The good part about being a Ranger was the benefits after you were discharged. The bad news was that privately, you were never discharged. The honorable discharge he had hanging on the wall came with an addendum on the back. Sure there was nothing written, but Titus knew better.

The call he got a few months back was one he was expecting when he saw the unrest in an African country.  He had a day before the plane left the next morning. He packed a bag, and cleared his affairs up. The Marshals were warned and the next morning he was on a plane.

That was then, this is now.

Titus came through his front door in the quiet solitude he was accustomed too. He was dressed in desert fatigues with no insignia, no rank. He knew he was somewhere in the lieutenant range, but he was a spec ops man, so there was nothing denoting him. He was a ghost. The medals he had were his, but there was no listing of them in the database.

He moved through the living room without turning on the light, his night vision was near perfect for humanity. He unbuttoned the shirt showing a simple tank top the color of green and stepped into the kitchen. The cupboards were mostly bare thanks to his leave, nonetheless when he opened  the fridge he found a fresh six pack of Yuengling with a note attached. At least someone cared.

As he sat on his back porch in the middle of the bayou fall, Titus smiled. The world around him was still now, no struggle, no strife. He was going back to his routine. Killing monsters, raising the dead, and the normal hum drum life of an executioner.