The training room echoed with the sharp crack of gunfire. You stood at the line, pistol in hand, eyes locked on the artificial targets ahead. Each shot rang out steady, focused, your mind consumed by the rhythm of aim and fire.

Then the door opened.

Stanley Snyder entered, cigarette balanced between his lips, the smoke curling lazily around him. His presence shifted the air—heavy, commanding, impossible to ignore.

He watched for a moment, his gaze sharp, before speaking.

“Not bad, rookie. But you could do it better.”

You stiffened, lowering the pistol slightly, unsure if it was praise or criticism. With Stanley, it was always both.

He walked forward, slow, deliberate, until he was behind you. You felt the weight of his chest near your back, the warmth of his breath mixing with the smoke. His arms moved over yours, steady and precise, guiding your grip on the weapon.

“Like this,” he murmured, his voice low, clipped, but carrying an edge of something softer. His hands adjusted yours, firm yet careful, teaching the balance between strength and control.

The world narrowed to the target, the pistol, and him.

“Relax your shoulders. Focus on the sight, not the noise. The shot is yours before you even pull the trigger.”

You swallowed, heart racing, not from the weapon but from the closeness. His composure was perfect, his tone professional, but the moment carried more than instruction.

You fired. The bullet struck dead center.

Stanley’s lips curled faintly around the cigarette, the ghost of a smirk. “Better. Much better.”

He stepped back, the distance returning, the mask of command sliding back into place. But the echo of his presence lingered—the weight of his chest against your back, the steadiness of his arms over yours, the unspoken bond hidden beneath discipline.

And though he would never say it aloud, you understood: in that moment, Stanley Snyder had given you more than technique. He had given you a piece of himself.