Without a word, he rises, lifts the barbell off my neck like it weighs nothing, sets it back on the rack, and doesn’t look back at me.
“Be back in your suite in five minutes tops.” His voice is flat, cold, a command, and then he’s gone.
I sit up, arms instinctively crossing over my bare chest, staring at the doorway he vanished through.
The anger rises first, hot and sharp, but it collapses into something uglier in my ribs. Something that stings. My eyes burn. I swallow hard, force the tears back, pull my clothes on with shaking hands, and storm out of the gym.
By the time I reach my suite, the anger and the ache have folded into each other so tightly I can’t tell them apart. I slam the door shut behind me and slide down against it, finally letting the tears spill.
It’s him. And yet it isn’t.
Something’s missing, or maybe something new has grown in its place—something colder. He looks almost the same, same scars, same eyes, but the silence around him feels heavier, like it’s swallowing him whole.
How am I supposed to tell him I regret running? That I came back the next morning only to find a field of ash and ruins?
Kasien
Age 18
The first shot cracks through the air and punches a neat hole through the paper man’s throat.
“Too high,” Adrien calls from somewhere behind my right shoulder.
I grit my teeth and reset my stance, feeling the concrete under my boots, headset clamped over my ears, the sharp stink of gunpowder already hanging thick in the training hall.
The whole place is just grey walls, plywood barricades and silhouettes waiting to die. I breathe out, line the sights on center mass this time and squeeze. The recoil jumps up my arm, familiar, almost comforting. This one lands where it’s supposed to.
“Better,” Adrien says.
I glance over my shoulder at him. He’s in full gear—dark T-shirt clinging to his chest, range belt, holster, extra mags clipped in place. Safety glasses, curls messy as always under the headset.
Behind the glass up above stands one bored-looking instructor drinking coffee and pretending not to notice all the rule-breaking.
Adrien steps up beside me and taps the screen on the side of the lane. The targets reset with a mechanical whine. I move when the buzzer screams. Forward, left, cover behind the first plywood wall, lean, sight, shoot. Twice. Center mass and head.
My body knows the pattern by now. It’s just about keeping my brain from wandering off. It still does. I see the next target pop out from behind a faux door and suddenly it’s not a faceless cardboard guy, but Kiara’s face in my head, laughing at something stupid I said. Strawberry smoothie on her lips. Her in my hoodie.
“Focus, lover boy!” Adrien barks.
I blink, jerk the barrel back where it belongs and put two bullets in the paper’s chest.
We finish the run.
I hit most of my shots, screw up one angle, and leave a “hostage” target untouched.
When the buzzer cuts off, my heart’s hammering harder than it should. Sweat prickles between my shoulder blades even though it’s cold here. Adrien hits the button again and brings up the stats on the screen. He tilts his head, lips pressing together like he’s trying not to smile.
“Well, congratulations. You shot more like shit than usual,” he says.
We drop down on the worn-out bench, guns cleared and resting safely on the table in front of us. There are empty casings everywhere on the floor, rolling every time someone walks past. The overhead lights buzz faintly. In the next lane, someone starts another run, more shots echoing through the hall in quick bursts.
“So. Talk. How was your littledrivelast night?” He even does air quotes. Asshole. I stare straight ahead at the targets instead of him.
“It was fine.” I can’t fight the smile spreading on my face.
“Fine,” he repeats slowly, grinning like an idiot.
I roll the bottle between my palms. My knuckles are red and scraped, still sore from earlier. Adrien huffs a laugh.
