The warehouse smelled of rust and sweat.
A single hanging bulb swayed above, its weak light carving long shadows across the concrete floor. Chains dangled from the ceiling. Wooden crates were stacked against one wall, and in the corner, an assortment of weapons gleamed faintly—knives, pistols, lengths of iron pipe.
Harvey stood barefoot on the cold ground, his hospital bandages replaced with a rough training outfit Viktor had thrown at him. His ribs still ached, his body bruised and battered from the crash, but Viktor hadn't cared.
"Pain is your new companion," Viktor had said as they arrived. "Get used to it."
Now Viktor circled him like a predator, his boots echoing against the floor. In his hands, he carried a wooden staff. He tapped it against his palm as if testing its weight.
"Your father raised you soft," Viktor said, his voice cold. "Books, exams, polite manners. That won't save you now."
Harvey clenched his fists. His cracked silver watch was tied tight against his wrist with a strip of cloth, his anchor in this nightmare.
"Then teach me," he said, his voice low but steady.
Viktor's eyes glinted. "Good. Let's begin."
The staff struck without warning.
Harvey barely lifted his arms before the wood slammed against his forearm. Pain shot up his arm, and he stumbled back, hissing.
"Too slow," Viktor growled. "Again."
The staff cracked across his ribs. Harvey cried out, doubling over. His vision swam, but Viktor didn't relent. The blows kept coming, each one a lesson written in agony.
Harvey's body screamed for him to collapse, to beg for it to stop. But he bit down hard, tasting blood, and forced himself upright.
"Why?" Viktor barked, slamming the staff against his shoulder. "Why are you still standing?"
Harvey spat blood on the floor. "Because… I won't die like them."
Viktor's staff froze mid-strike. His eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he lowered the weapon.
"Better."
He tossed the staff aside and grabbed a knife from the crate. The blade gleamed under the weak light as he spun it in his hand before tossing it to Harvey.
The knife landed in Harvey's palms, heavier than he expected. His hands trembled.
"Hold it tighter," Viktor said. "A loose grip is a dead man's grip."
Harvey adjusted, sweat dripping down his face.
"Now attack me."
Harvey blinked. "What?"
"Attack. If you hesitate in battle, you die. So show me if you're ready to live."
Harvey lunged forward clumsily, swinging the blade toward Viktor's side. Viktor sidestepped easily, shoving him to the ground with a single push.
"Pathetic," Viktor said, his voice like a lash. "Again."
Harvey scrambled up, lunged again, this time aiming higher. Viktor disarmed him with a twist, the knife clattering to the floor.
Again. Again. Again.
Each time Harvey fell harder, his body bruised and battered. His muscles screamed. His lungs burned. His vision blurred.
Finally, Viktor drove him into the wall, forearm pressing against his throat, cutting off his air.
"You're weak," Viktor hissed, his face inches from Harvey's. "Do you think Aldrich will wait for you to get stronger? Do you think the men he sends will give you second chances?"
Harvey clawed at Viktor's arm, choking. His chest heaved, desperation flooding his veins.
And then his fingers brushed the cracked watch strapped to his wrist.
The memory of his parents' faces filled his mind. Their laughter. Their screams. Their silence.
A fire ignited inside him.
With a roar, Harvey drove his knee upward into Viktor's ribs. The older man grunted, grip loosening for a split second. Harvey snatched the knife from the floor and slashed upward, stopping just short of Viktor's throat.
Both froze. The blade trembled in Harvey's hand, inches from Viktor's jugular. His chest heaved violently.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Viktor's lips curved into the faintest of smiles. Not warmth. Approval.
"Finally," he said. "That's the rage I've been waiting for."
He shoved Harvey back, then straightened his coat, unfazed. "But rage alone won't win. You'll need discipline. Endurance. Skill. This was just the first step."
Harvey's knife lowered, but his grip didn't loosen. His hands were still trembling, though now from adrenaline instead of fear.
"What's next?" he asked, his voice hoarse but determined.
Viktor's smile faded, replaced by his usual cold expression. He pointed toward the far end of the warehouse, where a heavy iron door stood closed.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you make your first kill."
The words slammed into Harvey like a second impact. His throat went dry. His mind screamed at him to refuse. But his heart, his burning chest, whispered something else.
This is the only way.
Harvey's gaze hardened. He didn't speak.
And that silence was its own answer.