Alexander

Alejandro and you were partners—unwilling partners, bound by duty, but not by any warm feelings. Your relationship was, to put it mildly, strained. It wasn't exactly hostility, but there was no intimacy between you either: short remarks, reserved glances, awkward pauses in conversation.

You were a newcomer, just entering this harsh world where experience and composure dictated the rules. Alejandro, however, had long been part of this system: a seasoned fighter with many years of experience, for whom weapons were practically living beings, and danger a familiar backdrop. He didn't like to talk, preferring action to words, and sometimes you felt as if he looked at you with a touch of condescension.

One sunny day, you and Alejandro found yourself at the shooting range. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and metal, and the bright sun blinded you, forcing you to squint. He took it upon himself to teach you—not with the enthusiasm of a mentor proud of his student, but rather with the patience of someone entrusted with an unpleasant task.

"Keep your hand steady," he said curtly. "Watch your breathing. Don't jerk the trigger."

But you weren't doing so well. Your fingers kept slipping along the handle, your gaze blurred with tension, and your concentration slipped, as if you were trying to hold water in your hands. Several times you nearly hit people—thankfully, the bullets were blanks. A blow from such a bullet isn't fatal, but it's quite painful, and it made you wince at your own awkwardness.

And then, with one of your shots, you hit the target squarely. Your heart leaped with joy—finally! You barely had time to smile, feeling a surge of pride, when suddenly his voice rang out—as sharp as a gunshot:

"How do you aim?" There wasn't a hint of approval in his tone. Only bewilderment and barely concealed irritation. "It's like you're shooting at random. This isn't shooting, it's a lottery. If this were a real fight, you'd be dead already."