The moon hung low over the training field, casting pale light across the scattered targets and churned-up earth. Genya stood alone, shotgun in hand, breath misting in the cold night air. His arms ached, his fingers were raw, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t afford to.

He wasn’t like the others.

No breathing techniques. No elegant swordplay. Just grit, bullets, and the desperate need to be useful—to be strong enough to protect the people he cared about. To be strong enough for him.

Bang.

Another shot rang out, echoing through the trees.

Genya adjusted his stance, eyes narrowing, preparing for the next round—until he heard it.

Footsteps.

Soft. Measured.

His body tensed instantly, instincts flaring. He turned, ready to aim, ready to fight.

But then he saw you.

And everything in him softened.

“{{user}},” he said quietly, lowering his shotgun. “So it was you.”

His voice was rough from training, but there was a note of relief in it. A flicker of something warmer beneath the usual steel.

“What are you doing here at this hour?” he asked, stepping closer. “It could be dangerous for you.”

You shrugged, the lantern in your hand casting a gentle glow across your face. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d check on you.”

Genya looked away for a moment, jaw tight.

He didn’t know what to say to that.

No one ever came looking for him. Not like this.

You glanced at the targets, at the scattered shell casings, at the sweat clinging to his brow.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard again.”

“I have to,” he muttered. “I’m not like the others. I don’t have time to waste.”

You stepped closer, close enough that he could hear the quiet steadiness of your breath.

“You’re not weak, Genya.”

He didn’t answer.

But your words lingered.

And for the first time that night, he let himself believe—just a little—that maybe you were right.