The range sat at the far end of the training floor, sealed off from the rest of the compound. Concrete walls boxed it in tight, windowless, the only light thrown down from strips of fluorescents that hummed overhead. The air carried a permanent tang of gunpowder, metallic and acrid, soaked so deep into the walls it clung to the back of the throat. Scored lanes stretched forward in rigid lines, paint blistered where bullets had chewed through targets again and again. Brass shells littered the corners despite the sweep of brooms, small reminders that the floor never stayed clean for long.
Brock stood planted at the edge of the lane, weight balanced like the concrete itself was an anchor. Black cargos tucked into scuffed boots, a plain black t-shirt drawn tight across his frame, his holstered pistol riding easy against his hip. His arms rested loose at his sides, steady, the stance of a man who didn't need to posture or prepare. The range light caught along the line of his jaw, shadowing the rest, and for a moment he looked less like a trainer than a sentinel—set there to judge whether what stood beside him had any chance of surviving what was coming.
Harper stood a half-step forward, close enough that the partition wall brushed her arm when she shifted. Black cargos hung straight over her boots, the seams still stiff, and a black tank top clung close across her chest, the Syndicate's circular stamped stark at the center. The hem had ridden slightly out of place, baring a strip of midriff where the curve of a viper's scales curled up her side before vanishing under fabric again. The light skimmed the faint red line at her throat when she turned, a mark thin enough to catch the eye, but healed. She held herself steady near Brock, posture plain, neither loose nor wound tight, waiting.
It had been weeks since Brock hauled her bleeding out of the cell and shut her into the smaller room off his own. Recovery moved at its own slow crawl: bruises yellowing at the edges, cuts sealing over, the hollow drag in her limbs easing day by day. The nightmares didn't ease. They came most nights in a hard rush, memories stacked on top of each other—gunfire in the yard, the van packed full of her people, Dante's sleeve under her cheek, the garage lights burning down, the table and the bucket and Brock's questions, the cell door slamming, hands on her in the dark. Sometimes Brock cut through all of it, his outline sliding into old scenes until her mind blurred what had happened with what it kept bracing for.
She kept his offhand warning about stronger meds lodged in the back of her head and treated it like a line she refused to cross. The instant a nightmare spat her out of sleep, she snapped her jaw shut on whatever wanted out, forced air in and out of her lungs slow and soundless. Panic still tore through her, sweat cooling along her spine, nails carving crescents into her palms under the blanket, but the room stayed quiet. If Brock heard anything through the wall, he didn't answer it. By the time Brock had decided she was ready to continue training, her body had started to knit itself back together, and the only sign the nights were still wrecked was the steady ache in her jaw each morning.
Now she stood in the lane beside him, the line of targets stretching downrange in rigid symmetry. The partitions pressed close at either side, boxing her in with Brock's solid frame, his presence heavy even when silent. Her hands hung at her sides, fingers loose but waiting, every part of her focused forward as if the lane itself were holding its breath. The past pressed at the edges of her mind, but here, in this narrow strip of concrete and brass, all that mattered was what came next.
Brock stepped forward and drew a matte-black pistol from the holster on his hip—standard Syndicate issue, built for precision, made to last. He checked the chamber, then drove the magazine home with a solid metallic click before setting the weapon down on the table between them.
"This isn't about speed," he said, voice even and grounded, the kind of tone that left no room for doubt. "Center mass. Five rounds. Nothing fancy. You aim, and you fire."
He reached for the earmuffs, set them beside the pistol, then let his hand rest there a moment longer. His gaze found hers, steady, giving her no way around it. "Do you understand?"
Her fingers moved toward the grip, slow, but his hand dropped over the weapon before she could reach it. His touch carried no violence, only finality.
"I asked if you understand."
The air between them tightened. She froze, then lifted her chin and met his stare head-on. Silence stretched for a moment, heavy, before she gave a short nod. "I understand."
Only then did he ease his hand away, letting the pistol sit open for her to claim.
The pistol felt wrong in her grip. Or maybe too right. It had been weeks—maybe months, time bleeding together in captivity—since she'd been allowed near one. Since steel had rested in her hand with the power to decide who lived, who didn't. The weight was familiar, the balance settling into her palm like it belonged there, but here, under Syndicate lights in Brock's lane, it pressed heavier than memory.
For a breath she was aware of every angle the barrel could take. All it would take was a turn of her wrist to bring it around on him. He stood close enough. One squeeze and the back of his head would paint the wall. The thought rose fast and clean, the way any good shot lined up in the mind before it ran through the hand.
Then the rest of it followed. The way the Syndicate would answer a Commander dropped by a Viper recruit with a gun he'd handed her himself. They wouldn't just put her down; they'd make an example out of her, string it out until death felt like the easy part.
She could flip the barrel inward instead, press it under her own chin, end the whole thing before anyone stopped her. One pull and the Syndicate, his rooms, his locks, the steady question of what they'd strip from her next—all of it would drop away.
Her fingers tightened on the grip. The muzzle stayed on the lane as she pushed the thoughts down.
Brock stepped back, giving her space. She didn't falter. She thumbed the safety down, slid the earmuffs on, and squared herself toward the target. Thirty feet out, the human silhouette stood black against paper. Torso. Head. The outline clear in the light, waiting.
Her stance came back without thought—weight even, arms steady, sightline fixed. Behind her, just at the edge of her vision, Brock waited, silent, his presence as solid as the concrete walls.
She pulled the trigger.
The crack rolled down the lane, loud even under the muffs. Recoil climbed up her arms; she caught it, but something in her frame slipped, elbows not quite set, shoulder still remembering boots instead of stance work. The round landed low and left, outside the space that mattered. A miss.
She didn't look back at him. Air slid in slow through her nose, out past her teeth, and she let her hands do what they'd been taught long before any of this—fingers shifting on the grip, wrists easing into a better line, one heel sliding half an inch until her weight settled where it belonged. The adjustments came without thought, muscle and memory moving ahead of anything her head could name.
The second shot cracked out, less jarring this time. Paper jumped. This one took the target high in the shoulder, the kind of hit that spun a body and bought you a breath in an alley, but left whoever you were aiming at angry and upright.
Brock shifted behind her, his presence brushing the edge of her awareness. "That your idea of center?" he asked, voice steady, nothing taunting in it, just the question.
She kept her eyes forward. Her jaw pulled tight once, then eased. Another breath in, another out, longer this time, and she let the noise in her chest run down until all that sat there was a line between the front sight and the outline thirty feet away. This didn't feel like the panic that had crawled through her in the cell and in his bathroom. This was weight, expectation, the kind of pressure she'd carried before, in different colors and on different streets.
Her shoulders rolled back, a deliberate reset. She sank more fully into the stance Wedge had drilled into her, knees loose, hips solid, arms a clean extension of her focus. The pistol settled, sight and target sliding into the same narrow lane.
The next round went straight through the center of the torso.
She felt the difference in her arms even before she saw the hole appear where it should have been the first time. The last two shots followed on its heels, each one landing tight beside the other, a small cluster along spine and lung that would drop a person and keep them down.
She held there when the slide locked empty, arms still extended, chest lifting and falling in a slower rhythm now that the work was done. For a moment she simply took in the pattern on the paper—wild shot, correction, then the neat line of what she actually knew how to do—before lowering the pistol and slipping one muff cup off her ear.
A faint curve touched her mouth as she turned toward him, not quite a smile, just the ghost of something that remembered how.
Brock stepped up beside her, close enough that she felt the shift of his presence at her shoulder instead of behind it. "Better," he told her, tone low, approval threaded through the word. His gaze tracked the target once, then dropped to the gun in her hand. He tipped his fingers toward it in a small, wordless ask.
She turned the pistol and set the grip into his palm and his hand closed around it, easy and sure. He checked the chamber with a short draw of the slide, more habit than doubt, and then moved into her place at the line.
Five shots snapped downrange in a clean, even rhythm. When the paper stilled, a tight cluster sat dead center, each round nearly chewing through the same hole. That kind of grouping didn't come from instinct. It came from years of doing this until the gun and the target were the only things that existed.
Harper's gaze caught on the pattern. Her own rounds sat just below, still solid, suddenly clumsy beside his. The distance between the groupings wasn't much on the page, but it felt wider in her chest, the space between practiced skill and something that bordered on unnerving.
Memory tugged hard, dragging her back to the yard that first night—cold air, concrete, his arm extended, muzzle at her skull. The shot that had gone past her ear close enough to feel, a miss that hadn't been a miss at all. Not mercy. A demonstration.
Same aim now. Same man.
Brock set the pistol aside without a word and crossed to the far wall. The rack waited there, rifles lined in rigid symmetry, matte barrels dull under the fluorescents. He reached for one with the ease of long habit, like it was just another tool meant for his hand.
Harper's chest tightened. Those rifles were etched into her memory by consequence alone. They'd cut the yard apart, rounds shrieking past her skull, sparks jumping from steel, fire snapping her shoulder sideways. Nolan had braced one steady before the crack put her flat, ribs folding, lungs seizing. The same sound had torn through the Den, ripping her world down in bursts of muzzle flash and screams that stopped mid-air.
Her throat worked against the phantom burn. She couldn't look away from the weapon, vision filling with it as if it still smoked from the last time she heard it roar. Something clenched hard under her ribs.
Brock turned back, rifle resting easy in his hands, the weight nothing to him. One hand settled at the grip, the other near the mag well, steady like the weapon was just an extension of his arm. He didn't miss the way her fingers curled in on themselves or how her shoulders had crept up toward her ears. His eyes caught hers and held.
"You handle a sidearm," he told her, voice level. "I've seen that. A pistol's for when things get close and messy. Last line. Here, this is what you'll be expected to carry. What you'll be expected to use."
The words dropped heavier than the rifle itself. Pistol work belonged to alleys and desperate scrambles in smoke and grit. This was different. This was built for holding lines, for walking into rooms first, for cutting people down before they ever got close.
Brock didn't bring it straight to her. He let the rifle rest easy in his grip as he crossed back, giving her time to see it for what it was. Like the weapon itself carried more than steel and polymer—it carried the shift in rules. This wasn't just about learning mechanics. The Syndicate didn't want her competent. They wanted her changed.
She stepped forward to meet him, boots scuffing low against the concrete. Her eyes stayed on the rifle as he extended it out, both hands steady on the frame until she took it. She accepted the weight with care, fingers closing around the stock and grip like one wrong move might give too much away. The pull of it hit her arms at once, denser than she'd expected, heavier than anything she'd carried running with the Vipers.
For a moment she just held it out in front of her, barrel angled down, then she shifted her grip and worked herself into the sling. One arm slid through, then she ducked her head and drew the strap across her chest until it caught on her shoulder. The length of the rifle settled in along her torso, frame long and solid as she eased the stock in toward the pocket under her collarbone. The balance felt off until she nudged it into place, sling dragging against her shoulder until she found a spot that didn't pull.
She kept her attention on the weapon, not on him, adjusting the strap with small, precise movements.
The stock was cool under her palms, polymer clean, the matte surface free of scars. No rust, grit, or rattling parts. Kept ready, built to hold up under whatever it was pointed at. It felt like more than a tool; it felt like something meant to keep ground instead of give it.
Brock watched her in silence, head tipped slightly, eyes tracking each shift of her hands. There wasn't judgment in his face, just the steady process of measuring he always brought to her.
"You ever even held an AR platform?" he asked.
She didn't look away from the rifle. A small shake crossed her head. "No."
"You're not putting a round through it until I'm satisfied you can handle it." His tone stayed even, nothing added on top. Just his line in the sand.
He didn't step back yet. He stayed close at her shoulder, presence a solid weight at the edge of her awareness while his eyes followed every twitch of her grip. "Finger stays indexed," he told her. "Off the trigger until you're on target. You know that rule. Keep it here."
His hand slid against hers, nudging her support forward along the rail. Skin on skin pulled a jolt out of her muscles, an instinctive clench she couldn't bite back, but he didn't linger. He just shifted her grip where he wanted it.
"You don't choke this like a pistol," he told her. "Forward hand controls the recoil. Reach out, get leverage. Lock it in."
He adjusted her fingers until the weight steadied, then brought his palm to her shoulder, tapping the shallow pocket above her collarbone before pressing the stock into it. "Tight. No gaps. If you let it float, it owns you."
He moved behind her, one hand flattening between her shoulder blades while the other nudged at her hip, widening her stance. "Feet apart. Lead forward. Knees easy." A light push at the center of her back angled her weight toward the lane. "Rifle drives into you, you drive back. That's how you stay on your feet."
Every point of contact pulled tension through her. Her body wanted to twist away, shrug him off, break the closeness, but his hands stayed precise and impersonal, setting angles and lines like he was tuning any other piece of equipment. She forced herself to hold still and let him build the frame around her.
"Sight rides higher than the bore," Brock said, voice low by her ear. "Up close, your shot lands lower than where you're looking. Account for it."
When he finally stepped back, his gaze stayed on her, running down the line of her body. The pause stretched before he spoke again.
"Alright," he said. "Hold it."
Harper shifted fully into the lane, the rifle steady in her arms. She set her feet the way he'd shown her—lead foot forward, weight balanced, knees loose, barrel lifted. The movement came smoother now, the shape of it settling into her muscles.
Brock closed the distance again, this time focusing on the web of strap and metal. He caught the sling where it crossed her shoulder and gave it a quick pull, cinching it until the rifle hugged closer to her chest. "Strap stays snug," he told her. "Too loose and it drags you off. Too tight and you lock yourself up. Here, it works for you."
He stepped past her to the table, pulled a fresh magazine from the rack, and let her watch every part of the motion. "Seat it clean," he said, sliding it into the mag well until it locked. "Then rack the charging handle. Same rhythm, every time. No half pulls."
The handle snapped forward with a metallic crack. "If it doesn't sound like that, something's wrong."
Brock popped the magazine loose and held it out to her. "Your turn."
Harper took it, the steel cool in her grip. She brought it up to the mag well, hesitated for a breath, then drove it home. The click landed solid. She racked the charging handle; the movement was stiff, but steady, and it snapped back into place with the sound he'd just drilled into her.
He let his eyes run down her frame again and lifted a hand to tap the selector. "Safe. Semi. Burst." The switch clicked once under his finger. "You're gonna learn all of them. For now, it stays here. Semi only. One round, one target. You don't touch burst until I tell you."
Her fingers tightened around the grip. "Semi. One shot," she said. Quiet, but level.
Brock kept his focus on her. "Good. Now show me."
Harper lifted the rifle, stock snug where he'd set it, cheek pressed into the comb until the sights cut the target into view. Thirty feet downrange, the paper silhouette waited, torso dark and still. She drew a breath, held it shallow, and pulled the trigger.
The rifle kicked back, not out of control but enough to shake the line he'd built into her. The butt slipped out of the shoulder pocket, her elbow jolted wide, and the muzzle climbed harder than she expected. Brass spat sideways, clattering near her boot as the round tore high and left, skimming past the silhouette's shoulder.
Her mouth pressed thin. She reset, finger indexed while she brought the sights back. Another breath. She shifted her stance, sinking her weight the way Brock had drilled into her, knees easy, shoulders loose. The muzzle dipped back into place. She fired again.
This time the shot drove low, clipping the outer edge of the silhouette's ribs. A hit, but sloppy, more a graze than a finish. Heat pricked under her skin; she swallowed it back down.
Behind her, Brock stayed where he was, quiet, watching.
She muttered under her breath and slid her support hand further along the rail, locking her elbow in tight to anchor the rifle. Her shoulders rolled back in a deliberate reset, the same motion she used to settle before a pistol drill. Breath eased low into her chest.
The third round went out steadier. The impact landed clean into the torso.
She squeezed off another, slow and controlled. A fresh mark appeared inside the outline, just off center.
Her last shot followed, arms tightening, sightline narrowing until the trigger broke and the round drove into the paper's chest. One clean, two close, the rest hanging wide on the edges. A passable start, and still short of where she needed to be.
Brock finally stepped forward. He didn't go for the rifle itself, just stopped at her side, eyes tracking the scatter of holes punched into the paper. "Your sling slipped under recoil," he told her, voice even. "Pulled your shoulder out of the pocket. That's why the stock floated."
He reached in, fingers quick on the strap, loosening it just enough that it dropped cleaner across her chest. His palm settled on her shoulder, pressing the stock back into the shallow groove above her collarbone. "Tight," he said. "You keep it here. If it starts to wander, you drag it back. Don't let the rifle decide where it sits."
His hand slid down to her wrist, nudging her support grip higher along the rail until her elbow locked in closer. "Forward pressure. Always. Recoil drives up and back, your job is to send it down and in."
She gave a short nod, jaw set. Her hands re-centered on the rifle. When she brought it up again, the weight sat differently. Still unfamiliar, still a stranger in her arms, but anchored now, tied into the line of her shoulders instead of hanging off her grip.
He stepped back, leaving her the lane.
Harper squeezed the trigger. The first shot landed high in the chest, solid enough to count. She steadied, fired again. The second cut through the outline's left lung. The third took just under the sternum, cleaner than anything she'd put there a minute before.
Her stance held this time. The stock stayed pressed where he'd driven it, her shoulder taking the kick without giving ground. The muzzle still climbed, but it rose inside the space she'd set, never tearing free of her control. The rifle was loud and heavy, all that force running through her frame, but it didn't drag her off balance.
Smoke curled off the barrel and drifted pale through the lane, the faint bite of it mixing with the permanent reek of spent powder soaked into the walls. Harper lowered the rifle partway, chest working, each breath dragging some of the strain out of her muscles.
Brock's boots sounded close behind her. He stopped at her side and let his gaze pass over the grouping on the target before shifting back to her, hands kept to himself this time. She held still, waiting for the verdict, braced for a cut and hoping for something better.
"Clear it," he said.
Her throat tightened at the command, but her hands moved. She flicked the safety up with her thumb, metal clicking into place. The magazine slid free and hit the concrete with a dull clatter. Her fingers racked the charging handle back, stiff at first, then smoother as she pulled it to the rear and thumbed the catch, locking the bolt open. A live round spat free, bounced once, and spun out beside the magazine.
She paused for the space of a breath, pulse running hot while she pushed herself through the last motions. Then she turned the rifle, presenting it empty, bolt locked back, the ejection port gaping clear as she offered it to him.
Only then did Brock take it, his hand closing over the weapon without a word.
He checked the rifle, the same precise sweep he'd given her pistol, then let his thumb rest on the selector. His eyes stayed on the target when he spoke.
"Semi teaches control," he said. "One round, one decision. Shot, reset, shot, reset. You wire that in first. Burst?" His thumb hovered near the switch, a flick away from the next setting. "Burst blows past all of it. Three rounds out before you even finish a breath. If your body isn't locked down, you climb, you drift, you throw half your mag into air or plaster, and in a fight, that kind of waste gets you killed."
He glanced over, the weight of his attention landing with the words.
"Right now you're steadying because there's space between each pull," he went on. "Burst cuts that space out. Everything happens in a blink. Any weakness in your stance, your grip, your head—it shows up fast."
His voice flattened, settling into something that felt as unyielding as the concrete under their feet.
"You want burst?" His gaze held hers, steady. "Earn it."
They stayed on the line after that. Brock swapped the target; she reloaded. Round after round, she worked under his eye, rifle set to semi, each pull deliberate. His corrections came less often as the minutes ran, a hand on a shoulder here, a murmur about elbow or feet there, until even those fell away. The bruising in her shoulder would find her later, but for now she kept her mind on breath, rhythm, recoil, the way the stock sat in the pocket he'd carved out for it.
By the time he called it, her arms trembled with fatigue and her shirt clung damp to her spine. The rifle still felt heavy, still felt like something that belonged more to him than to her, but it no longer sat in her hands like a stranger. It was closer now—closer to something she could claim, if she chose to.