Chapter 13. Private Sessions

After Stephanie left and I had a short talk with Mom, I returned to my room. Thoughts about the neighbor kept circling in my mind, making it hard to focus on my Spanish exercises. Thankfully, I managed to force myself to concentrate on studying. But after two hours the effect wore off, and my head buzzed as if a swarm of angry bumblebees had settled inside. The price for an intense assault on Spanish grammar was very real. And along with the headache, the thoughts came back.

Was it worth getting involved in this? My new profession, if it could even be called that, smelled of gunpowder and danger. Did I have the right to start a relationship that could end at any moment?

I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling my temples pulse in sync with my heartbeat. Without the system, I would have tossed and turned until dawn, arguing endlessly with myself, but now I had a better solution.

[Special command: Fall asleep instantly]

Darkness crashed down immediately, cutting off all doubts and fears like a guillotine. As some classic once said, or maybe it was an old rocker, you should only think about women when your head has completely cooled off.

In the morning, waking up with fresh thoughts and a clear gaze, I went over the situation again in my mind. Emotions had evaporated, leaving behind cold, measured pragmatism. There was no need to rush. To be honest, I had little faith in the success of any relationship with a girl who dyed her hair neon pink. I looked at Stephanie through the same lens as Danny. It was easy to talk about work with him, but the moment we stepped outside that topic, a dull wall appeared. All those youthful interests, football, skateboards, beach parties, felt infinitely distant to me. I still felt an unpleasant sting remembering that awkward pause when he started talking about the World Cup. With Stephanie, I was sure the same thing would happen, only this time switching to discussions about military ranks or tactics for dealing with generals would hardly be an option.

So what should I do? Pretend she didn’t exist and go full ignore mode when we met by the mailboxes? No, that would be stupid. Even if we were destined for just one date, I would squeeze the maximum benefit out of it. She had suggested practicing Spanish? Perfect. Our meeting would turn into an intensive lesson. No awkward pauses, no pointless small talk about the weather, just immersion and polishing pronunciation.

The only problem was that I needed to be able to speak coherently first. I opened the workbook I had bought just yesterday. Under the influence of hyperfocus, it was already a quarter filled with my sweeping handwriting. Looking at those neat columns of verbs and examples, I couldn’t help but envy myself. If I had had these abilities back in school, I would not have treated every lesson like a trip to the scaffold. At this pace, in a week I could easily reach a confident intermediate level. That was when I would pay a courtesy visit to the pink-haired neighbor.

Having wrapped up my internal dialogue and eaten a solid breakfast, I set out. This time my route went past the familiar gym near my house. I spent an hour and a half traveling to the other end of the city, to a specialized complex for professional athletes. The rules there were different. For a hundred bucks, you could rent the entire gym for a couple of hours. A massive door would lock, and inside it would be just me and the iron. No visitors, no curious glances, even the cleaning staff stayed away during private sessions. Usually, it was an option for a football team, but I took the whole space for myself. The price was steep, three thousand dollars a month just for the right to train alone, but I had no choice.

In this new gym, I did not find a single camera. I wanted to believe there were no hidden lenses either, but just in case, I added another layer of precaution. I put on massive headphones with a wide headband, the kind that would not slip off even during the sharpest movements, and played nature sounds. Now, if someone suddenly tried to call out to me while I was in a trance, I could always blame my detachment on loud music and total immersion in the process.

I had considered just going to a regular gym with headphones and saving money, but quickly dismissed the idea. I had already been incredibly lucky that Alex was the only one who noticed anything strange. In hyperfocus mode, I was practically defenseless against the outside world. Some scumbag could pour a bucket of filth over me, film it, and upload it online while I calmly kept lifting a barbell with a banana peel on my shoulder. The probability was low, but I preferred to play it one hundred percent safe.

The following week turned into a monotonous, almost sterile routine.

The morning began with exhausting body refinement in the secluded gym, where only the clanking of metal broke the silence. The evening was devoted to training the mind. And in the middle of the day, I consistently went to the shooting club.

The atmosphere at the range became… peculiar. Mister Parker, thoroughly intimidated by my fabricated connections in the upper echelons of the Pentagon, practically stood on his tiptoes when I appeared. He was afraid to even breathe in my direction, carrying out any request without question. We spent hours analyzing the nuances of sniper rifle shooting with crosswind adjustments and the specifics of using shortened assault rifles in confined spaces.

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I absorbed knowledge like a sponge, and the system instantly turned theory into flawless muscle reflexes. When I received the coveted certificates for completing the full course, it felt like Parker physically deflated. It was as if a steel rod had been pulled out of him, the one that had kept his back straight all this time. He watched me leave with undisguised relief in his eyes as I got into the car, firmly knowing that I would never return to that shooting range.

As soon as I was done with firearms training, I felt a strange sense of relief. Lead and gunpowder were effective, but impersonal. The real challenge lay ahead: hand-to-hand combat. In my boldest fantasies, I already saw myself as someone like Bruce Lee, capable of catching a flying arrow with my bare hands. Of course, reality imposed its own constraints. Time was limited, and the state of my bank account inspired quiet horror.

I had to set priorities. After a short session of browsing the web, I settled on two disciplines: jiu-jitsu and Krav Maga. The internet swore that this combination was the gold standard for those aiming for elite units like the Green Berets. By a lucky coincidence, the best schools for both were located right here in Los Angeles.

I decided to start with jiu-jitsu.

My first visit to the school pleasantly surprised me. There was none of the intrusive greed I had encountered at the shooting club. There, they had forced me to buy a branded tactical vest for carrying a pistol I had never even planned to purchase. Here, everything was ascetic. Master Santiago simply told me that for the first lesson I would only need a T-shirt and black pants.

And now I stood in the center of a spacious, brightly lit hall. Under my feet was the soft resilience of the mats, and in the air lingered the faint scent of talc and disinfectant. A slight tremor stirred in my chest. It was not fear, but anticipation of something primal and important.

Mister Santiago stood opposite me. Dark skin, an athletic build, and remarkably kind, almost fatherly eyes. According to the documents, he was forty-five, but he moved with the grace of a thirty-year-old predator. We were alone in the hall. Once again, I had not spared the expense for a private session.

“Mr. Ross,” he said, extending his hand. I felt his palm, dry and tough, like aged leather. “Your application states that you are far from a beginner and have practiced jiu-jitsu for a long time. Is that correct?”

“That is correct,” I replied without blinking.