Chapter II — The Trainee

August 17, 2017

The sun was beginning to lower, tinting the quiet suburban street in the gold of early evening. Sarah pulled her car to a stop in front of the address she’d been given. Martin Hough’s house was as unremarkable as any other in the row—neat brick façade, trimmed hedges, a driveway without a single crack. Normal. Safe. The kind of place no one would think twice about. She killed the engine, grabbed her worn leather satchel, and walked up the path. Her knuckles rapped twice on the door. For a moment, nothing. Then footsteps, and the door opened. Martin stood there—tall, broad-shouldered, his posture a quiet warning. His eyes, a cool gray, locked on hers with an intensity that made her feel instantly measured. “You must be Sarah,” he said. “And you’re Martin,” she replied evenly. His gaze flicked to the watch on his wrist. “You’re late.” “Traffic,” she said, brushing past him as he stepped aside. The living room was immaculate—furniture perfectly aligned, not a speck of dust in sight. Even the air felt staged, like nothing here had been lived in for long. “This way,” he said, already moving toward a narrow door off the hallway. The basement was a stark contrast. Cooler, darker, carrying the scent of gun oil and paper. Weapons lined the walls in careful, almost obsessive arrangement. The long worktable was a chaos of blueprints, dismantled firearms, and coded documents—but even the chaos felt intentional, as though each piece had its place. Sarah let her gaze travel over the room. “So this is where you keep the toys?” Martin’s voice was flat. “They’re not toys. And no one else comes down here.” He handed her a sidearm without ceremony. “Field strip it.” The weight was familiar. She began the process smoothly, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency, though she could feel his eyes on her the whole time. When she set the reassembled weapon back on the table, Martin nodded once. “Not bad. Again. Faster.” They worked for the next hour in a rhythm of metal clicks and clipped instructions. His corrections were never raised in volume, but each was precise, leaving no room for argument. She matched his focus, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her falter. When he finally set his own weapon down, he said, “That’s enough for today. Same time tomorrow.” At the stairs, she paused and turned back. “Why did Jack Frost put us together?” Martin didn’t look up from the pistol he was cleaning. “You’ll find out when you’re ready.” It wasn’t the answer she wanted—but then, she hadn’t expected him to give one.