Beating Roqi had clearly put Melisa in an excellent mood—both physically and mentally.
There were no visible aftereffects from activating overload mode. In fact, her whole demeanor radiated, "I'm a badass, and I loved every second of it."
Roqi, knowing that MaxTac officers were rarely sane—and often borderline cyberpsychos—couldn't help but mutter to himself:
"Damn… that hurt…"
He rubbed the back of his head. It throbbed painfully.
His body might've been built to take hits, but pain was still pain. Anyone slamming the back of their skull into the floor would be groaning, no matter how tough.
Suzi stood behind him, silently wiping the sweat off his neck and shoulders with a half-damp towel.
The slightly cool fabric brushing against his flushed skin brought a burst of summer refreshment.
Unable to resist, Roqi tilted his head, pressing his face into the towel and exhaling with a sigh of relief.
Pure comfort.
But just as he drifted into blissful relaxation, a voice snapped him back to reality.
"Stop lying there. Come with me."
Without waiting, Melisa turned and strode away.
Roqi exchanged a confused glance with Suzi, who also had no clue what was happening, before quickly adjusting his posture and following.
They soon arrived at a large, sealed-off room filled with testing equipment.
"What is this place?" Roqi asked curiously.
It wasn't far from the training grounds, yet the silence and lack of foot traffic gave it an eerie, secretive feel.
"The testing center," Melisa replied. "Used for running diagnostics and evaluations."
Normally, she wouldn't bother explaining anything, but Roqi seemed to earn a bit more leeway.
Still, Roqi tensed at the word "testing."
Testing center? Diagnostics?
"Relax," said the attending officer. "We're just collecting your physical data. Strip to your underwear and put on the testing suit."
Off to the side was a prep station with a sleek black outfit.
Roqi hesitated, slightly embarrassed, but eventually complied. As he slipped into the suit, he realized just how serious the test was.
The gear, fitted with a holo-helmet and interface gloves, wrapped tightly around his body like a smart exosuit.
Once calibrated, embedded sensors continuously relayed movement data to the control system.
An AI-driven program would process it all into a clean, readable report.
Following instructions, Roqi exposed the suit's calf panels.
"Relax your body. Beginning phase one."
The officer's voice now came through a speaker, as Roqi had moved farther into the chamber.
"Start with a light walk."
Light walk?
Roqi frowned.
How exactly did they define "light"? And what if he accidentally exceeded it? Were there thresholds?
Still, one thought popped into his head—
"Gently push the joystick to move," or "Use WASD to walk."
He relaxed his body and strolled casually forward, turning left, right, and even backpedaling—like someone window-shopping.
"Too stiff. Loosen up."
As expected, the officer corrected him over the loudspeaker.
Roqi paused.
It was tricky—when told to "act natural," people usually tensed up.
After a few awkward laps, he stopped thinking about it. Finally, his muscles relaxed, and they moved on.
Next came jogging, running, sprinting, and max-speed dashes.
The room was spacious. When Roqi hesitated, unsure where to start, the officer said it didn't matter—the system would track everything.
The AI evaluated posture, speed, joint angles, and stress levels in real time.
Then came strength tests: back, chest, legs, arms, wrists, and core.
By sampling multiple movements, the system filtered out anomalies to get more reliable averages.
Still, some of Roqi's numbers were absurd—flat-out unbelievable.
No unmodified human could pull off what he just did.
Ever seen someone jump 10 meters vertically?
Neither had the officer. Even with cyberlegs, double-jumps, or powered boosts—no one hit the ceiling like Roqi.
And he did more than just jump. He demonstrated how to ricochet off surfaces like a human cannonball—depending on angle and timing.
With a single wall, he launched off it and disappeared 15 meters away in a blur, leaving deep boot prints behind.
With two angled walls, he pulled off a rapid-fire double ricochet—first 45 degrees onto wall one, then immediately slamming off wall two.
"BANG—BANG!" In the time it took to turn your head, he was already back where he started.
When Roqi went full burst, only automated fire-control systems could track him.
Even enhanced vision just caught blurry afterimages.
What really shocked the staff was his dual-stage thrust.
He could jump once, activate a mid-air turbine booster, then launch again upon landing—and repeat the sequence up to four times.
With each boost, his pace and acceleration skyrocketed.
Combined with wall-jumping and turbo boost, he moved at terrifying speeds.
Then came a live demonstration—with Awakening drawn, Roqi dashed straight through a mannequin.
He moved so fast that the observers swore he swung the blade after passing through the target.
The cut was pristine—smooth as glass.
One flash. One kill.
He sprinted like a phantom, tearing through the target in the blink of an eye.
The downside? His hand throbbed afterward.
More speed meant more force—and more recoil.
But Roqi's monstrous body could take it.
What he lacked was experience at those speeds. Often, he reacted too slowly and slammed straight into obstacles.
The dummy he shattered looked like it'd been hit by a freight train.
With that kind of velocity and mass, slap some reinforced armor on Roqi, and he'd be a one-man battering ram.
The arena, once spacious at 50x50 meters with a 20-meter ceiling, suddenly felt cramped.
They had to rewrite the entire test plan and spent hours gathering accurate data.
But that wasn't all.
"Next: firearms test."
Finally! Roqi sighed and stretched his limbs.
A shooting range extended off the main room.
He took his position while the helmet calibrated aim and angle.
First up: handguns.
Roqi's absolute weakest skill.
He was decent with most firearms—but with pistols? A disaster.
If he were a movie hero, he'd die ten minutes in. Not one shot would land.
It was embarrassing.
Unfortunately, his determination didn't help. He shot even worse than usual.
Last time, it had been Master Yi. This time, it was Melisa Rory herself observing.
She stared at his results, then at the live character model on the monitor—and felt her blood pressure spike.
If Roqi knew what she was thinking, he might've called himself a walking cure for hypotension.
"What the actual fuck are you shooting at!?"
Melisa slammed the table. Roqi flinched, sending another bullet into the wall.
"Aba-aba-aba…" he stammered, looking helplessly at her and then at his pistol.
"Stop flicking your wrist! Who the hell taught you that!? Cut that shit out!"
Roqi thought they were on friendly terms—but she tore into him like a total noob.
Only then did he remember—besides being deputy leader of MaxTac's first squad, Melisa was also a drill instructor.
The kind who could reduce hardened soldiers to puddles with just her voice.
And no one dared fight back.
She was a human-sized deathclaw in instructor mode.
Wrist flicking?
Roqi instinctively flexed his hand.
He knew the basics: don't tense the arms, stabilize with shoulders and core—not just brute arm strength.
But he'd never paid attention to wrist position.
He fired again—and froze.
What the hell… I really am flicking my wrist!
Mouth half open, he looked at Melisa, then at the gun.
He felt like an idiot.
He tried again, forcing himself to suppress the reflex.
And sure enough—after each shot, he could feel the automatic twitch of his wrist as it absorbed recoil.
It looked harmless.
Like when kids used to play with toy guns, mimicking the kickback by flicking their hands.
Roqi had been one of them.
Who'd have guessed he'd end up in real gunfights—and that innocent habit would sabotage his aim?
Bullets follow a straight trajectory from the chamber.
Flicking the wrist tilts that path, changing the bullet's angle—by even a few degrees.
But over distance, a few degrees becomes a massive miss.
That's how Roqi emptied entire mags and barely hit anything.
And habits like this—muscle memory—were the hardest to break.
Melisa's solution? Brutal and effective.
She stood beside him like a debt collector, eyes locked on his hand.
If he even thought about flicking—bam! A kick to the ass. Or a smack to the head.
And Suzi?
She stood nearby, arms crossed, enjoying the show.
In her old special forces unit, this kind of rookie mistake would've gotten someone chewed out for hours.
You learned through pain and humiliation.
"Don't flick! Stay loose!"
"Focus forward—not on your damn wrist!"
"Use your shoulders! Where the hell did your bullets go, huh!?"
Once Melisa entered drill sergeant mode, she was a relentless wolf.
Roqi could only stand there, whimpering under the barrage.
One thing was certain: MaxTac's elite reputation owed a lot to her.
Anyone surviving her training truly came from hell—mind and body alike.
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MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW?
🤖💘 MY GIRLFRIEND'S A CYBERPSYCHO—WHO KNEW? 💘🤖
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📢 LOVE MEETS CYBERPSYCHOSIS! 📢
My Girlfriend's a Cyberpsycho—Who Knew? has 100+ chapters ahead available on Patreon! 💘💥
Romance is already complicated.
Now add:
🌃 Night City🦾 Cyberware🔫 Gunfights💀 Cyberpsychosis💥 Property damage❤️ And a girlfriend who might snap at any moment
Love hurts.
In this case, it might also come with bullets, broken walls, and emergency trauma care.
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