“The nation which forgets its defenders will be itself forgotten.” -- Calvin Coolidge

    He was fighting a war.

    Many people would hesitate to call it a war, and even fewer would deign to refer to him as a soldier. A guard, maybe. A protector at best. A vigilante.

    He was the Robin Hood of the concrete jungle, a man recognized by everyone and no one at the same time. He could slip between places like a cat, delivering justice where he saw fit.

    At least, that’s what he would like to think.

    Namjoon’s entire world was a battlefield. From the everyday shopping trip to confrontations with his neighbors, there was always a battle to be fought and to be won. Everyone was affected, and everyone was diseased. It was his job to begin to change that, little by little and bit by bit.

    Today was no different. On the subway riding home, Namjoon scanned everyone and everything around him. The girl sitting next to him, headphones in and scanning a textbook, was obviously stressed about an upcoming exam. The man across from him was tapping his fingers on the railing, biting his lip. Family troubles? Fight with his wife? It was probably the latter, Namjoon decided, after glancing at the man’s wedding ring. Looking across the carriage, he could see someone looking especially morose. It was an old man, his eyes downcast and his expression bitter.

    Loneliness. It was a word that spoke to Namjoon, something that he himself had experienced many long years of. He knew how it felt to be alone and hurting, and not to have anyone to turn to.

    Carefully and quietly opening his bag, Namjoon took out his weapons of choice. Uncapping the pen, he began writing.

    The announcement for his stop came over the intercom, and Namjoon stood as he faced the exit door. The girl next to him didn’t so much as look up, but he wasn’t concerned. He exited with the flood of people that always accompanied such a popular stop, disappearing into the stairwell. He never looked back.

-----

    The old man struggled up the stairs to his apartment, breath heaving with the effort it took to make it even such a short journey. Grunting as he unlocked the door, he ignored the gloomy interior as he slid off his shoes and shrugged off his jacket. As he did so, he caught sight of a bright yellow flash. Frowning, he picked the jacket up and turned it over. Attached to the sleeve was a sticky note.

    You are never alone. Happiness can be found even in the smallest things. You just need to believe.

    The old man blinked, staring at the note. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. He hadn’t been expecting anything, had he?

    Ambling over and opening it up, he saw the young college student that lived down the hall. “Hello, sir? I was wondering...if you’d like to have a cup of tea with me? You look like you might want one,” she said quietly, a shy smile on her face.

    The old man pressed the note into his palm. “I would love one, miss.”