The time Vera introduced the next lesson, Ava had already begun to measure time in sessions rather than days.
There had been mornings when she woke with a dull ache in her throat from practicing different tones of voice the night before.
Weeks had passed like that—quietly, steadily—each lesson settling into her bones before the next one arrived to replace it.
She didn't know exactly how many days had gone by since the first time Vera had tested her with a fake sob story, but she knew one thing for certain: the girl who had stumbled through those first lies no longer existed.
Vera noticed it too.
"You're picking this up faster than most," she said one afternoon, flipping through a worn notebook at the kitchen table. "Most people take months to get where you are."
Ava waited for praise to follow. It didn't.
"But we don't have months," Vera added, shutting the notebook with a soft thud. "So we move on."
*Risk isn't always obvious*
The lesson began without ceremony.
"No more acting for a while," Vera said, leaning back in her chair. "Today you learn when not to act at all."
Ava frowned. "You mean… not conning someone?"
Vera's lips twitched, almost amused. "If you try to con every person you meet, you won't last a year. The first rule is knowing who not to touch."
She slid her phone across the table. On the screen was a photo of a middle-aged man in a suit, smiling stiffly at what looked like a company event.
"Tell me about him," Vera said.
Ava blinked. "I don't know him."
"Exactly. So guess."
Ava studied the image. The man's smile didn't reach his eyes. His shoulders were tense, his hand wrapped too tightly around a glass of champagne.
"He looks stressed," Ava said slowly. "Maybe overworked. The kind of person who'd want a quick way to make money."
Vera watched her in silence for a few seconds before shaking her head.
"Wrong." Ava's stomach sank.
"He's a regional manager for a logistics company," Vera said, tapping the screen. "Three kids. Covered up criminal records. Because he has brother in the police force."
Ava's eyes widened.
"See the ring?" Vera pointed. "Worn down on one side. That means he twists it when he's nervous. People like that don't just let things go. They obsess. They dig. They follow leads until they get answers."
She leaned forward slightly. "You might get money from him. But you'd also get someone who won't sleep until he ruins you."
Ava looked back at the smiling man, the harmless expression now carrying a shadow she hadn't noticed before.
"How do you tell all that by looking at someone?" When she didn't get an answer, she sighed and said quietly "So he's a bad target,"
"He's a dangerous one," Vera corrected. "Bad targets are the ones who can't pay. Dangerous targets are the ones who can destroy you."
...
Over the next few days, Vera kept testing her like that.
Sometimes it was photos. Other times it was people they passed on the street when they went out to buy groceries or pick up takeout. Vera would nod subtly toward someone, and Ava would have to whisper her assessment before the person disappeared into the crowd.
At first, she kept getting it wrong.
She mistook confidence for arrogance and missed the signs of paranoia in a woman who kept checking her reflection in shop windows. She underestimated a quiet man reading a newspaper, only for Vera to point out the calloused hands and the faint scar peeking from under his sleeve—details that suggested someone who wouldn't hesitate to get physical if cornered.
Each mistake was followed by the same flat response.
"You'd be in trouble already," Vera would say. Or, "That one would've called the police before you even finished talking."
It was humiliating, but it worked. Ava started watching people the way she used to watch teachers when she was trying to guess whether a late assignment would be accepted or rejected.
She noticed how often people glanced at their phones, how tightly they clutched their bags, how some smiles looked more like warnings than invitations.
One evening, as they walked back to the apartment with a plastic bag of groceries swinging between them, Vera jerked her chin toward a man leaning against a parked car.
"Worth it?" she asked.
Ava looked. The man was well-dressed, his shoes polished, his posture relaxed—but his eyes moved constantly, scanning the street.
"No," Ava said after a moment. "He's watching too much. Like he expects something to go wrong."
Vera gave a short nod. "Good. Paranoid people are the worst. They see patterns where there are none, and eventually, they'll see you."
Ava felt a small flicker of pride. It wasn't praise, exactly—but it was closer than she'd gotten in days.
...
A few nights later, Vera dropped a different kind of lesson on her.
They were back in the apartment, the television murmuring quietly in the background while Tess slept on the couch, one arm hanging limply off the edge.
"What happens if you misjudge someone?" Vera asked suddenly.
Ava hesitated. "I… leave?"
"And if you can't?"
The question hung in the air.
Vera reached across the table and tapped Ava's forehead lightly. "Your mouth is the only weapon you're allowed to use in public. You'd better know how to use it."
That was how the verbal jujitsu began.
*The first round of sparring *
"Let's say I'm a victim," Vera said, straightening in her chair. Her expression hardened, eyes narrowing slightly. She didn't look like Vera anymore—she looked like someone suspicious, irritated, ready to snap.
"Why are you asking me all these questions?" she demanded sharply.
Ava froze for half a second before answering, "I'm just trying to—"
"Wrong," Vera cut in, raising a hand. "You're explaining. Explaining makes people think you're guilty."
Ava swallowed. "So what should I say?"
"Try again."
They went through the scenario again and again.
Each time Vera threw a different accusation at her.
"I've seen you somewhere before."
"Are you recording this?"
"You're acting weird."
Ava's first instinct was always to defend herself, to give long, detailed answers that she hoped would sound convincing. Vera shut each attempt down immediately.
"You're not in court," she said once, irritation creeping into her voice. "You don't need to prove anything. You just need to redirect."
*Redirect the blow*
It took time before Ava understood what Vera meant.
The shift came during one of their late-night practice sessions. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and Tess's slow breathing from the other room.
"I think you're lying to me," Vera said, her tone low and dangerous.
Ava opened her mouth to deny it, then stopped. Vera's earlier words echoed in her mind: Deflection isn't about answers. It's about redirecting attention.
She tilted her head slightly, letting confusion flicker across her face.
"Why would you think that?" she asked instead.
Vera paused.
It was only a second, but Ava saw it—the tiny crack in the performance.
"Because your story doesn't add up," Vera said, recovering quickly.
Ava shrugged, forcing her shoulders to relax. "Maybe I just explained it badly. I've had a long day. You seem stressed too—did something happen?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any of the ones before.
Vera leaned back slowly, studying her.
"That," she said at last, "wasn't terrible."
It was the closest thing to praise Ava had received in weeks.
*Sharper,faster, colder*
After that, the practice sessions grew more intense.
Vera stopped warning her before throwing accusations. Sometimes she would start a normal conversation and then, without changing her tone, slip in a suspicious question just to see how Ava reacted.
Ava stumbled often at first. She still had a habit of overthinking, of pausing too long before responding. But gradually, her answers became smoother, her redirections more natural.
When Vera accused her of being nosy, Ava laughed it off and asked about Vera's own habits. When Vera questioned her honesty, Ava turned the conversation toward how hard it was to trust strangers in general.
It wasn't about winning arguments. It was about never letting the conversation stay focused on her long enough to become dangerous.
One afternoon, after a particularly sharp exchange, Vera shook her head slightly.
"You're learning," she muttered, almost to herself.
Ava pretended not to hear, but the words settled warmly in her chest.
*The cost of getting better*
The improvement wasn't entirely comforting.
There were moments when Ava caught herself using the same deflection techniques on Tess without meaning to—changing the subject when Tess asked how the training was going, offering half-answers that sounded complete but said nothing real.
She would stop herself immediately, guilt twisting in her stomach.
Tess didn't notice. Or if she did, she never said anything. She spent most of her time dozing or scrolling lazily through her phone, unaware of how different Ava was becoming.
One night, Ava sat at the edge of the couch, watching Tess sleep, and tried to remember the last time she had spoken without calculating the effect of her words.
The memory felt distant, like something that belonged to another girl entirely.
By the time Vera finally moved on from verbal sparring, Ava no longer panicked when confronted. Suspicion didn't feel like an attack anymore—it felt like a puzzle she knew how to solve.
"You're ready for the next stage," Vera said, gathering her notes and shoving them into a drawer. "You won't always get to choose your targets, and you won't always say the right thing. But at least now you won't collapse the moment someone questions you."
Ava nodded, though a small part of her wished the lesson had come with some kind of ceremony, some acknowledgment that she had crossed a line she couldn't uncross.
Instead, the apartment remained exactly the same: the peeling paint, the faint smell of instant noodles, Tess's soft breathing from the other room.
Only Ava had changed.
And as she lay awake that night, replaying the day's conversations in her head, she realized something that unsettled her more than any of Vera's warnings.
It was getting easier.
Too easy.
And she wasn't sure whether that was a sign she was getting stronger… or a sign she was slowly losing the parts of herself that had once made lying feel wrong.