"Better," Santiago said flatly. "Again."
For the next hour, she repeated the motions, aim, breathe, fire, adjust. Sweat beaded on her brow, tracing slow paths down her temples as her arms ached from the repeated strain. The clinical lighting seemed to grow harsher with each shot, casting long shadows that danced across the reinforced walls. But with every repetition, her movements grew sharper, more controlled, the gun becoming less of an alien object and more of an extension of her will. By the time Santiago finally stepped back and nodded once, she felt something dangerous flicker inside her chest.
Not power. Not yet.
But capability.
Santiago studied her for a moment, the silence stretching between them like a taut wire. Then he spoke in the same casual tone he might use to comment on the weather, his voice low and indifferent, as if the words carried no more weight than the air around them.
