(Evelina’s POV — Tactical Training Center, Private Centre)
The door sealed shut behind with a heavy tallic hiss, trapping the air in a cold, oppressive stillness. The world outside faded—gunshots, footsteps, and voices were muted into ghosts behind concrete walls.
My trainer stood there.
Rowan Arcturus.
The Fifth Male Lead.
The man whose entire character route revolved around protecting Sera with absolute, terrifying loyalty—and killing anyone who threatened her.
Including Evelina Hartgrave.
My spine prickled.
Rowan’s steel-grey eyes locked onto , unreadable as a blade fresh from the forge. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe wrong.
He simply stood there. A wall disguised as a man. The instructor beside stepped back slightly—as if instinctively avoiding proximity to a predator.
"Rowan," he said, "this is your trainee for the next seven days."
Rowan’s gaze lowered, flicked over once, then returned to my face and nodded slightly, a small greeting. Then he looked back at the instructor, asking, "Are you sure it’s her?"
"yes," the instructor said.
Rowan said nothing. But the silence itself felt like a judgnt. A dangerous one.
I forced my lips into a polite curve. "...Is that a problem?"
His eyes narrowed a milliter. "No."
Translation: Yes, but I’ll tolerate it.
The instructor clapped his hands lightly—far too loudly for the silence of the room. "Excellent. Then I’ll leave you two to begin."
And he left us alone. The room was dead silent and awkwardly silent.
The silence pressed against my skin like chilled tal.
Rowan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe wrong. He stood like a blade forged upright—waiting to slice.
I curled my fingers slightly, grounding myself.
"...So," I said at last, voice even, "shall we start?"
Rowan’s eyes flicked to —slow, assessing. Then:
"Before we begin," he said, voice low and controlled, "I need to know one thing."
He lifted his arm and pointed—not aggressively, but with cutting clarity—toward the door.
"If this is for fun," he said, "if you ca here out of curiosity or boredom..." His expression didn’t shift, but the air did. "Then walk out."
His tone grew colder.
"I do not teach people who think weapons are toys."
I stared at him.
Coldly.
I stepped forward—just enough to stand firmly in his space without flinching.
"My life is in danger," I said quietly, clearly. "The people around want dead."
His jaw tightened—barely.
I continued, my voice dropping into sothing sharp and icy.
"So I am here," I said, "to learn how to defend myself. To live. To survive."
His breath stilled.
"Am I doing sothing wrong, Mr. Trainer?"
A faint flick of shock crossed his eyes—quick, subtle, gone in an instant. But I saw it. He straightened, the rigid posture cracking for half a second.
Then—He bowed.
Not deeply. But enough to acknowledge fault.
"...I apologize," he said, voice quieter, more formal. "My words were out of line."
His eyes lifted again—cool steel, but this ti with a sliver of respect.
"I have encountered many," he added, "who treat firearms like entertainnt. They do not understand the consequences. You are clearly not one of them."
I held his gaze, my own cold and unwavering.
"Good," I said. "Then we understand each other."
A mont of loaded silence stretched between us—two predators asuring the other. Then I took one step forward.
"Now," I said, voice like frost, "can we begin?"
Rowan nodded once. Slowly. Deliberately. "...Yes. We begin."
A faint shimr blinked above his head.
[Rowan Arcturus—2%]
Two percent.
Barely anything. But in a man like him—soone who had zero interest, zero emotion, zero anything toward anyone—two percent was a crack in the ice.
I inhaled softly.
Noted.
But I didn’t let it show.
Rowan stepped past —his movents were silent, fluid, and lethal. A man trained to erase his existence if needed. He walked to a table lined with weapons, each polished, assembled, and placed with military precision.
He picked up a compact handgun.
Black. Lightweight. Beautiful.
"Your basic weapon," he said, his voice smooth and low. "Small fra. Easy to conceal. Low recoil."
He held it out to and reached for it.
But his hand didn’t let go. His fingers—calloused, steady, warm—brushed mine.
Not accidental.
A test.
A asurent.
A line drawn in silence.
My pulse jumped—but I didn’t pull back. If he wanted to test , I would test him right back. I tightened my grip at the exact sa mont he did.
His eyes lifted.
Steel-grey.
Sharp.
Cold.
But beneath the surface... sothing flickered. Like a spark buried under frost. He finally released it.
"Good grip," he murmured.
A complint. A rare one. Too rare.
He stepped behind —close enough that I could feel the controlled heat of his body, but not close enough to touch.
"Stand straight."
I adjusted.
His hand lifted and Paused. Then it rested lightly on my shoulder blade—only long enough to correct its angle. My breath caught before I could stop it.
Not fear.
Not attraction.
Sothing in between.
"Relax your stance," Rowan said. "You’re holding tension where you shouldn’t."
I exhaled slowly, loosening my posture. He nodded once.
"Better."
He reached down, positioning my hands on the gun properly. His fingers brushed mine again—barely, but undeniably. The air between us thickened and charged, like a storm deciding whether to approach.
"Trigger discipline," he said, tapping my index finger lightly. "Never place your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot."
I locked onto his words. He stepped around , circling like a wolf analyzing prey—or perhaps an ally.
"And don’t lock your elbows," he murmured. "You’re not a statue. You need flexibility. Locking joints gets you killed."
I adjusted again.
"And breathe," he added quietly.
I did.
Slow, steady.
He watched , eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"You learn fast," Rowan said.
The words hit harder than the recoil I was expecting later. From anyone else, it would’ve felt polite. From him—a man whose emotional range was probably pre-programd at birth—it was practically a standing ovation.
Before I could respond, he asked quietly:
"Now... how do you feel it?"
I blinked. "Feel what?"
He tilted his head—barely—and his eyes dropped to the gun in my hands.
"The weight," he said. "Does it feel heavy?"
"It’s the light one, right?"
"It is," he replied. "But it still has weight."
I looked down at it, then back at the target. The black dot sat on the far wall like a tiny insult waiting for to miss.
"...I don’t feel it," I said honestly. "Heavy, I an."
His eyes flickered. Approval, maybe. Or interest. With Rowan, it was hard to tell. "Good."
Then—His fingers slid onto my shoulders. Not gently. Not intimately. But with calculated precision—adjusting , aligning , grounding .
Yet the warmth of his touch burned straight through my clothes.
My breath tightened as he stepped closer—too close—his chest almost brushing my back. His presence wrapped around like controlled heat and steady danger.
"Now," he murmured, voice deep and low near my ear, "look at the target."
My eyes flicked to the black dot.
"That dot is your enemy," he said. "Do you get it?"
"...Yes."
He leaned in closer—close enough that the warmth of his exhale ghosted down my neck.
"Good. Now—" His hand slid down my arm, guiding it higher, firr, and steadier. "Focus."
The word vibrated through . My heartbeat synced with the weight in my palm. Everything in the room narrowed to that tiny black dot.
Rowan’s voice dropped to a whisper that curled around my ear. "Breathe in."
I inhaled.
"Hold."
I did.
"Don’t think."
Easy for him to say.
"Just... aim."
I aligned the sights.
"Good," he said quietly. "Now exhale—slowly."
I breathed out. My finger tightened on the trigger—
BANG.
The shot cracked through the room like lightning. Smoke curled upward. The impact echoed.
I held my breath.
Rowan didn’t move. Slowly—very slowly—I lowered the gun and looked at the target. My eyes widened. A clean hole pierced the center of the black dot.
Dead center.
Perfect.
Rowan stepped around , close enough that our shoulders brushed, and stared at the target with a faint, unreadable expression.
He turned back to .
"Impressive," he said.
A real word. A real complint, from Rowan Arcturus. And then—his eyes dropped to my hands gripping the gun.
Slowly, deliberately, his fingers reached forward and adjusted my grip again, even though it was already perfect.
A silent reminder:
He wouldn’t let slip. Not even a little.
His voice dipped lower, almost dangerous. "Next ti," he murmured, "try doing it without my guidance."
I swallowed and nodded. He stepped back, gaze locked on like a hawk asuring distance, posture, and breathing.
"Good," he said. Then—"Now... let’s shoot again."
I blinked. "Already?"
He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t soften.
"The first shot," he said calmly, "was a lucky guess. Not a real shot."
Ah. So that was his judgent.
Translation: Don’t get cocky, princess.
Understanding washed over in one cold wave. I finally understood all those reviews saying:
"Instructor made cry."
"Severe emotional damage but I learned a lot."
"He stares into your soul. You will never be the sa."
Right. Rowan Arcturus wasn’t a trainer. He was a boot camp disguised as a human being. Still— I needed this.
I needed protection.
I needed survival.
So I raised the gun again, steadying my breath, aligning my shoulders just as he taught . Because this world wasn’t forgiving.
And I... couldn’t afford to be weak.
My finger curled around the trigger.
Ready.
Determined.
Hungry to live.
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