Red As Snow...(BWAM, Yakuza Romance, 18+)

Chapter Twenty

When I woke from sleep, the space beside me on the linen sheets had been crinkled, had been empty. He'd left, had his own reasons for doing so. So then, I got from under the covers, cleansed my face, brushed my teeth, exited my chambers in readiness for the morning's session.

On my way down dimly lit corridors, my ears made out the soft incoherent mumbles that resonated from one of the rooms down the halls. Illuminations speared onto marble floors from one of the doors slightly agape, and as I continued to approach -coming up to the chamber- I could clearly paint out the bulky figure of Tsumibito.

Man was sat by the edge of a queen-size four-poster bed and on him was perched the little darling from earlier in the eve. He'd been buried deep in dense pages of book, eyes swiping, traveling from left to right to left behind clear glasses while he softly read to her.

I caught myself slipping, caught myself smiling a subtle smile as I  witnessed how he so tenderly pressed tiny kisses atop the girls silky locks, how he looked down upon her with all the affection a human can possibly master for the one he adores. And she too looked back upon him; giggling preciously.

The darling angel means more than life to him.

Then, I proceeded forward, climbed down multiple fleets to my destination; the indoor shooting range.
Now, however, the man that stands before me does not exhibit or exude emotion, remains void of all feeling, is not the man from a while back.

It must have a thing to do with how he let his walls crumble, how he sought solace from me -a foe.

"This is the magazine of a pistol. The standard capacity magazine is usually thirty rounds. Modern day guns can carry up to seventeen rounds in one magazine. If the capacity is, say, five rounds max, then that is exactly what it should hold," he begins, waving the gadget back and forth before my breathless, sweaty, and trembling figure.

"And this is how you load bullets," he continues nonchalantly, eyes trained firmly on only the task at hand.
"High-capacity magazines are banned in various jurisdictions I've learnt."
He disassembles parts in under seconds, hands over the pistol for me to mimick his actions.

"And just so you know, the pistol you hold is referred to as a Glock 42," soon as he explains in his unenthused monotone, the simple response I can afford is a curt nod.
He folds arms before his rippling chest, flexes biceps as he moves, gazes down upon me with zero jolly.

I make attempts to load bullets, finally managing after five rounds worth a try. Still, the man says nothing, does nothing, only watches.
Without uttering a word, he proceeds for the hooks of the walls, grabs a pair of earmuffs, pads back to where I stand rooted.

"Now that you have little knowledge on loading bullets, let us put your aiming and firing skills to the test, shall we? One-point shooting method, also known as the aimed-point shooting method, employs the use of both index and middle fingers; index finger along the side of the Glock to aim the pistol and the middle finger to pull the trigger. Clear?"

Again, I nod my head in affirmation. I take hold of the muffs he hands me, rest them against each ear, turn to face the direction of the dummies to the far front of the room. Minutes, it takes me agonizingly long minutes, say about eleven or so, to fire and land perfect shot at a single dummy.

Each time I reload bullet, every time I fire, I miss by mere inches and the bullets end up springing and slamming into bullet-proof glass walls.
"Obal, simmer down. Firing arms is an art that takes a good while to perfect. And like I said, relentless practice is the genesis of all improvement," the man's baritone speaks from directly beside me.

"Clear all thoughts, channel your focus on the commission," he continues smoothly, stretching out an arm, taking aim, and landing perfect shot in only the first try.
I feel the frustrations gnawing, the rage lacing, but I work with fluidity and abruptness to conceal.