After shaking off my neighbor’s intrusive attention and tossing my sweat-soaked workout clothes into the washing machine, I headed straight for the kitchen. Inside, everything was practically howling with hunger. My stomach had turned into an empty, blazing furnace that demanded fuel right here and now. This was not even my first meal of the day, and once again it was as heavy as possible. My routine had become an endless cycle of exhausting strain and calorie intake; I trained like a man possessed, like a rabid beast, fully aware that my body needed raw material to build muscle. Every cell in my body was crying out for proteins and carbohydrates.
"Tom, you really can't go on like this... I only cooked this an hour ago," Mom sighed as she sank into the chair across from me.
Her eyes held a mix of fatigue and silent astonishment. She watched in silence as I demolished a pile of tuna mixed with chicken breast at an alarming pace. The fork moved methodically from plate to mouth, and I barely had time to chew.
"I just can't keep up with cooking for you. You eat for two, no, for three grown men."
"Sorry, Mom," I mumbled the apology without breaking from the process.
I downed a glass of milk in one go and immediately poured myself another, feeling the pleasant coolness wash away the dry taste of the meat.
"Right now, I absolutely need to get myself into shape, and as fast as possible. It's a matter of priorities. Once the foundation's set, it'll get easier, I promise."
"Then you'll go into the army," Mom’s voice trembled, a trace of hidden sadness breaking through the routine she tried so hard to hide behind. "And I'll never see you again. You'll disappear in those portals..."
"Don't work yourself up for nothing," I said, trying to sound as confident as possible, even though everything inside me tightened at her tone. "Look at Danny. He's been serving for eight years, perfectly fine. You heard the latest reports yourself, things are much calmer in the portals now, the danger level's been lowered."
"It's calm for him. He's strong, he controls fire," she shook her head, resting her cheek against her palm. "But you can't do anything... going to the gym isn't a superpower."
"That's exactly why I'm going to learn everything I need," I cut in, placing the empty glass on the table.
The conversation suddenly became an unbearable burden. Every word from Mom, soaked in worry, pressed on my shoulders harder than any barbell in the gym. I needed action, not sentiment. I quickly finished the rest of the food, watching out of the corner of my eye as a translucent bar in the status window slowly filled.
[Trainer Analysis: the familiar has received sufficient calories and carbohydrates. Further food intake is not required for the current recovery cycle]
I exhaled in relief. Signal received. Not wanting to drag out a heavy goodbye, I quickly kissed Mom on the cheek and rushed out of the apartment. I had extreme shooting courses waiting for me, and that was the only thing that mattered right now.
I had signed up for them just yesterday and, to be honest, I was expecting a long wait in line. Spots in good schools were usually booked months in advance. But the world of capitalism delivered a pleasant surprise once again: if you're willing to pay a solid sum for a personal instructor and an individual schedule, they're ready to train you even in the dead of night. Money works miracles, reducing any queue to zero.
Right outside the building entrance, fate shoved me face to face with that same neighbor again. She was holding a small rustling bag, probably coming back from the nearest supermarket. I grimaced involuntarily. Damn, what timing.
"Tom! What a coincidence!" she beamed, breaking into a wide smile and waving energetically with her free hand. "Where are you rushing off to?"
I froze for a moment, looking at her. Did life really teach her nothing at all? Just half an hour ago I had acted like a complete, cold asshole, making it perfectly clear that talking to her ranked somewhere at the very bottom of my priorities. And they say guys do not understand subtle hints. That was not even a hint, that was a direct hit.
"Work," I threw over my shoulder without slowing down.
Technically, it was a half-truth. Studying and training had become my only and most important job, the one I had staked everything on.
"Ah... I see..." she sighed with disappointment, but didn't move.
She was clearly hesitating, shifting from one foot to the other and frantically thinking of another excuse to keep me there longer. I decided to spare her the struggle and headed decisively toward my car in the parking lot.
"Tom, wait!" she called after me.
I slowly turned around, feeling irritation build at the back of my head. "What now?"
"Please... help me carry this bag home," she said, instantly transforming into a fragile and helpless girl in distress.
I looked her over skeptically, barely bothering to hide the irony. A semi-transparent plastic bag with a lonely pack of frozen nuggets and a bottle of ketchup inside. The total weight could not have been more than three pounds.
"You live on the first floor," I reminded her of the obvious. "And honestly, that bag doesn't look like it's pulling you to the ground."
"Oh, I hurt my hand playing tennis," she instantly grabbed her wrist in an exaggerated gesture, as if it were about to fall off any second. "And there are still a few steps to the door, it's really hard for me..."
A bad feeling stirred inside me. All of this looked fake to the extreme. In three years of being neighbors, she had not shown a trace of interest in me, had not even said my name once, and now suddenly this level of enthusiasm, almost throwing herself at me. Fine, I will play along. Let us see where this sudden burst of friendliness leads her.
"Alright, give it here," I took the bag from her.
Did I say three pounds? My mistake. Two at most. It was practically weightless.
"Thank you so much, Tom, you really saved me!" she walked beside me, occasionally casting sideways, studying glances at my arms. "So... you started working out? Lifting weights, right? It's noticeable, your shoulders got broader."
So the progress was not just in the mirror. Interesting. That meant I was actually growing, and the system was working as intended. The thought warmed me more than any compliment.
"Yeah, decided to take care of my health a bit," I replied evenly, keeping an indifferent mask on my face.
"Mmm, I see. That's admirable. So... what's the last movie you watched? Something recent?"
"Don't remember. No time for movies right now," I cut her off.
That was the level of depth our conversation had as we made it to her door.
"Thanks again, Tom," she took her bag, briefly brushing my fingers. "We should talk again sometime!"
The door closed behind her. I stood there for a second in the empty hallway, looking at the closed door. And that was it? No requests for money, no weird propositions? Hm. Maybe I really was being paranoid and just winding myself up, and the girl was simply bored. Either way, it did not matter. I did not even remember her name.
Pushing the thoughts of my neighbor aside, I got into the car and sped out of the city. My destination was the Taran shooting range. A place with a legendary reputation in certain circles. They say this was where Keanu Reeves went through his insane firearms training for John Wick. Not that I was a fan of the franchise, although the movies were solid, it was just that the reviews of this place were off the charts. Top tier instructors, almost all former operatives and special forces, and, importantly, their certificates carried real weight. I had read on forums that such credentials were even valued in selection for elite units like the Green Berets.
As soon as I drove onto the grounds, it became clear why they charged so much. This was not some spit stained basement range or an overgrown field with beer cans on fences. Perfectly trimmed lawns, clear division into training zones, the latest target systems, and sterile cleanliness. Expensive, professional, severe.
I was already eager to get a weapon in my hands and feel the recoil, but reality quickly cooled my enthusiasm. The girl at the reception, the very embodiment of polite bureaucracy, informed me that before I could be allowed onto the range, I had to review the safety rules and pass a qualification test.
"Listen, I'm not planning to buy a gun," I tried to object, feeling my precious time slipping away. "I'm just here to learn how to shoot, I don't need ownership licenses."
"I completely understand, Mr. Ross," she replied with a routine but impenetrable smile. "But these are the rules of our club. Safety comes first. Without completing the briefing, we're not allowed to issue you even a training round."
I let out a loud, deliberately heavy sigh, realizing that arguing with an administrator was like trying to take down a tank with a slingshot. Pointless and exhausting.
In reality, it all turned out much simpler than I had imagined. She handed me a laminated sheet with the basic shooter’s code. The points were standard to the point of boredom: never point the muzzle at people, even if it's not loaded; keep your finger off the trigger until the moment of firing; do not leave a weapon unattended. I skimmed the text in a couple of minutes. The girl asked a few control questions straight from the list, made sure I was not an idiot and could actually read, and that was the end of the ordeal.
The whole thing took maybe ten minutes. The path to the firing line was finally open.
"All set, Mr. Ross," the girl, with a flawless, almost mechanical smile, printed out a thick sheet of paper with my details in a strict font. "The exam's officially passed. Be sure to keep this certificate. If you decide to acquire your own firearm in the future, it'll serve as your pass through the bureaucratic maze."
"Oh, great, thanks," I reached for the document casually, expecting her to simply hand it over.
But her fingers did not loosen. She kept holding the paper, looking at me with that same expression collectors or insurance agents usually have.
"The cost of processing and issuing the certificate is thirty-five dollars."
I froze. A wave of righteous indignation rose inside me.
"But I told you right away, I'm not going to buy a gun!" My voice rose despite myself, and my temples started pounding. "I came here to learn, do you understand? To train! Is it really impossible to just go to the firing line without this piece of paper?"
"The club rules are the same for everyone," she stated flatly without even blinking. "Without a certificate confirming completion of the safety briefing, we're not allowed to admit you to practical training."
I closed my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath of the cool lobby air. Fine. Arguing with this living function was about as useful as trying to convince an ATM. I reluctantly pulled cash from my wallet. The feeling that I was being cleanly and efficiently milked for money grew stronger with every second, but there was no way out. Fine, if this little scrap of paper does not impress anyone at the draft office, I will use it as a mouse pad. An expensive one.
"And one more thing," she looked me over again with a critical, appraising gaze, as if I were defective merchandise on display. "I see you don't have your own protective gear. According to our club’s safety protocol, a client must be in the firing zone fully equipped: active ear protection, tactical gloves, a rigid holster, and a protective vest. All of this is mandatory. You can purchase the required kit in our store just around the corner."
Ten minutes later, my bank account was lighter by another three hundred dollars. I felt like a plucked chicken. Looking at the brand new gloves that smelled sharply of chemicals and synthetic material, and the heavy vest, I seriously started wondering how quickly I would go bankrupt at this pace of “training.”
"Alright, I see your card payment for the full course..." the girl tapped on the keyboard, reviewing my profile in the system. "Please have a seat, Mr. Ross. Wait here. Your personal instructor, Mr. Parker, will be free and come to you in a few minutes."
I sat down on a hard chair under a powerful stream of air from the conditioner. While I took small sips of ice cold water from the machine, trying to calm my irritation, the receptionist kept talking. With something close to religious reverence, she listed Parker’s credentials: how many hot zones he had been through, what medals were gathering dust in his cabinet, and how many green rookies he had turned into top tier shooters. I only half listened. My mood was thoroughly ruined by the financial losses.
Then he appeared in the doorway. Mr. Parker.
He was a solidly built man in his fifties, with a short haircut and a face carved with scar like wrinkles you could not buy in any barbershop. He radiated calm, confident strength, along with that specific smell of gun oil that sinks into the skin for decades. He commanded respect just by standing there.
Thank God. If some kid a couple of years younger than me had been my instructor, I would not have lasted.
We moved into the shooting area. Behind thick soundproof glass, muted, dry cracks of gunfire were already audible.
"So, Mr. Ross," Parker began, not looking at me but studying something on his tablet. His voice was low, slightly raspy. "Your list of requests is impressive. Pistol, assault rifle, shotgun, and even a sniper course. A blunt question: what's with the rush and the spread? Signing up as a mercenary or just watched too many movies?"
"I've wanted to learn how to shoot properly since childhood," I shrugged, trying to keep my voice as natural as possible. "Now I finally have the money, so I decided there's no point in delaying. Dreams are meant to come true, right?"
The lie slipped out easily. Telling a stranger that I was awakened and needed to turn myself into a killing machine in three months would have been peak stupidity.
"Admirable," Parker smirked faintly at the corners of his mouth. "We start with the basics. A pistol. Your program includes classical and rapid fire shooting. We begin with fundamentals, with the classic approach."
"I've got a question," I cut in as we approached our lane. "When I registered on the website, support mentioned that if a student demonstrates outstanding skill, a certificate can be issued early. Is that true?"
The instructor stopped and looked at me carefully, in a new way. There was no irony in that gaze, only the cold calculation of a professional.
"Yes, that rule exists. We don't like wasting the time of those who already know which end the bullet comes out of. Have you shot before, Mr. Ross?"
"No. But I learn very fast. I pick things up instantly."
"I see," he grunted with obvious skepticism. He had probably heard that line from every second overconfident rich guy who decided to play cowboy. "In that case, we start with theory. Grip, stance, sight alignment..."
He began explaining, and I became all ears. I did not interrupt, absorbing every word. He spoke about the recoil vector, about how the elbows should form a rigid structure, how to distribute body weight correctly, and most importantly, how to press the trigger smoothly, almost meditatively, so that the shot does not come as a surprise even to you.
After finishing the introductory part, which I had listened to with maximum attention, Parker pulled a Glock from his holster. His movements were fluid, honed to automatic precision by thousands of repetitions. He deliberately aimed slowly and fired. A sharp crack, and a neat hole appeared in the very center of the target, right in the black circle of the ten. Then, without changing his stance, he professionally and rhythmically emptied the entire magazine. Every bullet hit exactly where it should, turning the center of the target into one ragged hole. It was beautiful. True mastery is always mesmerizing.
"Mr. Ross, would you like to try?" he offered the weapon to me, grip first.
"You're asking?"
"Since you don't have your own firearm, the club rental will cost thirty-five dollars. Ammunition not included, of course. A box of nine millimeter rounds is another fifty."
I reached for my wallet again, feeling everything inside me grind with greed. It felt like they were tearing this money out of me along with my skin. But the moment my fingers touched the cool, rough polymer of the Glock grip, everything else faded into the background.
"Go ahead, Mr. Ross. Give it a try."
I raised the pistol, aiming at the distant white rectangle. And at that exact moment, something incredible happened. Invisible, intangible pressure gently but firmly adjusted my position. My feet shifted slightly, my back straightened, my elbows locked into the perfect position exactly like Parker’s, a man who had devoted half his life to shooting.
[Attention! Specific physical activity of the familiar detected]
[Trainer presence adjusting micromovements for peak efficiency]
The world seemed to freeze. I saw the front sight with perfect clarity, as if it were under a microscope. A smooth press...
The blast hit my ears even through the ear protection, my hand jerked upward, and the sharp, intoxicating smell of gunpowder filled my nose. I glanced at the monitor displaying the target feed. A fresh mark sat perfectly in the center of the ten.
"Very... not bad for a first attempt," Parker said, restrained but with clear surprise in his voice. "Looks like you really do have natural potential."
I did not answer. I kept shooting. One shot, then another, and another. I felt like part of a complex mechanism. My body worked on its own, I only chose the target. When the slide locked back, signaling an empty magazine, I lowered the pistol. On the monitor, where the ten used to be, there was nothing left. I had simply torn the center of the target apart.
Parker stood beside me, having forgotten about his tablet. Real shock was written all over his face.
"Mr. Ross... in your application you stated that you have never handled a real pistol. Did you lie to me?"
"Not a single word of it, sir," I allowed myself a slight smile, savoring the moment. "I told you, I learn very fast. And you're a damn good teacher. I believe that's enough to settle the matter of the pistol certification?"
"Uh..." he was clearly confused, trying to process what he had just seen. "You know what, Mr. Ross... let's practice a bit more. I want to see that again."
I nodded. A sense of superiority was growing inside me. I realized I would not be staying in this elite club for three months as I had planned. With the Trainer’s support, I would master the entire arsenal in a week at most.