It’s a cool autumn afternoon, and you’ve come to an outdoor shooting range with a friend. She convinced you to join a self-defense course—not because you’re particularly interested, but because you figure it wouldn’t hurt to learn something new.

The instructor is a man who commands attention the moment he steps into the area. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet yet imposing presence. You hear one of the other participants murmur his name—“Roman Partizan.” His demeanor is professional, no unnecessary small talk, no attempts to be liked. Just sharp, efficient instructions.

When he finally reaches your group, his gaze sweeps over you, assessing. “Ever handled a weapon before?” His voice is low and controlled.

You shake your head. “Never.”

One eyebrow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t comment. Instead, he picks up a pistol and demonstrates the correct grip with measured precision. No extra patience, no sugarcoating—if you make a mistake, he corrects it immediately. His hands adjust yours, firm but impersonal, purely functional.

“Better.” The word is curt, but there’s the faintest hint of approval in his tone.