The next morning began before the sun had fully risen.
The camp was already alive with the sounds of grunts, whistles, and boots pounding against dirt as cadets pushed themselves through brutal routines. The air was cooler but still heavy with the scent of sweat and dust.
Ryan stood outside his tent, wiping the sleep from his eyes. Maggi was already there, waiting near a weathered wooden table under a canvas shade, her posture rigid, hands clasped behind her back. She wore a fitted black t-shirt and cargo pants, a sidearm already strapped securely to her hip.
The moment he approached, she tossed a towel at him.
"Dry your hands," she ordered curtly. "No excuses for fumbling."
Ryan obeyed quickly, feeling her gaze sharpen even further.
Without preamble, Maggi reached into a metal case on the table and pulled out a pistol — matte black, clean, deadly. She set it down in front of him with a metallic clack.
"Glock 19," she said. "Your best friend for the next few months."
Ryan studied it carefully. It looked heavier than he expected. Somehow, real weapons had a presence that training equipment never could replicate.
Maggi pointed at it.
"First rule — you respect the weapon. Not fear. Respect. Every piece, every spring, every click matters. Neglect one, and it will kill you."
Her voice was cold, precise, as if she were reading a set of commandments.
Without another word, she picked up the pistol and began moving her hands at a speed that made Ryan blink.
In less than five seconds, the gun was completely disassembled — the slide, barrel, frame, recoil spring — all laid neatly on the table like a broken puzzle.
Maggi looked up at him, her face impassive.
"You will learn to do this in under ten seconds," she said. "Blindfolded. Half-asleep. Under fire."
Ryan swallowed thickly.
Without pause, she reassembled the weapon — a smooth, almost hypnotic dance of metal clicking into place. Within moments, the Glock sat complete again in her hands.
She handed it to him.
"Your turn."
Ryan hesitated for a fraction of a second, then reached out, feeling the cold metal against his palms.
Maggi stepped back, arms crossed, silently watching.
He tried to mimic what he had seen — pulling the slide, removing the recoil spring — but everything felt stiff and unfamiliar. His fingers fumbled, the barrel clattered onto the table, and the slide got jammed.
He muttered a curse under his breath.
Maggi's voice cracked like a whip.
"Faster. No hesitation. You don't get luxury when you're bleeding out in the dirt."
Ryan gritted his teeth and tried again.
This time, he managed to disassemble it, though nowhere near as smoothly as her. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool morning air.
Maggi said nothing — no praise, no criticism. Only the cold, sharp gaze that demanded perfection.
She let him struggle through several more attempts, correcting him only when necessary.
"Keep your thumbs here," she said once, moving his hands roughly. "Stabilize the slide here. You're wasting movement."
Hour after hour, she drilled him — disassemble, reassemble, disassemble, reassemble — until his hands were trembling from exhaustion.
Maggi finally called a break, handing him a canteen of water without a word.
Ryan gulped it down gratefully, feeling muscles in his arms he didn't even know existed beginning to ache.
As he wiped his mouth, he glanced at her — Maggi was still as stone, not even a drop of sweat on her forehead, watching him with a look of distant calculation.
"You'll practice this every night after today's drills," she said calmly. "Tomorrow, we move to live rounds."
Ryan nodded, feeling the weight of her words sink deep into his bones.
This wasn't like anything he had trained for before.This wasn't sport.This was war.
And Maggi — cold, ruthless Maggi — was going to forge him into a weapon, or he would break trying.
As the sun climbed higher, Maggi motioned toward the shooting range.
"Come," she said simply. "You need to learn to make the gun an extension of yourself."
Ryan followed, already feeling that this was only the beginning of a long, brutal road ahead.
The shooting range was nothing fancy — just a long stretch of flattened dirt with wooden stands holding up paper targets, most of them riddled with old bullet holes.
Maggi led him to an empty lane without speaking, her boots crunching softly on the ground. She moved with a kind of lethal grace — like a panther that had long since decided the world was hers to control.
Once there, she turned sharply to face Ryan.
"First — your stance," she said, voice clipped and sharp.
She motioned for him to stand.
Ryan obeyed, awkwardly squaring his shoulders like he'd seen in movies.
Wrong move.
Maggi stepped into his space without hesitation, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed them down slightly. Then she kicked his foot gently outward, adjusting his posture.
"Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees slightly bent. Center of gravity forward," she ordered. "You're not posing. You're surviving."
Ryan nodded stiffly, feeling the burn in his thighs already.
Maggi handed him the Glock 19.
"Two hands. Thumbs forward, not wrapped over each other. Firm grip — strong, but don't strangle it."
She moved his hands into position, her touch firm but clinical.
Ryan adjusted his grip carefully. The pistol felt heavier now that he was preparing to fire it.
Maggi stepped back, crossing her arms.
"Aim for center mass," she instructed. "Always. You are not here to impress anyone. You are here to kill if needed."
Ryan inhaled slowly, raising the gun, aligning the sights like she showed him.
"Exhale half your breath," she added. "Then fire. Never fire on a full breath — it ruins your aim."
Ryan obeyed, exhaling halfway and squeezing the trigger carefully.
Bang.
The gun kicked back violently, far more than he expected. The shot went wide, tearing through the edge of the target instead of center mass.
Ryan staggered slightly, his arms jolting from the recoil.
Maggi didn't even blink.
"Again," she said, voice emotionless.
He reset his stance, adjusted his grip, and fired again.
Bang.
Closer to the center this time, but still off.
Again.
Bang.
Again.
Bang.
Maggi corrected him between shots — always brief, cold comments:
"Lower your shoulders. "Loosen your elbows slightly. "Grip higher on the tang.
" Focus on the front sight, not the target."
Ryan could feel the muscles in his forearms screaming. His wrists ached from the repeated recoil. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
Maggi would never accept weakness. Not here. Not now.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally raised a hand.
"Enough for today."
Ryan lowered the gun, panting, his arms trembling from fatigue.
Maggi walked over to the target, studying the bullet holes without expression. They were scattered — not terrible for a first attempt, but nowhere near good enough.
She turned back to him, her face unreadable.
"You'll practice dry-firing tonight," she said. "No bullets. Just stance, aim, trigger pull. A thousand times, minimum."
Ryan blinked. "A thousand?"
She gave a faint tilt of her head — the closest thing to a smirk he'd ever seen from her.
"Welcome to training."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked away, her shadow stretching long in the setting sun.
Ryan stayed behind for a moment, staring at the battered target.
His hands hurt. His arms hurt. His pride was hurt.
But beneath all that, a fierce determination sparked to life.
He was going to master this. He would not fail. Not here. Not now. Not ever again.
With a grim smile, Ryan holstered the empty Glock and headed back toward his tent, ready for whatever hell Maggi would throw at him next.
Because he had made a promise to Jane, to Hazel's memory, and himself.
He would become someone no enemy could break.
The camp fell silent as night swallowed the forest.
Inside his tent, lit only by the faint glow of a battery lamp, Ryan sat cross-legged on the rough canvas floor, the unloaded Glock resting on his lap.
His arms trembled slightly from the day's work. His wrists were sore. His fingers were numb.
But he didn't care.
Maggi's words echoed in his mind: "A thousand times."
He wrapped his hands around the pistol grip, just like she taught him. Steady. Firm.
He lifted the gun, aligning the sights.
Click.
The dry trigger pull sounded small in the cramped space, but to Ryan, it echoed louder than any gunshot.
Again.
Click.
Focus.Breathe halfway out.Squeeze, don't jerk.Click.
The repetition was mind-numbing. His muscles burned. His shoulders protested with every movement. Sweat rolled down his spine despite the cool night air.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
Every click was a promise — a brick laid on the road he had chosen. A road of no return.
For Jane. For Hazel. For the man he needed to become.
Hours passed unnoticed. His hands began to blister, the tender skin rubbed raw against the pistol's textured grip.
Still, he moved.
Click.
Eyes narrowing, arms locking into proper position.
Click.
Breathe steadily. Heart focused.
Click.
Long into the night, even as exhaustion gnawed at him and pain hollowed out his limbs, Ryan Ashworth kept going — alone, unseen, relentless.
Outside the thin walls of the tent, the camp slept. Somewhere beyond, hidden by the trees, predators moved — human and otherwise.
Ryan welcomed the darkness now.
It would forge him. Or it would destroy him.
There was no third option.