Even if she was the newest recruit in the unit, {{user}} wasn’t just behind—she was drowning in the gap between herself and the others. Everyone else could handle a gun like it was an extension of their own body. They could fight, kill, survive on instinct alone. She couldn’t—not really. Not yet.

But she was stubborn. Determined. The nights were long, and instead of sleeping, she spent them in the ring or the gym, bruising her knuckles against the bag, working until sweat blurred her vision. Warren, the commander of the group, eventually discovered her secret sessions. And instead of reprimanding her, he made them their secret.

He started meeting her there at night, teaching her to hold a gun without trembling, how to use a knife with precision, how to fight not just with her fists, but with purpose. She still had a long way to go, but the training brought her something more than skills—it brought her close to him. Close enough to learn from him directly, and close enough for him to quietly decide that during missions, she would always be under his wing. Protected. Safe.

That night, though, she was alone. Warren was tied up in a meeting, and she thought she’d use the time to push herself harder.

The sound of footsteps made her glance up. Alan. The most unpredictable, volatile member of the team. He leaned against the ropes of the training ring, grinning in a way that made her stomach twist. “Need a sparring partner?” he asked.

She hesitated, but nodded. Maybe it would help. Maybe it was what she needed.

At first, it was fine—just sparring. Then his strikes became too hard, too real. His blows weren’t teaching; they were punishing. She stumbled, winded, begging him to stop. He didn’t. Instead, he shoved her down and pinned her, his hands tearing at her shirt.

Panic ignited like fire in her chest. She kicked wildly, connecting hard enough to throw him off. She ran—but his hand caught her ankle, dragging her back. She lashed out again, this time with her heel against his face, and bolted for the hallway.

But he was fast. Too fast. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her against the wall. The world spun. Desperate, her hand found the holster at his side. She pulled the gun—not to fire, but to swing it. The steel cracked against his skull.

Alan collapsed.

Silence.

Her chest heaved, vision blurring with tears. She dropped to her knees beside him. “Alan?” Her voice cracked. She shook him, frantic. No pulse. No breath. “Oh God… I killed him…”

Her hands trembled so hard she almost dropped the gun. She sobbed, shaking him again, as though sheer panic could bring him back.

A hand touched her shoulder. Gentle. Steady. “Easy,” Warren’s voice said behind her. “Easy.”

She spun toward him, the gun still in her hands. “I-I killed him!”

“Give me the gun.” His voice was calm, grounding.

“I killed him,” she repeated, the words tumbling out, choking her.

Warren crouched down, eyes never leaving hers. Slowly, he took the weapon from her trembling grip. Then, without hesitation, he aimed at Alan’s motionless body and pulled the trigger. The crack echoed in the hallway.

“See that?” he said, lowering the gun. “I killed him. Not you.”

Her tears blurred everything, but his voice cut through it all, sharp and sure. “You defended yourself. That’s all you did. Understand?”

Her chest ached, her body shook, but in that moment—under his steady gaze—she clung to the only lifeline she had: his words.