My name’s Daniel, Daniel Silva. And today I had the good fortune of turning 24 with absolutely nothing to show for it. Sure I have a nice car, and I happen to have done pretty well in the Corps, but aside from that? Nadda. No house, no wife, no kids, no side hustle, no backup plan.

I sit up groggily in the shitty cot my step-dad set up for me in the garage, smirking as I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, thank god we live in Miami, eh?

My few meagre belongings were tucked under a military-esque pop up cot, squared away in my patrol bag, a few more in the trunk of my 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 302. Even in the dim light its matte blue paint with white racing stripe finish gleamed, spotless. My most prized possession.

I didn’t own much, mostly because I rarely came home, in the 6 years since signing on I’ve only been home at most once a year, and even then only for a few weeks. So I never really felt the need to buy anything.

“Hey! Asshole, get out of fuckin bed and take my daughters to College before I come in there and kick your ass!” Brian screamed from beyond the garage door leading to the kitchen.

Brian was a douchebag. Plain and simple, there was no way around it. He had a badge and a gun, and everyone called him Lieutenant so it made him feel important. He married my mom a couple of years after Dad died, though why she married him I don’t know, they’re leagues apart. She is a 5’10” latin lady, tanned skin, dark brown hair, bright hazel eyes, and a well maintained hourglass figure. He is a 6’2” pot-bellied, balding alcoholic, with no hair on his head to speak of, blotchy red skin, and a face only a mother could love. Of course it was different when he was younger, he was the best cop on the force, and mom couldn’t raise me by herself being a single parent isn’t easy after-all, I suppose she probably wanted a strong male role model for me.

How times change.

“Yeah! I’m coming...” I call back standing up with a sigh as I pull on a pair of jeans, a black shirt, and some timberlands on.

Quickly I appraise myself in the mirror of my shaving kit, jet black hair trimmed short at the back and sides, a light stubble over my slightly tanned features, bright blue eyes like my dads looking back at me. Being in the Corp my body ain’t that bad either, 6’5” and toned with muscle from the extensive training regime, and a couple of scars to boot, namely a nasty one that slices visibly against my eyebrow, a couple of cris-crossed lashes on my back, and a couple of bullet wounds on top. They all had a story, not that I can ever be bothered to tell anyone about them, even my family.

With a loud bang the garage door to the kitchen slams against the wall as it’s thrown open violently. “Hey! I thought I fuckin told you to move it jackass!” Brian spat from the doorway as I rolled my eyes and sighed.

It’s going to be a long day.