CHAPTER 22: TRIGGER DISCIPLINE

(Evelina’s POV — Tactical Training Center, Private Centre)

The door sealed shut behind me with a heavy metallic hiss, trapping the air in a cold, oppressive stillness. The world outside faded—gunshots, footsteps, and voices were muted into ghosts behind concrete walls.

My trainer stood there.

Rowan Arcturus.

The Fifth Male Lead.

The man whose entire character route revolved around protecting Sera with absolute, terrifying loyalty—and killing anyone who threatened her.

Including Evelina Hartgrave.

My spine prickled.

Rowan’s steel-grey eyes locked onto me, unreadable as a blade fresh from the forge. He didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Didn’t breathe wrong.

He simply stood there. A wall disguised as a man. The instructor beside me stepped back slightly—as if instinctively avoiding proximity to a predator.

"Rowan," he said, "this is your trainee for the next seven days."

Rowan’s gaze lowered, flicked over me once, then returned to my face and nodded slightly, a small greeting. Then he looked back at the instructor, asking, "Are you sure it’s her?"

"yes," the instructor said.

Rowan said nothing. But the silence itself felt like a judgment. A dangerous one.

I forced my lips into a polite curve. "...Is that a problem?"

His eyes narrowed a millimeter. "No."

Translation: Yes, but I’ll tolerate it.

The instructor clapped his hands lightly—far too loudly for the silence of the room. "Excellent. Then I’ll leave you two to begin."

And he left us alone. The room was dead silent and awkwardly silent.

The silence pressed against my skin like chilled metal.

Rowan didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe wrong. He stood like a blade forged upright—waiting to slice.

I curled my fingers slightly, grounding myself.

"...So," I said at last, voice even, "shall we start?"

Rowan’s eyes flicked to me—slow, assessing. Then:

"Before we begin," he said, voice low and controlled, "I need to know one thing."

He lifted his arm and pointed—not aggressively, but with cutting clarity—toward the door.

"If this is for fun," he said, "if you came here out of curiosity or boredom..." His expression didn’t shift, but the air did. "Then walk out."

His tone grew colder.

"I do not teach people who think weapons are toys."

I stared at him.

Coldly.

I stepped forward—just enough to stand firmly in his space without flinching.

"My life is in danger," I said quietly, clearly. "The people around me want me dead."

His jaw tightened—barely.

I continued, my voice dropping into something sharp and icy.

"So I am here," I said, "to learn how to defend myself. To live. To survive."

His breath stilled.

"Am I doing something wrong, Mr. Trainer?"

A faint flick of shock crossed his eyes—quick, subtle, gone in an instant. But I saw it. He straightened, the rigid posture cracking for half a second.

Then—He bowed.

Not deeply. But enough to acknowledge fault.

"...I apologize," he said, voice quieter, more formal. "My words were out of line."

His eyes lifted again—cool steel, but this time with a sliver of respect.

"I have encountered many," he added, "who treat firearms like entertainment. They do not understand the consequences. You are clearly not one of them."

I held his gaze, my own cold and unwavering.

"Good," I said. "Then we understand each other."

A moment of loaded silence stretched between us—two predators measuring the other. Then I took one step forward.

"Now," I said, voice like frost, "can we begin?"

Rowan nodded once. Slowly. Deliberately. "...Yes. We begin."

A faint shimmer blinked above his head.

[Rowan Arcturus—2%]

Two percent.

Barely anything. But in a man like him—someone who had zero interest, zero emotion, zero anything toward anyone—two percent was a crack in the ice.

I inhaled softly.

Noted.

But I didn’t let it show.

Rowan stepped past me—his movements were silent, fluid, and lethal. A man trained to erase his existence if needed. He walked to a table lined with weapons, each polished, assembled, and placed with military precision.

He picked up a compact handgun.

Black. Lightweight. Beautiful.

"Your basic weapon," he said, his voice smooth and low. "Small frame. Easy to conceal. Low recoil."

He held it out to me and reached for it.

But his hand didn’t let go. His fingers—calloused, steady, warm—brushed mine.

Not accidental.

A test.

A measurement.

A line drawn in silence.

My pulse jumped—but I didn’t pull back. If he wanted to test me, I would test him right back. I tightened my grip at the exact same moment he did.

His eyes lifted.

Steel-grey.

Sharp.

Cold.

But beneath the surface... something flickered. Like a spark buried under frost. He finally released it.

"Good grip," he murmured.

A compliment. A rare one. Too rare.

He stepped behind me—close enough that I could feel the controlled heat of his body, but not close enough to touch.

"Stand straight."

I adjusted.

His hand lifted and Paused. Then it rested lightly on my shoulder blade—only long enough to correct its angle. My breath caught before I could stop it.

Not fear.

Not attraction.

Something in between.

"Relax your stance," Rowan said. "You’re holding tension where you shouldn’t."

I exhaled slowly, loosening my posture. He nodded once.

"Better."

He reached down, positioning my hands on the gun properly. His fingers brushed mine again—barely, but undeniably. The air between us thickened and charged, like a storm deciding whether to approach.

"Trigger discipline," he said, tapping my index finger lightly. "Never place your finger on the trigger unless you intend to shoot."

I locked onto his words. He stepped around me, circling like a wolf analyzing prey—or perhaps an ally.

"And don’t lock your elbows," he murmured. "You’re not a statue. You need flexibility. Locking joints gets you killed."

I adjusted again.

"And breathe," he added quietly.

I did.

Slow, steady.

He watched me, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

"You learn fast," Rowan said.

The words hit harder than the recoil I was expecting later. From anyone else, it would’ve felt polite. From him—a man whose emotional range was probably pre-programmed at birth—it was practically a standing ovation.

Before I could respond, he asked quietly:

"Now... how do you feel it?"

I blinked. "Feel what?"

He tilted his head—barely—and his eyes dropped to the gun in my hands.

"The weight," he said. "Does it feel heavy?"

"It’s the light one, right?"

"It is," he replied. "But it still has weight."

I looked down at it, then back at the target. The black dot sat on the far wall like a tiny insult waiting for me to miss.

"...I don’t feel it," I said honestly. "Heavy, I mean."

His eyes flickered. Approval, maybe. Or interest. With Rowan, it was hard to tell. "Good."

Then—His fingers slid onto my shoulders. Not gently. Not intimately. But with calculated precision—adjusting me, aligning me, grounding me.

Yet the warmth of his touch burned straight through my clothes.

My breath tightened as he stepped closer—too close—his chest almost brushing my back. His presence wrapped around me like controlled heat and steady danger.

"Now," he murmured, voice deep and low near my ear, "look at the target."

My eyes flicked to the black dot.

"That dot is your enemy," he said. "Do you get it?"

"...Yes."

He leaned in closer—close enough that the warmth of his exhale ghosted down my neck.

"Good. Now—" His hand slid down my arm, guiding it higher, firmer, and steadier. "Focus."

The word vibrated through me. My heartbeat synced with the weight in my palm. Everything in the room narrowed to that tiny black dot.

Rowan’s voice dropped to a whisper that curled around my ear. "Breathe in."

I inhaled.

"Hold."

I did.

"Don’t think."

Easy for him to say.

"Just... aim."

I aligned the sights.

"Good," he said quietly. "Now exhale—slowly."

I breathed out. My finger tightened on the trigger—

BANG.

The shot cracked through the room like lightning. Smoke curled upward. The impact echoed.

I held my breath.

Rowan didn’t move. Slowly—very slowly—I lowered the gun and looked at the target. My eyes widened. A clean hole pierced the center of the black dot.

Dead center.

Perfect.

Rowan stepped around me, close enough that our shoulders brushed, and stared at the target with a faint, unreadable expression.

He turned back to me.

"Impressive," he said.

A real word. A real compliment, from Rowan Arcturus. And then—his eyes dropped to my hands gripping the gun.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers reached forward and adjusted my grip again, even though it was already perfect.

A silent reminder:

He wouldn’t let me slip. Not even a little.

His voice dipped lower, almost dangerous. "Next time," he murmured, "try doing it without my guidance."

I swallowed and nodded. He stepped back, gaze locked on me like a hawk measuring distance, posture, and breathing.

"Good," he said. Then—"Now... let’s shoot again."

I blinked. "Already?"

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t soften.

"The first shot," he said calmly, "was a lucky guess. Not a real shot."

Ah. So that was his judgement.

Translation: Don’t get cocky, princess.

Understanding washed over me in one cold wave. I finally understood all those reviews saying:

"Instructor made me cry."

"Severe emotional damage but I learned a lot."

"He stares into your soul. You will never be the same."

Right. Rowan Arcturus wasn’t a trainer. He was a boot camp disguised as a human being. Still— I needed this.

I needed protection.

I needed survival.

So I raised the gun again, steadying my breath, aligning my shoulders just as he taught me. Because this world wasn’t forgiving.

And I... couldn’t afford to be weak.

My finger curled around the trigger.

Ready.

Determined.

Hungry to live.