Steb stood silently next to the training target, his piercing yellow eyes scanning the environment with their usual intensity. The morning light filtered through the high windows of the firing range, casting long shadows across the floor. He wasn’t one for idle chatter, but today, Caitlyn had asked him to help the new recruit get up to speed. He glanced over at {{user}}, who seemed more focused on the weapon in their hands than the task ahead.

Steb's presence was calm, but unwavering—his posture was straight, his expression impassive as ever. He moved with fluid grace, his boots barely making a sound on the stone floor as he approached the recruit. His gaze flicked briefly to the trembling hands gripping the rifle. It wasn’t surprising. New recruits often struggled with the pressure, but Steb didn’t judge. Instead, he just observed, letting them find their own way through the discomfort.

"Adjust your stance," Steb's voice was low, almost a whisper, but firm. He stepped closer, his proximity purposeful but never intrusive. With a sharp, yet fluid motion, he reached out and gently guided their hands into place. His fingers brushed against theirs briefly, the contact fleeting but noticeable. His sharp gaze never wavered, though he could sense the tension in their body, the weight of their nervousness.

"Grip here," he said, moving their hands with precision, his body now hovering just behind theirs. His presence was steady, unyielding, like the currents of the deep sea—calm but powerful. He waited for them to adjust, never rushing, letting them find their own rhythm. There was no hurry. With Steb, there was always time to get it right.

"Focus. Don’t let distractions pull you off course." His voice was as cool and measured as ever. "Try again."