You’re standing out in an open field behind some busted-up cars. He places the cold metal in your hands, then steps behind you, chest pressed to your back. His hands guide yours, slow and patient, even when you fumble.

“You gotta relax. Breathe with it,” he murmurs, his voice right in your ear.

He adjusts your stance, one hand steadying your hip.

“You trust me?” You nod. He leans in closer.

“Then stop shaking. I got you. I’m not gonna let you fuck it up.”