Thorne steps into the light. He’s wearing tactical gear now, looking ready to step onto a transport.
“Hold it at the bottom of the exhale,” he instructs, moving to Cassie’s other side. “Natural respiratory pause. Your body is steadiest there.”
Cassie adjusts. Exhales. Holds. Fires.
The shot hits dead center.
“Nice,” Thorne says.
“Show off,” Fuse grumbles, but he’s grinning. “All right, new guy. Grab a lane. Let’s see if you shoot as good as you talk.”
“I shoot better.” Thorne moves to the next station.
From the bench, I track her progress. Cassie empties magazine after magazine into the target. Fuse is patient, professional—correcting her grip. Thorne offers quiet, specific advice between his own drills. By the third box of ammunition, her grouping has tightened significantly. By the fifth, she’s hitting center mass consistently.
“Natural aptitude,” Fuse observes, joining me on the bench while Cassie reloads. “She’s got steady hands and she listens. Most people can’t get past the flinch response for weeks.”
“She’s motivated.”
“I can see that.” He’s quiet for a moment, watching her fire another round. “She’s good for you. I haven’t seen you this focused in years.”
“I’m always focused.”
“You’re intense. There’s a difference.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “The old Diego—the one who showed up after Colombia—he was running on fumes and rage. Going through the motions, taking risks that made the rest of us nervous. We kept waiting for the mission where you didn’t come back.”
“Ghost said the same thing.”
“Ghost says a lot of things. Doesn’t mean he’s wrong.” Fuse’s eyes stay on Cassie. “She gives you something to fight for besides the mission. Something personal. I can see it in how you move, how you position yourself relative to her. You’re not just protecting an asset. You’re protecting someone you love.”
The word lands like a physical blow.
Love.
“I didn’t say?—”
“You didn’t have to.” Fuse grins, leaning against the partition. “I’ve known you for years. I’ve seen you take bullets for strangers, charge into buildings that were actively on fire. You’ve got a hero complex the size of Texas.”
“I don’t have a hero complex.”
“You definitely have a hero complex. Hell, if it weren’t for your guardian angel working overtime, you’d have been dead ten times over.”
“Don’t have a guardian angel …”
“Says the man who’s been shot, stabbed, and blown up more times than I can count. Call it luck, call it divine intervention. You survive things you shouldn’t survive.” He gestures at Cassie. “But this is different. This isn’t about saving a stranger. This is about building something. A future.” His grin fades into something more serious. “Don’t waste it. Don’t let the mission become an excuse to sacrifice yourself. She needs you to come back.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because in a few hours, you’re flying into a fortress. When things go sideways—and they will—the temptation to be the guy who stays behind to buy time, to take the hit so the team gets clear … It’s going to be there.” He holds my gaze. “Don’t do it. Not this time. You’ve got someone waiting. Be a partner, Halo. Stay alive because she asked you to, not just because survival is tactically convenient.”
I don’t have an answer. But something in his words settles into my chest, filling spaces I didn’t know were empty.
Cassie finishes her magazine. Turns to us with a smile.
“My grouping improved thirty percent.” She holds up the target—center mass peppered with holes. “Fuse was being generous, but I’ll take it.”
“Not generous.” Fuse stands. “Accurate. You’ve got talent. Keep practicing and you might actually be useful in a firefight.” He slaps me on the shoulder as he passes. “I’m going to prep the breach charges. You two take a break. Reconnect. Do whatever it is that couples do when they’re not running from killer robots.”
He disappears into the equipment room.
