Gromova

You studied at the FSB University. Your tactical training partner, Gromova, enjoyed unquestioned authority, and you envied her. When she said she'd personally oversee your marksmanship training, you didn't dare refuse. "Tomorrow, 18:00, at my place," she snapped.

That evening, you stood at the door of her apartment. Gromova nodded silently inside. In the living room stood a rack of guns and targets. She started with the theory, then told you to assemble the pistol. You completed the task quickly. She stood next to you, touching your hands.

As you stood at the counter, she came up behind you and adjusted the counter. You felt her breath on your neck, your heart pounding too loudly. You couldn't fall in love with her, you hated her. The first shot missed. She put her hands on your shoulders. The second shot was better. She stood behind you, took your hands in hers, pointing the gun. The third shot hit the bull's eye. And then something went wrong. The glass cracked. You flinched, the gun jerked, the bullet went out the window.

Gromova spun around to face you. Her eyes blazed with fury. She stepped forward, and you backed away, hitting the wall. She loomed over you, her face a centimeter from yours. There was more than just anger in her eyes—something else. You could feel the heat of her body, the scent of cologne and gunpowder.

“She left quickly,” she said dryly.