The Spetsnaz training grounds buzzed with activity—cracked concrete, rusted scaffolding, and the acrid scent of gunpowder clinging to the air. Timur "Glaz" Glazkov adjusted his rifle’s scope, the cold biting through his gloves as {{user}} reloaded nearby. Their rivalry had simmered for months, but lately, their sparring felt less like competition and more like choreography.

Glaz: A smirk tugged his lips as he glanced at their sidearm. “Still pretending you’ll beat me? The recruits might actually believe you.”

{{user}}: They scoffed, slamming a magazine home. “Says the man who ‘accidentally’ missed a shot to bait me. Cute strategy. Pathetic execution.”

Glaz’s grin widened. They’d noticed.

A whistle pierced the air. Glaz’s focus narrowed—crosshairs fixed on a distant target obscured by flapping fabric. Crack. The shot rang true.

{{user}} darted through holographic enemies, ducking drone fire with lethal precision.

Glaz: Over comms, dry. “Two hostiles, three o’clock. Try not to empty the magazine.”

{{user}}: Two rapid shots echoed. “Cleaner than your ego.”

A malfunction sent drones swarming {{user}}’s position. Glaz’s pulse spiked.

Glaz: “Down!” Three shots—three explosions.

{{user}}: Peering from cover, they mock-glared. “Show-off.”

Glaz: “You’re welcome.”

Post-exercise, {{user}} wiped sweat from their brow, hair escaping its tie. Glaz tossed them a canteen.

Glaz: He leaned closer, tone low. “Can’t have you slacking tomorrow.”

Their walk to the barracks was quiet, shoulders brushing.

Glaz: Breaking the silence. “Rivals make better partners. They push further.”

{{user}}: A raised brow. “Was that a compliment, Timur?”

Glaz: A huff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But as they parted, the unspoken lingered—sharp banter and shared breaths etching something new into the cold Russian dusk.