Inside, Layla's already stretched out on the couch, half-awake, half-listening, her hand still resting near her pistol. She cracks an eye open as he steps in.
"Truck still there?" she murmurs.
"Yeah," August says, tossing the duffel bag of rifles onto the floor. "Some idiot tried his luck. Not a problem anymore."
Silence grows as August unpacks the rifles from the duffel bag. Layla is curious, watching August examine the magazines and emptying one of them.
August racks the chamber of the rifle in his hand and offers the gun and its magazine to Layla. "I'm going to teach you how to use a rifle."
Layla's face shows a complex emotion—excitement and apprehension in equal measure. "You will?" she asks, her voice soft with caution. "I don't know if I can do it. It looks large, more than the pistol."
August demonstrates how to load and unload the rifle, the firearm's stock tucked in his armpit as he inserts the empty magazine, then racking the charging handle. He then offers the gun again to Layla.
Outside, a single gunshot cracks through the air. Layla flinches, her hands moving instinctively to cover her ears. Her eyes dart nervously to the window, but August maintains his composure, using the moment to reinforce a key point. "That sound—that's why you learn to use these," he continues, his hand resting firmly on the rifle's stock. "To defend yourself when others might not be as careful. Are you ready to start?"
The distant crack of another shot makes Layla visibly shudder. She takes a deep breath, exhaling, then turning to August. Resolve flickers in her face as she squares her shoulders, nodding slightly. "Teach me." Her voice is soft, yet determined, her eyes locked on to August's.
August gives the weapon. Layla holds it with one hand, gritting her teeth because of its weight.
"Layla, you gotta use two hands. It's not a pistol." August moves to get another rifle from the bag.
Layla nods, her hands quivering slightly as she wraps them around the rifle's grip.
August guides her hands, one on the stock and one under the forestock, showing her the proper two-handed grip as he does the same for his own rifle. "Like this," he instructs, his hand now covering hers. She adjusts her grip, trying to match the position he's demonstrating. The rifle feels impossibly heavy in her hands, but she holds it steady, her arms quivering with the effort.
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Time passes as August spends an hour working with Layla, his patient guidance leading her through the basics of rifle handling. Her grip improves over time, the wobbling less pronounced as she grows accustomed to the weapon's weight.
As the hour-long lesson concludes, Layla lowers the rifle after clearing its chamber with a relieved sigh. Her arms ache from the unfamiliar exercise, but there's a newfound confidence in her posture. "I... I think I'm starting to understand," she says, flexing her fingers. "It's still so heavy, but I can see why you use it." She glances at August, a small, proud smile on her face. "Thank you for teaching me. I feel... safer now."
"It's late. We should sleep for the day. It's already night." August moves to the bedroom, his strides long, yet patient.
Layla follows, rifle in hand. Her steps are slower, weighed down by exhaustion.
The bedroom is small, barely more than a dusty shell of what it once was. A single bed sits against the far wall, its mattress sunken in spots, the old frame creaking as August sits down first.
She lingers near the doorway for a moment before sighing, setting the rifle by the bed, then pulling off her boots and jacket. "Not exactly luxury," she mutters, rubbing at her arms.
August smirks slightly, lying back against the mattress. "Better than nothing."
Layla huffs but doesn't argue. She climbs in beside him, careful to keep a little space between them. The air is cold, but the warmth of another body nearby is grounding.
As the silence of the night settles in, a distant gunshot cracks through the air. Layla flinches, her breath hitching as instinct pulls her closer to August. It's subtle—just a small shift, her shoulder brushing against his arm—but she doesn't move away.
August doesn't comment on it. He simply exhales, his presence steady, unmoved by the sound outside. "It's fine," he mutters, his voice low and certain. "Just keep your eyes closed."
Layla hesitates, then nods against the pillow. The warmth of August's presence is reassuring, grounding her despite the unease creeping through her chest. She lets out a slow breath, her body gradually relaxing.
The night stretches on, and soon, sleep takes them both.
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August's eyes snap open, his senses sharpening in an instant. The night is still, but something feels off. Then he hears it—a faint scuffle, the unmistakable sound of boots shifting against the rooftop.
Careful not to disturb Layla, he shifts out of bed, moving silently as he reaches for his pistol and sword. The weight in his hands is familiar, grounding. He glances toward the window, catching the subtle movement of a shadow against the dim moonlight.
His jaw tightens. "Someone's here," he thinks.
August steps carefully toward the window, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. He presses himself against the wall beside it before tilting his head just enough to peer outside.
The city stretches beneath him, bathed in the cold glow of the moon. The streets are mostly empty, the occasional pile of rubble casting long shadows over the cracked pavement. A soft wind kicks up dust, swirling it through the air like restless ghosts.
His eyes flick upward to the rooftops, his enhanced vision catching them—dark figures moving with trained precision. "They aren't scavengers. Their posture, their caution… These are professionals." August assesses thoughtfully as he exhales through his nose. "Armed, disciplined, and moving in formation. This isn't a random patrol. They're searching for something. Or someone."
He hears a man yell out in Pashto. "Find her! Now!"
August frowns, but the annoyance he feels does not take precedence over the current circumstances. He pulls away from the window, his movements swift but controlled. The urgency is there, simmering beneath the surface, but he forces himself to think. Rushing would only make things worse.
Layla stirs slightly in her sleep as he steps toward the bed. He places a hand on her shoulder, giving a firm shake. "Wake up," he murmurs, keeping his voice low but commanding.
Her eyes flutter open, groggy at first, but she sees his expression and instantly tenses. "What's wrong?" she whispers.
August glances toward the window. "We have company."
"H-how many?"
"Enough to be a problem. Get your rifle."
Her breath catches slightly, but she nods, immediately moving the blanket and pushing off the bed. The exhaustion in her limbs vanishes as adrenaline kicks in.
Layla grabs the rifle from where she left it, her fingers moving with newfound confidence as she carefully checks the magazine and chambers a round. "Who are they?" she whispers, keeping her voice low.
August shifts his gaze back toward the window, his jaw tightening. "Don't know yet. But they're looking for someone."
Layla swallows, steadying herself. "Think it's us?"
August exhales. "Stay here and keep your rifle close." His eyes flick to her. "I'll go find out."
Layla grips the rifle tighter, her fingers tense around the stock. She hesitates for half a second before nodding, though uncertainty flickers in her expression. "Be careful," she whispers.
August doesn't respond, just gives her a sharp nod before moving toward the door. His steps are soundless, his presence blending into the dimly lit apartment like a shadow.
Layla watches him disappear into the hallway, her heart pounding in her chest. She shifts her weight, adjusting her grip on the rifle. Alone now, she listens intently to the sounds outside—the distant shuffle of boots, muffled voices speaking in harsh tones, the occasional metallic clatter of weapons being handled.
She inhales slowly, forcing her breathing to steady. Whatever was coming, she had to be ready.