Morning came without permission.
Desto woke to the sound of bodies hitting mats and the sharp bark of orders. The concrete floor had leeched the warmth from his bones, but he pushed himself up without hesitation. Around him, the others were already moving—teenagers and near-adults with bruised knuckles, taped wrists, and eyes trained to stay alert even while half-asleep.
No one asked where he and Tristo had come from.
In places like this, new faces weren't questions. They were expectations.
The instructor paced the room, boots heavy, presence filling the space without noise. Up close, the scars on him told their own story—knife marks across the forearms, an old burn crawling up his neck, the left ear chewed away like something had taken a bite and decided it didn't like the taste.
"Line up," he said.
They did.
Desto stood straight, shoulders squared. Tristo slouched slightly, hands in his pockets, gaze drifting across the room as if memorizing exits rather than opponents.
The instructor stopped in front of them.
"Merc school intake's in six weeks," he said. "Some of you won't make it. Most of you shouldn't."
A few heads lowered. No one spoke.
"You," he said, pointing at Desto. "You fight like you're already tired."
Desto didn't flinch. "I don't waste energy."
"Good," the instructor said. "You'll need it."
His eyes shifted to Tristo.
"And you," he continued. "You fight like you know what's coming."
Tristo smiled faintly. "I usually do."
The instructor held his gaze for a long second, then turned away.
"Pairs," he barked. "Rotate every five minutes. Break something if you have to. Heal it yourself later."
The room erupted into motion.
Desto was paired with a tall boy built like a runner—fast, light, reckless. The first exchange told Desto everything he needed to know. He let the boy overcommit, stepped inside the swing, and put him on the mat with a controlled twist of the wrist.
Efficiency.
Across the room, Tristo danced around his opponent, letting punches pass inches from his face. He moved late—always a fraction after the moment had passed—then struck where it hurt most. Not the body. The balance. The confidence.
Desto glanced over once.
Tristo caught his eye and winked.
The pressure behind Desto's eyes returned, sharper now, as if reacting to proximity. He shook it off and focused.
Hours passed like that.
By midday, sweat slicked the floor. Blood dotted knuckles. Nobody complained.
During the break, Desto sat against the wall, reloading his Glock with slow, methodical precision. The instructor watched him from across the room.
"You carry like you expect to use it," the man said.
"I do," Desto replied.
"Most people your age think guns make them strong," the instructor said. "They don't."
He stepped closer. "They make mistakes faster."
Desto looked up. "Then why teach us to use them?"
The instructor smiled without humor. "Because something out there doesn't care about your fists."
Desto thought of the man in the apartment. The bullet passing through him like fog.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I figured."
That night, they were assigned bunks.
Tristo took the one above Desto without asking. He lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
"You feel it too, right?" Tristo said after a while.
Desto didn't need to ask what he meant. "It's closer."
"Not physically," Tristo said. "Conceptually."
Desto exhaled slowly. "You talk like this doesn't bother you."
"It does," Tristo replied. "I just don't panic early."
Silence settled between them.
From somewhere deeper in the building, someone screamed—short, sharp, cut off almost immediately.
No alarms sounded.
No one moved.
Desto sat up.
Tristo didn't.
"Training accident?" Desto asked.
"Maybe," Tristo said. "Or maybe someone learned too late."
Desto lay back down, eyes open.
When sleep finally took him, it wasn't deep.
He dreamed of hallways with too many doors and photos that changed when he wasn't looking.
And when morning came again, the count was short.