I was on the floor because I’d fallen and falling wasn’t the same as losing.
When I pushed myself upright, my legs shook, but they held.
And that—right there—was the difference.
Ranger didn’t touch me.
Didn’t speak.
He waited.
I sucked in a breath. Then another. Pressed my palms flat against the mat. Felt the texture. Counted the lines in the rubber padding.
Here. Now.
I pushed myself up.
“That’s it,” Brutus said quietly. “That’s the difference.”
Sweat soaked through my shirt. My arms burned. My lungs felt raw.
And for the first time in a long time, the ache didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like progress.
We took a break mid-morning. Doc appeared with water and protein bars, scowling like he expected me to collapse at any second.
“Hydrate,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir,” I said, and meant it.
Outside, the compound buzzed with low-level activity. Bikes being tuned. Radios crackling. Scout sat on the porch wrapped in a blanket, nursing a mug and talking quietly with Ariel. He looked tired. Still healing.
Still here.
I caught his eye as I passed, and he gave me a small nod.
Something steady clicked into place inside me.
We moved to weapons after lunch.
Nothing live. Nothing reckless.
Ranger walked me through grip and posture with a handgun first, correcting small things. My elbow angle, my wrist tension, the way I breathed before pulling the trigger. Each correction made the shot cleaner. More controlled.
“This isn’t about power,” he said. “It’s about intention.”
The words stuck.
Brutus took over for close-quarters work. No theatrics. No mercy either.
“Again,” he said, every time I hesitated.
By the time my muscles started to shake, I wasn’t thinking anymore. My body reacted before my fear could catch up.
That was the goal.
Wrecker never stepped in.
