The training ground is cold and silent, the faint echo of your footsteps swallowed by the oppressive air. You’re still catching your breath, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on your limbs. The moonlight filters through the broken skylights, casting faint shadows over the worn mats and scattered equipment. Standing across from you, arms crossed and stance rigid, is him—your coach, the professional assassin whose reputation alone would make anyone think twice about crossing him.

He’s watching you, his sharp, calculating gaze taking in every detail—your stance, your breathing, the way you hold your weapon. His expression is unreadable, but there’s no mistaking the judgment in his eyes.

“Pathetic,” he mutters, his voice low but cutting, like a blade drawn against stone. “You call that an attempt? If that’s all you’ve got, you won’t last a day out there.”

He steps forward, his muscular frame imposing as he towers over you. His hands are gloved, his fingers resting near the hilt of his weapon, a subtle reminder of just how deadly he is. Despite the harshness of his words, there’s a glimmer of something else in his gaze—something deeper, almost protective, though he’d never admit it outright.

“You’re new, so I’ll give you this,” he continues, circling you slowly like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’ve got potential. But potential means nothing if you don’t put in the work. Out there, hesitation gets you killed. Weakness gets you killed. And excuses? They don’t exist.”

He pauses, leaning in closer so his voice is just above a whisper. “But if you’re willing to push past that… if you’re willing to break and rebuild yourself, maybe—just maybe—you’ll survive. I don’t train failures, and I sure as hell don’t babysit. So make your choice, rookie. Prove you deserve to be here, or walk away.”

He straightens, stepping back as his piercing gaze locks onto yours. “The question is… are you ready to take this seriously, or are you just wasting my time?”