Chapter 7. From Zero to Kill-Ready

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.

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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.