The kitchen feels calm.

  That fake, postcard calm that slaps you harder because you know what you’ve done.

  Warm light.

  The fridge hums.

  Something still sizzles in the pan, and the smell tries to say normal.

  Jason stands by the door.

  Backpack ready.

  Suitcase set down like a verdict.

  Not a detail.

  A goodbye in disguise.

  He turns to his father with the face of someone about to lie well.

  Or at least try.

  “Dad… I’m leaving for a while.”

  His father turns from the sink, hands still wet, and sizes him up right away.

  No smile.

  But no stiffening either.

  More like a what the hell are you telling me? held in check.

  “Leaving?”

  A pause.

  “And where exactly?”

  Jason pulls a small smile. Awkward. Off.

  Then he lifts his arm and flexes his bicep like an idiot.

  Two theatrical taps on the muscle, like that alone could sell it.

  “There’s this athletic retreat… a few months out of town.”

  “A sports academy.”

  He inhales.

  “I want to get better.”

  His father keeps looking at him, but something shifts in his eyes.

  A thread of concern slips through without asking.

  He scratches his chin, like he’s doing math that won’t add up.

  “Damn it, Jason…”

  He shakes his head, half incredulous.

  “But how much of a beast are you trying to become?”

  Then he actually says it, with that dad-voice that jokes to hide the knot.

  “You already have a crazy body for your age.”

  A half-smile flickers and dies.

  “You planning to destroy the world or something?”

  Jason feels his stomach tighten.

  A laugh slips out too fast. Too hollow.

  He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor for a second.

  “Uh… hah…”

  He swallows.

  “I’ll try to avoid that, hahah…”

  Silence.

  His father steps closer.

  Slow steps.

  Not invading, but heavy.

  Stops a meter away.

  Looks him in the eyes like he’s trying to read under the skin.

  Serious.

  Caring.

  The kind of seriousness that doesn’t threaten—it steadies.

  “Alright, Jason.”

  A short pause. Just right.

  “Give it everything you’ve got…”

  His eyes narrow just a touch.

  “…but don’t do stupid shit.”

  Jason nods immediately.

  Too fast.

  Like he wants to end it before his voice shakes.

  He straightens up.

  Chin up.

  A look that tries to be determined and instead has a crack running through it.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A beat.

  His father gives him a firm pat on the shoulder.

  Not hard.

  Not gentle.

  Real.

  Jason grabs the suitcase.

  Opens the door.

  The air outside is colder than he expects.

  He steps out.

  The door closes behind him with a clean, final click.

  And for a second, in the empty hallway,

  it almost sounds like the fridge is still humming

  like nothing happened.

  —

  Michael Taurè’s house sits outside the city like a deliberate mistake.

  A modern block, massive, planted in emptiness.

  Clean lines. Concrete and glass. No frills.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Around it: fields, silence, low sky.

  No neighbors.

  No human noise.

  Just wind and distance.

  Jason stands at the gate.

  Backpack on his shoulders.

  Suitcase on the ground.

  His posture is solid, but inside everything moves.

  His eyes skim the edges of the perimeter like the nothing might have teeth.

  He presses the buzzer.

  DING.

  The echo dies immediately.

  Waiting.

  Silence.

  Jason swallows.

  His heart thumps in his throat and he hates that he can feel it.

  Then—

  CLACK.

  A lock giving way.

  Michael’s voice comes from inside, flat and calm,

  like he’s talking to a dog.

  “Come in.”

  Jason flinches, more from the suddenness than the buzz in his neck.

  He grabs the suitcase, pushes the gate, steps inside.

  Closes it.

  The gate makes a sharp sound.

  Too sharp.

  And right after that… nothing.

  Absolute silence.

  Almost unnatural.

  And then—

  Impact.

  It doesn’t arrive.

  It exists.

  A full punch to the face that shuts his world off for half a second.

  A spinning kick to the torso that lands before he’s even finished understanding.

  THUD.

  Jason flies backward and slams into the door,

  his back stamping into the wood,

  lungs dumping air like a punctured bag.

  He goes down.

  The floor is cold.

  His skull rings.

  His nose explodes with heat and metal.

  Blood.

  It runs down his lip, seeps into his mouth.

  Coins.

  Jason looks up, pissed and dazed, his voice snapped by instinct.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?! Christ!”

  He touches his nose and sees red on his fingers.

  “Why the fuck?!”

  Michael stands in front of him.

  Upright.

  Relaxed.

  Arms loose at his sides.

  A half-smile that almost looks polite.

  Like he just opened the door for a neighbor borrowing sugar.

  “I see you’re distracted.”

  Jason spits out a nervous laugh with nothing funny in it.

  “Distracted?!”

  He points at his face, the blood, the floor.

  “I didn’t even get inside!”

  He grits his teeth.

  “You’re already beating me half to death!”

  Michael shrugs slowly, like life is a problem that doesn’t concern him.

  “Oh, forgive me for not rolling out a red carpet.”

  A second of silence.

  Then his voice changes.

  Dry.

  Instructional.

  Cuts clean.

  “On the street, there’s no ‘please’ or ‘permission.’”

  “Trouble hits when you least expect it.”

  “You have to be ready. Always.”

  Jason inhales hard through his nose—

  and feels the stab.

  He stiffens.

  Blood keeps flowing, warm.

  He wipes it with the back of his hand like it’s dirt, not a wound.

  Michael steps half a pace closer, just enough to weight the words.

  “Training started the moment you stepped into my house.”

  A short pause. Eyes locked.

  “If you don’t like it, you can go back to crying to mommy and daddy.”

  Jason stares at him.

  His breath scrapes his throat.

  His body wants to react.

  Wants to explode.

  But he holds it.

  Holds everything in,

  like gripping a caged animal with bare hands.

  He gets up slowly.

  No theatrics.

  Just decision.

  Then he drops the backpack and the suitcase to the floor.

  The sound is heavy.

  Final.

  “No.”

  A beat.

  “I’m good.”

  Michael watches him for an extra second.

  Then that half-smile turns into something real.

  “Good.”

  He jerks his chin toward the living room.

  “There’s a med kit on the table.”

  “Fix your nose.”

  He turns away already, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

  “I’ll make coffee.”

  Jason stays there, bleeding,

  his face throbbing, ribs burning.

  He tries to answer and the voice comes out crooked, almost a choked laugh.

  “Thanks… ha— hah…”

  He runs a hand over his nose again.

  Looks at the red on his fingers.

  Then at his arm.

  Under the skin, he feels it.

  That formless strength.

  That thing that, if you let it out wrong, steals your life and laughs about it.

  Inside, a thought locks in like a dirty truth.

  No poetry.

  This guy’s insane.

  But it’s the insanity I need.

  And as he inhales, slow, controlling even the tremor…

  he admits it to himself, in silence.

  If I want to dominate this power…

  he’s the only one who can teach me.

  Pistol Boy.