard it.

A sound that wasn't part of the game.

A bang—a loud crash—like something heavy hit the floor. My heart skipped, but I didn't stop playin'. I thought maybe it was just the house settling. It wasn't, though. It happened again. Another thud, followed by muffled voices. "Yo, man, this is the spot! Look at all this shit."

I froze. My thumb stayed pressed on the screen, but my focus was shot. The game didn't matter anymore. My eyes flicked up to the shop window.

It was dark outside. Too dark.

Then the sound hit me again. The door to the shop—my shop—was creakin', like someone was tryin' to break in. I got up fast, my heart now hammerin' in my chest. For a second, I thought maybe I was hearin' things. Maybe I was just so deep in the game, my mind was playin' tricks on me. But no. The sound came again, clearer this time.

The door slammed open.

A crew of wannabe gangsters, lookin' like they were fresh outta some low-budget crime movie, swaggered in. They weren't quiet. Nah, they made damn sure to announce their presence with their loud mouths, swearin' like it was an art form. They didn't care this was my place. They thought they could just waltz in and take whatever they wanted.

I froze for a second, my brain just not processing. I couldn't believe this was happenin'. The one place I tried to rebuild myself, my own damn sanctuary, and these punks thought they could just stroll in and take what they wanted?

"What the hell...?" I muttered under my breath, voice low but steady.

I tried to shake off the panic, but it was too late. These guys were too close now, rifling through my tools, my guns, treatin' everything like it was theirs. I dropped my phone and tossed it aside, the game forgotten. The only thing I could hear now was my heartbeat, loud as thunder in my ears.

I grabbed the first thing I could find—a wrench, heavy enough to crack skulls if needed—and crept toward the door. I couldn't rush in all guns-blazin'. I wasn't stupid. I needed to know what they were packin' first. But then Gramps' voice came in clear, like it always did, even when he wasn't around. "You're a Freeman, kid. Act like it."

And right there, with the weight of those words in my head, I knew what I had to do.

I waited, fingers tight around the wrench. The thugs were too busy mouthin' off, one of them even pullin' a revolver from one of my drawers. Another pulled a Glock from his waistband, and the last guy? He had an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, like he was ready to start World War III in my damn shop.

Damn, they were serious. These weren't the run-of-the-mill punks. I was lookin' at some O'Block wannabes, for real.

I moved before they even knew what hit 'em. I wasn't gonna let 'em get a jump on me.

The first guy barely had time to blink before I brought the wrench down hard on his temple. The crack echoed, his body crumplin' to the ground with a sickening thud.

The others barely reacted, too busy gettin' their guns ready. The guy with the Glock leveled it at me, but I was already movin', diving to the side just as he fired a shot. The bullet whizzed by, too close for comfort, and I didn't need any more reminders of how much danger I was in.

The guy with the AK tried to swing it around, but that's when Gramps' voice hit me again. "Don't hesitate, Aaron. Finish it."

I didn't hesitate.

I grabbed a nearby loaded shotgun from under the register table, locked it into place, and aimed it at the thug with the AK. I squeezed the trigger without thinkin', the blast sending him flying backward, his body crashing into the shelves with a sickening crack.

The guy with the revolver, wide-eyed and panicked, turned to run. I couldn't let him get away. Not after everything. I fired again, and the shot rang out, hitting the ground just in front of his feet. He dropped the revolver and bolted, but I wasn't done.

"Stay the hell down!" I shouted, rushing forward and smashing the butt of the shotgun against the side of his head, dropping him like a stone.

It wasn't over. My heart was racing, the adrenaline still pumping hard in my veins, but as I looked around the shop, it was a damn battleground. Tools, parts, and broken glass scattered everywhere, the walls riddled with bullet holes. My sanctuary? Ruined.

And Gramps... His voice came again, a little chuckle behind it. "Well, kid, I guess you finally got your first real shootout. Guess you've earned that damn title, huh?"

I blinked, heart still thudding in my chest. His voice, as annoying as it was sometimes, was a lifeline right now. It kept me grounded, even in the middle of all this chaos.

The gangsters were down, but the shop? It was a mess. Nothing would ever be the same again. I stood there for a moment, breathin' heavy, tryin' to calm myself down.

But I wasn't alone. Not really. Gramps was still here, in my head, crackin' jokes like always.

And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to get me through this.

After the chaos died down, the cops arrived, sirens wailin' like a damn choir of doom. They stormed in, their boots stompin' over the wreckage, flashlights sweeping through the darkness of the shop. They didn't ask questions at first. They just started takin' the thugs away, cuffin' 'em up, draggin' 'em out like they were some lowlife scum.

One of 'em, a cop I recognized from around the neighborhood, walked over to me, his face grim. "You alright, Freeman?"

"Yeah," I muttered, still tryin' to get my head on straight, the adrenaline slowly wearin' off. My hands were still shaky, but I wasn't about to show it. "Just a little... shaken up."

He nodded, glancin' around at the mess.

"I can see that. You know, you're lucky you'make the first move on them or else or you will like The guy you shot"

I didn't feel anything. Just numb, like I was watchin' all this from the outside. My fingers twitched as I looked at the corpse, still sprawled out on the floor. He wasn't just a thug. He was a message. And now, that message was dead.

They asked me a bunch of questions after that—what happened, if I had any idea who those guys were. I gave 'em just enough to get by.

"They broke in. Tried to rob me. I defended myself."

One cop, the one who'd been lookin' at me with suspicion, raised an eyebrow.

"Self-defense, huh? With a shotgun?"

I didn't answer. What the hell was I supposed to say? What kind question is even that? How did he even become a cop?

"You sure you don't know who they are?" he asked again, his voice a little sharper.

"Nah," I said, keeping it short. "Just some punks. Ain't never seen 'em before in my life."

They didn't buy it completely, but it was good enough for them. The gangbanger who survived got hauled off in cuffs, but the one I put down? They put a sheet over him. Didn't matter to me. He'd been a threat, and I did what I had to do.

After what felt like hours of paperwork, the cops finally left, warnin' me to be careful. "These kinds of people don't just go away, Freeman. They'll be back for round two. Watch your back."

I nodded, but I didn't need the warning. I already knew what kind of world I was livin' in. I just never thought I'd have to fight to keep it. But the world doesn't care about your plans, and neither do the thugs who think they own everything.

As the cops pulled away, I stood there in the middle of the shop, the wreckage still around me. Gramps' voice echoed in my head, like it always did when I needed it most. "You're a Freeman, kid. Don't you forget it."

And somehow, that kept me standing. Even with the blood on my hands and the mess to clean up, I wasn't alone. Not really.

Not today.