(Bloom's POV)
The first morning I woke in Adrian's house felt… strange.
For days I had slept curled up on hard pavements, my body bruised by stone and cold air, waiting for the night to finally kill me. But here I was, stretched out on a narrow bed, a blanket tucked over me. The room smelled faintly of wood and dust, and the silence wasn't hostile like the streets.
It was the kind of silence that reminded me of home.
And that made me want to scream.
I couldn't afford to think of home. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it anyway — marble floors splattered with red, my parents' voices swallowed by gunfire. I had run so far, but grief clung to me like a second skin.
The door creaked. Adrian walked in, balancing a tray with bread and mugs that steamed faintly. He set it on the small table like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
"You're awake," he said, glancing at me with unreadable eyes.
I pushed myself up slowly, wary. My throat was dry. "You didn't have to—"
"Eat," he cut me off, not harsh, just firm. "You look like you'll collapse if the wind blows."
I stared at the food. My pride wanted to resist, but my stomach had already decided for me. I tore off a piece of bread, the warmth spreading down my chest with every bite. I nearly moaned at how good it felt to have something real in me again.
He sat across from me, drinking his own without rushing. For a while, we were quiet. Then he spoke.
"So, Lia…" he said the name I had given him, the lie I'd already tied around myself. "Where's your family?"
The words punched the air out of me. I froze, bread halfway to my lips
Gone. Slaughtered. Stolen from me.
I couldn't say that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. My chest burned as I forced my gaze down, forced the lie out.
"They're… gone."
Silence stretched. When I finally risked a glance, his eyes weren't sharp or suspicious. Just soft.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
I swallowed the knot in my throat and kept eating. If I spoke again, the truth might spill out with my grief.
---
Days bled into each other, but Adrian didn't let me drift. He kept me busy with little things—helping clean, cooking small meals, walking with him through quiet alleys where no one asked questions. He didn't push for answers. He didn't treat me like a burden either.
It was dangerous, the way safety started to feel familiar again.
One night, I sat by the heater, watching its weak glow. My mind was chewing on old memories when Adrian leaned against the wall across from me. His arms folded, his gaze steady.
"You can't keep floating like this, Lia," he said. "The streets don't forgive weakness. If you want to survive, you need more than luck."
I looked up at him, my lips curling into a half-challenge. "And what do you suggest?"
His expression didn't waver. "I can teach you. Not everything. But enough to defend yourself. You ever handled a gun before?"
The word alone made my chest clench. I shook my head.
A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Then we'll start there."
---
The first time he handed me the pistol, I nearly dropped it. The metal was cold, heavier than I'd thought. I hated how alive it felt in my hands. My fingers trembled, but I locked my jaw and kept hold of it.
"Rule one," Adrian said, stepping behind me, his voice steady, "don't point it at anything unless you're ready to kill it. Rule two, don't hesitate. Hesitation gets you killed."
I nodded, though my throat felt tight. The smell of steel dragged memories back too easily. My home. Gunshots. Blood on the floor.
"Breathe," Adrian reminded me, his hand brushing my shoulder for only a second. "Exhale when you pull the trigger. Don't fight the recoil."
I pulled
The sound cracked through the warehouse, deafening. My shot went wide, nowhere near the target. My arms jolted from the kick, nearly throwing the gun out of my hands.
My heart thundered. Shame burned in my cheeks. I hated how weak I looked.
"Again," Adrian said. Not disappointed. Not mocking. Just calm.
So I lifted the gun again. And again. Each time, the shot rang loud and wrong, bullets scattering across the walls instead of the target
By the end of that night, my arms were aching, my palms raw. But I didn't stop. I couldn't stop.
By the fifth night, I clipped the edge of the target. By the seventh, the center. And when I finally saw the red mark split by my bullet, something inside me snapped into place.
I wasn't powerless anymore.
Every shot after that wasn't just training — it was a promise. Each bullet carried my parents' faces in my mind, carried my rage, carried the vow I whispered inside me every time the trigger clicked.
I won't forget you. I won't forgive him. One day, this gun will finish what he started.
When I lowered the weapon that night, sweat dripping down my face, Adrian studied me in silence.
"You're a fast learner," he said at last.
I kept my eyes on the target, holes torn clean through it, and tightened my grip around the pistol. My voice was low, steady, carved from iron.
"I have a reason to be."