In the bathroom, Zhang Jie splashed cold water on his face, staring at his reflection in the mirror, complete with dark circles under his eyes.
The man in the mirror had hair like a bird's nest and toothpaste foam still clinging to the corner of his mouth. This appearance was supposed to be for a professional killer?
What a joke.
The sound of a wheelchair came from downstairs.
John was already dressed: black tactical pants, a dark gray cotton T-shirt, and the gauze over his right eye replaced with a smaller band-aid.
On the dining table in front of him were two cups of black coffee and several energy bars.
"Eat," John said without looking up. "We'll head to the training ground soon; it opens at seven."
Zhang Jie grabbed an energy bar and took a bite, almost chipping a tooth: "Is this thing made of cement?"
"Chewing helps you wake up," John said, pushing his wheelchair towards the garage. "The car keys are on the table."
As the garage door slowly opened, Zhang Jie's jaw dropped.
There was only one vintage car in the garage; it didn't seem to fit John's identity.
In the garage was a 1969 Ford Mustang Boss 429.
This car was one of the mementos left to him by his late wife, Helen, and held significant emotional value.
John had already moved himself into the driver's seat. "Get in."
The car drove towards the suburbs in the morning mist.
Zhang Jie gnawed on the brick-like energy bar, secretly observing John's profile.
The man's stubble was meticulously trimmed, but there was a faint bluish tint under his eyes.
"Did you sleep last night?" Zhang Jie couldn't help but ask.
John tapped his fingers on the steering wheel: "A little worse than you."
"What?"
"You slept like a log."
Zhang Jie decided to shut up.
The Shooting range was further than he imagined.
By the time the car finally stopped in front of an unassuming gray building, the sun had fully risen.
The sign at the entrance simply read "Brooklyn Shooting Club," but Zhang Jie noticed an absurd number of cameras around, and the perimeter wall was topped with barbed wire.
"This is..."
"An old friend's property," John said, swiping his access card. "The training ground is on the third basement level."
As the elevator descended, Zhang Jie's eardrums buzzed from the change in air pressure.
When the elevator doors opened again, his eyes widened.
Before him was a Shooting range the size of a football field, complete with various targets, obstacles, and simulated scenarios.
Even more striking were the gun racks along the wall, displaying everything from antique to the latest model firearms, gleaming with a cold metallic luster under the lights.
"Holy crap..." Zhang Jie's vocabulary suddenly became incredibly sparse.
John pushed his wheelchair to the long table in the center. "Phase one: familiarize yourself with your weapon."
He picked up a glock 19. "Do you know what this is?"
"A Pistol?" Zhang Jie replied uncertainly.
John's mouth twitched: "From today on, they are your wife, lover, and children."
He expertly removed the magazine and racked the slide to check the chamber, the entire process taking no more than three seconds. "First, learn to disassemble."
The next two hours were hell.
Zhang Jie clumsily mimicked John's movements but always got stuck at some step.
The spring flew off several times, once almost hitting John's wheelchair.
"Seventh time!" Zhang Jie exclaimed, looking frantically at the pile of parts on the table. "This damn spring just won't cooperate!"
[Firearm Disassembly/Assembly: Lv0 (3 → 8 / 100)]
John sighed and reached out to demonstrate: "Press your thumb here, push it in at a 45-degree angle."
His movements were fluid, as if the gun was an extension of his body. "In Huaguo, do you even need real-name registration for kitchen knives?"
Zhang Jie pouted: "How could that be..."
He tried John's method, and this time, he finally succeeded. "Look! I did it!"
John nodded: "Practice a few times, speed up, then do it blindfolded."
"Huh?"
An hour later... Before Zhang Jie could protest, John had already tossed him a black cloth. For the next half hour, Zhang Jie wrestled with metal parts in the dark, his T-shirt soaked with sweat.
His hands were almost blistering.
When he finally successfully assembled the Pistol for the Nth time, John, uncharacteristically, said, "Not bad."
[Firearm Disassembly/Assembly: Lv1 (98 → 99 / 100)]
"Phase two," John said, pushing his wheelchair to the Shooting range. "Understand your weapon."
Five different models of Pistols were laid out on the table.
John picked them up one by one, explaining their characteristics: "The glock 19 has good balance; the Sig Sauer P221911 has heavy recoil but powerful..."
Zhang Jie listened intently, unable to resist interrupting: "Which one is the most expensive?"
John narrowed his eyes: "Why do you ask that?"
"Uh... curious?" Zhang Jie touched his nose, feeling guilty.
"Custom STI 2011, priced at $4500."
A custom STI 2011 Viper, this is a model I'm quite fond of too.
John pointed to a silver and black Pistol in the corner.
Zhang Jie's eyes instantly lit up: "Wow, can I touch it?"
"No."
"Alright..."
Training continued.
John taught him how to choose weapons based on the mission, how to adjust the grip to fit his hand, and even how to fine-tune the trigger pull with sandpaper.
But that didn't stop Zhang Jie from missing the target.
Zhang Jie learned quickly. When John demonstrated how to adjust the trigger pull with a specialized tool, he couldn't help but ask, "Do you Americans play with guns as toys since childhood?"
John didn't look up: "I got my first gun at six."
"Six?!" Zhang Jie's eyes widened. "When I was six, I was still playing with mud!"
"That's why you need remedial lessons now. I really don't know how a rookie like you ever thought of becoming a killer." John handed him a screwdriver. "Adjust this spring."
By lunchtime, Zhang Jie's hands were covered in blisters.
He slumped on the sofa in the lounge, watching John heat two frozen pasta meals in the microwave.
"You eat this?" Zhang Jie asked incredulously. "A billionaire eating microwave food?"
John pressed the start button: "The first lesson for a killer: get used to bad food."
Zhang Jie pouted, then suddenly noticed a photo hanging on the wall.
A young John stood on a podium, a banner behind him reading "IPSC World Championship."
"Wait, you competed?"
John didn't turn around: "1995, runner-up."
"Who won the championship?"
"Marcus."
The microwave chimed. "My good friend."
Well, this one really was a good friend, a true 'add money' recluse.
The afternoon training was even more brutal.
The following days were a monotonous cycle of disassembling guns, tuning guns, Shooting targets... John taught him how to reload a magazine on the move, how to protect his weapon when falling, and even how to assess a firearm's status by touch alone in the dark.
Zhang Jie's knees were scraped, his fingers were blistered, and his palms stung, but strangely, he didn't want to stop.
[Resilience: Lv0 (2 → 7 / 100)]
On the fourth day, Zhang Jie couldn't hold back anymore.
"Why are you helping me?" During a break, Zhang Jie finally asked the question that had been bothering him for so long.
John, who was inspecting the scope of a sniper rifle, paused. "Because Daisy likes you."
"That's it?"
"Also," John hesitated uncharacteristically, a flicker of memory in his eyes, "you remind me of someone."
"Who?"
"An old acquaintance." John put down the gun. "Practice hard, rookie."
On the way back, Zhang Jie clutched the gun case as if it were a precious treasure.
His fingers were still trembling slightly from overuse, but a smile he couldn't control spread across his face.
"Continue tomorrow?" he asked tentatively.
He was starting to like this feeling.
"Mm."