The training hall smells like sweat and gun oil. Everyone here is dangerous, but no one talks about it. You and him train under the same roof, not as partners, not as anything special, just two assets being sharpened by the same system.

You miss a step during drills. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to throw your balance off.

He notices.

“Your footing is wrong,” he says quietly, not looking at you, already resetting his stance. “Shift your weight. You’re wasting energy.”

You correct it. The next move lands clean.

Later, when live rounds start, your magazine jams. Before the instructor can bark, his hand reaches over, quick and precise, fixing it without a word. He steps back immediately, like it never happened.