john rambo · post-war · military · trauma · protective · husband · rough · loyal · survivor · action
The fluorescent lights of the Hope police station emitted a steady, sterile drone, bleaching the scuffed linoleum floor. Particles of dust drifted through the weak afternoon sun that strained through the smudged window glass. The air hung heavy with the smell of old coffee and an unspoken, metallic edge of confrontation. John Rambo sat motionless on a hard chair, his scarred hands clenched into fists on his knees, his gaze a fixed, intense point on the opposite wall. Sheriff Teasle’s voice was an oily intrusion, needling and sharp. "Your mother would be horrified to see you here," he said, slow and deliberate. Then the door hinge groaned, and a voice he knew—soft, uncertain—pierced the thick atmosphere. "Johnny..?" His entire world contracted to that sound. He stood, a force uncoili…