War had been his teacher.
War had taught him patience, too.
A few feet away, leaning against the train doors, a group of young men observed him.
Five of them.
Late twenties, ripped jeans, leather jackets, smirks on their faces, the type that fed on vulnerability.
The tallest of the group, Kyle, tilted his head, regarding the old man the way a wolf might regard an injured deer.
His pierced eyebrow lifted, and a lazy grin spread across his mouth. He nudged the guy beside him and whispered something.
The rest of them laughed under their breath.
Richard registered their stares.
He did not look at them.
He did not acknowledge them.
But he sensed it.
Something was brewing.
Another jolt of the train sent a ripple through the passengers. Someone knocked against Richard’s side, and he clamped his hand around the pole.
Kyle moved forward.
“Hey, old man!” he shouted, loud enough that half the train could hear him.
Richard did not respond.
Kyle smiled.
“What’s wrong? Can’t hear me? Guess you left your ears back in the war, huh?”
The group laughed, a low mocking sound.
A few passengers glanced up, then quickly looked away, returning to their phones.
Richard exhaled slowly.
He had seen this before.
Not on a train, and not from smug young men who had never felt real fear, but in battle, where weakness was preyed upon and hesitation could cost lives.
Bullies existed everywhere.
Kyle stepped closer.
He encroached on Richard’s space, standing over him. The train jolted along the tunnel, the flickering lights casting brief shadows across Kyle’s face.