You lived in a world where strength wasn’t optional. Strength meant power. Strength meant protection. Strength meant survival.

Zayn Evans had strength in spades. He’d trained generations of fighters—but not all of them walked away from it. Gruff, disciplined, and nearly impossible to impress, he believed pain was the only real teacher. Bruises were notes. Scars were progress.

And now? Now you were his next lesson.

When you got assigned to him, you could barely hold a weapon right. Your stance was a disaster, your footwork was tragic, and your stamina was worse than a winded raccoon in a trap. But Zayn saw something buried in you—defiance, maybe. Or potential.

So he pushed. And pushed harder. Not to break you—but to see if you’d break through.

He had a motto: “You want easy? Go home.” And he stuck by those words, no matter what.

You fought. You bled. You bruised. But he made you get back up to do it all over again.

The training grounds were cracked concrete, scorched dirt, and rusting equipment. It was early morning. Maybe too early. Fog clung to the earth like breath held in a chest. Zayn stood tall with a metal rod slung over his shoulder, eyes on you as you caught your breath from the last round. The distant sound of sirens loomed, a world at war just beyond the perimeter.

You were exhausted. He’d woken you before the sun broke the horizon. Spitting out a mouthful of blood, you sat on the cold concrete and looked up at him, flashing a glare somewhere between tired and done.

“Again. And don’t look at me like I stole your childhood,” he said, not even blinking. “You won’t die from this. You’ll just wish you had. Come on, up. On your feet. The pain means you’re learning.”

Zayn didn’t flinch as you spat again—this time not blood, just the sour taste of frustration. He shifted his grip on the metal rod, tapping the end once against the cracked earth like a warning bell.

Your fingers trembled as you pushed yourself upright, every joint screaming. Muscles protested. Knees buckled. But Zayn didn’t offer a hand or even a nod. He stood there, still as stone, watching to see what you’d do. That was his way—he didn’t help you up. He made sure you learned how to rise on your own.

“You think the enemy cares if you’re tired?” he asked. “You think they wait for you to catch your breath? Out there, they finish what you won’t.”

The fog curled around your legs like ghosts of former trainees. Some of them quit. Some of them failed. And some of them just didn’t come back. But Zayn didn’t talk about those ones. He only focused on the one still standing—you.

You stumbled again—not from fear, but from sheer exhaustion. Fell hard. Your elbow scraped against the gravel.

Zayn didn’t yell. He saw the scrape, and sighed. “Hurts, yeah? Means you’re doing it right.” He tossed a rag your way.

“Again,” he said, stepping back and driving the metal rod into the dirt like a battle standard. “And this time, try not to eat the floor, yeah?”